The Second Son

By Vonnie Hughes

A second son is not necessarily second best

John Trewbridge is destined to spend the rest of his life in the British Army. Serena ripped the heart out of him when she told him he was "only" a second son and therefore not worthy of her. Home on leave he discovers she is about to marry his older brother, Spencer, who will inherit the marquessate. His older brother - the one who made his childhood a misery and whose morals are worse than those of an alley cat.

On a raw winter's day John meets Marguerite Ninian. Crippled from birth she hides from the world and in spite of an inauspicious beginning they feel their way towards a tentative relationship. Then Spencer implodes and smashes the Trewbridge family apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vonnie Hughes
• Release date: Jul 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463536513

Vonnie Hughes

Vonnie’s family members were born in New Zealand and now live in Australia. As with many writers, she began writing stories during middle childhood. Over time she won a bunch of writing contests, garnering a variety of prizes that included a pony, cash and an overseas trip. When she looks back over her family tree, she can see why the compulsion to write is inherent. Her employment has usually involved writing in one shape or form e.g. composing resumés, compiling technical books and drafting legal documents. She has accrued an eclectic group of useless qualifications such as a radio announcer’s diploma, a diploma in journalism/creative writing, the major part of a Diploma in Business, part of a Bachelor of Arts degree and an interior decorating diploma. Vonnie has settled into writing two genres – historicals and contemporary suspense although all her writing includes mysteries of some sort or another. She loves the two-faced restrictive Victorian lifestyle, the intricacies of the social rules of the Regency period and the far-ranging consequences of the Napoleonic Code. When writing suspense, she can give free rein to her fascination with forensic matters and the weird convolutions of the human mind.

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the Second Son

by Vonnie Hughes

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About Vonnie Hughes

Other Books

Copyright © Vonnie Hughes, December 2018

The Second Son

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means , or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only . Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

Contact information: www.vonniehughes.com

Previously published by Musa Publishing, 2012

Chapter One

Dinner was going to be an ordeal. After nine months fighting on the Peninsula and eating on the run, he wasn’t sure he could recall all those subtle niceties of Society manners. John Trewbridge grinned. He could imagine how his parents and the butler would react if he snatched up chunks of venison and dunked them in the perch sauce. Of course, his young brother Edward would think it was a great lark.

Cook had seen fit to welcome him home with a replicated Christmas dinner, right down to the roast goose and fig puddings. Even the mille feuille were arranged in baskets decorated with red ribbons.

John leaned back in his chair to ease the throbbing in his injured neck and shoulder. He inhaled the scents that were uniquely Trewbridge. The complete absence of discord settled on his shoulders like a soft cloak.

Yes, yes. His common sense could argue all it liked that this was no longer his home. It felt like home.

This is a better Christmas dinner than we had in December, Edward said with a grin. Better company.

John glanced up just in time to intercept his father’s warning glance to Edward. But his young brother hadn’t noticed and carried on blithely. I’d rather have you here, John, than Spencer. Lord, even at Christmas-time he was bad-tempered. And as for that woman... He shook his head with youthful sagacity.

John laughed. What woman was that? he asked, selecting a slice of goose from the platter held out to him by a footman. His older brother, Spencer, had never been known to produce any of his women in the light of day before. Most of his women seldom saw the light of day. They were night-dwellers of the demimonde. Not the sort one brought home. This new relationship must be serious.

Oh, you know, Edward answered, That lady both of you used to make sheep’s-eyes over.

John looked an inquiry. He couldn’t remember any woman both he and Spencer had been fascinated with. Their tastes didn’t coincide. Apart from a few young matrons who had initiated him into the ranks of the worldly when he had first come down from Oxford he was not in the petticoat line, for Serena had monopolized him.

That lady who lives near the Fitzwilliams, Edward explained.

John dropped his knife onto his plate with a clatter. An awful pounding began behind his eyes. His throat had closed and he couldn’t seem to speak. Do you mean Serena Blyth? he managed to squeeze out.

Yes. It was his mother who replied.

She came here?

Yes. With Spencer. For two days at Christmas-time, the Marchioness of Trewbridge said in a clipped tone. They went on to a house party at Attwell Grange. I wrote to tell you but you must already have been on your way home.

John saw the anguish in his mother’s eyes and shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he was shaking his head because he hadn’t got the letter, or because the idea of Spencer and Serena was obscene. That beautiful, vital creature at the mercy of his smooth-talking, iniquitous brother?

His appetite had vanished but he fumbled the food around on his plate and forced himself to choke down a mouthful of roast goose. He had to eat something because the household had gone to a lot of trouble to welcome him home.

Home. That word again. He chewed stoically.

He had known that some day Serena would announce her impending marriage to a man with a title. For some ridiculous reason he hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon. And he certainly hadn’t expected that man to be his brother.

