Survivor's Club #2
Dell
September 2013
On Sale: August 27, 2013
Featuring: Sophia Fry; Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh
336 pages ISBN: 0345535871 EAN: 9780345535870 Kindle: B00985DYEC Paperback / e-Book Add to Wish List
Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh has just arrived at his old
home in a country village, having run away from the large
home and estate he inherited with his title and from the
matchmaking schemes of his mother and sisters. He hopes to
keep his arrival a secret:
Chapter 2
Vincent's arrival had not gone unobserved.
Covington House was the last building at one end of the
main street through the village. To the far side of it was a
low hill covered with trees. There was a young woman on that
hill and among those trees. She wandered at all times of day
about the countryside surrounding Barton Hall, where she
lived with her aunt and uncle, Sir Clarence and Lady March,
though it was not often she was out quite this early. But
this morning she had woken when it was still dark and had
been unable to get back to sleep. Her window was open, and a
bird with a particularly strident call had obviously not
noticed that dawn had not yet arrived. So, rather than shut
her window and climb back into bed, she had dressed and come
outside, chilly as the early morning air was, because there
was something rare and lovely about watching the darkness
lift away from another dawning day. And she had come here in
particular because the trees housed dozens, perhaps
hundreds, of birds, many of them with sweeter voices than
the one that had awoken her, and they always sang most
earnestly when they were heralding in a new day.
She stood very still so as not to disturb them, her back
against the sturdy trunk of a beech tree, her arms stretched
out about it behind her to enjoy its rough texture through
her thin gloves—so thin, in fact, that the left thumb
and right forefinger had already sprung a leak. She drank in
the beauty and peace of her surroundings and ignored the
cold, which penetrated her almost threadbare cloak as if it
was not even there, and set her fingers to tingling.
She looked down upon Covington House, her favorite
building in Barton Coombs. It was neither a mansion nor a
cottage. It was not even a manor. But it was large and
square and solid. It was also deserted and had been since
before she came here to live two years ago. It was still
owned by the Hunt family, about whom she had heard many
stories, perhaps because Vincent Hunt, the only son, had
unexpectedly inherited a title and fortune a few years ago.
It was the stuff of fairytales, except that it had a sad
component too, as many fairytales did.
She liked to look at the house and imagine it as it
might have been when the Hunts lived there—the
absent–minded but much–loved schoolmaster, his
busy wife and three pretty daughters, and his exuberant,
athletic, mischievous son, who was always the best at
whatever sport was being played and was always at the
forefront of any mischief that was brewing and was always
adored by old and young alike—except by the Marches,
against whom his pranks were most often directed. She liked
to think that if she had lived here then, she would have
been friends with the girls and perhaps even with their
brother, even though they were all older than she. She liked
to picture herself running in an out of Covington House
without even knocking at the door, almost as if she belonged
there. She liked to imagine that she would have attended the
village school with all the other children, except Henrietta
March, her cousin, who had been educated at home by a French
governess.
She was Sophia Fry, though her name was rarely used.
She was known by her relatives, when she was known as
anything at all, and perhaps by their servants too, as the
mouse. She lived at Barton Hall on sufferance because there
was nowhere else for her to go. Her father was dead, her
mother had left them long ago and since died, her uncle, Sir
Terrence Fry, had never had anything to do with either her
father or her, and the elder of her paternal aunts, to whom
she had been sent first after her father's passing, had died
two years ago.
She felt sometimes that she inhabited a no man's land
between the family at Barton Hall and the servants, that she
belonged with neither group and was noticed and cared about
by neither. She consoled herself with the fact that her
invisibility gave her some freedom at least. Henrietta was
always hedged about with maids and chaperons and a vigilant
mother and father, whose sole ambition for her was that she
marry a titled gentleman, preferably a wealthy one, though
that was not an essential qualification as Sir Clarence was
himself a rich man. Henrietta shared her parents' ambitions,
with one notable exception.
Sophia's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of
horses approaching from beyond the village, and it was soon
obvious that they were drawing some sort of carriage. It was
very early in the day for travel. It was a stagecoach,
perhaps? She stepped around the trunk of the tree and half
hid behind it, though it was unlikely she would be seen from
below. Her cloak was gray, her cotton bonnet nondescript in
both style and color, and it was still not full daylight.
