The girls nodded eagerly, anticipating a story-telling episode.
Caroline kept silent and lingered near the fireplace.
“Aye, I did. While in battle, a huge fire exploded where I stood… and this is what happened.” He glanced at Caroline first, and then he showed them the hand with two fingers missing. He let Sophie gently touch the nubs that had once been digits. “I have not tried to hide it from you, but I have not told you the specifics, either.”
Caroline closed her eyes for a brief moment. She knew that the huge fire was really a cannonball. Shrapnel had cost him his passion for music.
Her young wards were, as ever, quick of mind.
“Papa cannot play the piano anymore,” said Phoebe sadly.
Sophie asked, “Did the fire burn your ears, too, Papa?”
The duke sighed. “It did. The explosion was so loud, I became nearly deaf.”
“I am sorry, Papa.” Phoebe began to cry. “I shall try to speak louder to you.”
Sophie clung to him as she, too, started to sob quietly. “The Duke of Wellington is a bad man,” she declared.
“No, my sweet, you must not think so,” said Lord Malliston. He gazed at Caroline in desperation.
She came closer to the sofa to rescue him. “Remember our lessons about political affairs?” she asked, as she gently placed her palms on each girl’s back. Their heads bobbed. The lessons about politics had been as simple as Caroline could make them, but she had tried to help the girls understand the realities of war and diplomacy. They had often asked about it.
“Everyone, including your papa, owes the Crown and England allegiance. Bad people constantly try to destroy our way of life, so we must fight to stop them. Every man has to respond to a call to arms unless he is too young, or too old, or too ill. Like my father, your papa only went to defend us. He is a hero.”
Her words appeared to soothe the distraught girls. Their sobs soon waned and they looked more thoughtful about their father’s recent past. She only hoped they would not badger him to try to play.
“Miss Sedgwyck, would you be so kind as to play in my stead?”
Lord Malliston’s question shook her. She glanced at him as though she was the one who could not hear properly. “My lord?”
He had made the request in earnest and his mouth was half-upturned in a smile. Phoebe looked up at her curiously, and Sophie said, “Do you play, Miss Caroline? If you do, you have not taught us.”
“I do not play well, Sophie,” she demurred. “I would rather teach you a variety of other things. When you are a little older, perhaps Papa will find you a wonderful music tutor. You can learn to play and dance.” She had not inherited her father’s nearly perfect ear or his love of music. What she had inherited was her mother’s keen mind alongside Arthur’s auburn hair, and the latter only meant she was often teased as a child.
“I am sure you play adequately,” said Lord Malliston. He was teasing her, now, but it was warm and good-natured. “How could you not? I did not have the chance to hear Arthur play anything, but I did hear him sing. Such a rich voice.”
Caroline did not want to bring up the incident involving the pianoforte with the girls present.
But tactfully, she said, “My lord, I am sure you remember our discussion about who was to play this instrument.” He met her eyes in understanding. “And who was not. I was given to believe I was not.”
“So you do play!” exclaimed Phoebe. “Papa, she should play.”
“Yes, Phoebe, she should,” he agreed. “But I regret to say that I forgot my manners with Miss Caroline one day when she’d first come here.”
Is he really going to own his mistakes in front of them? Caroline thought.
She was impressed. But the duke had changed almost immeasurably, lately. She conjectured that he had started to return to the way he was in his youth, possibly even before his marriage.
She did not know for sure, but the way he spoke about Lady Malliston, or did not speak about her, led her to believe he was not necessarily thrilled with the match. She did not think about it overmuch, because she found that the very idea of him having been married to another woman provoked an animal sort of jealousy with which she was unfamiliar. But she could imagine a younger Lord Malliston in his late teens, perhaps just come into his majority, with the same dry humor and warmth as this older Lord Malliston.
Sophie was indignant. “Papa, why? Why would you not be polite to Miss Caroline? She is always polite, herself!”
Caroline had to disguise a smile by clearing her throat. She certainly was not always polite where Lord Malliston was concerned. “I had not asked permission to play the pianoforte.”
“Oh,” said Phoebe solemnly.
She had recently been learning how important it was to ask permission before using others’ possessions. Caroline wanted to break her of the habit of “borrowing” Sophie’s dolls without asking.
“I suppose, Sophie, that it has a little to do with the war, too,” said the duke. “Like my hand and my ears, you could say that it also hurt my mind.”
This was a very large concept for two young souls to grasp, but they tried. Caroline watched them try to make sense of it. Phoebe’s face screwed up in concentration and Sophie frowned.
“But you can still speak and do sums and I know you look after the manor, and the houses in the country,” Sophie insisted.
Caroline let Lord Malliston explain further in his own way, and in his own time.
“I know, pet, and even that is lucky. Some men cannot manage those things after they return,” he said patiently. “I guess I mean to say that it hurt my emotions.”
Impressed indeed, now, Caroline thought, I hardly recognize the man.
“Is that why you always go away?” asked Phoebe. She had made the connection between Lord Malliston’s fraught mental state and his inability to remain content at home, however tenuously.
“Yes, darling, in general, that is why I have not always been here.”
