Chapter One
Cosette Saint-Christopher came to Beverly, the summer home of the Bannon family, when she had just turned eighteen, and while she was still bound in the confines of the schoolroom. The home truly belonged to Penrose Bannon, the elder of the Bannon siblings, however it was Frances, the sister, who had made the invitation and arrangements for Cosette’s arrival. The late Sir Charles Saint-Christopher had been the bosom friend of the equally late Lord Abraham Bannon, Viscount Blyton, and in his will had decreed that his daughter’s care should be transferred to Lord Bannon. This due to the unfortunate circumstance of his wife having died in a dreadful accident by the lake in their home. It should have been expected that, upon the passing of his friend, Charles would have made alternative arrangements, especially as he was not personally acquainted with the Bannon children, knowing only of their birth from letters from their father. Whether by forgetfulness or perhaps a wish that he may see Cosette suitably engaged with a respectable partner before such arrangements need have been made, the end was that the girl was bound to be under the care of the current Lord Bannon.
Penrose Bannon, now Viscount Blyton, was a gentleman in his early thirties, tall amongst his sex, with dark hair that could almost be called bluish-black. He had the distinction of a square, mildly pugnacious jaw and a straight, prominent nose, which he was often found to look down from at any offending persons. He was universally thought to be very handsome however, with a penchant for riding which kept him physically robust. In the county of Westmoreland, he was felt to be quite a catch. His sister, Frances Penrose, was his junior by some ten years and a more jovial creature you could not find. Frances was as fair as Penrose was dark, and had taken after their mother’s small frame, with twinkling green eyes that often sparkled with mischief. She was of an age to have thought of marriage, however there were some particular considerations for her chosen partner, which were not fully appreciated by their own circle. In short, Frances was in love with a beautiful spinster who had inherited the adjoining property of their summer seat, and with whom Frances had spent many an afternoon on nature “walks.”
Cosette herself was blessed with a perpetual, rich, golden tan, as a gift from her mother who had been the daughter of a wealthy West Indies merchant. She was a healthy girl, with a tom-boy nature that would often lead her out into “hunting” with the village children, much to the grief of her governess, a redoubtable woman, who went simply by Miss Maud. Cosette’s greatest treasure was the crown of mahogany curls that fell from the top of her head to her calves in a winding path. The tale was that her mother had refused to have the girl’s hair cut through her life, and when she succumbed to the lake when Cosette was twelve years old, that tradition had been maintained. Cosette had always been a happy, if somewhat mischievous child, and was the pride and joy of her father until his untimely passing. It was unclear whether she knew of the Bannon family prior to being invited to their home, however she was preoccupied with mourning her father, so it was understandable that she had not devoted much thought to the matter.
Frances Bannon had attended the funeral as an excuse to leave Beverly for some time, as she had argued strongly with her brother the week prior about matters which are irrelevant at this time. Penrose was engaged during the week, making visits to his estates to meet his caretakers, and, while he felt he ought to attend the funeral of his father’s close friend, was not immune to the feelings of his sister, who made it clear she wished to place some distance between them. He was, by nature, not a cruel man, and had rarely exercised his authority over his baby sister and felt a prick of guilt when she made it clear he was acting the autocrat. In any case, in this state of affairs, it happened that it was Frances Bannon and not Penrose who was present when the solicitors of Sir Saint-Christopher read out the details of his will.
Frances, who had a soft heart, had immediately felt a tendre for the young Cosette, and had already made up her mind to befriend the girl especially, before the will was read. It was a great shock to her – and a few others in the small drawing room – to hear that her brother was assigned control of Cosette’s estate, until the time of her marriage, or until she reached the age of thirty, at which time she should have reached what her father felt would be a state of good sense and could manage the properties with assistance from his solicitor, a Barrister Thomas Kingsley, Esq.
There were many comments following the reading of this aspect of the will, which are too ponderous to recount, however the gist was that old Saint-Christopher had made a great mistake and could the will be overset, and where was Viscount Blyton etc. Frances had spent her time observing Cosette during these arguments and was prepared – knowing her brother’s distaste for such muddy waters – to ascertain the girl’s feelings on the matter. She was not allowed an opportunity to voice this question, however, as Cosette suddenly rose, her large brown eyes glistening with tears, her small hands fisted at her sides.