It was a private carriage, she saw—a very smart
one. But before she could weave some story about it as it
passed along the village street and out of sight, it slowed
and turned onto the short driveway to Covington House. It
stopped before the front doors.
Her eyes widened. Could it be...?
The coachman jumped down from his perch and opened the
carriage door and set down the steps. A man descended almost
immediately, a young man, tall and rather burly. He looked
around and said something to the coachman—Sophia could
hear the rumble of his voice but not what he said. And then
they both turned to watch another man.
He descended without assistance. He moved
sure–footed and without hesitation. But it was
instantly obvious to Sophia that his cane was not a mere
fashion accessory but something he used to help him find his
way.
She sucked in a breath and hoped, foolishly, that it was
inaudible to the three men standing some distance below her.
He had come, then, as everyone had said he would.
The blind Viscount Darleigh, once Vincent Hunt, had come
home.
Her aunt and uncle would be over the moon with
gratification. For they had made up their minds that if and
when he came, Henrietta would marry him.
Henrietta, on the other hand, would not be gratified.
For once in her life she was opposed to her parents' dearest
wish. She had declared more than once in Sophia's hearing
that she would rather die a spinster at the age of eighty
than marry a blind man with a ruined face even if he was a
viscount and even if he was even more wealthy than her papa.
Viscount Darleigh—Sophia was convinced that the
new arrival must be he—was clearly a young man. He was
not particularly tall and he had a slight, graceful build.
He carried himself well. He did not hunch over his cane or
paw the air with his free hand. He was neatly, elegantly
clad. Her lips parted as she gazed down at him. She wondered
how much of the old Vincent Hunt was still present in the
blind Viscount Darleigh. But he had descended from his
carriage without assistance. That fact pleased her.
She could not see his face. His tall hat hid it from her
view. Poor gentleman. She wondered just how disfigured it was.
He and the burly man stood on the driveway for a few
minutes while the coachman went striding off to the back of
the house and returned with what must be the key, for he
bent to the lock of the front door, and within moments it
swung open. Viscount Darleigh ascended the steps before the
door, again unassisted, and disappeared inside with the
larger man behind him.
Sophia stood watching for another few minutes, but there
was nothing more to see except the coachman taking the horse
and carriage to the stables and coach house. She turned away
and made her way back in the direction of Barton Hall.
Standing still had thoroughly chilled her.
She would not tell anyone he had arrived, she decided.
No one ever spoke to her anyway or expected her to volunteer
any information or opinion. Doubtless everyone would know
soon enough, anyway.
* * * * *
Unfortunately for Vincent and his hope for a quiet stay
at Covington House, Sophia Fry was not the only person who
observed his arrival.
A farm laborer, on his way to milk cows, had the
distinct good fortune—of which he boasted to his
colleagues for days to come—of witnessing the arrival
of Viscount Darleigh's carriage at Covington House. He had
stayed, at the expense of the waiting cows, to watch
Vincent–Hunt–that–was descend after Martin
Fisk, the blacksmith's son. By seven o'clock in the morning
he had told his wife, having dashed back home for that sole
purpose, his baby son, who was profoundly uninterested in
the momentous news, his fellow laborers, the blacksmith, the
blacksmith's wife, and Mr. Kerry, who had come in early to
the smithy because one of his horses had cast a shoe late
the evening before.
By eight o'clock, the farm laborers—and the
original farm laborer's wife—had told everyone they
knew, or at least those of that category who came within
hailing distance. Mr. Kerry had told the butcher and the
vicar and his aged mother. The blacksmith's wife, ecstatic
that her son was back home in the capacity of valet to
Viscount Darleigh, Vincent–Hunt–that–was,
had dashed off to the baker's to replenish her supply of
flour and had told the baker and his two assistants and
three other early customers. And the blacksmith, also
bursting with pride even though he spoke with
head–shaking disparagement of his son, the valett,
told his apprentice when that lad arrived late for work and
for once did not have to recite a litany of excuses, and Sir
Clarence March's groom, and the vicar, who heard the news
for the second time in a quarter of an hour but appeared
equally ecstatic both times.
By nine o'clock it would have been difficult to discover
a single person within Barton Coombs or a three–mile
radius surrounding it, who did not know that Viscount
Darleigh, Vincent–Hunt–that–was, had
arrived at Covington House when dawn had barely cracked its
knuckles and had not left it since.
