by Betina Krahn
“Why would you want out? You’ve got it good here. Sarah is crazy about you—hell, she came out here to sleep with you that first night you were back. Wish I had gotten that treatment when I was hurt.” Fancy turned his head to Arthur and gave a snort that made Arthur bark a laugh. He paused pointedly in his brushing and Fancy heaved what sounded like a sigh and nudged his shoulder again.
All was quiet as Arthur continued to brush Fancy, but after a few minutes, the brush raked a tender cut on Fancy’s neck and he lurched away. “Whoa. Sorry, fella.” Arthur approached slowly with his hands at his sides. The horse’s eyes were wide and wary. “I didn’t know it was that tender. I’ll be more careful, I promise.” After a moment he tossed the brush away and held up his hands.
“I’ll just use my hands. No more brush.”
He approached inch by careful inch, and Fancy stood braced and uncertain. Then abruptly, the horse lowered his head and turned away.
It was all Sarah could do to remain silent and out of sight. Fancy was hurting and she wanted to go to him. But she also wanted—needed—to see what Arthur would do.
“I know, I know,” Arthur said in low tones that accented the rasp in his voice. “You’ve been hurt. They hit you and whipped you . . . put a rope around your neck and dragged you off. I know what that’s like . . . having a collar on your neck, being jerked back and forth. But that’s behind you now.”
He touched Fancy’s neck gently, then began to stroke him. Gradually, Fancy turned his head back. Arthur got down on one knee in front of Fancy and cradled the horse’s lowered head in his hands.
“You’re tougher than you know. You’ll get through this. Each day it will get a little better, and soon you’ll be out in the pasture, kicking up your heels and making all the mares want to be your girl.” He touched the cuts and welts on Fancy’s face, then stroked him gently.
Tears pricked the corners of Sarah’s eyes as she watched.
“Sometimes the bad things that happen to us, make us grow stronger and better. You were handsome before, but now you’ll be strong and wise and a lot more dangerous. If bad men ever try to take you or your mares or foals, you’ll fight that much harder. And you know what? You’ll win.”
When he rose, Fancy’s head came up with him. For a long moment they stood face to face. Then Fancy lowered his head and pressed it against Arthur’s chest. It was as close to a hug as a horse could get.
Sarah realized, as she watched with tears rolling down her cheeks, that Arthur had just revealed to Fancy something he had probably never told another human being. He had been taken and held in a collar. That scar around his neck, the one she had touched that first day, was from a shackle . . . a permanent reminder of a time he was powerless and beaten down. But he had endured and ultimately escaped. Coming home, she realized, was critical in his healing and recovering who he had been and who he was meant to be.
Now he drew on his own experience of healing to help her beloved horse move beyond pain and brokenness.
She had no idea how long she stood watching them or what broke the spell it cast over her. But the energy of the encounter changed, and Arthur asked Fancy if he wanted to get some air. The horse danced a few steps, as if he understood exactly what Arthur had said. His hoof was healing well; he was ready for some exercise. Soon they were walking, then jogging down the alley and out into the beautiful afternoon.
Sarah ran to the door to watch as they set off across the lawn, down the drive, and into an empty pasture. Fancy’s head rose and his tail swished as Arthur kept pace, trotting alongside him. There was a familiar and reassuring rhythm to Fancy’s gait as they began to gambol and jump and race . . . first one way and then another. When Arthur couldn’t keep up any longer, Fancy ran on without him . . . sometimes at a full gallop, sometimes moving slowly, with fluid, dance-like steps. Every so often, he returned to nudge Arthur as if inviting him to play.
It took more than an hour for Fancy to tire, while Arthur had to bend over several times to catch his breath. Sarah watched from the shadow of the stables, and when they both stopped to rest she began to walk toward the pasture. By the time she reached them, Fancy was nibbling some tender grass while Arthur stroked him and talked to him. She could have sworn both he and the horse were smiling.
