Bound by Love

by Edith Layton

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Edith Layton and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Bound by Love

  By Edith Layton

  Copyright 2017 by Estate of Edith Felber

  Cover Copyright 2017 by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by Ginny Glass

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1996.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Edith Layton and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The Duke’s Wager

  The Disdainful Marquis

  The Mysterious Heir

  Red Jack’s Daughter

  Lord of Dishonor

  Peaches and the Queen

  False Angel

  The Indian Maiden

  Lady of Spirit

  The Wedding

  A True Lady

  www.untreedreads.com

  Chapter 1

  1745

  Virginia colony

  The frail boy was staring down into the murky water as though he actually thought he might see his reflection there instead of the usual dockside bilge. His father and sister were talking with the captain of the ship that had just brought them to this new land, and because of all the bustle attending that landing—sailors unloading the huge four-masted vessel, passengers being met by friends and relatives—no one noticed the boy’s fascination with the water lapping at the mossy, seaweed-scarred pilings of the dock. No one, that was, except for another boy who shouldn’t have been watching at all. But, as this boy’s master always said, boys are like dogs; they can always spot another of their kind in any crowd, and when they do, they pay more mind to them than to their own business. But a good wallop cured that soon enough, as it did all else that ailed them.

  The boy’s master clucked his tongue and gave the young fellow a swat that nearly made him drop the heavy crate he was carrying. Used to such encouragement, the boy only staggered and didn’t drop his burden. Instead, to his master’s astonishment, he uttered a muffled exclamation and threw it down. Then he ran full tilt back down the dock toward the empty place where the other boy had been—before he’d lost his balance and fallen into the filthy water. The second boy followed him in, hitting the water with a splash. Then everyone else on the dock noticed what had happened.

  The young boy’s father grew pale, his daughter screeched, and they rushed to the dockside, calling for help as they watched the two boys struggle to stay afloat. The captain of the vessel shouted for his sailors. Some jumped in the water; others threw lifelines. There was a hullabaloo that didn’t stop until the frail young boy was hauled up to the dock and, dripping, shivering, and sobbing, was restored to his father’s arms. Then it was all holiday with many a cheer and a few caps thrown into the air for good measure, as the boy’s servants bundled him into warm blankets and chaffed him ruddy and dry.

  Hardly anyone noticed the other lad after he was hauled up to the dock again. He was only a ragged local boy. After giving him congratulatory pats on the back, the sailors left to get on with their jobs. He stood alone, wet, and shivering; the wide shoulders that showed his approaching manhood racked with shudders. But his master saw him right enough. He gave the boy a slap that sent him sprawling and then kicked him for good measure.

  “Lout! And what of my pots, ye lobcock, eh?” his angry master shouted as the boy scrabbled away, readying himself for another kick. “Them china pots come all the way from England without harm—now I’ll wager half of ’em will go to the rubbish heap instead of the shop. What’s been broke will be took from yer dinner till they’re paid for, y’ young villain, y’ hear?”

  The boy rose to his feet and nodded. It was a windy April day. His wet shirt clung to his thin chest. There was little enough flesh on that lean frame; his ribs could have been counted if he’d stopped shivering long enough for them to be tallied. He was a lanky boy, thin with new growth and thinner from hard usage; his fair skin showed his many bruises. But boys were far cheaper than imported pots—that was a fact of life—so the sailor who offered him a bit of old sailcloth to dry off with gave him a sympathetic smile and a shrug along with it.

  “Yer no bloomin’ flower; the wind’s brisk enough, it’ll dry ye!” the boy’s master shouted, snatching the cloth from his hands. “Time’s wastin’. There’s what’s left of my pots to see to—blast ye, get moving!”

  “Hold!” A cultured voice intruded, and the boy’s master looked up to see a gentleman frowning at him. “This boy should be commended rather than beaten,” the gentleman said. “He saved my son’s life. What’s a pot compared to that, I ask you, sir?”

  The boy’s master looked at the man shrewdly. The fellow was middle-aged, well dressed, wearing a handsome bob wig, a good woolen greatcoat, and fine silver shoe buckles, and carrying a silver-headed walking stick. He was every inch a substantial gentleman, with a plummy English accent that showed he hadn’t been in the Colonies long. Obviously this fine gent would soon be gone again. Rich he might be, but it wouldn’t do the boy’s master any good. His pots were gone. Unless…

  “Ah. Ye be givin’ the lad a reward then, will ye?” the boy’s master asked.

  “I hadn’t thought…but yes, of course,” the gentleman said. “I certainly shall give your son a reward for his valor.”

  “My son!” the man chortled. “That’s rich. Nah. Any whelp of mine would be better lookin’ than yon scrag. This lad’s no more’n my bond-boy, curse him, for he’s not worth the porridge in his bowl. Always with his mind on something else, and not my business, and counting the hours until he’s free, like all his cursed lot. But a man’s only got two hands, and I needs help. Much good it does me! My pots are all a-jumble, curse him!”