Though if he had arrived that early, Miss Waddell
observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly–named
vicar, when the two ladies encountered each other across the
hedge separating their back gardens, he must have been
traveling all night and was enjoying a well–deserved
rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon him
too early. She would inform the reception committee. Poor
dear gentleman.
The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and wondered
if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had
once been just the sunny–natured, mischievous son of
the village schoolmaster. He was, in addition to everything
else, though, a war hero. And he did now have that very
impressive title. Best to err on the side of formality, he
decided, than risk appearing over–familiar.
Mrs. Fisk baked the bread rolls and cakes she had been
planning in her head for weeks. Her son, her beloved only
child, was back home, not to mention Viscount Darleigh, that
bright and happy boy who had used to run wild with Martin
and drag him into all sorts of scrapes—not that Martin
had taken much dragging. Poor boy. Poor gentleman. She
sniffed and wiped away a tear with the back of her floury hand.
At ten o'clock the young Misses Granger called upon the
equally young Miss Hamilton to discover what she planned to
wear to the assembly, which would surely happen now that
Lord Darleigh had come. The three of them proceeded to
reminisce about Vincent–Hunt–that–was
winning all the races at the annual village fête by a mile
and bowling out every cricketer on the opposing team who had
the courage and audacity to come up to bat against him and
looking so very handsome with his always over–long
fair curls and his blue, blue eyes and his lithe physique.
And always smiling his lovely smile, even at them, though
they had been just little girls at the time. He had always
smiled at everyone.
That last memory drew tears from all of them, for
Viscount Darleigh would never now win any race or bowl at
any cricket game or look handsome—or perhaps even
smile at anyone. He would not even be able to dance at the
assembly. They could conceive of no worse fate than that.
Vincent would have been horrified to know that, in fact,
his arrival in Barton Coombs had been expected. Or, if that
was too strong a word, then at least it had been looked for
with eager hope and cautious anticipation.
For Vincent had forgotten two overwhelmingly significant
facts about his mother and his sisters. One was that they
were all inveterate letter writers. The other was that they
had all had numerous friends at Barton Coombs and had not
simply relinquished those friends when they moved away. They
might not be able to visit them daily, as they had been used
to do, but they could and did write to them.
His mother had not been reassured by the two notes that
had arrived, scrawled in the inelegant hand of Martin Fisk.
She had not sat back and waited for her son to come home.
Rather she had done all in her power to discover where he
was. Most of her guesses were quite wide of the mark. But
one was that Vincent might return to Barton Coombs, where he
had spent his boyhood and been happy, where he had so many
friends and so many friendly acquaintances, where he would
be comfortable and would be made much of. Indeed, the more
she thought of it, the more convinced she became that if he
was not already there, he would end up there sooner or later.
She wrote letters. She always wrote letters anyway. It
came naturally to her.
And Amy, Ellen, and Ursula wrote letters too, though
they were not as convinced as their mother that Vincent
would go to Barton Coombs. It was more likely that he had
gone back to Cornwall, where he always seemed to be so
happy. Or perhaps to Scotland or the Lake District, where he
could escape their matchmaking clutches. All three of
Vincent's sisters rather regretted the aggressive manner in
which they had pressed Miss Dean upon him. She obviously was
not for him—or he for her. It had not escaped their
notice that rather than looking mortified when it was
discovered that he was gone, she had been hard pressed not
to look openly relieved.
However it was, long before Vincent actually did arrive
in Barton Coombs, there was scarcely a person there who did
not know for a near certainty that he would come. The only
question that had caused any real anxiety was when.
Everyone, almost without exception, was enraptured as
the news spread through the village and beyond that the wait
was at an end. He was here.
* * * * *
The most notable exception to the general mood of
rapture was Henrietta March. She was horror–struck.
"Vincent Hunt?" she cried.
"Viscount Darleigh, my love," her mother reminded her.
"Of Middlebury Park in Gloucestershire," her father
added. "With an income of twenty thousand a year, at a
conservative estimate."
"And two blind eyes and a deformed face," Henrietta
retorted. "Yeeuw!"
"You would not have to look at him," her father told
her. "Middlebury Park is big enough, or so I have heard. Far
larger than this. And you would need to spend time in London
as a fashionable viscountess. It would be expected of you.