“Well, it’s a better choice, surely, than all you vultures, who always hated my mother and always taunted my father, and only want to tear Ravenswood” – for that was the principal seat of the late Sir Saint-Christopher – “apart for profit!”
After this speech, she raced from the silent room, and Frances followed, sure that she could never find her if she allowed her more than a second’s grace.
“Cosette, darling, wait!”
It was perhaps the endearment that made her stop, but one cannot be certain. They had reached a corridor of portraits which – unbeknownst to Frances – led to Cosette’s late father’s study. The girl had hoped to lock herself in there while she plotted an escape from her father’s will.
“Would you like to talk, dear? I’m sure this must be very upsetting to you.”
“You’re not one of the aunts, are you?”
Now, one must forgive Cosette for not recognising Frances, after only two days of seeing her so far. The principal Blyton seat adjoined the late Sir Saint-Christopher’s primary home. However, Abraham Bannon – while he enjoyed the fishing and shooting that could be had at his family seat – had not frequently brought or encouraged the bringing of his children to Blyton during his life. Hence, Penrose and Frances grew up mostly in Beverly, and the Yorkshire estate, Wintersdown. It is also important to note that Cosette was feeling particularly lonesome, and something about the manner of Frances reminded her strongly of her mother. It was a desire to accept this overture, warring with a lifetime of navigating duplicity in extended relatives which made her ask Frances if she was “one of the aunts.”
“Oh dear, I’m not an aunt, I hope. Only, you seemed quite upset and I thought you might want an ear to listen. After all, that is what these things are supposed to be about. I am only a friend of your father’s, I suppose.”
There was a dryness in Frances’ tone as she finished. This was due to her recalling the many relatives who had made inappropriate overtures at her own father’s funeral and had been rebuffed by the then twenty-something year old Penrose. The memory made her feel guilty about things she had said to Pens – as she called him – before leaving for Blyton, and sparked kindred feeling in Cosette, who was feeling, then, that there was nothing so burdensome as relatives at funerals.
“Well then let’s go to my father’s study, for I have much to say, and it feels less awkward to say them to a person, than to an empty room.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Frances, who had reached her, and now put out a hand to touch her shoulder. The gesture was not repulsed and they both made their way to the cozy, if somewhat stuffy room. Cosette initially made for the chair behind the desk, but then seemed to think differently of the action and set herself instead by the window in what was a familiar daybed to her. Frances chose an armchair, close but not too close to the young woman.
“I can’t believe he would send me off to some friend of his!”
The exclamation was not prefaced by any other words and Frances experienced the pang of discomfort that comes with knowing more about a situation but feeling unease with speaking freely.
“If he had meant me to stay in Ravenswood, why would he put such ridiculous strictures on my inheritance?!”
Frances looked like she might say something, but Cosette continued heatedly.
“It remains only for whoever this Bannon fellow is, to come here and steal my home! I must go to the Caribbean! I will go to my grandfather’s home, and stay there until I am thirty, and then I’ll come back and claim Ravenswood as my own.”
This proved too much for Frances, who struggled successfully against succumbing to a fit of giggles at the thought of the young girl journeying to the Americas, presumably by herself.
“But perhaps this Bannon fellow is not so bad, and would respect your home, and not tear it apart as you mentioned?” She ventured, instead.
“Well how do you know? He could be quite awful, and…and a vulture! Like all the rest!”
Here at last came the moment where Frances felt she must be honest.
“Ah…you see, Cosette, I am quite acquainted with the current Lord Bannon. And while he can be sometimes overbearing and wont to refuse one certain delightful adventures” – she said this part somewhat quietly – “he is altogether a good person, and one with quite enough funds to not need to meddle with your property. Not that he would do so even if he were in different circumstances, of course.”
“How do you know? Are you…are you his wife?!”
“Oh, dear me, no! Only his sister! And he is sorry he is not here, to be sure.”
“His sister? But you’re…you’re so young!”
“Why thank you!”
“Did you…did you trick me into coming in here? And hearing my secrets?” Cosette was frowning darkly now and looked like she would storm out of this room too.
