Chapter Four

Briggs

My punishment for tricking Blythe Rowley and allowing her to fall into the pigsty was my father’s contempt.

It doesn’t sound like much, but I adored my father, and when he was angry with me, all I wanted was to make amends. And I had never seen my father so angry as when he spoke to me about Blythe Rowley.

“What were you thinking, Briggs?” he asked.

I stood in his study as he sat at his desk, a fire roaring in the hearth behind him as the last snowflakes from the previous night’s storm fell to the ground in the gardens outside his window.

“I swear, Father, I didn’t intend for any of that to happen to Miss Rowley. It was Jack Stirling, and he planned it without me—”

Father leaned back in his chair, thrumming the desk with his fingers. “If you didn’t intend for her to land in the pigsty, then what did you intend?”

My shoulders slouched when I realized I had to tell him the whole truth, and even then, that wouldn’t guarantee my ass being saved from a sound lashing.

“My friends and I had overheard Miss Rowley telling Miss Barlow that she hoped I would kiss her before I returned to school,” I murmured, shame pooling low in my gut. “But Father, she’s only fourteen. Still just a girl, really. So…I was going to let her think I was about to kiss her, and when she leaned in and closed her eyes, it would be a dog instead of me.”

Father’s nostrils flared. “You were going to use the knowledge of her affection for you in order to embarrass her? Who is truly the child in this scenario, son?”

I tried to find a way around that one, but no. He was right. That’s exactly what I was.

He stood, then, leaning over his desk, brows pinched together in a combination of disgust and disbelief that made me feel like I was a genuine troll. “I am embarrassed for you, Briggs, and shocked that your hatred of the girl could push you to act in such a way.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t hate Miss Rowley. Not truly. Pranks have always sort of been our…thing.”

Father sighed. “Briggs, she is a gentleman’s daughter, and I thought I was raising you to be a gentleman. When you respect a young lady, the last thing you shall ever do is betray her trust. Do you understand me?”

I nodded.

Father sat back down at his desk and waved me away. “Please go to your bedchamber, Briggs, and think over your actions.”

I retreated with my proverbial tail between my legs.

My father forgave me eventually.

Blythe Rowley, it seems, not so much.

But even with the apple to the middle of my face this afternoon, it was an unexpectedly pleasant distraction from my overall exasperating day.

I suppose there was a time in my life where meeting up with Blythe Rowley in the middle of a field armed with nothing more than my natural charm would be something I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy, but fate lately has a funny way of exploding in my face.

If I had ever ventured to imagine the moment I met up again with Blythe Rowley, I think an apology might have been included. I hope that’s the kind of gentleman I am—the kind my father would be proud of. But one look at her, and I unraveled. It had been easy to tease the old Blythe because she was so self-righteous and frightfully clever. But this Blythe? Well, she’s still self-righteous and frightfully clever, but now also…beautiful. Too beautiful. Like, I stared too long at the sun, painfully beautiful. And that’s three whole things to throw me off. Confidence, wit, and unparalleled beauty? I didn’t prepare for that kind of amalgamation, so I did what any self-respecting person would. I teased her.

Better that she hates me than ignores me, I suppose.

Reaching into the pocket of my coat, I gently touch the handkerchief that’s rested there for almost ten years. Despite our interaction this afternoon, it still provides me solace.

I lead my horse, Apollo, away from Wrexford Park, finding the worn lane between the fields, allowing his muzzle to nudge my shoulder every so often. I peel my coat from my body, draping it over his saddle, and stare numbly as the first roofline of Mistlethrush Hall comes into view. There’s no more avoiding it now. I’ve done a passably decent job of it, considering I arrived from London last night, my mother and brother none the wiser.

It wasn’t until Westley found me lingering in Brumbury village that I felt the obligation of this trip settle on my shoulders. I haven’t been home in six months, not since we buried my father. In the meantime, I’ve been staying with my uncle in London, trying to settle my late father’s finances.

Actually, that’s a lie. They were fairly easy to settle, as there were hardly any finances left. What occupied my time was uncovering where all my family’s money had gone and why I, the heir to Mistlethrush Hall, was left with only four hundred fifty-two pounds and a shilling. And the answer, as it turned out, was gambling—and my father’s mistress.

Two discoveries that I cannot bring myself to share with my family. I suppose I figured that the longer I stayed away, the easier it would be to eventually break it to them, but here I am. Standing in front of Mistlethrush Hall, home to every Goswick since 1584, searching for the words to explain why we’re going to have to sell it all while trying to avoid revealing my father’s duplicitousness.

Because I can’t do that. I could bear anything but that.

Our solicitor informed me that we’ve enough money to last until the autumn, then we would have to consider the sale of our home. If not for our finances, then for the sake of the many tenants who rely on the land to feed their families. If I can somehow find a way to preserve Mistlethrush in the Goswick name by then, I won’t have to worry about selling. I suppose I must start being clever in the meanwhile.