Fancy spotted her and came to greet her. She hugged him and carefully petted his head and neck. To her surprise, he planted his head on her chest, demonstrating his newest accomplishment, the horse hug.
Arthur joined them, and she hugged him too. He lifted her by the waist and whirled her around, laughing. She was breathless and dizzy by the time he put her down. They stood with their arms loosely about each other until Fancy intruded, demanding his share of affection.
Fancy trotted ahead of them as they made their way back along the lane to the stable, hand in hand. He was a different horse from the hurt and dispirited animal returned to Sarah four days before.
Arthur looked at her with a soft light in his eyes. She reached out to stroke his cheek, willing all the love in her heart into her smile.
“Thank you.”
Later, as they walked to the house together, she slipped her hand into his again and felt as if everything in her world was finally right.
* * *
Elizabeth stood at the side of the large parlor window, watching them holding hands as they walked slowly back from the stables. She closed her eyes, realizing it was already too late. Her daughter was too far gone. First a slippery earl and now a damaged and de-titled duke. She felt Red settle beside her, and opened her eyes.
“Come on, Lizzie, give ’em a break. At least one of those Graham boys is gonna be a duke. Ain’t that what you always wanted for your girls?”
“Not anymore. I would much prefer a bank director . . . a high justice would be nice . . . or a commerce tycoon. Anyone but a duke.”
She glared when Red doubled over with laughter.
Chapter Sixteen
On orders from Arthur, Steig had spent his days scouting the northern reaches of Betancourt, checking on the tenant farmers and watching for signs of the outlaws’ activities. All seemed calm and orderly within the borders of the estate, which Steig both appreciated and distrusted. Still, he was being paid a fair wage and the food was good and plentiful. Cook even packed him a lunch most days. He was left to find his own drink, however . . . which was how he came to be in a roadside tavern in the foothills just north of Betancourt when two familiar faces appeared.
“Oy—Steig!” Gil spotted him at the back of the small tavern and dragged Mace over with him. “Yer a sight fer sore eyes. How’d ye get out?”
“Ain’t a barn built that can hold me.” Steig huffed a laugh and waved them into chairs at his table. “What are you two doin’ up this way?”
“Got us a job,” Mace said, waving the barman over with some ale. “Nothin’ to break yer back. You lookin’ fer work?”
Steig studied the two as he sopped the stew he’d ordered with a hunk of bread. “Could be. I’m eatin’ the last of my coin right now.”
“We can put in a word wi’ our boss,” Gil said, grinning, showing his yellowed and gapped teeth. “He’s comin’ from London tonight.”
“We’re supposed to meet the rest o’ the gang here, come sunset.” Mace leaned forward with a boyish grin and lowered his voice. “They’re bringin’ the kerosene.”
Gil and Mace looked at each other and snickered.
Kerosene. Steig reached for his stein and washed down a mouthful of food, thinking. Something was going to burn.
He appraised their eagerness and thought for a moment. These two had a knack for finding trouble and trouble was exactly what he was looking for. He needed to meet this “boss” and find out exactly what he planned.
“I’m in.”
Chapter Seventeen
That evening after dinner, they collected in the parlor, where Sarah told the story of how she acquired Fancy and nearly gave her mother the vapors when she described how she sneaked out
of the house each day to spend time training and bonding with him. Red chimed in to complete the telling, then went on to relate stories of Sarah’s escapades as a young girl . . . her scientific experiments in the attic, her penchant for dragging home stray animals, her passion for museums and books, and even her dogged attempts to learn to ride a bicycle.
They prodded Arthur into telling a story of his travels. He was just in the middle of describing the great pyramids of Egypt when a pony trap was spotted coming up the drive, headed for Betancourt’s front doors.
“Sir William Drexel.” Ned announced their visitor with a shrug.
“Oh!” Sarah bounded up and explained to the others, “He is the Graham family solicitor. I wrote him when I learned of Arthur’s return, asking his advice on the status of . . . things.”
