The Secret of Hollyfield House, Jude Bayton [books for 20 year olds txt] 📗

heavy damask curtains. Light swept into my room and painted the walls with bright honey. The winter sun was substantial, and I squinted until my eyes adjusted, only to be rewarded with a most spectacular view.

The grounds were impressive. A carpet of velvet, green grass was bordered by flower beds filled with a riot of heavy-laden rose bushes, the last blooms of the year. The center of the lawn appeared to be dissected by a narrow oblong pond, its somber steel-grey water littered with listless lily pads which floated aimlessly across its glassy surface. Beyond the gardens, my eyes were drawn to a remarkable landscape. For there in the distance lay the dark indigo of the English Channel, shimmering beneath the sunlight like molten sapphires. I could not help but be taken aback by the majesty before me, saturated with the delight of it, and then I thought of my darling, dearest Aramintha.

At Brampton Ladies College destiny had presented me with an education at the mere cost of my pride. All but a servant in status, I was given room and board in exchange for my abilities as a tutor. To the girls of the college I seemed inconspicuous, to its staff, insignificant. Yet to Aramintha Clayton I was a person, an individual whom she endowed with the generous gift of her friendship.

Aramintha had been my salvation. She alone had rescued me from drowning in a sea of loneliness when she plucked me from seclusion and called me all but sister. Indifferent to my social status and unconcerned with my lack of fortune and prospects, in Aramintha, I discovered purpose. My ambition had been solely to pursue knowledge and a good education, but Aramintha showed me the many possibilities within my reach should I acquire both.

“Miss Westcott?” Fingers lightly rapped on my door and roused me from thought.

“Come in.”

Miss Tricklebank, whom I had met briefly the night before, entered my chamber holding a small tray in her hands laden with a pot of tea, boiled egg, and slices of hot buttered toast. She placed it down upon the desk and seemed surprised to see me still in my night attire.

“I trust you were comfortable?” she asked politely, her dour expression reminiscent of the headmistress at Brampton, stern and rather chilly. Her frown rippled with disapproval as she observed my disheveled state, my unbraided hair.

“Most comfortable, thank you, Miss Tricklebank.” I glanced at the tray. “I would have come down to the kitchen—”

“It is customary to take breakfast the first day in your room. You may join the rest of the staff at luncheon and meet everyone then. It will be a full day, Miss Westcott, I can assure you.” She smoothed down her stiff black skirts and absentmindedly patted the back of the brown bun in her hair. “Her ladyship will see you at ten o’clock.”

As soon as the door closed, I set about my meal as though starved. I had never before been so spoiled with my breakfast served thus. I ate, my mouth savoring every bite, while my eyes feasted upon the scene from my window.

It was as I sipped my last drop of tea that I saw him. He strode towards the pond and then stopped as though taken by something which lurked in the water—a tall man, with the breadth of a laborer yet garbed as a gentleman. I could easily make out his form, his black, tousled hair, yet no other detail as he was too far from my vantage point. My mind conjured up the list of characters I had come to know from Aramintha’s colorful stories and entertaining letters. I ran through the names in my head and landed upon his, for who other could it be than Benedict?

Aramintha had often referred to her half-brother as the devil in a sea of angels. For he alone had been the only child of Sir Nigel not gifted with the Clayton golden hair, blue eyes or the family name. She had said the late Lord Clayton’s bastard son was half Romany gypsy, which would account for his swarthy complexion and raven hair. In truth, though I could not see much of the man, he did cut an imposing and formidable figure.

Suddenly his face turned, and he looked directly up at my window. I gasped and leaned back in surprise. Had he seen me watching? I composed myself and chased away my embarrassment for being so foolish. On this my first day at Mowbray Manor, I must settle down and keep my wits about me. I should dress and go downstairs, for I was to meet Lady Clayton within the hour.

I ENTERED THE DRAWING room escorted by the formidable Baxter to find Lady Clayton seated at her writing desk. But upon our arrival she placed her fountain pen down, then turned to look at me waiting self-consciously in my worn workaday dress. The butler departed, and she rose majestically from her seat and moved to a velvet settle.

“Miss Westcott, please do come and sit.” She gestured to an intricately carved armchair, one of a matched pair which faced the sofa. I did as she bade, and rested my hands in my lap, my back ramrod straight as though I sat before a queen. Again, I was struck at the ethereal beauty of the older woman, the paleness of her complexion, the silver hair. Her ice- blue eyes assessed me, the cheapness of my dress, the cut of my collars.

“I trust your room was adequate?” The tone of her voice implied she expected an answer to the positive.

“Indeed, Lady Clayton, thank you, it was most comfortable.”

“Splendid. Now I should like to discuss your position here. I was most satisfied with your credentials, though it is unusual for a young woman of your—" she paused to select her words, “…station, to have attained such a high level of education.”

Attending a ladies’ school without wealth or a position within society was highly uncommon. Therefore, her query seemed understandable. In