Summer's Secret Read online

  “May I help, sir?” she inquired solicitously, her new voice once again as English as her real voice was Bostonian.

  The gentleman turned sharply, expecting to see one of the inn maids, but then his glance took in her gown and earrings, and his expression softened gratefully. “Oh, madam, if you would be so kind as to take care of my poor wife while I endeavor to receive some manner of service in this so-called hostelry ... ?”

  “Of course.”

  Belatedly, he remembered his manners. “General Sir Oswald Harvey, retired. Your servant, madam,” he declared, according her a stiff bow.

  Summer curtsied. “Mrs. Courtenay, widow of Major Roderick Courtenay,” she replied.

  His eyes warmed approvingly at her military connection, then he strode toward the nearest door, which happened to be that of the kitchens. The door swung to behind him, and a moment later there came the sound of his raised voice as he berated the landlord about lack of service.

  Summer turned kindly toward Lady Harvey, who was struggling to compose herself. “Please come and sit down by the fire, my lady,” she said gently, putting a tentative arm around the plump shoulders.

  “You ... you must forgive me for piping my eyes like this, Mrs. Courtenay, but it was so dreadful ...” the distressed woman said as Summer helped with her cloak. The clergymen dozed on unawares.

  “What happened?”

  “A highwayman attempted to rob us.” Lady Harvey’s plump hand crept to the only item of her apparel that was undoubtedly tasteful—her necklace. It was a black velvet choker to which was attached a little sunburst of pink diamonds that flashed and sparkled in the light from the fire. The design was unusual, the workmanship of high quality, and the stones obviously very choice, for pink diamonds were as much sought after in the early nineteenth century as they would be in the future.

  Summer put a comforting hand on the other’s arm. “Oh, how dreadful for you.”

  “We were on our way to the ball at Chavenage, when this ... this masked demon appeared before us. He set his wolf upon the poor horses ...” Fresh tears filled Lady Harvey’s eyes at the memory, and she pressed a handkerchief to her trembling tips.

  “This wolf? Surely you mean his wolfhound?”

  “Oh, no, I know what it was!” Lady Harvey breathed in deeply, and then swallowed. “You know what night it is tonight, don’t you?” she whispered then.

  “Yes, of course, it’s Twelfth Night.”

  “Twelfth Night is when werewolves go abroad,” Lady Harvey said softly.

  Summer stared at her. “Werewolves?” she repeated incredulously.

  “Oh, mock me if you will, just as Sir Oswald does, but if you had heard that dreadful howl and seen how very large a beast it was.” Lady Harvey’s lips trembled again.

  “How ... how did you escape?”

  “Another carriage happened along, and the coachman was armed. The highwayman took to the woods, taking his wolf with him, but I couldn’t go on to the Chavenage ball after that.”

  “I understand completely,” Summer replied, thinking that she’d probably feel the same if it had happened to her.

  “Then we came here, and there wasn’t anyone in the yard to assist us. Oh, what a horrid, horrid night.” Lady Harvey dissolved into fresh tears.

  The kitchen door opened, and Sir Oswald reemerged accompanied by the landlord, whose red face was evidence of the blistering reprimand to which he had been rightly subjected. He was a burly man whose hair had retreated so much it lingered only as a monk’s tonsure, and he bowed and scraped to his furious guest.

  “Yes, Sir Oswald, no, Sir Oswald. At once, Sir Oswald. A maid for her ladyship? Certainly, Sir Oswald ...” He was all subservience, but the look in his eyes boded ill for the unfortunate ostlers who’d neglected to be in attendance in the yard.

  Summer assisted Lady Harvey to her feet and blushed a little as Sir Oswald gallantly kissed her hand. “You have been most kind, Mrs. Courtenay. I trust my wife and I will enjoy the pleasure of your company some time before we leave tomorrow. We will remain in our room tonight, for my poor dear wife is far too distressed to contemplate dining in company, but I trust that by breakfast she will be herself again. Perhaps you will join us then?”

  “It would please me greatly to take breakfast with you, Sir Oswald.”