“No, most certainly not, my dear. I only…well I felt similarly when our father died and it was just me and Pens, and there was a crowd of the stodgiest humans you can imagine in our home at all hours. It was unbearable! Although I don’t suppose I would have had the courage to call them ‘vultures’ as you did! Penrose would not have liked it, now I think on it, as I was only turning twelve at the time.”
‘He sounds rather stuffy,” Cosette commented, before continuing. “But I suppose I’m glad he’s not one of the vultures. Father would not have chosen him, if he was, I’m sure.”
“Well, I don’t think your father chose Penrose to be exact; he must have chosen our father to be your guardian…and perhaps his will was not changed? Did he ever mention anything to you, regarding that? I know it’s rather an awkward subject to have with one’s father.”
“No…he did not mention it to me…although…wait! So, it’s not your brother then?! Then I’m free!”
“I don’t think so,” Frances began slowly. “It sounded to me that it was the Lord Bannon, Viscount Blyton, who was chosen as your guardian. I don’t believe it says my father’s given name at all. And Penrose is, and has been for the past decade, Lord Bannon, Viscount Blyton.”
“But he surely meant your father! I can’t be beholden to a mistake! Surely not!”
“Perhaps…it would be helpful to see the full details of the will, to understand better what he meant. Although, you do know our properties are adjoined and it is likely as not that our fathers had hoped to combine them in some way.”
Here, Frances stopped short of what she rather thought had been the late Sir Saint-Christopher’s wishes. It was not uncommon for close friends to make such betrothals amongst their offspring, without any true binding documents. To place his daughter in such a circumstance, however, was rather silly, Frances thought. Any number of things may have occurred between his will and his passing from the world. It would be interesting, certainly, to see if there were any changes to the will after Abraham’s death. These musings, Frances kept to herself.
“Regardless,” Cosette declaimed, somewhat imperiously, “it should be easy to fix the matter, to allow me to control my rightful inheritance.”
Here, and one must forgive her impish spirit, Frances made a spur of the moment suggestion. She certainly liked Cosette and enjoyed her engaging manner immensely. She also had an inkling that the girl’s father had had it in her mind that Cosette should be associated with her yet unmarried brother. She also felt that there was the great danger of Cosette remaining in Ravenswood amongst so many eager relatives, with only the protection of a heretofore distant guardian. Ten to one, she would fall into the trap of some inappropriate association, while attempting this mad journey to another continent.
“Perhaps, but it might be easier in person, my dear,” she suggested, demurely. “Although Blyton is our principal home, my brother will likely be at Beverly in the next two weeks. Perhaps, if you came home with me, you could have this conversation with him? He is not an unreasonable person, and given that we are all orphans, I am sure he will sympathise with your situation.”
“Do you really think so?” The question was naïve, certainly, but it must be reiterated that Cosette was feeling a true kindred spirit with her new friend.
“It is certainly the most expedient way of attracting Penrose’s attention,” Frances answered honestly. The carefulness of this reply seemed lost on Cosette and she nodded slowly, as though thinking it through.
“Is he not able to come here, then?” She asked after some time.
“Perhaps, only it would take awhile, I’m sure. And I will be honest in saying I would be most surprised if Penrose knew of your father’s wishes beforehand, so a trip to Blyton is most likely not in his current plans.”
“Hmmm, yes, I suppose a Viscount would not have time for too many visits?”
Here, she looked up at Frances for confirmation. The latter nodded solemnly. Knowing Penrose, he would likely as not have found some boarding school to send Cosette into, while he very slowly reviewed the will for any faults. Only then would he meet his new ward, and even so, he would make any meetings as brief as possible, to not interrupt the military precision of his schedule.
How exciting it would be to have a new face around Beverly! Frances already envisioned the upheaval that would follow such an event as transitioning Cosette from Ravenswood to Beverly. And Penrose was likely still visiting his properties, so he would not be back until Cosette had been there for at least a week. It would be, in a word, perfect!
xx
We will skip ahead to some weeks past our last encounter. Cosette very happily acquiesced to the trip to Beverly, having never made any long travels and wishing to see more of the world. Also, she genuinely liked Frances, and could not help feeling a kinship with her.