Poor Serena. Spencer would squeeze her dry of her charm and expect her to replace it with haughty indifference. He was the master of impassive coldness. He seemed to think that was how the future Marquess of Trewbridge should behave. But the man was smooth, no doubt about it. Somehow he always managed to get his own way.

This must be her parents’ doing. When Serena had rejected John, she indicated that her parents expected no less than an earl for their daughter. Yet they had always given John the impression that they liked him, and had always made him welcome. Mama had even mentioned in one of her letters that the Blyths had ridden over to see how he was faring on the Peninsula. As he sweltered under the unforgiving Spanish sun and smacked at voracious mosquitoes, he had entertained a faint hope that her parents’ visit might mean she had relented. False hope.

Well, there was something the army had taught him, and that was self-discipline. He cleared his throat to dislodge the boulder blocking it. This is a delicious dinner. Thank Cook please, Twoomey, he said as the butler removed his nearly untouched plate.

I will, my lord, Twoomey responded. And may I say, sir, what a great pleasure it is to have you home again.

John forced a grin. It has not been so very long, Twoomey.

Nine months m’lord, almost to the day, Twoomey replied, hovering at John’s elbow.

In spite of his misery, John could not help but be flattered that the household staff had missed him.

That will be all, thank you, Twoomey, the marchioness intervened.

As the door closed behind Twoomey and the footmen, Edward muttered, He has moaned every day since you left that the place isn’t the same without you.

He’s right, the marquess said. We’ve all missed you. You left a big gap when you left, son.

It’s good to be home, Father, John said, knowing that was what the Marquess of Trewbridge wanted to hear.

But it wasn’t good at all. It was worse than bad. All the awkward, inadequate emotions were flooding back like a hot lava flow smothering him—-those feelings of being second best, of not being able to find his place in the world. He thought he had buried all that on the Peninsula.

You’ll be pleased to know we expect much higher crop yields this summer, John, his father said, leaning forward to address him down the length of the table.

John recognized it for what it was—a diversion. And he was grateful, for after all, at heart he was a farmer. Why is that? he inquired.

Mr. Cleary agreed with your suggestion that we should plant some of our unused land in clover. The marquess shrugged. "To me, clover just is. It hadn’t occurred to me to encourage its growth. He smiled at John. It was so successful the stock ate their heads off during the autumn and we had a few cases of bloat. As soon as this wretched snow lets up, we’ll replant those fields in peas and beans. The soil is so healthy we expect an excellent crop. Perhaps even two crops, if we’re lucky."

John forced a smile. Wonderful! And the new heavy plough?

The marquess snorted with amusement. At first it served as entertainment. After a few weeks Mr. Cleary and Old Trent managed to master its intricacies and it’s become an important part of Trewbridge. Old Trent prophesied job losses when he saw how fast it tilled the soil, but of course, as you surmised, it created new jobs because it freed up more land for sowing.

John nodded. Everything seemed fine at Trewbridge. So why did his father look so weary? Worry lines had replaced the laughter lines on his face. The omnipotent man who had always been there for his three sons, who had guarded the Trewbridge heritage for their futures, no longer looked as young and strong as he had nine months ago. There was something very wrong here to have effected such a radical change. He must find out what the problem was and try to set it to rights.

Where’s Diabolo? Edward asked. You didn’t leave him behind, did you?

Almost, John thought. Of course not, he said. He’s at a livery stable in Portsmouth. A friend of mine will ride him up in stages. He sat back from the table and glanced around the family dining room, as familiar as the veins on his hands. Where would he end up next? Somewhere dry and tepid, he hoped. India? The Americas? Wherever the army in its wisdom sent the 71st, he hoped the weather was not as extreme as the weeks before Corunna. In a short time they had plunged from a frying, withering blast furnace to a cold so fierce that every morning ice crystals formed a brittle bridge from nostril to mouth.

He snapped out of his musing when his father passed the brandy.

Come on, John. Let’s forgo the usual after dinner niceties. There’s a good fire in the small withdrawing-room.

I had thought to challenge you to a game of billiards, John, but I didn’t know about your wound, Edward said, his chubby face looking troubled.

I shall take you on in another week or two, I promise. John smiled at his young brother. Now, I want to hear what you’ve been doing while I was away.

Deflecting the family’s attention was not hard. Just as well. Most of his news was better left unsaid.

Like the shame in his men’s eyes and his helpless fury at Sahagun as they stood, prepared to fight, and were told they had been ordered to withdraw. Or the freezing snow saturated with blood beneath the slippery ice sheet in the Corunna Pass so that if they fell, their knees and elbows cracked through the veneer and became soaked with their countrymen’s blood. Most of all, never in a hundred years could he tell them about the shuddering screams that hung on the still night air as the surgeon went about his ghastly work.