  He smiled, and Lady Harvey gave her another tearful little smile, then they followed the landlord upstairs. Shadows leapt and swayed over the paneled walls as the trio disappeared along the passage at the top.

  Andrew spoke suddenly. “Is everything okay, Summer?”

  She gave a start, for she’d been so engrossed in Lady Harvey’s story that she’d almost forgotten the truth about her presence at the inn. “Oh, Andrew, I’ve just heard the most incredible story. Did you know Twelfth Night was associated with werewolves?” She told him all she’d learned. “I’m sure the poor woman truly believed it was a werewolf,” she finished, recalling Lady Harvey’s earnest expression.

  “She sounds a little strange, if you ask me.”

  “Maybe, but I quite liked her. I certainly liked her diamonds,” Summer added. “God knows how much those pink diamonds would fetch in the present. They were absolutely wonderful.” She described the necklace.

  “I expect the general got them in India. Many items like the sunburst came here because of the Raj.”

  “Probably.” Summer sat back on the settle and glanced at the two clergymen opposite. They’d slept all through Lady Harvey’s horrific tale of highway robbery and the supernatural, and still they slept while she talked to someone who was really in a future century! It was unreal!

  “Andrew, I know you told me about the two phones and all that, but when you speak to me like now, and I answer you, it seems impossible that you haven’t heard everything I have. And what about people here in this time? Can they hear me when I speak to you? I mean, the two clergymen are still sleeping opposite, and I guess a bomb would have to drop on them before they’d awaken, but what if they were to awaken? Surely they’d hear me?”

  “No, because you’re speaking to me on the other phone as Summer Stanway. Okay?”

  “I... I guess so.”

  “So let’s get on with things. When we started tonight, you said you’d come down from your room. Does that mean you’re going in to dinner?”

  “No, I dined earlier.” She laughed then. “It was great, I had all the things Summer Stanway isn’t allowed anymore!”

  “One of the perks of hypnotic regression.”

  “Yes, and another one is that I feel full of beans whenever I’m Olivia. It happened the first time, and has again now. I’d give anything to feel like this when I’m Summer Stanway.”

  She paused, then drew a long breath. “Anyway, after dinner I was tired after being on the road all day, so I thought I’d have an early night. Fat chance of that with all the racket going on in the dining room directly below my bedroom. It soon became a case of ‘if you can’t beat them, join them,’ so here I am.”

  “Did the galloping major arrive?”

  “Jeremy? No, thank goodness. I think he must have been held up by the weather.”

  Andrew hesitated. “What of the gentleman in the courtyard?” he asked after a moment.

  “I haven’t seen him since he arrived. I didn’t speak to him then because I lost my nerve. I just hurried into the inn and left it at that. He didn’t come down to dinner, and I suppose he’s still in his room.”

  At that moment she heard footsteps approaching the top of the staircase and looked up to see the flicker of candlelight as someone walked along the passage.

  “I think the landlord’s returning from seeing Sir Oswald and Lady Harvey to their room, so I won’t say anything for a moment or so, just in case you’re wrong about those darned phones,” she said, and a second or so later was rather startled when it wasn’t the landlord who descended the staircase, but the gentleman who looked so like Jack.

  He wore a sage green coat, frilled shirt, close-
fitting corduroy breeches, and the tassels at the front of his high Hessian boots swung from side to side as he moved. The pearl pin in his neckcloth shone softly as he paused to place his candle on the table.

  He was still like Jack’s ghost, with tousled golden hair that might have been burnished by the California sun, but this was a nineteenth-century Englishman, and the piercing dark blue eyes that raked her again now weren’t Jack’s.

  She was very conscious of a powerful sense of physical attraction, just as she had been for those few seconds in the yard. Everything about him drew her, from the golden sun-god looks that had always been her downfall, to that exciting air of masculine strength that could make her feel weak at the knees.

  There was a pent-up energy about him that stirred desires she’d been struggling to suppress since losing Jack, and the thought of surrendering to him was—

  Her rather shameless contemplations broke off abruptly because he suddenly came toward her, his gilt spurs ringing on the stone flags. For a moment she thought he intended to speak to her, but instead he leaned across to tap the shoulder of one of the clergymen, who immediately awoke with a start.

