Chapter 10

Sebastian opened his eyes and blinked, the sunlight pouring through the window onto his face. He rolled over and stifled a yawn. He had slept terribly, and he could have slept for another hour, but he'd promised Matthew they'd meet for a ride in the country.

He slipped out of bed and glanced at the clock on the mantel above the small fireplace. It was eight o' clock. He rang the bell for his valet, grimacing at the thought that he'd mistaken Eleanor for Mr. Hensley, his valet, the previous evening.

Well, being without proper clothes is the least of my crimes, in her mind. He winced at the thought. He had shouted at her, scared her into her room. And he hadn't really meant to.

He ran a weary hand down his face. It was this matter of the curse.

Every time someone raised it, his stomach twisted, and his heart thudded. He hated it. He hated the idea of it, the thought of it. The last thing he needed was for her to have some idea about it. One more person believing in it, talking about it all the time, was more than he could bear.

"Good morning, my lord?" Mr. Hensley called through the door.

"Come in, Hensley," Sebastian called back, and the fellow entered. Sebastian had already dressed in the basic items he would wear—a pair of long, dark riding-trousers and a high-collared linen shirt. The only part he needed help with was the elaborate cravat and the velvet jacket, which was a little narrow in the shoulder to shrug into without some help.

"Morning, my lord. The usual knot?" the fellow asked.

Sebastian shrugged. "Something a little fancier, I think," he decided, tilting his head thoughtfully. He didn't fully understand it, but it seemed a fancier cravat felt somehow appropriate. It might be a good idea to look a bit formal when he explained to Eleanor that he hadn't meant to shout at her.

Hensley worked on the silk cravat, tying it for what felt like an age while Sebastian stared out of the window. The morning was sunny, but he suspected it was chilly outdoors—the autumnal mornings were often cold. He found himself wondering where Eleanor was and if she had slept well.

His heart twisted with guilt. He'd tried to find her, waiting a minute or two and then going up the hallway, but, of the three rooms, he didn't know which one she had chosen, and he didn't want to go knocking on every door. He felt foolish enough about having no idea.

He had gone back to his room and tried to sleep.

"There, my lord," Mr. Hensley said, his voice seeming loud in the quiet of the room.

"Thank you," Sebastian replied swiftly, and stalked to the door, his riding-boots loud on the floor of the hallway. He couldn't shake the bad temper that had settled on him—it was because he felt guilty, and he knew it.

He went upstairs to the breakfast room, stomach knotting with the thought that Eleanor might be there. He had no idea what to say, how to explain why he'd reacted so strangely. The truth was, he had no idea himself. The rage had suddenly been there, explosive and angry, something that happened only rarely and he had no idea how to manage.

The room was empty, a plate and cup on the table suggesting that Papa and Eleanor had already had breakfast, since there was only one place still set. He hastily poured some tea for himself and buttered some toast, wondering what he should say to Eleanor. He had to address what he had done, what he had said.

"Dash it. I don't know what to do," he said aloud. He had come to terms, long ago, with the fact that it was just Papa and him, that he had no mother. But lately, he had found himself wishing he had someone to give him counsel—someone besides Papa, who might understand Eleanor a little better than either he or Papa were enabled to.

He stood and walked to the door.

"My lord?" the butler inquired, climbing up the steps from the entrance-way.

"Yes?"

"Lord Edmore is downstairs. Should I show him to the drawing room?"

"No. I will speak with him at once," Sebastian replied, and hurried downstairs. Lord Edmore was Matthew, and the sooner he could talk with his friend, the sooner he could relieve himself of this horrid anxiety he felt.

"Glenfield!" Matthew greeted him, shaking his hand and then punching him affectionately. "How do you fare?"

"Well enough," Sebastian replied, his cheeks heating a little. He felt a bit silly, if he was honest. He'd barely spoken to Eleanor since they arrived at Ramsgate—business seemed always to preoccupy him. And the moment he had the opportunity to speak to her, he made an absolute mess of it.

"Good. Grand! A fine morning, eh? Almost tempted to organize a hunt," Matthew commented. "Saw some good fields on the way. But I'm too lazy, eh." He chuckled. Sebastian smiled.

"A ride is good enough."

"My thoughts exactly," Matthew answered.

They headed out to the stables together. Matthew mounted up—his horse, Lance, was already saddled. Sebastian went around the back of the stables to fetch Starburst.

"Will you meet me at the gate?" he called to Matthew.

"Of course, old fellow," Matthew called back, leaning forward in the saddle and cantering off. Sebastian saddled Starburst, still feeling a little grumpy. As he mounted up, he frowned to himself. He could hear digging and something told him it wasn't the gardener—the energetic but shallow strikes of the spade sounded like a smaller, less well-built person. It was probably Eleanor again.

