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"No, it isn’t the Major," Yvette assured her. "Although there was another invitation from him yesterday. I have burned it. This message came from Crevitch Castle, madam!"
"Crevitch Castle?" she was surprised. Her spirits lifted. Was it from Ash?
Yvette was waiting and, with a sensation of stepping into dangerous waters, Juliet broke the seal.
There was a single sheet inside, with the Dowager Lady Linholm's signature. She read on and found she had been invited to attend a dinner to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve. And then, in a scrawled message underneath, signed with the more informal ‘Felicity’, ‘We must discuss your cottage hospital and how best I can help,' ensuring she could not refuse.
When she looked up Yvette was beaming at her. The maid already knew, and Juliet would not put it past her to have steamed open the letter, but more likely she had been exchanging gossip with the servants from the castle. Come to think of it she had met a man walking from the direction of her house when she was heading home this evening. A very spick and span man, who had called her ‘Baroness,’ and bowed.
“Yvette, who delivered this invitation?” she asked curiously. “There was a man . . .”
“That was Truscott,” Yvette replied, and although she turned away Juliet saw the colour bloom in her cheeks. “He is from the castle, madam. He is a valet and has dressed some very distinguished gentlemen.”
“Has he indeed.”
“We must choose what you will wear, madam,” Yvette said, casting a satisfied look over her mistress’s trim figure. “You will be the most beautiful lady at this celebration, just as Lord Linholm will be the most handsome gentleman.”
“Yvette, I’m not even sure I want to—”
“You must,” her maid retorted, and suddenly she was quite fierce. “All of our happiness depends upon it, madam!”
Midsummer’s Eve, 1816, Crevitch Castle, Somerset
The storm had come on suddenly, the rain falling into the garden and sweeping across the lake. But here in the Great Hall of Crevitch Castle, it was cosy and warm. Ash looked up at the gallery, where the ancient stone and wood had been decorated with flowers and greenery. There was something mystical, slightly pagan, about midsummer. He’d been told once, and whether it was true or not he wasn’t sure, that during the summer months Lord Ra
dulf had loved to ride his lands with Lily before him. Occasionally he would stop to speak to his tenants and workers, and sometimes he would find a secluded place to spend some intimate time with his wife.
He hoped it was true; he wanted it to be. It sounded like perfection, if one had the right wife. But he knew now he never would, and all he could do was try to repair the relationships he had let slip over the past eight years. He thought he had made a good start with Juliet, and now Simon.
Simon had arrived an hour ago, bringing with him Miss Beales and her mother. The three of them had been wary, eyeing Ash as if he might fly into a rage. It had been his pleasure to smile and play the host, greeting them all as if he had never expected to marry Miss Beales. His brother watched him uneasily—evidently, he had worked himself up into a combative state of mind—but gradually his frowns turned to smiles of relief.
As for Miss Beales . . .
“I do hope any misunderstandings between us are at an end,” he told her, and had the pleasure of watching her blush and stammer, until Simon came to her rescue.
“There were no misunderstandings on Miss Beales’ part, brother,” he retorted sternly.
It was a strange thing to see the child who had been Simon now a man, and a man who was willing to stand up to his hero. Ash decided Simon would make a fine husband and father, and he hoped he would be Godfather to one of the little Linholms.
The rain storm brought the darkness, shortening the long summer evening, but the many candles were a buffer against the night. His mother had even gone to the trouble of finding some local musicians to play in the gallery and persuading them into medieval costume. They were busily tuning up their instruments.
“Ash?” Simon had limped over to join him, sounding awkward. “I want to thank you. Miss Beales and I . . . we . . .”
Ash looked toward his brother’s intended. She was seated by one of their more boring aunts, and he admitted she was doing remarkably well in the ‘appearing interested’ stakes.
“I must apologise to you,” Ash said promptly. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me? I would never have presumed to ask the girl if I’d known you were sweet on her. What a muddle that would have been!”
Simon laughed shakily. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Don’t ever think you can’t talk to me,” Ash went on. “Even if you disagree with me. I forget sometimes that you’re grown up. I still imagine you are the little boy who used to follow me about.”
“Walk in your shadow, do you mean?” Simon said, with an awkward smile.
Ash frowned. “You don’t need to walk in my shadow. I’m nothing extraordinary. One day I’ll tell you about my time in Spain, and you’ll realise I’m as fallible as any other man. More so. If anyone is the hero in this family, Simon, then it’s you.”
His brother didn’t seem to know what to say, which was probably just as well. He limped over to the drinks table to fetch them both a glass of punch. He seemed to have put aside his cane and was managing without it.
Ash turned his head as the brass door knocker sounded and one of the servants hurried to answer it. He could hear murmurs from the antechamber that was a buffer between the outdoors and the Great Hall. A late guest, and a woman’s voice that sounded heartbreakingly familiar.
