Instead of which she was a dependent of Uncle George, who hardly knew she existed, despised by Aunt Louisa and at her constant beck and call for endless years into the future. Only her grandmother made life tolerable for her at the moment. She gave herself a mental shake when she caught the self-pitying drift of her thoughts. There were worse fates. She could be married to a man who cared not the snap of two fingers for her and neglected her and was unfaithful to her and .. .
Well, there were worse fates.
The lake at the bottom of the hill was lovely and secluded. It was surrounded by long grass and wildflowers and a few trees. It looked quite neglected and was surely never used or even visited.
Perhaps, she thought, it could become her own private little retreat in the days and months and years ahead. She kneeled on the bank and trailed a hand in the water. It was fresh and clear and not nearly as cold as she had expected. She cupped some in her hands and lowered her flushed face into it.
She was crying, she realized suddenly. She almost never wept. But her tears were hot in contrast to the coolness of the water, and her bosom was heaving with sobs she seemed powerless to control.
Life really was unfair at times. She had reached out just once in her life and stolen a brief and magnificent dream. She had neither expected nor demanded that it be prolonged. She had wanted only the memory of it to last her the rest of her life.
Clearly it had been too much to ask.
Now it was gone, all of it. The memories were sullied— all of them. Because now he knew that she was not the bright star, the flamboyant actress he had found attractive despite her physical defects. And because she now knew that he was a man to be despised.
Yet he had just offered her marriage .
And she had refused.
She got to her feet and made her way back up the hill. She must not be missed. If she were, Aunt Louisa would surely make sure that she had no future chance for idleness.
Someone, she discovered when she arrived back at the rear of the house, had locked the back door. It would not open to all her efforts and a knock drew no response. She made her way around to the front, fervently hoping that everyone was still gathered in the drawing room so that she could slip up to her room undetected.
Two horses were being led off toward the stables as she rounded the corner to the front terrace, and a mountain of baggage was being lifted out of a baggage coach. Two gentlemen stood with their backs to Judith, one of them directing operations in impatient, imperious tones. She shrank back and would have disappeared back around the corner, but the other gentleman half turned his head so that she could see him in profile. She stared, unbelieving, and then hurried toward him, her reluctance to be seen forgotten.
“Bran?” she cried. “Branwell?”
Her brother turned toward her, his eyebrows raised, and then he grinned and hurried to meet her.
“Jude?” he said. “You are here too, are you? Famous!” He swept off his hat, gathered her up into a bear hug, and kissed her cheek. “Are the others here as well? I like the bonnet— very fetching.”
He was dressed in the very height of fashion and looked handsome and dashing indeed, his fair hair blowing in the breeze, his eager, boyish, good-looking face smiling fondly into her own. For a moment she forgot that she wanted to visit exquisite torture on every part of his body, down to the last toenail.
“Just me,” she said. “One of us was invited, and I was the one chosen.”
“Famous!” he said.
“But what are you doing here, Bran?” she asked.
Before he could answer her, the other gentleman came up to join them.
“Well, well, well,” he said, looking her over with the sort of bold scrutiny that would have had Papa scolding her afterward if he had been here to witness it. “Present me, Law, will you?”
“Judith,” Branwell said. “My second sister. Horace Effingham, Jude. Our stepcousin.”
Ah, so he had come, Uncle George’s son from his first marriage. Aunt Effingham would be gratified.
Judith had never met him before. He was a few years older than Branwell’s twenty-one and a couple of inches shorter—he was about on a level with her own height. He was a little stockier than Bran too and darkly handsome in an almost pretty way. His smile revealed very large, very white teeth.
“Cousin,” he said, reaching out a square, smooth hand for hers. “This is a pleasure indeed. Suddenly I am delighted that I succumbed to my stepmama’s persuasions and came to what I expected to be certain tedium. I brought your brother with me to help alleviate the boredom. I will take the liberty of calling you Judith since we are close relatives.” He carried her hand to his lips and held it there longer than was necessary.
“Effingham is a fine fellow, Jude,” Branwell said eagerly. “He has taken me to the races and given me useful tips on picking a winner, and to Tattersall’s and advised me on how to choose the best horseflesh.
He took me as a guest to White’s Club one evening and I took a turn at the tables and won three hundred guineas before losing three hundred and fifty. But still, only fifty guineas lost when other fellows around me were losing hundreds. And at White’s . You should just see it, Jude—but of course you can’t because you are a woman.”
She had recovered from the first surprise of seeing him, and from the first delight too. Branwell, the only boy among four sisters—handsome, eager, sunny-natured Bran—had always been the darling of them all. He had gone away to school at great expense to Papa and had come home with very mediocre reports. But he had excelled on the playing fields and was everyone’s best friend. Then he had gone to Cambridge and scraped through every examination by the skin of his teeth. But he had not been interested in a career in the church or in law or in politics or the diplomatic service or the military. He did not know what he wanted to do. He needed to be in London, mingling with the right people, discovering exactly where his talents and abilities could be put to best use to earn him a fortune.
In the year since he had come down from Cambridge, Branwell had spent everything their father had set aside for him—and then everything that had been allotted to his daughters as modest dowries. Now he was eating into the very substance of Papa’s independence. Yet he was still the darling boy, who would soon be finished sowing his wild oats and would then proceed to rebuild the family fortune. Even Papa, who was so very strict with his girls, could see no wrong in Branwell that time and experience would not mend.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Effingham,” Judith said, withdrawing her hand from his as soon as she was decently able. “And I am delighted to see you again, Bran. But I must hurry inside.
Grandmama will be waking from her sleep, and I must see if she needs anything.”
“Grandmama?” Branwell said. “I had forgotten the old girl was here. An old tyrant, is she, Jude?”
She did not like the disrespect with which he spoke.
“I am remarkably fond of her,” she said, quite truthfully. “You may wish to pay your respects to her as soon as you have freshened up, Bran.”
“If Judith is going to be with her, I’ll come with you, Law,” Horace Effingham said with a laugh.
But Judith was hurrying away, contrasting her situation with her brother’s. She was here in the nature of an unpaid servant, while Bran was just arriving as a guest. Yet he was the cause of all her woes. All of them. If it were not for Bran she would not have been on that stagecoach. She would not be here.
But there was absolutely no point in falling back into self-pity.
She noticed in some relief that the hall and stairs were still deserted. As she hurried upward she could hear the hum of voices coming from the drawing room.