"She's a strange sort," he muttered to himself, cheeks reddening. She was strange, but that strangeness was entirely fascinating, and as he rode to catch up with Matthew, he realized what it was that bothered him.

She had come to his chamber, and he had hoped it was for another reason. He had hoped that, finally, they might become better acquainted—very well, acquainted, in fact. But she had only wanted to hound him.

"Dash it," he said aloud, turning his horse down a path that took him out of the garden.

He caught up with Matthew by the gate and they rode into the woods together.

"So," Matthew asked casually. "How do you fare? I mean, well, in your new status?" He raised his eyebrow, suppressing a grin.

Sebastian sighed. "I wish that I had the faintest idea," he told Matthew. Matthew chuckled.

"All new, eh?" he asked. "Well, I can't imagine what it's like. Best not to ask me anything, old fellow. I haven't a clue of how any of this works."

Sebastian smiled. "Me neither, old fellow. I thought it was all fairly easy." He paused. "But it isn't. I mean, some things are," he added, reddening, "but trying to make her like me is impossible."

"As it should be," Matthew said with a smile. "We can't make people like us, old chap. They do or they don't. Anything else is dishonesty."

"Mm." Sebastian let out a breath. "But, well...I think mayhap she might like me, if she knew me." He frowned, realizing he'd never even thought about this before. "I just don't know where to begin."

"Nor do I, old chap. But she does."

"Sorry?" Sebastian blinked. That made limited sense to him. He frowned at Matthew as they reined in, riding one behind the other down a narrow stretch of path. As Matthew rode alongside him again, he cleared his throat.

"I mean, old chap, that perhaps the best thing to do is let her start the talking. Find something that she likes—music, poetry, art, Heaven alone knows what it is—and start there. She'll doubtless start talking away about it and then you can get to know her a bit better. Stands to reason that neither of you know each other. Best place to start, old chap. Best place to start."

"Not a bad plan," Sebastian murmured. He frowned, gazing about. They rode down a wide path in the woodland, the boughs overhead casting shadows on the bare, leaf-covered ground. The more he thought about it, the more Matthew's idea made sense. She knew him no better than he knew her—he was quite right. He should find something to talk about. That would do the trick.

What might she like? he asked himself as they turned to find another path. Music, perhaps, or art, or gardening. That was it! She loved gardens and flowers. He already knew what his answer was.

He was grinning as they rode on.

The ride took almost all the morning, and when they rode back, it was lunchtime. Sebastian felt his stomach knot with hunger as he stabled his horse.

"Give him some bran mash, and rub down his tendons, please. Both horses. They did valiant work today."

"Yes, my lord," the groom replied, already heading into the barn.

"You ought to stay for lunch," Sebastian offered to Matthew, somewhat uncomfortably. Lunch would be the first time he could speak to Eleanor without anyone else being there and he didn't really wish for Matthew to stay, but he was a guest, and he did not want to seem rude.

"No trouble, old fellow," Matthew said, smiling. "I'd best return. I am absolutely famished," he added, as his stomach grumbled loudly, a sound Sebastian couldn't help but hear.

"I'll tell you what," Sebastian said, an idea coming to him. "We had a fine pie last night. I'll go into the kitchen and ask if there's any left and bring it out to you."

"Grand. Thank you, Glenfield. That would be welcomed."

Sebastian smiled and hurried off to the kitchens. Mrs. Teller, the cook, had worked at the manor house since Sebastian's childhood. She was old, now, and one of the few staff-members who still remembered him as a boy. He went into the kitchen by the back door, grinning as she let out a whoop.

"I spy you there, master!" she greeted him with a grin. "No thieving, mind." She shoved him playfully away from the table where she was preparing jam tarts.

He grinned back. "Just one, Mrs. Teller?"

She chuckled. "Of course, my lord. Take as many as you like. They're for tea, later, mind, and you'll spoil your appetite for lunch."

"What's for lunch?" Sebastian asked, taking two jam tarts and biting into one himself as he stood there. He was starving.

"Roast beef, young man," Mrs. Teller told him firmly. "And I saw that."

He laughed, swallowing the mouthful. "I am sure you did, Mrs. Teller. I'll take another to my friend who's waiting outside, if you don't mind over much."

She chuckled. "You can take all of them, of course, my lord," she told him with a smile.

"Just two," Sebastian answered and hurried out to join Matthew. "And perhaps a slice of the delicious pie you made yesterday."

"Flattery, eh?" Mrs. Teller grinned. "Gets you everywhere." She went to the pantry and produced two slices of cold pie, wrapping them in a clean cloth for Sebastian.