“Was it harder to stay after Mama died?” Sophie looked up at her father with enormous blue eyes.
Lord Malliston hesitated. “It did not make things any easier,” he said. Then he steered their conversation back to its original point. “But because of things that have happened to me, both abroad and at home, including Mama’s passing, I do not always keep my temper the way a good man should. I lost it with Miss Sedgwyck.”
The girls looked at each other and a silent agreement passed between them. They knew how strange his impulses and responses could be, even if they did not know what had shaped them.
“My lord, you had every right to take me to task. None of this is my personal property,” said Caroline.
Of course, she did not appreciate his sharp response to finding her at the pianoforte, but she at least linked the outburst with his horrible past experiences rather than taking it personally.
“No,” he said firmly. “You are part of my household and you are not a servant. I should not have overreacted. It was ungallant of me, and uncalled for.”
“But you must terribly miss playing. If I could no longer read or write, I would be miserable.”
“I do, indeed. Very much so. But that is no excuse for my behavior.”
Satisfied and touched by his admission, she nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”
He smiled slowly and broadly. “Now, will you please play? Someone wise once told me that instruments need to be played or they will fall into disrepair.” He winked.
She chose a carefree ditty that she was sure Lord Malliston and, perhaps, even the girls had heard – by the time she struck the second verse, warbling along as best she could, all matters of missing fingers and lost hearing appeared to be forgotten.
The duke sang, too, and at least his voice had not suffered.
It was, in truth, mellow and warm and deep.
This whole incident and the previous weeks’ events forced Caroline to consider whether her early, forthright censure of him had done any good.<
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She dared to hope it had. The man before her bore little resemblance to the stiff, cool employer she had first met upon arriving at The Thornlands. Neither did she see the rake who left his family at a moment’s notice to take his place in the gambling dens of York or London, or who had the audacity to hold outrageous whoring parties within the same walls as his own children’s bedroom.
Perhaps Lord Malliston was a changed man.
Chapter Ten
For the first time in the dark months that had followed the battle of Salamanca, Reeve outright refused an invitation to a party. In all, he was pleased with himself. It was high time he began acting in accordance with his family’s needs and not just his own selfish whims. Selfishly, though, he did hope that Miss Sedgwyck would notice and approve of his abstinence.
But his friends, thinking he had not received the missive at all, came immediately to call upon him at The Thornlands. As it transpired, they seemed to blame the footman dispatched to deliver Reeve’s invitation.
Jonathan, Bellamy, and Ashton had settled in the drawing room, delighting in Duckie’s delicious fruit scones and slurping tea as they awaited their friend.
“Servants are becoming quite addled these days,” said Ashton.
“It will all be remedied soon enough,” answered Jonathan complacently. “Reeve is never one to miss a party.”
Reeve walked into the room without waiting for Edgar to announce him and, immediately, the three bucks began to explain why they had come.
“Reeve, you cannot imagine! We sent Ashton’s footman with a note for you,” said Bellamy. He was dressed as impeccably as always, despite his apparent agitation. He ran a hand through his blonde hair. “But the fool must have lost the letter, falsified a reply written by you, and delivered it to us. The nerve! I would have him dismissed if he was in my employ.”
I should have known it would come to this, Reeve thought. He couldn’t help but be a little amused at their slight frenzy. It would never occur to them that I would refuse an invitation.
He patiently waited until their laughter abated before he gave his shocking reply. It would be shocking to them, at any rate.
“No, the footman found me,” he said. “I did write a reply saying that I would be unable to make the party.”
The silence that followed his words was, Reeve noted, actually comical.
Bellamy’s jaw slackened enough to allow a slight amount of spittle to pass from the corner of his mouth. Ashton’s hazel eyes nearly crossed with surprise, and Jonathan seemed momentarily unable to comprehend human speech.
However, Jonathan was the first to speak.
“You sent that note in response to our invitation?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, Jon,” the duke said, quite complacently.
“What jest is this, Reeve?” asked Jonathan.
“No jest. I am deadly serious,” said Reeve. “My daughters need me at this time, and I am unable to leave them in pursuit of my pleasures.” He paused. “Were I to leave, it would make me both selfish and negligent.”
“But your daughters have done exceedingly well as of late – you have said so!” Bellamy’s voice rose in both volume and pitch. His friends always remembered to speak very loudly around Reeve, but this was almost more of an outright shout.
“No,” said Reeve. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was never telling you the truth. It was easier to lie. You do not have children and would not understand.” He felt as though he was betraying his friends, but he was not about to change his mind. “I have been sorely neglectful of them since my return from Salamanca, and even more so since Lady Malliston’s death.”
None of the three could say anything sensible in response to such a candid revelation. Each stared at him, mixed emotions playing on their faces. There was some resentment, a little anger, but largely, confusion.
Finally, Jonathan drawled, “Lord have mercy on us all – Reeve Malliston, the Duke of Havoc, just chose his daughters over us. I never thought I’d see the day. The end of times is truly upon us.”
“As well he should,” said Ashton. There was actually admiration in his eyes as he looked at Reeve. “He may have a point.”
