One Week As Lovers. Victoria DahlЧитать онлайн книгу.
Merrithorpe had married a stout man named Cambertson who smiled rarely and yelled often. The very reason Cynthia had often fled to Cantry Manor. Mr. Cambertson had not thought much about her as long as she wasn’t in sight, and that was the way Cyn had preferred things. Likewise, Lancaster had not thought much about her once she was out of sight, and now guilt was a burr under the skin that covered his breastbone.
But he had too many people to worry about as it was. His mother, totally dependent upon him and unwilling to see the truth of their circumstances. His sister, almost of marriageable age, in need of a Season or two and all the spending that came along with it. And his brother, in his youthful prime and happy to be indulging his oats. The bills for clothing, liquor, and “indulgences” had long since become unmanageable. Like their mother, Timothy couldn’t seem to understand the concept of poverty. They had nothing. Nearly all the property was entailed. Lancaster’s name and title were virtually the only assets left. His name, his title, and his body.
Heat crawled over his skin, and he pushed the thought away with a physical shift in posture. The carriage window was ice against his fingers when he reached to snap it open, but the freezing air was a welcome distraction. He considered asking the coachman to stop so he could walk the rest of the way, but didn’t get the chance. Oak Hall slipped into view and the shell drive crunched beneath turning wheels.
A thump of familiarity resounded in his chest as they approached from the east. He’d probably only been to Oak Hall a dozen times in his youth, but it was one of those strange old memories that lay forgotten and unknown until it was abruptly recalled by a sight or smell. Here, it was the sight of the three ancient trees that twisted taller than the stone building they shaded. And the unusual dusk blue paint that tinted the shutters and gables of the home.
For the first time since he’d heard the news, he felt a wash of true sadness for Cynthia. Gone were his own self-absorption and pity. Cynthia was dead, and she’d never scramble up the tree under her room again, never watch him with frustration edging her jaw into obstinance, never roll her eyes as her stepfather blathered on about some controversial topic.
Once the carriage had rolled to a stop, he stepped heavily onto the drive and trudged up the stairs. Strangely, no servants arrived to assist, but perhaps a pall had fallen over the household. Still, it had been weeks now. Odd. Lancaster was forced to knock on the door.
And wait.
He knocked again. Apparently the title of viscount no longer counted for much in this part of Yorkshire. This was twice in twenty-four hours he’d been caught knocking fruitlessly at a front door. And he was quite sure he’d just felt a raindrop.
Lancaster was glaring up at the sky when the door opened on a whoosh of air.
“Wot?”
Good Lord. The servant—if he was, in fact, a servant and not an invading peddler—stood all of five feet tall. His grizzled gray hair grew in a strange pattern. A peninsula descended over his forehead and a ring grew ’round the sides, but there was nothing else. Unless one counted his ear canals.
“Wot is it?”
Lancaster blinked from his fascination. “Are you addressing me?”
The old man glared up at him, blood in his eyes. Literally. Lancaster could see the blood vessels quite clearly. He’d bet a sovereign the man was a drinker.
And a belligerent one at that.
Lancaster sighed. “Very well. I am Viscount Lancaster, here to pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Cambertson.”
“Milord,” the man wheezed as he bowed, though his expression didn’t change. He still seemed put out by the effort. “If ye’ll follow me, I’ll see if the master is receiving.”
So he followed the hunched figure, promising himself he’d never again lament the youth of his own butler. So fascinated was he by the strange wraithlike servant, he almost didn’t see the startling changes in Oak Hall. They’d already crossed the threshold of the morning room before he noticed what was missing.
Well…everything. Everything was missing. Light squares against the wallpaper marked where paintings had once hung. Tables stood empty, clearly lacking vases or some other small art form. Even the wood floors echoed their bareness, missing the lush, deep rugs that had once softened steps. Lancaster spun in a slow circle as the butler shuffled back into the hallway.
Unbelievable. It looked as if the house were being slowly dismantled. Sold off piecemeal. Foreshadowing of his own future, perhaps.
He was scowling at the thought when the butler returned. “Mr. Cambertson will see you,” he intoned, as if there was some question of whether Mr. Cambertson would receive a viscount.
Still, Lancaster said, “Excellent!” and followed again, noticing the way the halls echoed as dust motes danced with each footstep. There wasn’t a maid in sight, and no evidence that there had been one for quite some time.
“The Right Honorable Viscount Lancaster,” the butler muttered before they’d even reached the doorway to the study. A grunt sounded from inside the room, followed by the squeak of an ancient chair. Mr. Cambertson was pushing to his feet when they entered.
Lancaster struggled not to flinch at the odor of cheap cigars and cheaper gin that filled the room. The curtains were drawn, steeping the room in a brown shade that perfectly matched the stench. And Mr. Cambertson looked right at home too, jacketless, stubbled, and bleary-eyed.
“Milord,” Cambertson rasped. “What an honor it is to receive you.”
“The honor is mine,” Lancaster replied in absolute falsehood. Though Cambertson’s curly hair was still black, it had thinned, and the rest of him had aged considerably. Deep pouches drooped beneath his eyes and his wide, stocky shoulders were hunched as if a great weight hung from them. Still, Lancaster walked swiftly forward to shake the man’s hand, all jovial good humor as always.
Cambertson’s fingers gripped too tight, reminding Lancaster of a drowning man grasping at safety, or perhaps it was the desperation in his eyes that gave that impression.
“Please, sit. Ewing!” he suddenly roared. “Tea!” The words echoed away, leaving them in dim silence.
Lancaster glanced around, wondering if he’d fallen into some strange midday dream, but his surroundings appeared real enough. “Mr. Cambertson,” he said, “I want to offer my sincere condolences to you and to Mrs. Cambertson. I was shocked at the news about Miss Merrithorpe. I can’t imagine how difficult this time must be for both of you.”
“Mm. The missus has run off to her sister’s home. Not sure when she’ll be back.”
“I see.”
He drew a hand over his face, scraping over the black stubble. “Difficult,” he said, as if he were pondering a question. “Yes, it’s been difficult.”
“I’m truly sorry. She was a lovely girl. She’s remembered fondly in my household and will be earnestly missed.” Poor Mrs. Pell had been so distraught this morning she’d barely spoken a word.
But Cambertson was shaking his head. “Lovely,” he repeated. “Lovely enough, I suppose. But in the end, it seems Cynthia was a selfish girl with no concern but her own silly desires. Do you know what she’s done to this family?”
“I…” Lancaster couldn’t begin to think of an appropriate response. He could only stare in shock as Cambertson’s face turned from gray to pink and then fully-enraged red.
“She has ruined us. She had the chance to pull her family back from the brink of disaster and instead she indulged her stupid girlish fears and threw herself from a cliff!”
“She…What?” Lancaster surged forward in his seat, banging a knee against Cambertson’s desk. “She…She threw herself from a cliff?”
“Yes! As if she were the heroine of some maudlin novel. One of your cliffs, as a matter of fact. What a waste.”
“But