Sebastian thanked her as she pressed the parcel into his hand, then hurried off through the door and into the garden. The air felt cool and fresh after the fragrant, hot air in the kitchen.

"Here," he said, passing him a jam tart where he waited by the tree. Matthew ate it at once, then grinned at Sebastian.

"Thank you. Some things have not changed."

"No. They haven't," Sebastian agreed, smiling. They had stolen food from Mrs. Teller when Matthew came to visit in their student days. It had not been often that Sebastian had returned to the manor from Cambridge, but on their rare long holidays he and Matthew had ridden down together. Matthew's estate was only two hours' ride from Ramsgate, after all.

Sebastian stood under the tree, eating a slice of delicious cold pie. The garden was sweet-scented and pleasant, the smell of damp earth mingling with the herbs from the kitchen garden and the sound of bees making a dreamy, peaceful noise in the quiet, cool air.

"Thank you, old chap," Matthew commented, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief. "That was a delicious lunch."

"Not much of a lunch," Sebastian commented.

"It's good enough to keep me going until I get home. There, I will take a second repast and then take a ride until teatime." Matthew chuckled.

"Good, good," Sebastian said with a grin.

"Have a good afternoon," Matthew called, swinging up into the saddle and riding off.

"I will," Sebastian commented.

"And thank you again," Matthew added, turning his horse, and riding up to the path.

"It was a fine morning," Sebastian called back, waving as Matthew headed down the gravel drive towards the gate.

Sebastian walked up slowly to the front door. As he reached it, the butler appeared in the doorway.

"My lord," he began. "A messenger just arrived not five minutes ago. He had this letter for you."

"Oh." Sebastian glanced at it, then slipped it into his pocket. He would read it after lunch. It had no postmark, so it was clearly from someone living nearby. It was sealed with a lump of sealing-wax, without any impression of a seal. Sometimes Aunt Tessa sent her letters like that, sending them over to Ramsgate by means of one of her servants. He smiled fondly, thinking of her. He would read it later.

Sebastian stood a moment longer, thinking about what he and Matthew had discussed. It was a fine idea, talking to Eleanor about gardening. He was just forming the words in his mind, planning to discuss the rose-garden with her, when Papa wandered out of the front door.

"Papa!" he greeted him, surprised. It was lunchtime, and he had expected his father to be indoors having his meal.

"Good morning, son," his father greeted him. He had a tense, uneasy expression and Sebastian felt his spine tense.

"What is it, Papa?" he asked swiftly. "I apologise that I was late for lunch. Other matters kept me busy."

"Mph," his father muttered. "Those other matters, Sebastian, are not as important as your wife."

"Papa!" Sebastian stiffened. "I was on a ride with Matthew. One must spend some time out of doors."

"You could spend time walking with her," his father said firmly. "She only just arrived, son. Be a bit more considerate."

"I planned to be," Sebastian replied angrily. "I need no-one to manage my business for me." His face flushed. He felt like he did when he was a child and Papa instructed him to practice more sword-craft when that had been exactly where he'd been headed. It took all the fun out of it, turning something he liked doing into a boring task.

"Well, it seems you do. She's pining away up there in the drawing room. Take her outdoors."

"Why don't you?" Sebastian flashed back. "You seem so concerned for her welfare."

"Son!" his father yelled. "You will do as I say without argument. This is important."

"Because of Aunt Tessa?" He demanded.

"What?" his father shouted back. "You think that I...that I..." His face reddened and he spluttered, unable, it seemed, to breathe.

"Papa!" Sebastian ran forward, grabbing his arm. His anger disappeared, replaced by horror.

His father stumbled backward, then sat down heavily on the step. He had his hand on his chest, and he was gasping.

"I can't..." he whispered. "I can't..."

"He can't breathe," Sebastian yelled, wishing someone could hear him. His father was red-faced and gasping, a hand on his chest as he struggled to draw in air. Sebastian stood rooted to the spot, horror holding him in place. He was a child again, a small, frightened child terrified of losing the one strong presence that held his world together. His father was his only parent, the only person he could talk to and trust in the big, dark world. "Someone!" Sebastian called, running to the front door, torn between staying with his father or going inside to fetch the butler, the cook—anyone who could help. "Someone, please! Papa cannot breathe."

As he raced indoors, Eleanor came down the stairs into the hallway.

"What is the matter?" she asked gently. She was in a pale-yellow gown, her long hair arranged elaborately as if she had dressed for luncheon, which, he realized distantly, she must have. She had been speaking coolly to him, but when he gestured to the door helplessly, her expression was compassionate. "What is it?" she asked, hurrying over.

"It's Papa," he said, trying to get the words out. "He cannot breathe."