Page 7 of The Boys of Summer
Sophie’s smile faded into a firm, stoic line. “I can’t. I promised Henry I would not matchmake for the duke. Henry believes that’s the very reason he’s here! That he’s trying to avoid matchmaking mamas and ambitious debs. How awful would I be if I betrayed that trust?”
“How awful would it be to send poor Clarissa back to her father? He’s abusive, you know? He doesn’t strike her, of course… or not that I’m aware of. But what he does, Sophie, is so much worse! He crushes her spirit. He makes her fearful and shy. I only want to give her an opportunity to blossom here. Surely, if she has a bit of freedom and some support from us, then the duke will not need anyone to matchmake for him. He will see for himself what a wonderful girl she is.”
“But you’ll be taking her to London in a few months.”
It was time to bring out her dirtiest trick. Settling herself onto one of the stone benches that faced the young viscountess, she began her tale of woe. “I will not, Sophie. We are friends, despite our vast age difference. I can trust you with my secret, can’t I?”
Sophie leaned forward and clasped her hand. “Of course, you can. You may trust me with anything, Lady Helmsley!”
“I am very ill, Sophie. Too ill to be making plans so far ahead. I fear that by the time dear Clarissa is ready to take on London… I will be long gone from this world. If I could—while I am here at Haverton Abbey—see her future secured, I would be beyond happy. I could depart this world knowing that the one member of my family worth knowing has been saved!”
Sophie stared at her for a moment. Then with a firming of her jaw, she replied, “What utter and complete drivel! You’ve never been sick a day in your life.”
Lady Helmsley sat back on the bench and heaved a sigh of irritation. “Very well. I’m not ill. But I am old and none of us can escape that. I am worried about Clarissa’s future. Her father has made a horrible match for her to a man in his dotage. But he’s not a good man. He’s a lecherous drunk, an aging roué who would—well I can’t bear to think of it!”
“I am terribly sorry for her and I will do anything I can to help her, but I promised Henry—”
“At any point in time, her father could demand I return her to him in Bedfordshire and then she’ll be stuck marrying that awful man. She’ll be used and abused, utterly miserable, and never know a moment’s happiness. Would you deny her that? Would you deny her the chance to marry a man who is young and handsome and would engage both her heart and her passion? Do not be so selfish, Sophie. She needs us!”
Sophie sighed heavily. “No. No, I would not deny her that. I’ll help you but we cannot be underhanded about it. I will not see that poor man managed into a marriage that is not of his choosing!”
“Poor man! He’s a duke,” Lady Helmsley said. “It will all be fine. You’ll see.”
*
Clarissa retreated tothe house. She didn’t pause to see what any of the afternoon entertainments were or to avail herself of the plentiful refreshments that were always available. Instead, she made a beeline for her small chamber. She and her great-aunt were in a connecting suite, her room the smaller of the two, but still much more plush than her own room at her father’s estate. Everything that might have been considered beautiful or luxurious had long since been sold off. Her room there was spare and barren of comforts. Even the bed curtains had been taken away so that she spent the winter shivering and huddled beneath extra layers of blankets.
Opening the large armoire where her meager wardrobe had been stored, she hung up the shawl inside it and then gazed at the contents. They were serviceable at best. The few gowns she’d brought with her were a combination of her own best dresses and items that her great-aunt had been able to cobble together for her prior to departing her house in town. Ill-fitting, retrimmed half a dozen times to hide the frayed hems and cuffs—they were a perfect example of why she’d be a terrible duchess. She had no notion of what was and was not fashionable. While Augustus had stated he never went to town, that London was not a place he wished to live, she knew that, as a duke, he would have to partake in society to some degree. It was his duty, after all.
But even as she thought about all of that, memories crept in, taking her back to that long ago summer when a small boy and girl had bonded on the beach.
She ran down the steps toward the damp sand just after the tide had gone out. She’d heard the shouting earlier and while she had no notion what it meant, she was very afraid for her dear friend. Her only friend.
When she reached the last step, she looked both left and right but there was no sign of him. He’d told her he would meet her there after dinner, just before sunset. That was the time of day when they both usually managed to slip away.
Worried more than ever, she’d placed her booted foot on the sand and walked toward the steps that led down from the house he shared with his mother. The house where just that morning she’d seen the arrival of a scowling and obviously angry man. As she reached them, she heard a sound… a soft hiss that sounded pained.
Peering around the steps, she saw him huddled in the corner there. His lip was bloodied, his face bruised, but it was the way he sat hunched forward, with his arms wrapped about himself that worried her the most.
“Gus?”
“Go away,” he said.
“But you’re hurt,” she protested. “Did he do this to you?”
“My father,” he said. “If he catches me here, it will go poorly… but if he finds you with me—I can’t let that happen, Clarissa. Go back to your house.”
“I’ll be back,” she insisted. Then turned and fled back to her home. She went directly to the kitchen and slipped past the cook to the small cupboard where they kept all of their various medicinal cures. She retrieved bandages and salves before slipping out once more and running down the steps with such haste that she nearly tripped. When she reached the bottom, she went directly to where Gus was hidden behind the neighboring stairs.
“What are you doing?” he demanded harshly. “I told you! He’ll be furious and I can’t protect you. I can’t protect anyone.”
Clarissa took the piece of cloth she’d wrapped her precious bundle in and spread everything out on it. “Did he hurt your mother?”
“He hurts her by living. Every breath he takes is simply to torment others,” he replied.
“Where does it hurt?”
He eyed her for a moment, and then with a pained sigh, turned his back to her and raised his shirt. The skin of his back was simply a mass of scars. He’d been whipped again and again. There were large, angry welts, and in some places, the skin had split, leaving weeping gashes.