Upon arrival at Beverly, Cosette was treated with the utmost curtesy and felt indeed that she was a well protected guest in the home of her father’s friend. It was quite a unique feeling for her, as she simultaneously felt that there was no ulterior motive in any interaction she had within the home, a thing which had been missing from other visits she had had in the homes of her father’s other friends. The largesse of the Bannon household made for a comfortable distraction from the death of her father, and every wish she had was immediately acceded to. She was curious about the number of times Frances seemed to disappear from the household after dinner, and sometimes return with a change in dress or appearance, but she had so far not further explored this mystery.
She had seen a portrait of the current Lord Bannon and was curious to meet him. It was following such musings, one afternoon, that she strolled around the garden, occasionally pulling off petals from the roses. She was putting them into a small basket, as she went along. It was a somewhat naughty pastime which had often earned her a scolding from the gardener back home, but it had not deterred her in the least. When she had a basketful of rose petals, she made her way to the stables, intent of treating her favourite gelding to her delicate treasure. Cosette had become a regular at that stables, not for riding any of the beasts, but rather for sneaking in with treats for those who had caught her eye. It happened that the gelding she so admired, was a dappled grey with flowing white mane, brilliant white socks and a star that made him rather showy. She approached his stall now with her basket of rose petals. From her purse she also drew some pilfered sugar cubes, stolen from the dining table, and now offered these to him. His neigh was one of deep contentment and when she offered him the basket, he willingly munched on this lighter snack.
It was while she now stroked his large head as he munched at the roses, that a voice interrupted her solitude.
“I was warned that someone had been spoiling Morning Star, but I’d thought it was with something more substantial than rose petals. Did you savage my rose bushes for this purpose?”
Cosette turned, her hair, now in two extremely long plaits, swinging around to brush against the stall, and faced the newcomer.
“Oh! You must be Penrose! Is his name really Morning Star? Isn’t that a bit much? He already has the star; he probably is a bit embarrassed already!”
“My sister named him, Lord knows why,” Penrose muttered, and approached the pair, horse and girl. “And you must be Cosette, my minx of a sister appears to have been neglectful in her description.” He took the basket out of her hands and flung the whole into a bin away from the stalls.
“Why was she neglectful? And why have you thrown away my basket?! That is excessively rude, Penrose!”
“First, my dear girl, don’t feed my horse rose petals, he doesn’t like them. Second, I don’t know what manners you have been brought up with, but I am Lord Bannon, to you. If I should choose to allow you to use my Christian name, you may only then be honoured to use it.”
“I fancy he does like rose petals! My horse, Cherish, loved them! And I’ll call you what I wish, you’re not my father, no matter what the will says!”
She stared daggers at him, after this impassioned retort. He observed her in silence, a single brow rising with quizzical distaste. A moment later, he took her chin between his fingers and tilted up her head, so their eyes met.
“I don’t particularly care what you fed your horse, Miss Saint-Christopher. And you won’t do that, unless you have a fondness for courting danger. Go back into the house and see me in my study in half an hour.”
He let go of her chin and she took a step back – perhaps to avoid being caught again – glaring up at him, with suspiciously glittering eyes. She was a girl who had the unfortunate habit of waterworks whenever she grew passionate, as she was now. She raised her foot and for a moment, it looked like she would kick him in the shins, but he looked so forbidding that she settled for stomping her foot angrily on the ground.
She spun around in a huff, her braids slapping his coat in the process, reached into the bin to retrieve her basket and left the stables in a run. Penrose watched her departure with a curious expression that was both exasperated as well as intrigued. He patted Morning Star on the head before calling for the stable master, Guy Taverner.
“Is it your habit to let anyone wander in here and tamper with my horses?”
“Ah, the girl, my Lord? She means no harm, surely.” He bowed his head deferentially, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips that told Penrose that the man found the situation amusing. His eyes narrowed.
“Does she not? I hope I am allowed to be the judge of that,” he replied dryly.
“Oh yes, my Lord, yes. I will keep an even closer eye on the beasts, of course.”
“See that she doesn’t bring any more rose petals,” Penrose muttered briefly, before stalking past the man. He felt a little ridiculous and that irritated him to no end. He left the stable, mentally making a note to ask his valet to inform the gardener to keep an equally close eye on his rose bushes.
