The helper didn’t answer, so she looked at him. He cocked his large head and watched her from beneath the brim of his hat with the childlike eyes of one of those poor souls whose minds were thwarted from birth. And those shadowed eyes held fear when they met hers. She smiled and tried again more slowly and more calmly. “Where’s Stephen?”
He didn’t speak.
“The laddie?” she tried, looking into his eyes. “The boy?”
“Yer Grace.” The fisherman took a step forward and held out a hand toward the helper. “That be Stephen.”
Alec rode the stallion down a grade, wondering for the hundredth time what might be the urgent problem at Belmore. He kicked the animal into a lope. His wife had sent the message and that was reason enough to quicken the pace, but he wondered if he should be riding hell-bent homeward or hell-bent out of the country. His mind played havoc with his nerves, imagining all the possible disasters awaiting him— dancing statues, floating objects, broken clocks that fix themselves, riding crops and tambourines. What if she had sneezed up something truly unspeakable? What if she had actually made someone spit frogs? Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he rode even harder.
He cursed the foolish weakness that had sent him to seek refuge hunting in the Somerset hills. One didn’t run away from responsibility. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he couldn’t escape the fate that had darkened his existence of late: the fact that he’d married a witch—a witch who could control him with her magic—and he had no weapon with which to defend himself. She could become angry at any time as she had on their last night in London, and with a stroke of her hand send him flying around the bloody room. He, the Duke of Belmore, had lost control. Completely.
He wanted to wring her neck. Literally. He wanted to go back in time and change everything. He wanted to order her to be what she should be instead of what she was.
What she was . . .
He thought about that for a pensive moment. She was a Scottish witch, hardly something one could change. Yes, she might not change, but he could teach her control. He knew all about control. Where would he be, if he had not learned control.
Happy . . . a tiny voice said, but he willed it away. Perhaps he was asking the impossible, expecting her to change and be what he demanded. He wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted her to be. She could no more change what she was than he could change the way he felt about her—and that was what really disturbed him. He—a man who had trained himself not to feel anything and who prided himself on his lack of emotions—felt something for her, something strong and potent.
An image flashed in his mind—Joy looking up at him through worshipful green eyes as if he had just given her all the stars in the sky. For a brief insane instant, he heard her husky voice calling him Alec, her Alec. Something deep within him tightened, as if she had just touched his heart— the one he didn’t have.
Until now. Bloody hell.
“I’m scared.” Stephen sat next to Joy on the stone bench in the garden.
She looked at his bent head and asked, “Of what?”
He worried his large work-callused hands and didn’t look up. “This place. I want to go home.”
“This is your home now.”
He shook his head vigorously. “No. No. It’s not home. I don’t live here. I live by the sea, with Roddy.”
“But Roddy can’t take care of you any longer.”
“I knowed. He died. I had a dog once. He was my friend. He licked my face. He didn’t think I was ugly.He died too.”
“What was his name?”
“Dog.”
She smiled, then told him, “I have a weasel.”
He looked at her. “You do?”
She nodded. “His name is Beelzebub.”
Stephen laughed. “That’s a dumb name.”
“I call him Beezle.”
“That’s kinda dumb, too. Why didn’t you call him Weasel?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I never thought of it.”
“I did.” He was quiet for a minute then asked hopefully, “Does that make me smart? I want to be smart, so people will like me.”
She leaned over and looked under the large hat Stephen insisted on wearing whenever he was outside. “You must be smart, then, because I like you.”
He stopped worrying his hands and rubbed his palms on his trousers. “I like you, too. You don’t turn away or say mean things or shout.” He looked up but stared straight ahead with a distant look. “Some people look at me, then turn away because I’m ugly and dumb. Roddy never turned away.”
“I won’t turn away.”
Very slowly, he raised his shame-filled face and looked at her. She steeled herself against showing any emotion, not wanting to make Stephen uneasy or let him know the turmoil inside her. She wondered what Alec would say when he saw Stephen. She didn’t know which man she wanted to protect more, poor, simple Stephen who had suffered so much hurt or her husband who was about to.
Stephen cocked his head and watched her. She gave him another smile of reassurance.
“Do you think I’m ugly?” he asked quietly.
“No. Do you think I’m ugly?”
He laughed. “You’re not ugly. You’re very pretty. And nice, too. You don’t turn away or look scared or anything. And you don’t shout at me.”
“Has someone here shouted at you?”
He stared at his hands and began to wring them again, but before she could say anything else she saw a footman leading Alec’s stallion along the path to the stables. Oh, God. She took a deep breath and stood up. “My husband, Alec, is home. I want to go speak with him before you meet him. Will you stay here?”
He nodded. “I like it here. It’s quiet and no one shouts at me. Do you think Alec will shout at me?”
“Everything will be fine.” She patted his hand and smiled, not knowing what was going to happen, but knowing she had to prepare her husband, and if he so much as raised his voice to this poor soul she’d do to him what she had done to that Brummel fellow.
