Summer Secrets

Chapter One

Lady Gayle Summer gripped the bannister rail and gave into a fit of coughing before she attempted to walk downstairs to her dining room, where breakfast awaited. It had been several days since she’d managed to leave her bedroom, and she was desperate for a change of scenery. She inhaled deeply, but all that did was make the pain and the coughing worse.

‘Hang it all,’ she said. Before she could make the decision to return to her bedroom, her maid, Alice, was by her side.

‘Perhaps another day of rest, milady,’ said Alice in a tone that sounded more like she was giving an order than a suggestion.

On the point of protesting, Lady Gayle’s body was wracked by more coughing. Her lungs scratched against her rib cage, and she bit back a squeal of anguish. She nodded wordlessly and allowed Alice to guide her back to her bedroom suite.

‘I’m going to ask Mr Fredericks to call Dr Sloane,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t like the sound of that cough.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ said Lady Gayle. ‘I don’t much like the sound of it myself.’ Once back in her room, Lady Gayle made for the armchair by the fire. She found that lying down made her cough much worse, even though sitting up did nothing to relieve the pain in her ribs. She rubbed at her rib cage, wishing that the pain could be alleviated. However, she knew only too well that recovery from influenza would take some time.

Alice rang the bell for the kitchen and placed a request for a hot lemon and honey drink to be brought up to her ladyship. Within moments, it seemed the butler, Fredericks, was delivering the beverage along with a glass of brandy.

‘It will help with the pain, my lady,’ he said. ‘I have telephoned Dr Sloane, and he promises to be here this afternoon. Will there be anything else, my lady?’

Lady Gayle held the glass of hot toddy to her nose and breathed in the steam, hoping that it would ease her chest. Instead, it brought on another bout of coughing, and she leaned forward in her armchair, holding onto her ribs and cursing the influenza.

Alice passed her the glass of brandy; she took two large mouthfuls and swallowed them down quickly.

‘I am so glad,’ she said, ‘that the new fashions mean I’m not wrapped up in corsets.’

Alice dipped her head, trying to hide a smile, ‘There’s every chance, milady. I think your old corsets were put in the attic. I could fetch some down for you, but of course, it might stop you coughing altogether.’

‘Yes, Alice,’ said Lady Gayle. ‘You could be right. After all, they usually managed to stop me breathing.’ She held her breath for a moment, waiting for another bout of coughing to begin. Fortunately, the feeling passed, but beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind, though. I would like to go back to bed.’

‘Very good, milady,’ replied Alice. ‘Perhaps if you try to sleep?’

‘I think I would prefer to sit up, at least for a while. Charles Vickery has written to me, and I’d quite like to read his letter and write back this afternoon.’

Alice nodded. She helped her mistress to bed, then collected the writing tray and placed it on the bed close to her ladyship. She added a couple of pillows behind Lady Gayle’s back to enable her to sit up more easily.

‘Will that be all, milady?’

Lady Gayle nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll ring if I need you.’

Alice bobbed a curtsy, and Lady Gayle turned her attention to the letter from Viscount Charles Vickery.

She sliced open the envelope, noticing the Italian stamp with a raise of her eyebrows. ‘What on earth is he doing in Italy, I wonder,’ she murmured. Placing the letter opener on the tray, she pulled out the letter and settled down to read.

As was typical of Lord Charles, the note was quite short. ‘I’m in Tuscany,’ he wrote. ‘Weather absolutely splendid. Felicity Makepeace is here too. Such a shame you’re too ill to make it. I’m sure you would love this little village and the wonderful food.’

Lady Gayle laid the letter on the writing tray, wishing she was well enough to travel. She took another sip of brandy and began to write a reply. However, feeling as if she had no news of her own to report, she allowed the pen to drop from her fingers. With a sigh, she rubbed her forehead and drank the last of the now lukewarm hot toddy.

Exhaustion wafted over her, and she pushed the writing tray to one side, nudged the extra pillows on the floor, and settled down to rest. Although she only planned to rest her eyes for a moment, the next thing she knew was that Alice was bent over her, shaking her awake to say the doctor had arrived.

‘There’s not really a lot I can do for you,’ said Dr Sloane. ‘I’ll give you some painkillers, but it’s really a case of allowing the pleuritic sacks on your lungs to become less swollen.’

‘How can I do that, Doctor?’ said Lady Gayle.

‘You know exactly what I’m going to say, your ladyship,’ said the doctor with a smile. ‘Bed rest.’

‘That’s not something I’m very good at, Doctor,’ replied Lady Gayle. ‘Wouldn’t fresh air help me more?’

‘Normally, I would say yes,’ replied the doctor. ‘Spring, however, is very late arriving in Yorkshire this year; the air is still quite cold and damp. It will do your lungs no good at all, unlike a visit to somewhere warm. On the other hand, when you feel up to it, a short stroll in the garden may help. But you must make sure you’re well wrapped up.’

‘Very good, doctor,’ said Lady Gayle. She bade him farewell and asked Alice to prepare one of the painkillers for her. As Alice closed the bedroom door behind her, Lady Gayle picked up the letter from Charles Vickery once more. She had an idea, and she pulled the writing tray close and began her letter.

Two days later, Lady Gayle convinced herself that she was well enough to leave the house. With Alice in attendance, she managed to potter to the stables to visit Plantagenet, the grey horse she had inherited from her late father.

‘I do miss our gallops across the fields, old boy,’ she said. She hung her head and rested her forehead against the horse’s muzzle whilst biting back another bout of coughing.

‘That still sounds nasty,’ said a voice behind her.

Lady Gayle whirled around and, standing behind her, his arms folded across his chest, was Harry Howden, her land agent. Torn between offering her hand for him to shake and covering her mouth with the same hand, she decided to cover her mouth. ‘I’m almost on the mend, Mr Howden,’ she said. ‘Just can’t get rid of this cough. Dr Sloane said that fresh air would help but that the air here is still too cold and damp.’

‘Perhaps drier, warmer air would help?’ said Mr Howden. He smiled, and the sun caught the golden flecks in his hazel eyes.

Lady Gayle’s heart gave a little flutter, which caused yet more coughing. ‘I quite agree, so does Dr Sloane,’ she said. ‘Lord Charles is in Tuscany at the moment, staying at a villa with friends. I wrote a letter a few days ago and have just sent him a wire to ask if I might join him.’

‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ said Mr Howden. The smile left his face, and the gold flecks stopped twinkling.

Lady Gayle, realising she may have made a mistake by mentioning Lord Charles, tightened her jaw. She gave a small shake of her head and turned around to walk back to Bethencourt Castle.

Once back in her castle, she made her way to the drawing room to take tea with her mother.

‘Mama, Dr Sloane has suggested I need some convalescence in warmer climes,’ she said. Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. The doctor had mentioned warm air would help her cough. ‘Viscount Charles Vickery is in Tuscany with friends currently. I have written to ask if I might join them for a few days whilst I rid myself of the rest of this illness.’

‘Written? Why write when you can send a wireless message?’ said her mother. ‘I think a change of scenery would do you the world of good, especially after the last few months.’

Lady Gayle gazed at her mother with her head tilted to one side. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have an ulterior motive, Mama?’ she said.

‘Why, of course not,’ replied her mother. ‘I simply happen to be in agreement with you.’

Lady Gayle narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she said. ‘I think it’s that which disturbs me most.’