John’s news was the stuff of nightmares, and he would not subject his family to that.

****

The marquess and marchioness sat together on a settle watching their sons.

How he has changed from the youth we knew so well, the marchioness whispered.

What did you expect, my dear? The only way for John to cut his ties with Trewbridge was to get as far away as possible. One can see why he chose the army. But as you say, his experiences have certainly changed him. He is no longer a boy. He is a man. And that Serena Blyth business didn’t help matters—

Bother Serena Blyth! The marchioness’s voice rose.

Hush, my dear.

Oh, but Robert, those letters from him where he tried so hard to pretend that all was well... Lady Trewbridge shook her head.

‘I miss you all. And Trewbridge. At night before I sleep I hold a vision of Trewbridge in my mind with the setting sun reflecting orange glints in the lily pond.’ The poor boy found it so hard. And the army of all things!"

I confess I was stunned when he joined the 71st. And when they were sent to the Peninsula... Her husband blew out a breath. But Jeanne, he needs an occupation. You know how active he is. And at least an officer can sell out if another opportunity crops up.

The marchioness looked thoughtful. Yes. It is time.

Time? What do you mean, my dear?

By Jupiter! Don’t I wish I were in the army too, John! Edward’s enthusiastic voice rang out.

By contrast, John’s voice was quiet. No, Edward. I would not wish that upon you.

The marquess and marchioness looked at one another.

****

Later that night, even in the peace of Trewbridge, John slept fitfully, trying to avoid the discordant nightmares. Perhaps in time they might fade, but he held out little hope. This was the softest, cleanest bed he had lain in for months, yet still he could not bury the awful sound-memories in sleep. His healing scar did not help. It itched but he did not dare scratch it. He had done that once. The resultant pain had been excruciating.

After waking for the second time, he prowled over to the long windows and dragged aside the heavy velvet curtains. A thin sickle moon was fading from the sky, and in the weak light of early dawn he could discern the snow-topped yew hedge enclosing the Lady’s Garden. This was the way it had always been in winter, sequestered, safe, yet wild. The very stones of Trewbridge exuded security and serenity and something immeasurably valuable and solid. The home had stood impregnable for three generations. God willing it would stand that way for many more.

He laid his face against the cold glass. This was what he had missed so during those terrible months on the Iberian Peninsula.

Of course he had known since he was very young that he would not have the privilege of being the guardian of Trewbridge. He was a second son. And he had always thought himself a realist until Serena had opened his eyes when she’d refused him with such cutting words. Dearest John, you know I cannot marry you. You are a second son and will not inherit the title. And now you say you are thinking of joining a regiment! She’d made a moué of distaste and added the final blow. I have no intention of following the drum.

Naively, he’d hoped she loved him enough to follow him in his career. He’d had dreams of rising through the ranks, Serena smiling proudly with his every promotion as she dandled their son on her knee. Thank God he had never mentioned those silly daydreams to Serena. Unbeknownst to him, Serena had had dreams too. And they hadn’t included him.

John had never been jealous of Spencer because of the title. Of Spencer’s polished address—-a little, perhaps. But Trewbridge—-that was another matter. To be so lucky as to inherit all the beauty and history that was Trewbridge!

Now it seemed that Spencer was to have Serena too. To him that hath shall be given. From now on it would be even harder for John to hide that ignoble, unbrotherly dislike of Spencer. You, he told his reflection in the cold glass, are a mean, pathetic, envious worm.

He banged his hand on the window ledge. Damn it all. Over the past nine months he had worked hard to quash the memories, but hearing about Serena and Spencer had brought everything back with a scalding rush.

"God, I was so dull," he said aloud. No wonder she preferred his brother. Spencer would not expect his bride to follow the drum and wait in some dreary little inn in a foreign country while he soldiered on, struggling to earn or buy a promotion. Lord no. He’d shower her with jewels as befitted a future marchioness, then forget about her and go about his own business as he pleased. Nor would Spencer subject Serena to a bucolic life as John might have. No, Spencer could never be called dull. Lots of other things, but never dull.

John settled his shoulders. He was stronger now—much stronger, thanks to the army. When he met Serena again, she would no longer find him naïve and easy to manipulate. He sneered at himself. How stupid he’d been not to realize she’d used him to bring Spencer to heel.

There was a tap on the door and he turned away from the window.

Could you not sleep, sir?

Only Mac, his batman, knew John’s shameful secret—that the incessant clash of cannon and gunfire affected him so badly that even after the mildest skirmish, it took weeks of sleepless nights to still the clamour in his head. The coppery stink of blood and his outrage at the destruction of beautiful buildings constructed centuries ago did not affect him like the eldritch cacophony of cannonfire.

John shook his head and Mac’s lived-in face looked concerned. Shall I check your wound, sir?

"Later, thanks, Mac. I plan to ride out to see a friend this