She crossed the garden, looking back over her shoulder once and giving Stephen a wave, feeling calmer when he waved back. She passed Henson and said, “Go get Beezle and show him to Stephen. I’m going to speak to His Grace first. And, Henson?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Stephen is frightened and feels out of place.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you.” She turned and headed for the library. She entered the room and stopped, her throat tightening the second she saw her husband standing in front of the west windows.
As if he could sense her presence he turned. The dark blue eyes that returned her look were filled with suspicion. In a hard voice he said, “Now what have you done?”
She closed her eyes briefly, searching for patience and a calm reply. “I have done nothing.”
“Then what was so urgent that you needed to send for me?”
Joy took the envelope from her skirt pocket and closed the distance between them. “Here.”
He looked at the envelope, then took it and opened the custody letter. He read it and sank into a chair.
“A child? I’ve never heard of this Rodney Kentham.”
“The ward is not a child.”
“What do you mean, he’s not a child? The letter says the Duke of Belmore is to be contacted and is to assume responsibility for Stephen should anything happen to this Kentham fellow. I can’t be responsible for an adult.”
She crossed the room and stood near the east garden doors where Stephen was plainly visible, hunched over the bench. “Come see. He’s outside. There.”
Alec stood and joined her, looking out the window. “My God . . . ”
“He’s frightened and confused. He needs your understanding.”
“Understanding? I don’t even know who he is.”
“Could he be a cousin?”
“My father was an only child, as was his father. My mother came from a small family too, and they’re all d
ead.”
“Perhaps you should meet Stephen and then decide what to do.” She opened the doors, and Alec followed her down the stone steps and over to the bench.
Stephen still sat there, the hump in his back making him look awkward and defeated. But he was dangling something shiny above Beezle, who was sitting up on his fat haunches and slapping the object with his black-tipped paws. Henson looked up. Alec nodded toward the door and the footman gave a quick bow and left, unnoticed by Stephen.
“Stephen?” He looked up at the sound of her voice. His drooping eyes widened with fear when he saw Alec, and she heard her husband’s intake of breath and rushed on, “This is my husband, Alec, the Duke of Belmore.”
The tension-filled moment seemed to creep by, Stephen and Alec both stunned and silent—one with fear and possibly recognition and the other with an angry realization that she knew must have created a sea of turmoil within him.
With animal instinct, Beezle reacted to the tension and scrambled up onto Stephen’s shoulder, knocking the wide-brimmed hat from his head.
Stephen’s hair was gray.
Alec stiffened, then swore quietly, his face revealing conflicting emotions that Joy could only imagine, for her husband was staring into a misshapen version of his own face, his own dark yet drooping sad eyes, a tragically twisted double whose family tie no one could possibly deny. Stephen was a Castlemaine.
Part VI
The Truth
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools.
—Macbeth, William Shakespeare
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Aye, I know who Stephen be. He’s yer brother. Yer father had me drive the carriage th’ took him away,” Old Jem admitted, looking Alec straight in the eye.
“When?” Alec’s voice was devoid of emotion—surprising considering he was so close to the edge.
The coachman appeared to think about that for a few seconds. “Ye were over three. Yer father already had ye riding yer first pony. The youngling were but a few months old, I’d say. Yer mother couldn’t even look at him. Yer father sent him to live in one of the crofters’ cottages till he could send him away. In quiet.”
Alec tapped the letter opener silently against the embossed leather edge of the desk pad. “All these years and I never knew. Why hasn’t anyone mentioned him?”
“‘Twere done in the middle of the night. Most believed what yer father told ‘em—that the youngling died.”
Alec stared at a portrait of his father on the opposite wall. The fourteenth Duke of Belmore—his father— stood among his hounds, his pride evident in the arrogance of the pose, so in control he could send his own son away. The Dukes of Belmore—an old myth shattered. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath that helped little. “That’ll be all, Jem. Saddle the new stallion for me and have him brought around.”
Jem grunted a response and rose slowly, turning to walk toward the door, his shoulders slumped, head bowed. Alec saw every one of the man’s years in his bearing. Today’s revelation had made Alec feel just as old, just as tired, as if he’d lived for some fifty-odd hard years.
“Jem?”
The old man’s leathery hand paused on the doorknob handle and he turned back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Their eyes met, questioned and challenged. After a second of silence Jem answered, “Yer the Duke of Belmore, have been fer many years. Even if I hadn’t given yer father me word, I wouldn’t’ve told ye. ‘Tweren’t me place.”
Those last three words said it all, brought the situation into sharp focus. Yawning before him was the chasm of English social class—the very system he was taught to respect. He felt the burden of his title more at that moment than at any other. And he suddenly saw the ludicrousness of the notion that one human being was better than another, of the belief that a title—an ancient trophy granted at the whim of a king—and a subsequent accident of birth made one man more deserving respect than another. There was insanity in that concept and in the fact that it was so readily accepted by an immoral world.
And the ultimate irony, that his father, the esteemed Duke of Belmore, a man who had been cold and hard and calculating—a man so in control he was devoid of compassion, a liar who hid one son away while he demanded the other son serve their revered family name to the exclusion of everything else. Everything human. Alec thought of his brother. Everything humane.