The gentleman who paused in the doorway was tall, graying, and distinguished looking, as befit a man whose legal reputation was widely known and whose clients included many prominent British families.
“Good evening.” Sir William gave a nod to all present.
“Sir William, how good of you to come in person,” Sarah said, offering her hand as hostess. He accepted it graciously, and greeted the others warmly as they were introduced. He lingered over Elizabeth’s hand, murmuring that he recalled meeting her some years before, and Sarah could have sworn her mother’s cheeks pinked.
“I apologize for arriving so late,” he said to all and sundry. “There was a problem on the tracks and the train was delayed. I would have telegraphed ahead, but . . . stuck between stops, as we were . . . it was impossible.” His gaze went straight to Arthur. “But, here I am.” He crossed the room to stand before the younger man, searching his face.
“Arthur Graham. Upon my honor, I can see now why there was some uncertainty about your identity, Your Grace. Your travels have certainly changed you, at least in appearance.” He waited for Arthur to respond.
“Forgive me,” Arthur said, jolting back to the moment. “Seeing you again . . . you have changed so little . . . I feel like I am reliving events from years ago.” He offered his hand and the lawyer took it with genuine pleasure.
“I am delighted to see you in good health, Your Grace. When the deadline for your return passed, I confess I grieved at having to put into motion the instructions you left in my care.”
Silence fell over the parlor as every person present—except possibly Sir William—was thinking the same question. Arthur, however, was the only one entitled to ask it. Sarah and the others looked to him expectantly, but he simply smiled and motioned Sir William to a seat.
“No one knows better than I how taxing travel can be. We’ll have the staff prepare a room for you.” He motioned to Ned by the door and the underbutler nodded and left to execute the order. “Have you had supper, Sir William? Would you care for a bite of food and some coffee—a brandy?”
“I am not especially hungry, having lunched late, but I would gratefully accept a bracer.”
They settled into a tense sociability during which Sir William, Red, and Arthur shared a brandy and Elizabeth and Sarah sipped a bit of sherry. Sir William quizzed Arthur about his travels, and Arthur had questions about the current government and the state of economic affairs.
Sarah looked to her mother in surprise; she had no idea Arthur was interested in London politics and the workings of commerce. But her mother was gazing intently at Sir William and listening to every word he said. It seemed even stranger to Sarah that her mother found talk of elections, cabinet appointments, and import tariffs so absorbing.
In fact, the talk was so mundane and lulling that when the question was finally asked, they almost missed it.
“So, what is my status?” Arthur asked calmly. “Am I alive or dead?”
Sir William cleared his throat loudly, reached for the decanter and poured himself another drink. Red’s head snapped up from the back of his chair, Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and Sarah’s heart skipped beats as they waited for the lawyer’s response.
“You may not like the answer I provide.” Sir William looked quite unsettled. “You must remember that I counseled you to think carefully about the time requirement you set forth in your last will and testament. The five years you insisted upon is not what the courts generally accept as grounds for a declaration of... the sort you instructed me to seek.”
“So, have the legalities been performed or not?” Arthur sat forward.
Sir William winced. “I fear I have failed to execute your wishes fully, Your Grace. But in my defense, I consulted with some of the most nimble legal minds in the kingdom. To a man, they were of the opinion that if the will were to be probated and brought to Chancery, it would become a legal muddle that would lie unresolved for years, producing work for chambers of barristers until your estate was smothered by liens and drained dry.”
“Which means?” Arthur said, frowning at Sir William’s non-answer.
“It appears that, legally, you are still alive, Your Grace. My heartfelt apology.”
“Alive.” Arthur struggled to parse the ramifications. “I was never dead?”
“I could not proceed on a course I felt to be in conflict with the best interests of yourself, your brother, and your estates.” The lawyer set his glass down and came to the edge of his seat, looking miserable. “I will understand if you wish to have another chamber take over your affairs.”
The impact finally hit.