One of the stable boys takes Apollo’s reins from my hand, and I rub at the spot between my eyes, as though Blythe’s apple had only just landed.

“Briggs!” comes my mother’s voice. She appears in the doorway of the eastern drawing room, and as she sweeps through the garden, the scents of honeysuckle and bluebells follow after her. Before I can even reply, she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses my cheeks incessantly. “Look at you! You look so handsome and grown up. My sweet boy.”

The guilt bubbles in my chest again. Part of me, the part that will always be her sweet boy, wants to tell her everything. Confide in her, have her assure me that everything will be fine. But I’m not that boy anymore. I cannot be. I’m the master of Mistlethrush Hall, and now my family depends on me. “Hello, Mother.” I squeeze her in a hug, hoping I can hide the burden in my voice, but she’s highly skilled in detecting even the smallest deviations in tone.

She hooks her arm through my elbow and leads me inside. “I figured you would be close behind Westley, and once he arrived yesterday afternoon, he explained that you had been delayed with your horse’s sore hoof.”

Bless Westley and his well-crafted lies. There’s a reason he’s been my best friend since boarding school.

“And do you know, he’s brought his stepsister with him,” my mother continues. She leads us down the path to the entrance of the drawing room. “Miss Sabrina Dixon. Have you met her already?”

“I haven’t,” I admit.

Mother leans her head in, whispering, “She’s quite beautiful, though rather reserved.”

My mother loves gossip and believes her matchmaking skills are unsurpassed. It’s only natural that she should extend her talents to me, but the last thing my mind could possibly comprehend right now is courting.

I open the door, allowing my mother to step in first, and am greeted with the sight of my younger brother, August, sitting at the window, his nose in a book, Westley standing near his stepsister, his teacup halfway to his mouth, and the lady I imagine to be Miss Sabrina Dixon seated on the sofa.

Admittedly, she is pretty. Impeccably dressed, her long hair the color of straw pulled back in a fashionable style, she greets me with wide blue eyes.

“Ah, there you are, Briggs. I hope your horse is on the mend?” says Westley in greeting.

“Yes, thank you. Doing better by the day.”

Miss Dixon rises from her seat and then lowers herself in a shallow curtsy.

Westley clears his throat. “Allow me to introduce my stepsister, Miss Sabrina Dixon.”

I bow before her. “Miss Dixon, a pleasure.”

A small smile flicks across her lips, but she reclaims her seat and folds her hands neatly in her lap without uttering a word.

A lady with nothing to say? Refreshing considering the events of my afternoon, but not exactly my style.

“Well then.” I move on. “August,” I add, addressing my brother.

He’s slouched in his chair, but his eyes dart from the page of his book to meet mine. “Briggs.”

And that’s the best I can expect of him after interrupting his reading.

Westley gestures behind the sofa at the table of tea and refreshments, and wordlessly, I join him there. Like he’s the owner of Mistlethrush, and I’m simply his guest. I suppose I should become better acquainted with that particular sensation if my newly acquired lack of finances has anything to do with it.

“Everything all right?” he asks, handing me a cup and saucer.

I lift the beverage to my mouth, allow my thoughts to flitter back to the fields, on my back, the world swimming around me after being thrown from my horse, only to open my eyes and find Blythe Rowley looming over me. It feels silly, letting myself be so consumed by an admittedly pretty face—when it isn’t scowling, at least—when there is so much more that should be occupying my thoughts.

Instead of replying, I go with distraction. “Your stepsister is a little…”

“Reserved?” Westley provides for me.

“She doesn’t seem particularly thrilled to be here. Why did she join you?”

“Said she needed a change of scenery from Brompton Place. That my father and her mother were far too preoccupied with their newly wedded bliss to be bothered with her.”

“Not a girl prone to swooning, eh?”

Snorting in amusement, Westley observes Sabrina as my mother tells her all about the milliner’s shop in town. “She is not. She has told me multiple times that she is not the marrying kind, and she doesn’t care if she remains a spinster all her life.”

I take a sip of tea. I can respect that.

“That her dowry of fifty thousand pounds shall never belong to anyone but herself.”

My cup clanks back into its saucer as I choke on my drink, wheezing. Westley slaps my back, which only makes things worse and draws the attention of my mother, August, and Sabrina. I wave to signal that I’m fine, even though my eyes are watering and my lungs are burning.

“Are you all right?” Westley asks once everyone has returned their attention to their previous occupations.

“Did you say f-fifty thousand?” I manage to ask.

“I did.”

“Westley, that’s a lot of money for one rather wordless girl.”

“She could certainly have her pick of husbands if she so chose.” Westley lowers his voice. “She could have you .”