He would hardly go with you, would he? And you would want to
visit here. He will not want to come too often to be
subjected to that Waddell woman each time, not to mention
the vicar and all the other sycophants who live in the
neighborhood."
The mouse, who sat in her corner of the March drawing
room, darning pillow cases, looked sharply and incautiously
across the room at him. Sycophants? Other people? Had her
uncle not looked in a glass lately? But she lowered her head
quickly before he noticed her. She certainly did not want to
be caught staring, especially staring incredulously.
Besides, she needed her eyes for her darning.
She did not particularly mind being the mouse in the
corner. She had, in fact, cultivated invisibility for most
of her life. While her mother had still lived with her and
her father, a time she remembered only dimly, there had been
almost daily and nightly arguments and even fights, from
which she had withdrawn into the dimmest corner of whatever
rooms they had happened to be occupying at the time. And
after her mother left, never to return, when she was five,
she had kept well clear of her father when he came home in
his cups, though he had never been a violent man and it had
not happened with any great frequency. More often, it was
his boisterous friends from whom she had hidden when they
had come home with her father to carouse and play their card
games instead of going elsewhere. They had had a tendency to
chuck her under the chin and bounce her on their knees when
she was young—and she had always looked younger than
her years. And then there had been landlords to hide from
when they were slipping away from yet another set of rooms
for which they were in arrears on the rent, and merchants
and bailiffs who came looking for payment of various debts.
She had spent most of her childhood, in fact, trying to be
invisible and silent so that no one would notice her.
Her father, the younger son of a baronet, had been one
of those gentlemen who had looks and charm and even
intelligence to spare—he had taught his daughter to
read and write and figure—but who lacked any ability
to cope with life. His dreams had always been as big and
wide as the ocean, but dreams were not reality. They did not
put a permanent roof over their heads or a regular supply of
food in their stomachs.
Sophia had adored him, occasional drunken sprees and all.
She had been content to be invisible to Aunt Mary, her
father's elder sister, to whom she had been sent after his
death, even though she was fifteen at the time. For Aunt
Mary had raked her from head to toe with one contemptuous
look upon her arrival and pronounced her impossible. She had
proceeded to treat her accordingly—she had virtually
ignored her, in other words. But at least she had allowed
her to stay, and she had provided her with the basic
necessities of life.
And being ignored was actually better than being
noticed, experience had taught her during those years with
Aunt Mary. For the only friendship she had ever enjoyed, the
only romance that had ever stirred her heart, had been brief
and intense and ultimately soul–shattering.
And then Aunt Mary had died suddenly after Sophia had
lived with her for three years, and Sophia had been taken in
by Aunt Martha, who had never pretended to look upon her as
anything more than a glorified maid who must nevertheless be
suffered to dine with the family and sit with the family
when they were at home. Only very occasionally did Aunt
Martha call her by name. Sir Clarence did not call her
anything except, sometimes, the mouse. Henrietta seemed
unaware of her very existence. But she did not want to be
visible to any of them. She did not like them even though
she was grateful to them for giving her a home.
Sophia sighed, careful to make no sound. Sometimes she
might almost have forgotten her own name if it were not for
the fact that she was the mouse only to the depth of her
skin—not even so deep, actually. Inside, she was not a
mouse at all. But no one knew that except her. It was a
secret she rather enjoyed hugging to herself. Except that
she worried sometimes about the future, which stretched long
and bleak ahead of her with no prospect of change—the
lot of poor female relatives everywhere. Sometimes she
wished she had not been born a lady and could have sought
employment on the death of her father. But it was not
considered genteel for ladies to work, not while they had
relatives to take them in, anyway.
"Viscount Darleigh will no doubt be more than happy to
marry you, Henrietta," Sir Clarence March said. "He is not
quite a marquess, heir to a dukedom, as Wrayburn was, it is
true, but he is a viscount."
"Papa," Henrietta wailed, "it would be intolerable. Even
apart from his wrecked face and his blind eyes, the very
thought of which make me feel bilious and vaporish, he is
Vincent Hunt. I could not so demean myself."