“Don’t be ridiculous, man.” Arthur shoved to his feet, causing Sir William to rise with him. “You had an idiot for a client and kept him from making an even greater mess of his life and holdings than he already had.”
He looked to Sarah, then Red, then Elizabeth, and back to Sarah . . . all of whom got to their feet.
“I was never dead.” He inhaled, his hands clamped on his chest and stomach. “Does that mean”—he looked to the lawyer—“I am still the duke?”
“You are, indeed.” Sir William seemed relieved. “Under English law and custom, hereditary titles may only pass to another when the title holder is deceased. Since there was no body to certify and no declaration by a court . . .”
Arthur looked even more sober. “Have you contacted my brother?”
“I sent the required notice of the date you set, seeking his wishes in the matter, but have had no reply.”
“No reply? At all? To the news that I was presumed dead and he was now the duke?” Arthur felt a flush of irritation that was quickly diverted by concern. “And have you contacted him since?”
“I have sent correspondence, including a telegram, but have had no response.”
News that his brother hadn’t bothered to respond to his presumed death was bad enough, but to ignore inheriting a centuries-old title and his obligation to their familial estates was unthinkable. Arthur stood for a moment staring at his boots, trying to make sense of it. Sir William’s revelations were a lot to take in; they changed the way he looked at events and his part in them.
He looked at Sarah for a long moment, then turned and strode out.
She followed and saw him climbing the stairs.
“Where are you going?” she called from the doorway.
But he passed the ducal chambers and headed into the west wing.
He didn’t respond because he didn’t know what to say. He needed to clear his head and there was only one place where that could happen. He had to have a wall . . . a rooftop . . .
* * *
Questions flew thick and fast in the parlor behind her as she stood in the doorway. Red demanded to know details about what Sir William hadn’t done, while Elizabeth insisted Sir William clarify Ashton’s status . . . and her eldest daughter’s. The answers she received made her slump onto the settee in dismay.
“I knew it. I just knew it would end badly for poor Daisy,” Elizabeth muttered. “He’s not a duke, then he is a duke, then he’s not a duke again . . . it’s as if the Bumgarten girls are under some sort of ducal curse.”
It was either follow Arth
ur or give her mother a good shaking. She chose the former. She climbed the stairs, trying not to think about what she would say to him. What could she say? That she was happy he was still the Duke of Meridian? That now he could assume his rightful place among Britain’s nobility and take care of his home and people as he believed he should have?
It occurred to her as she climbed the stairs to the nursery floor and then to the servants’ floor, that he was more willing and far better prepared to meet his responsibilities than he had been six years ago. Whether he realized it or not, his experiences abroad—good and bad—had prepared him for the life he now wanted.
At the end of the narrow uppermost hallway, a door stood open and she encountered yet another set of stairs that led to a half ladder that led to a hatch opening onto the roof itself. She lifted her skirts and climbed that short ladder to find Arthur standing at the edge of the roof, overlooking Betancourt.
His pale shirt was outlined against the darkness as he stood in much the same pose he had adopted in the butterfly garden. He seemed to be listening and watching, soaking in the night. She simply observed for a few moments, then softly called his name.
He didn’t respond at first, but after a moment, he swiped his face and turned.
She stepped out onto the slate rooftop and brushed the dust from her hands and clothes. Drawn to the strong emotion she sensed in him, she walked to him and opened her arms.
When he entered her embrace and enfolded her in his arms, her senses somehow connected to his. She felt what he felt, saw what he saw. She had never experienced such a thing before, this closeness, this sort of oneness.
They stood for some time, wrapped in each other’s arms, content to share a moment that defined a change between them.
“I’m glad it’s you,” she said softly. “You’re the perfect duke.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Perfect is a hard standard. I’ve already fallen far short of it. Sir William was strong enough and wise enough to withstand the orders of a callow, ignorant young man. Let’s hope I’m wise enough and strong enough to fulfill the faith in me that shaped his decisions.”