I rest my teacup back in its saucer. “Come again?”

Westley turns so that his back faces our present company and only I can hear what he has to say. “She could have you. You just finished telling me all about the dire financial circumstances you’ve put yourself in, and Sabrina could be the girl to solve all that.”

I peer over Westley’s shoulder at the mouse of a girl on the sofa. She stares off at something, Lord knows what, as though no one else in the room exists. She’s like a rich little ghost.

“It could work,” Westley insists. “As long as you don’t squander away all of her money, too.”

I grimace at him but fail to defend myself. I couldn’t admit to Westley that it was my father who was the squanderer and not me, so now I must accept his look of complete and utter contempt whenever he mentions it.

“Me,” I repeat.

“You,” Westley confirms.

She could have me, and I her, and it would solve all of the financial woes my father has thrust upon my family. We wouldn’t have to sell Mistlethrush at the end of the summer or let down our tenants. I wouldn’t have to displace my loved ones. My mother and brother would never need to know about the woman my father kept in London. And maybe I could forget that the man who raised me, the man I have tried so hard to emulate, who always pointed out to me the difference between right and wrong, let me down in every possible way before he left us all.

It doesn’t sit right with me, but this isn’t about me. I step closer to the sofa. The least I could do is strike up a conversation with her. Conversation might be useful if I’m contemplating attaching myself to a stranger for the rest of my life.

I eye the small amount of space between Miss Dixon and the collection of pillows that I could possibly squeeze into. Almost as though she can read my mind, she raises her gaze to mine, and if my eyebrows ask her a question, her body’s response is to take up what little room was left on the sofa.

An excellent start.

“Do you know who’s visiting with Mr. Barlow, Briggs?” comes my mother’s voice.

Christ in Heaven, Mother, yes, I know who’s visiting with the Barlows, and she is the last lady on the planet who I wish to discuss right now, not when I have a different lady who is sitting on ￡50,000 in my very drawing room.

“Miss Blythe Rowley!” she continues anyway. “It’s been over a year since the Rowleys have spent any time at Wrexford Park, apparently. Sir Anthony and Lady Rowley seem rather preoccupied with Awendown House of late, but I’m glad to see them, nevertheless. I suppose that means she’ll be attending your dinner. You’ll have to be introduced, Miss Dixon.”

Sabrina smiles and nods lightly. But she doesn’t actually say anything. Still .

“Briggs, do you remember how you and Miss Rowley used to torment each other as children?”

I take a deep breath. “Mother, I don’t think—”

“Oh, you two despised each other. Always playing a prank or a jape to irritate the other. But I spoke with her after church the other day, and she has grown to be quite a beauty. Don’t you think so, August?”

August flips a page. “All right.”

Mother settles more deeply into her seat, takes a sip of her tea, and then says, “You seemed rather taken with her on Sunday, I daresay.”

This prompts August to slam his book shut. “I wasn’t taken with her, Mother. We were discussing business.”

“Business?” I ask.

“Miss Rowley is quite an expert when it comes to honeybees, apparently,” August clarifies, “and I have engaged her business to build an apiary here at Mistlethrush.”

His words actually make me feel a little faint as expense ledgers flash before my eyes, and despite the fact that she’s made sitting all the more difficult, I plop myself down next to Sabrina Dixon, causing her to jump and cling to her arm of the sofa.

“You’ve what?” I ask.

Clearly confused, August repeats himself. “I’ve asked Miss Rowley to build an apiary here at Mistlethrush. She’s knowledgeable, and her rate was more than reasonable.”

“Unless she’s charging nothing, then it’s not reasonable.”

August pinches his brows, scowling.

“What’s gotten into you, Briggs?” Mother asks.

“Nothing,” I assure her. “Nothing. It’s just that I wish my younger brother wouldn’t go about securing people’s services for a house that isn’t his. He didn’t even run it by me.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to ask your permission for every little expenditure,” says August.

I lurch from the sofa. “Well, you do! In case you’ve forgotten, Father is gone. That means I’m now the master of Mistlethrush Hall, and it all falls on me. If you would like to shoulder this burden yourself, be my guest.”

August’s chest heaves, and he grabs his book, wordlessly exiting the drawing room.

Placing her cup and saucer on the table beside her, Mother stands, inviting Miss Dixon to do the same. “Why don’t I show you the gardens, my dear? Allow Mr. Goswick to gather himself.”

“I would like that,” Sabrina replies.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as the ladies leave Westley and me to ourselves.

“All right, then,” says Westley. “I see there are issues churning beneath the surface. I offer you the space to discuss them with me or, by all means, keep them to yourself.”

I flop back onto the sofa. “Keep them to myself.”

Best to keep at least one person of my acquaintance on my side, at least until my thoughts sort themselves out.

If they sort themselves out.