  “Eh? What? What is it?”

  “Have no fear, sir, it is just that I presume you are waiting for the London stage?” The gentleman nodded toward the man’s valise, which clearly bore a Chelsea address.

  “We are, sir.” The clergyman sat up and straightened his wig.

  “Well, it’s approaching. I heard the horn in the distance a short while ago. If you wish to partake of a warming glass of something before you leave, I believe you may have a minute or so.”

  “A thousand thanks, sir,” the clergyman replied gratefully, and then turned to awaken his companion.

  “Not at all.”

  Gathering up their valises, the two men hastened to the dining room, and the noise from within swept out momentarily behind them until the door closed again.

  The gentleman lingered by the settle for a moment, gazing down into Summer’s eyes as if he would speak. The air was as if charged, and a current of electricity seemed to pass between them. Never had she been more conscious of her own desires, and never had she seen those same desires so clearly reflected in those of another.

  There was a sense of danger about him, a suggestion that if she were to fly too close to this man’s fire, like Icarus, she’d burn her wings and tumble to the earth. The seconds seemed to hang unbearably, and she felt almost naked before him, yet they hadn’t even spoken, let alone learned each other’s name. The protective cocoon she’d striven to keep around herself since Jack’s death was being unwound by an invisible hand, and there was nothing she could do—or wanted to do—to stop it.

  But suddenly the stranger walked away, leaving her to stare longingly after him. She wanted to call out, but instead her silent voice spoke deep within her. Come back, whoever you are, please come back...

  Chapter Four

  As the unknown gentleman disappeared into the dining room, Summer lowered her eyes and drew a long breath to steady herself. The emotions stampeding through her now were even stronger than those she’d experienced on first meeting Jack. Being close to this man aroused craving on a scale she’d never known before. If he’d touched her, if he’d bent his lips toward hers, she’d have met his kiss!

  Andrew’s voice interrupted her. “Have you forgotten me?”

  She managed a laugh. “No, of course not.”

  “Is everything okay? “

  “Yes. I know I was quiet for a long time, but the landlord spoke to me, and then the two clergymen were awakened because their stagecoach was on the way.”

  She felt uncomfortable telling a lie, but it seemed the wisest course. Any mention of the gentleman might result in Andrew whisking her out of the trance, and that was the very last thing she wished to happen.

  “What next? Are you still going into the dining room?”

  Wild horses wouldn’t keep her from it! “Yes, I’d like to take part in the Twelfth Night festivities. Andrew, can I ask something of you?”

  “Such as?”

  “Can you leave me like this for an hour or so?”

  “Leave you? What do you mean?”

  “Well, don’t keep asking me to tell you what’s going on. I still feel a little unsure about this two phones business.”

  “Oh, Summer...” he began wearily.

  “Come on, Andrew. You can’t pretend you and Chrissie intend to go to bed early, because you never do, and I’m enjoying this so much that I want to go on a little longer.”

  There was a long silence during which she knew he was consulting with Chrissie, so she spoke again quickly. “And tell Chrissie not to start on about my diet. I’ve eaten my quota for the day, in fact I stuffed myself with lettuce and similar rabbit food at supper tonight to make absolutely sure I was okay.”

  At last he came back. “All right, you can have an hour or so, but I want you to promise that if anything happens to alarm you, you’re to let me know immediately.”

  “I promise.”

  “Right, you’re on your own.”

  “Thank you, Andrew.” She gazed toward the dining room door. What would the coming minutes bring, she wondered excitedly? What did she want them to bring? An anticipatory smile touched her lips, for she knew full well what she wanted them to bring!

  The scene in the dining room was one of unbridled merrymaking. Twelfth Night celebrations had all but disappeared in Summer’s own time, but here in the past they were still very much the thing. There was a great deal of stamping and laughter as people whirled to a riotous country dance, and so much of the hot cider punch known as “lamb’s wool” had been consumed that the mood was now very merry indeed.