  “I shall pay for them,” the gentleman said angrily, “but I should like to reward the boy as well.” He was going to say more, but saw the boy shake his head as though to warn him. “That is…” the gentleman went on more slowly, “if I can be assured that he can keep his share of the reward.”

  “Aye,” the boy’s master said eagerly, delight clear on his face. “Sure. Live and let live, says I.”

  “My lord,” the captain interrupted angrily, “the fellow’s a rogue. The boy won’t get a sniff of any reward. If you wish to help him, pay for the damage he’s done, for I believe that if you don’t, it will come out of his hide.�
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  “And why not?” the boy’s master said angrily. “He broke more’n he’s worth!”

  “Why, this is monstrous!” the gentleman exclaimed. “Is the lad his slave?”

  “As good as—for the term of his bond,” the captain explained. “He’s a bonded servant. How many years left on his contract?” he asked the boy’s master.

  “Two,” the man growled, with a menacing look at the boy that didn’t bode well for his surviving those years. “His papers say a full seven years and that’s what it will be. I bought him with three years already gone of it and he’s been with me for two more. I want my money’s worth, for a boy of twelve eats more’n one of ten, though he don’t do a lick more work. He’ll be free when he’s fourteen and nary a second afore that, I can tell ye.”

  The gentleman looked perturbed and gazed down at his own son, whose small face was solemn, even as his eyes begged his father to intercede. Thomas was his father’s joy in life as well as his despair, because he was small for his age and plagued by illnesses. The gentleman looked at the bond-boy again. The lad was only a year older than his own son, and though obviously mistreated, was taller and stronger, and his clear gray eyes held a wisdom far beyond his meager years. His well-shaped lips were white with cold, but they bowed into a rueful smile as he shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “Thank you, sir,” the boy said in a soft, civil voice that sounded more educated than it had a right to be under the circumstances, “but I’ll do well enough if you pay my master the damages. I don’t need more, thank you.”

  His master grabbed the boy’s arm and twisted it sharply in order to silence him. The boy’s face contorted but he didn’t even gasp. “He speaks nonsense. Pay him no mind!” his master snarled. “A mess of crockery a fair trade for a boy’s life? Why, ’tis laughable! If yer really grateful, reward him with gold. He’ll get his fair share.”

  The gentleman had started forward when the boy was seized, but he stopped when he saw the look in the man’s eyes and realized the power he held over the boy.

  “Fair share? Likely,” the captain scoffed. “Save your gold, my lord. Just give the old villain his damages and pray for his soul, and there’ll be an end to it.”

  “It would be better to pray for the boy’s life,” the gentleman said with decision. “I’m not a religious man, but I am a wealthy one. I want to buy the boy’s papers. Name his price,” he said imperiously, staring at the man, “but mind you, I’m no fool. I’ll pay his bond and something over, and no more.”

  “I don’t have to sell him to you,” the boy’s master said, but there was a glitter in his eyes. He was a cruel man and a petty one, but a merchant to his toes, and he smelled the possibility of profit. “I can keep the lad the whole two years if I like. ’Tis my right. I’m his lord and master.”

  “And I am a lord,” the gentleman said, “with connections here in the Colonies. But if you don’t want to—don’t sell him to me.” He turned away. “Get the fellow’s name,” he told the captain in a bored voice. “I’ll see what I can do to his business if he doesn’t wish to do business with me.”

  “Hold on. I never said I wouldn’t,” the boy’s master cried.

  “Oh?” the gentleman said, turning to look at him with interest.

  The two men dickered there on the dock, with a sharp April wind coming off the wild Atlantic around them. Ordinarily the gentleman wouldn’t have kept his fragile son and young daughter out in the cruel breeze any more than he’d have subjected them to the stares of a common, curious crowd. But every time the negotiations faltered, he saw how his little daughter stared wide-eyed at the bond-boy. More than that, he saw how his son and the boy continued to look at each other as their elders wrangled over the body and soul of one of them. And so the bargaining went on.

  “Done!” the boy’s master finally said in disgust after the same offer had been made, withdrawn, and then made once more. He shoved the boy toward the gentleman and held out his hand for his gold.

  “Not quite,” the gentleman said. “Here’s half. Bring me his papers within the hour and you’ll have the rest, plus a reward for speed—if it’s done speedily.”

  The man nodded, turned, and lumbered down the dock toward shore, hurrying to get the papers back in time to earn the extra coins.

  The gentleman sighed. He looked down at the shivering boy. “Well, lad,” he said, “’tis all but done.”

  “I see,” the boy said quietly. “And so you are my new master. Do we go to England, sir?”

