Deborah Simmons - Glory And The Rake

Stepping outside, Oberon viewed the cloudless sky and surrounding peaks with a jaundiced eye. Although not one to admire the picturesque, he was reminded of just how long it had been since he’d stayed at Westfield, the family seat. He knew a sudden yearning for those rolling hills, followed by other yearnings for all that went with a home, and paused in surprise.

He had put such desires behind him long ago, so why they should strike him here and now, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was all his mother’s talk of meeting his father at Queen’s Well. They’d had a devoted marriage, but at what cost? Oberon had seen his mother’s devastation at her loss, and he remembered his own pain at the death of his father. It had left him vulnerable to those who did not have his best interests at heart, and he’d vowed never again to be that … weak.

And he had never been tempted to break that vow. Most of the women who pursued him were cold and calculating, seeking the title of duchess as a business transaction. The younger ones and those less determined were usually vapid, pretty vessels that held nothing of worth. That was the sum of feminine society, at least in the circles in which he moved, an endless round of balls and routs and salons peopled by many of the same faces, the same deceits, the same falsehoods, year after year.

Oberon shook his head at his bleak thoughts. What the devil was ailing him? He had slept like a stone and eaten an enormous breakfast, unusual behaviour that his mother claimed was brought on by ‘the air’. And now he was sunk in introspection of the kind for which he had neither the time nor the inclination.

Oberon flexed his gloved fingers, an old habit, caught himself and then headed into Philtwell. Since his mother had shooed him away from the sickroom again, he was off to take a closer look at the village. Assuming the air of a common visitor, Oberon kept his eyes and ears open as he strolled the main street, but he did not see anything out of the ordinary. The people seemed to be locals; there were no obvious foreigners or strangers.

That came as no surprise, for Philtwell appeared never to have recovered from the fire his mother had mentioned. Several blackened buildings lingered, as eyesores and possible dangers to passers-by, while the weeds and brambles that grew around them threatened to overtake the neighbouring shops.

In fact, the only place that appeared well tended was the Pump Room. From his position across the road, Oberon got a good look at the front of the building for the first time. In the bright light of day, he could see that the older structure sported a fresh coat of paint over its simple, columned façade. And a man was tending to the grounds, preparing to put in some new plantings.

It seemed that someone was going to re-open the well, or at least they were making a show of the prospect. Oberon turned, intending to cross the road to casually question the worker, when a door burst open nearby. Immediately alert, he stepped out of the way, but the man who exited swung towards him.

‘Good sir, you must be new to our fine community!’ he said, bowing deeply. ‘As the pre-eminent physician in residence, Dr Tibold by name, I am pleased to offer my services to help you achieve complete health, no matter what your ailments.’

‘Do I look like I’m ailing?’ Oberon asked, with a lift of his brow. Had the fellow been watching from his rooms for potential patients? That possibility, along with his rather shabby attire, did not inspire confidence in his self-proclaimed abilities.

‘Certainly not! You are the picture of health, sir.

But even those who appear robust can be suffering from some sort of inner disorder, and that is why a course of treatment is beneficial to all, even a fine specimen such as yourself.’

Tibold paused to peer at Oberon, as though assessing the worth of his clothes and the size of his purse, in order to charge accordingly. ‘Have you been bled lately?’

Oberon did not deign to comment.

‘But, of course, that’s not always called for,’ the physician said, nodding and smiling as he changed tactics. ‘The waters, that is what we are famous for, and that is what you need.’

Again, Oberon lifted a brow. ‘I thought the well was closed.’

The physician’s face twisted, as though ill pleased by the reminder. ‘Sadly, at the moment, yes, but soon we shall ply you with our famous remedy. Of course, the waters should be available at all times, for all persons, and not at the whims of a single family.’ He paused to draw a deep breath before continuing in a louder voice, ‘Title to such things ought to be illegal. How can a person own water? It’s like taxing the very air.’

‘If you feel so strongly, perhaps you should put down a new well and open your own facilities,’ Oberon said.

But his suggestion was met with another scowl. ‘All the prime property is owned by Miss Sutton,’ he said, practically spitting out the name. ‘And her tight grip is felt by all who would do good for the community.’

‘ Miss Sutton?’ Oberon asked.

‘Yes, a female, if you can countenance it!’ Tibold said. ‘Though one would hardly believe it, the way she behaves, without even the manners of a gentleman, though she mimics a man. An ape leader, to be sure.’

Oberon soon regretted his query, for Tibold proceeded to blame the woman for everything from the depressed economy to untreated boils. The physician was practically frothing at the mouth, such was his enmity, and Oberon realised he would get little solid information from the fellow. He was considering how to extricate himself when Tibold abruptly ceased his tirade and lifted a hand to point in accusation.

‘There she is, right there!’

Frowning at the doctor’s manner, Oberon none the less looked in the direction of his outstretched arm. From Tibold’s ranting, Oberon expected to see a harridan, a crone fully capable of beating the doctor about the shoulders with her cane. But the female he saw was a plump, but decidedly dainty woman of middle age, holding a parasol, who eyed them with a vague expression of alarm.

It took Oberon a moment to realise the object of his companion’s derision was not that timid-looking creature but another, a trim figure crossing the road with her back towards him. Although the length of her stride marked her as no mincing débutante, the infamous Miss Sutton did not resemble a man, at least from the rear. She wore a simple sprigged muslin gown that delineated a slender female form when caught by the breeze.

In fact, Oberon was contemplating the familiarity of those slim curves when his companion surged forwards, calling out the woman’s name. Concerned for her safety, Oberon followed, ready to step in, if need be. But when she turned with a determined expression that Oberon recognised, he stepped back instead, neatly avoiding the heavy reticule that she sent swinging through the air at her pursuers. Dr Tibold, taken unawares, was struck full force in the stomach by the missile which, more than likely, contained a weight, for the physician doubled over, the wind knocked from him.

Either she didn’t believe in using a more lethal weapon in public, or she hadn’t the time to obtain another pistol to replace the one that was tucked away in Oberon’s bureau. ‘Miss Sutton, I presume?’ he asked with a slight bow.

‘Your Grace.’ The distaste she made no attempt to hide surprised Oberon, accustomed as he was to being pursued for his company, his invitations or his influence. Even more surprising was his own, very different and well concealed, response.

At his first glimpse of her, Oberon felt a slam to the chest, just as though he had been on the receiving end of her reticule, his senses heightened and alert. The force of his reaction was baffling, especially since she had not stepped out of the shadows to threaten him with a gun. But perhaps the threat she posed was more subtle and her dislike stemmed from something more sinister.