“Does this have anything to do with the delectable tutor I happened upon?” asked Bellamy. His expression was shrewd and calculating. Reeve could almost hear the cogs working in his mind.
He gave the question some thought before providing an answer. He knew that if he spoke as forwardly as he would like to, he would never hear the end of it. He also knew that if he lied, they would all see right through it.
“Perhaps.”
“There always is a woman involved,” sighed Bellamy.
The others echoed this sentiment with grumbles and sighs, but Ashton was, by far, the least scathing.
“Regardless, I feel I am a changed man,” Reeve said.
“How changed?” said Jonathan, brushing scone crumbs from his jacket. “You will regret this more enlightened decision. I am sure of it. You will become bored and go mad.”
Regret not spending the nights with strange women? Regret not losing more of my money to Bellamy? Regret failing to alienate my own kin?
“No, I daresay I won’t,” said Reeve mildly. “Just so that I am clear, you are all still most welcome in my home whenever you wish, despite any changes I have made for myself. You are also entirely welcome to finish your tea. Duckie would hate to hear her scones had gone to waste.” He surveyed the small storm of a mess they had already made in his drawing room. Bits of scone littered the luxurious rug and the saucers had, thankfully, caught dribbles of strong tea before they could reach the table. “But I’m afraid I have matters to attend to. Therefore, I will be unable to entertain you today.”
It was Ashton who shepherded the others back to the sofa so that they could finish their refreshments, even despite their marked disappointment in Reeve.
Reeve thanked him with a silent look of gratitude.
One of them, at least, understood, or was trying to understand, his shift in priorities.
*
Reeve was not arrogant enough to believe he had changed entirely or that he could make no more improvements. But, he was astute enough to recognize and acknowledge changes for the better when he saw them. It had been one of his better qualities as an officer. Though he was demanding, he also knew when to praise a soldier. He also knew when to praise himself.
No, he had a longer way to go before he or anyone else would deem him “respectable”. Changes on their own did not make habits and he needed to prove he had better habits. He was spending more time with his daughters and, by default, Miss Sedgwyck. But he was making up for, in Sophie and Phoebe’s case, years of neglect. Those could not be undone in a matter of mere weeks.
And as for Miss Sedgwyck. Well, she intoxicated him.
They had developed a steady friendship built on growing trust and warming regard. He fancied that she was starting to respect him as much as he respected her. It was not easy to tell for sure, for she was not easy to read when it came to more womanly emotions. But her manner toward him had softened even though her frankness had not changed. It was one of the qualities he liked best about her.
He also cared about whether or not she respected him, which was a new and disconcerting feeling. He had gone months without a care for what others thought of him.
This was, of course, a learned behavior. He likened it to calluses or muscle memory. He could teach himself to think differently and to care more, but it would take time.
At the start of his fall from societal grace, he had worried very much about his reputation. Eventually, he stopped worrying. It was easier.
As he was about to mount the stairs, leaving behind the crestfallen trio in the drawing room, Reeve spied a liveried servant on horseback making his way toward the manor. He turned back to the foyer and exchanged a puzzled look with Edgar, who was passing through and had also witnessed the approach from one of the wide front windows.
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��It’s quite a day for visitors, is it not, Edgar?” Reeve said wryly.
Edgar gave him a toothy smile. “Indeed, my lord. Though I overheard you sorely disappoint your friends.”
The butler obviously approved.
Reeve replied with a smirk, “You have become worse than Duckie. Eavesdropping never appealed to you before.”
Together, they waited for the servant to approach the great front doors. Edgar received him promptly and ushered him toward Reeve.
“My lord,” said the servant, giving a smart bow. “I come with an invitation to a private ball in York, at the house of Lord Poppleton and his wife, Lady Anne.”
Reeve’s first inclination was to scribble a negative response to the invitation. He turned it over in his hands thoughtfully, eyeing the pristine script.
Then, his mind wandered to Miss Sedgwyck’s lovely green eyes and he began to smile. What would she look like in the finest dress meant to stun onlookers? It would be unorthodox, taking his daughters’ tutor to a ball.
But he was the very definition of the word “unorthodox”. There was no denying it. No doubt, Lord Poppleton and his lady wife would have an apoplexy when their servant delivered the Duke of Havoc’s positive reply. They were quite old, if he remembered correctly. He might actually kill them by accident.
Reeve finally went up the stairs, beaming from ear to ear with impish glee.
He needed to ask a lady to accompany him to a ball.
*
Growing up, Caroline had often imagined herself attending a ball. It had colored many of her fantasies.
Nonetheless, she almost immediately regretted telling the duke she would go to the ball in York with him.
What on earth possessed you? He is not courting you; he is your employer and, just barely, your friend!
Girlish fantasies had long been replaced by reality. Life had not presented her with opportunities to attend any fine parties or balls as a guest. The only time she ever had, it was in the company of her father who was hired to play the piano, and that was five years past, now. Only sixteen, she had lingered in the corners trying not to attract much attention. Really, she ought not to have been there at all, but Arthur did not have the heart to deny her.
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