  “Gads, no!” the gentleman said in alarm. “I’ve just arrived. And I’m not your new master. I did this to set you free. I don’t hold with bond-servants. But,” he said, as he looked at his own son again and saw how young Thomas—the fortunate one, pampered and cherished since birth—nevertheless looked fragile compared to the starved, bruised bond-boy, “I wonder, have you family?”

  “Yes,” the boy said, “but not here, sir. In England.”

  “So they will take you in if I send you back?” the gentleman asked.

  “I can no longer say, sir. It’s been years, and they sold me into bondage,” the boy said very softly.

  “Ah, well then,” the gentleman said thoughtfully, “I expect you’re in need of gainful employment.” He saw the hopeful expression on his son’s face. “I’ve brought my son and daughter here so we can remain together as a family while I take care of my estate,” he told the bond-boy. “I plan to be here for several years seeing to my property, building up the plantation, setting up export routes. I’ll be hiring help. I suspect my son would be glad of company his own age. And a gentleman, no matter how young, can never have too many servants. Are you interested in working for him, lad?”

  “I am,” the boy said promptly.

  “Well, then,” the gentleman said, as he saw his son’s growing smile, “‘'lad’ will not do, then, will it? What’s your name, my boy?”

  “I am Jared St. Andrew Bellington,” the boy said, bowing.

  The gentleman frowned. “Bellington. But I know that name. It is very like the earl of Alveston’s. Are you related?”

  “More than that,” the boy said drawing himself up tall, “I am the earl of Alveston.”

  “Oh lad,” the gentleman said sadly, looking at the poor, daft boy. “Oh lad,” he said with deeper sorrow, looking at his son. “I’ll set you free, then, and God help you.”

  “No,” the boy said with dignity. “I’ll help myself, as I’ve always done.”

  “Father!” the gentleman’s son cried, “No! Please. Keep him on. I believe him.”

  “Very well. Don’t upset yourself.” The gentleman told the captain with a heavy heart, “But this doesn’t bode well. I’ve only been here an hour and I’ve already made a bad bargain.”

  “Sir,” the bond-boy said proudly, “you have not. You’ll see. You’ve made a very good one, one you’ll never regret. You have my word on it.”

  The gentleman studied the boy who stood so tall in his rags and slowly shook his head. The lad was obviously addled and yet, in that moment, against all reason, he believed him.

  But there was no time for belief or disbelief now; there were too many things to do now to waste time speculating about a servant. The boy would be loaded into the coaches with the rest of the household supplies. Before anything else was done, though, the baron of Kent had to make sure his children had their first luncheon on dry land in weeks. Then he’d finish making preparations for the trip to their new home. But before one wagon was loaded, a room had to be hired at the dockside inn, because the doctors had said his son needed a nap after each meal. That was his first priority. He didn’t worry about his little girl because, although she was years younger than his son, she was a hearty little soul, as sound in health as she was in temperament.

  Once assured his son was resting comfortably, the baron left his children’s room—and he left it as mere Mr. Alfred Kensington. He’d researched this new land where he hoped to make his fortune and discovered that in
this new country, a title didn’t mean as much as title to acreage. In fact, since many important businessmen in the Colonies were here mainly because of their dislike of nobility, he decided not to take any chances. His title went into the family Bible he’d carried across the sea, and there it would stay for the duration of his years here.

  When all the wagons and carriages were packed with supplies and workers he’d hired, Alfred Kensington sighed with relief. It would be a long drive, and a longer time settling in. But at least it was begun. Now to get his children and their nurse into the carriage to begin the last leg of the journey to their new home.

  He helped his son into their carriage, praying the vehicle was sprung well enough to spare him discomfort on what would be rough country roads. The boy hadn’t complained on the long sea voyage, though his father knew he’d suffered, his weight loss and pallor speaking eloquently of the discomforts he was too stoic to mention.

  “Where’s Jared?” Thomas Kensington asked his father as soon as he had seated himself in the carriage and looked around to see only his sister and their nurse already inside.

  Alfred frowned, trying to remember who “Jared” was.

  “My new friend,” Thomas reminded him. “The one who saved my life, Father.”

  “Ah, yes. He’s in the third carriage, with the other menservants,” Alfred told him.

  “I thought he was to be my personal servant,” Thomas said.

  “Well, so he will be. But we surely don’t need more than Nurse here for this trip,” his father explained.

  “Nurse is for Della, but I’m a big boy now, Father,” Thomas said with gentle persistence. He was a quiet boy, polite as the gentleman he’d been raised to be, quiet as only an invalid could be, but as insistent on getting his own way as only an indulged and cosseted young aristocrat could be.

  “But we scarcely know him, son,” Alfred said uncomfortably, “and it’s such a long trip.… I’m sure the boy will be happier among his equals than with us right now.”

  “He says he is an earl, Father,” Thomas reminded him.

  Alfred grimaced. The reminder made him think of all the reasons he’d hesitated to hire the boy on.