"He was Vincent Hunt," her mother reminded her. "He is
now Viscount Darleigh, my love. There is a world of
difference. It still amazes me that his father lived here
all those years as the village schoolmaster, the not very
well–to–do schoolmaster, I might add, and we
never suspected that he was the younger brother of a
viscount. We might never have known it if the viscount and
his son had not been obliging enough to die and leave
Vincent Hunt the title. Why they stood up to a gang of
highwaymen instead of simply relinquishing their valuables,
I will never understand. But it is your good fortune that
they did and were shot. This is a perfect opportunity for
you, my love, and will enable you to hold your head high in
society again."
"Again? She never had to hang her head," Sir Clarence
said sharply, frowning at his wife. "That dashed Wrayburn!
He thought to cut our Henrietta in the middle of a crowded
ballroom. Well, she showed him!"
Sophia had not been present at that particular ball. She
had never been present at any ball for that matter. But she
had been in London, and she had pieced together what she
believed to be the real story about Henrietta and the
Marquess of Wrayburn. When Henrietta and her mama had
approached him at the Stiles ball, he had turned his back
and pretended not to see them coming and had made a loud
remark to his group to the effect that it was sometimes near
impossible to avoid determined mamas and their pathetic
daughters.
After Henrietta had spent half an hour in the ladies'
withdrawing room with her mama, where the latter had had to
be plied with smelling salts and brandy, she had emerged in
order to slink off home—several people had heard that
remark, and doubtless by then everyone knew of it—she
had had the misfortune to come face to face with the
marquess himself. To her credit, she had stuck her nose in
the air and asked her mother if she knew the source of that
nasty odor. Unfortunately for her, because it might well
have been a splendid setdown, the marquess and his cronies
had seen fit to find her remark uproariously funny, and
doubtless the whole ballroom found it hilarious within a
quarter of an hour.
Sophia had felt almost sorry for her cousin that night.
Indeed, if Henrietta had told the full truth of the
incident—which Sophia learned from listening to the
servants—she might have felt all the way sorry for
her, at least for a while.
"I shall call at Covington House without further delay,"
Sir Clarence said, getting to his feet after consulting his
pocket watch, "before anyone else gets there first. I
daresay that bore of a vicar will be there before luncheon
with one of his speeches and that fool of a Waddell woman
will be there with her welcoming committee."
And you will be there, the mouse commented silently, to
offer your daughter in marriage.
"I shall invite him for dinner," Sir Clarence announced.
"Have a talk with the cook, Martha. Make sure she puts on
something special this evening."
"But what does one serve a blind man?" his wife asked,
looking dismayed.
"Papa." Henrietta's voice was trembling. "You cannot
expect me to marry a blind man with no face. You cannot
expect me to marry Vincent Hunt. Not after the way he always
played the most atrocious tricks on you."
"Boyish high spirits," her father said with a dismissive
wave of his hand. "Listen to me, Henrietta. You have just
been presented with this wonderful opportunity as if on a
platter. It is as if we were brought home early from London
for just this purpose. We will have him here this evening,
and we will look him over. He won't be able to see us doing
it, after all, will he?"
He looked pleased with his little joke, though he did
not laugh. Sir Clarence March rarely did. He was too puffed
up with his own consequence, Sophia thought with unrepentant
malice.
"If he passes muster," Sir Clarence continued, "then you
will have him, Henrietta. This year was your third Season in
London, my girl. Your third. And somehow, though not through
any fault of your own, it is true, you lost your chance for
a baron the first year, an earl the second, and a marquess
this year. A Season does not come cheap. And you do not grow
younger. And pretty soon, if it has not happened already,
you are going to be known as the young lady who cannot keep
a suitor when she has one. Well, my girl, we will show them."
He beamed at his wife and daughter—and ignored the
mouse—and seemed totally oblivious to the devastated
look on Henrietta's face and the mortified one on his wife's.
And off he went to net a viscount for Henrietta.
Sophia felt sorry for Viscount Darleigh, though perhaps,
she conceded, he did not deserve her pity. She did not know
anything about him, after all, except what she had learned
about his alter ego, Vincent Hunt, when he had been just a
boy. Though she did know that he was neat and elegant and
was independent enough not to have to be led everywhere by
his servants.
At least this evening promised to be a little less
tedious than life usually was. She would have a viscount to
gaze upon even if seeing his face should make her want to
vomit or faint, like Henrietta. And she would be able to
observe the early progress of a courtship. It should be
mildly entertaining.