By the time, he entered the house, it was half an hour past, and he made his way to his study, expecting Cosette to be waiting, perhaps at the door. He had received a copy of the will from Saint-Christopher’s solicitor, as well as documents detailing the extent of Cosette’s properties, with a categorised list of what had been left to various relatives – not much out of what seemed the bare minimum – and may need to be disbursed by her new guardian. From the letter he had received from Frances, which was on the heels of the barrister’s notes, the matter was a messy one and the associated relatives would require what she felt was careful handling.
Why Saint-Christopher had not made better arrangements than this, Penrose thought, was beyond him. It bordered on negligence to assign a guardian for his only daughter who he hardly knew, and it irked him to think that, given the relationship of their fathers, he was obligated to do best by the girl. Which meant interacting with what seemed to be a pack of greedy relatives, which Frances had – quite rudely – called “vultures.” In fact, she had used the term liberally in her letter, to the point that he suspected some underlying joke. As she had not clarified it, and she had so far not made an appearance since his arrival – probably dallying with that woman – he would have to remain in the dark. Another annoyance.
Cosette was not waiting at the door when he arrived at his study, and he briefly wondered if she had not been able to find it. Upon entering, however, he discovered that she had instead made herself comfortable in an armchair, sitting sideways, with her feet hanging over one armrest and her head lolling against the other. He was going to smack the girl. He knew it was only a matter of time, before his limit was reached.
“Would you mind sitting in a more civilised manner, Miss Saint-Christopher,” he said quietly, walking around her to sit behind the desk.
“I do mind, actually; this is more comfortable.”
His eyes flicked up from the desk top to meet hers. They were cool, greenish-grey eyes which she had first thought were rather mysterious, but now felt were somewhat alarming.
“But I suppose, I can please you, since it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Oh, I appreciate your sacrifice, my girl.”
“You needn’t be sarcastic, you know,” she pointed out, looking at her fingernails. “I wonder that Frances is your sister, she is so much nicer, if I do say so.”
“Indeed.”
“Oh, don’t take offence, please,” she said with a close-lipped smile. “I only speak my mind, I never learned to say pretty, but false things.”
“Yes, I see that. I will endeavour to reserve my offence until necessary.”
“Well, I see you mean to be disagreeable,” she said to her fingernails, but peeking up through her lashes to judge his response. His eyes were narrowed, but after a moment, his brow cleared and he sat back, pulling open a drawer.
“Miss Saint-Christopher—
“‘Cosette’ is just as well; I’m not given to putting on airs.”
He paused a moment to pierce her with those steely eyes, before continuing.
“I received the documents surrounding your late father’s will. As your appointed guardian—
“By accident, my father meant to appoint your father as my guardian.”
“As he is not here for us to query…I apologise, that was not well done of me.” He looked contrite and Cosette for her part, for the first time, looked like she might cry.
“The language of the will specifies the Viscount Blyton as your guardian, and as I am, he, I am willing to accept this duty. Your father’s solicitor made it clear, in explicit terms that the will could not be overset, and that it would be my responsibility to dispose of whatever items your father had designated for his relatives.”
“You mean the vultures?”
“The…what?”
“That’s what father called them, anyway,” she replied rather hesitantly, at the ire she detected in his tone.
“There is no reason for you to repeat it, my girl. Your father likely said that to you in confidence and could not have expected you to produce it at every available opportunity.”
“Oh…well I suppose he did, but I already told them they were vultures, at the funeral.” She shrugged, unapologetically.
“Would you stop repeating that word?”
“It’s not a bad word like, f—,” she responded with a pensive expression. Penrose blinked in astonishment to hear the word slip out so casually from her small lips.
“Miss Saint-Christopher—
“Cosette.”
“Do not interrupt me, again,” he snapped, clearly losing his patience. “And do not let me ever hear that word fall from your lips.”
“Which word? Vulture or f—?”
He took in a long breath, and it is unclear what might have happened next, if Frances had not chosen that moment to burst into the study. Her hair was somewhat disheveled, and she wore riding clothes, while being a tad out of breath.
“Oh! You’ve met!”