  The music was provided by a scratchy fiddle and beyond the general noise came the clink of cutlery as late diners finished their meals. The traditional King and Queen of Misrule had been selected by the time-honored method of concealing a bean in the Twelfth Cake, an immensely rich confection that had been associated with this night since medieval times. Whoever found the bean became king or queen for the night, and chose his or her consort. Together they presided from makeshift thrones on a dais at the side of the low-beamed room, issuing ridiculous commands that had to be obeyed, whether it was that couples should dance together back-to-back, drink tankards of cider from the side furthest from their lips, or even pretend to dance with a broomstick for a partner. Thanks to the lamb’s wool, these capers were found hilarious beyond belief.

  There was Christmas greenery everywhere, although it was very dry and tired now. Evergreens were garlanded around the windows and mantelpiece, along the partitions separating the tables, over the trestle bar, and even around the barrels standing behind it. A mistletoe kissing bunch was suspended from the center of the ceiling, and was much resorted to by everyone who passed beneath.

  Mummers who’d performed earlier in the evening mingled with the rest of the gathering. They were easily distinguishable by their blackened faces and outlandish costumes, which ranged from devil masks to animal skins, and they were even more merry than everyone else because they’d already performed at other inns and taverns in the town and imbibed hot cider punch at every one.

  A mobcapped maid stepped forward to give Summer a glass of the hot punch, which was served from a huge wooden bowl that was decorated with ribbons. “Good wassail, ma’am,” she said, bobbing a neat curtsy.

  “Good wassail,” Summer replied, accepting the glass. She glanced down at the heady drink. It was made from cider, sugar, roasted apples, eggs, and thick cream, and the fluffy pieces of apple floating on top did indeed resemble the lamb’s wool that gave it its name.

  She retreated to a relatively quiet corner and glanced around for the gentleman. At last she saw him. He was leaning back against the far end of the trestle bar, a glass of the punch in his hand. He was already looking at her, and his penetrating eyes bore an amused expression. In an instant she realized he knew she’d been searching the room for
him, and her face flamed so much that she had to turn away.

  A bell rang out suddenly, but the merriment continued unabated as four men, including the clergymen, hastened out into the misty yard. Icy night air swept in, and Summer caught a glimpse of the newly arrived London stagecoach. Three of its passengers, a farmer and two young men, came in, their faces blue with cold, then the door closed. The newcomers pushed their way to the fireplace to hold their frozen hands to the warmth, and accepted gratefully as the maid gave them glasses of lamb’s wool.

  About five minutes passed, then the stagecoach departed again with fresh horses, and half an hour after that, at the stroke of midnight, the landlord, warmly wrapped in a huge greatcoat, with a knitted scarf tied around his head, appeared in the yard doorway to clap his hands loudly. “Ladies and gentlemen, ‘tis time to go a-wassailing!” he cried.

  There was a huge cheer, and suddenly the floor cleared. People hurried to get their outdoor clothes from the hall, a collection of metal trays, pans, and buckets was brought from the kitchens, and more glasses of the punch were hastily handed around before the wooden bowl was carried ceremoniously out into the night.

  Some of the men lit flambeaux at the fire and took them out as well, and it was then that Summer saw some rifles leaning against the wall beneath one of the windows. What on earth did they want rifles for, she wondered, watching as they too were borne out into the night.

  The king and queen had risen grandly from their thrones, and everyone remaining in the room formed a column behind them, Summer included, but as the procession began to file out into the freezing cold, she realized she only had her shawl.

  Suddenly, the gentleman was at her side with a woman’s cloak. “Allow me, madam.”

  Summer’s heart tightened, and her eyes flew to meet his.

  He smiled a little. “The lady over there insists that you take her cloak as she will not be going out.” He nodded toward a woman, probably a farmer’s wife, who was seated at one of the tables, still eating her dinner with her husband.

  The woman beamed and nodded, and Summer smiled in return before glancing up at the gentleman again. “Th ... thank you, sir,” she stammered, for his closeness quickened her pulse.