The door clicked closed and he turned, his mind a crush of dishonor, frustration, and anger. He crossed the room and looked outside. His wife and his brother stood together. The woman no one knew was a witch. The man everyone regarded as an ogre.
His fists shook in angry reaction to the knowledge that he’d been living a sham. Nothing was as it seemed. His blood ran hot, his muscles tightened; he felt a desperate need to strike out, to hit something, shattering it into a thousand pieces, because that’s the way he felt. Shattered.
A flash of black caught his attention. The restless stallion was saddled, but it reared and balked at being made to stand and wait. Alec wrenched open the door, feeling little satisfaction at the sound of it crashing against the wall. He strode down the steps, and a minute later there was no sound but the thunder of the beast’s hooves beating the ground. A damp snort of equine breath blew into the air as they sailed over a hawthorn hedge, splattered through a trickling brook, spraying up water, then dust. Across the grass, past the lake, up a hill they flew, horse and rider moving as one, drinking the wind and beating to death a worthless lifetime.
Stephen sat in the old splintered rocker. “This is my chair.” He stood up quickly and pointed to a pile of old broken furniture. “My things. My special things.”
Joy smiled, seeing the pleasure and pride he took in the pitiful belongings he insisted be brought to his room. She scanned the interior, which was as opulent and richly decorated as the rest of Belmore Park. Everything was rich deep blue accented by gilt, marble, and crystal, but Stephen couldn’t have cared less. The gleam of excitement in his eyes came not from the large bed atop a dais, not from the crystal prisms dangling from the bedside lamps, not from the thick carpet or the bas-relief that circled the ceiling, but from a lopsided old table so weathered the wood was gray, from a creaky splintered rocker, and from a jumble of shabby old possessions that only he in his simple pride could have treasured.
He set each piece in a special place, then stood back to admire it, and Joy had to hold the gasp in her throat, for his face held a look of pride that she knew too well. It was the look that Alec had worn—until yesterday.
“This is my book.” Stephen held up a ragged Bible. “It has a title. Like Alec. He is the duke. This is . . . ”
He pointed to the letters and, with effort, he slowly sounded them out. “The bi . . . bull.”
“You can read,” Joy said, trying to keep surprise from her voice.
That Belmore pride lit his face again, and he nodded vigorously. “I want to be smart. I worked hard to learn my letters. People that read are smart. Roddy was smart. He taught me.” His eyes suddenly looked lost, as if mentioning the name of the man who had raised him brought forth his simple expression of grief. Tears.
Joy said nothing but waited. His sadness passed with childish speed. He leaned over and picked up an old willow broom. “This is my broom.” He held it up so she could see it, turning the crooked, knobbed handle this way, then that. “I do my job good. Roddy told me I do my job good. Sometimes the other men at the docks asked me to go with them after work. I think it was only when I did a special good job, because they’d say, ‘Bring yer broom, Stephen.’ They would like me then. I could tell. They would take me to the Empty Net with them, like I was a friend. All the fishermen went to the Empty Net after work. They would say, ‘Show everyone how you sweep off the dock, Stephen.’ And I would take my broom and sweep the tavern floor. Everyone would laugh and slap their knees and say that Stephen is a real Joe Miller, he is.”
Her heart was somewhere near her throat because she knew that
a Joe Miller was a jest, a fool’s joke.
“I didn’t know who Joe Miller was but I think he must’ve been a good worker. So I like being a Joe Miller. I told them that, and they all laughed again. I laughed too, because I was proud that I did good work. And if I always do good work, people will like me. Then they won’t leave me out.”
Joy couldn’t speak through a throat clogged with suppressed tears. A choked sound of anger, barely audible, came from the doorway and she turned.
Alec stood there, one white-knuckled hand gripping the doorjamb, his haunted eyes locked on the broom in Stephen’s large hands. From his hard expression she could tell he’d heard Stephen’s story. She prayed for both the brothers’ sake that he wouldn’t vent the rage she saw trembling in him. She watched him take long deep breaths, saw the hand at his side tighten into a fist of fury, and finally watched with relief as the hand loosened. Their eyes met. She glanced at Stephen, who was now burrowing through a trunk. She started to speak, but Alec shook his head. He gave his brother one last unreadable look and quietly left.
After that, she spent a large part of each day with Stephen, helping him adjust to his new home, feeling desolate because she couldn’t help his brother. And Alec . . . it seemed as if he did little but try to ride the legs off every horse in the Belmore stables. She’d heard the servants’ comments about the duke, had seen him taking the stallion out only to return later, exchange the lathered horse for a fresh one, and ride off again. At other moments, she’d caught sight of her husband watching as she and Stephen talked or walked in the garden or sat together in the music room where she would pluck out a Scottish ditty on the pianoforte and then teach her brother-in-law to do the same.
Alec never showed up for meals, never came into their sitting room or to her bed. She’d stayed up two nights listening for him, but she’d never heard him and both times had finally fallen asleep as the sun began to rise. She wondered where he had slept, where he had hidden. She told Henson she needed to speak with him, but Henson would return and shake his head sadly. Alec had locked her, and everyone else, out of his life.
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