by Edith Layton
“I want him here with me. I believe him, and even if you don’t, he doesn’t seem like the sort to get angry about it,” Thomas said.
Alfred sighed. His son had the uncanny ability to accurately judge his elders’ feelings—a gift that only a boy who’d had to pass his childhood watching instead of doing could possess.
“To be sure,” Alfred murmured. He’d have to fetch the boy. If he refused, Thomas would gently but patiently keep insisting on it, until he was told to be quiet, and then he’d sit so quietly his father would feel like a monster and worry whether he was only sulking or really feeling ill.
Alfred sighed, backed out of the carriage, and walked back to the menservants’ coach. But he wasn’t happy about it.
He too doubted the lad would be trouble; if he was, it would be simple enough to expel him from the carriage. But it probably wouldn’t come to that. The lad had seemed normal except for that wild statement about his title. And who could blame a lad for concocting a title for himself, to make his servitude more bearable? The lad had saved his son’s life, after all. And it might be a fine lesson for young Thomas, too, Alfred thought with rising spirits. Maybe riding so closely with the boy would persuade him that brave as the boy had been, he wasn’t a fit companion. Dogs and horses could lay down their lives for their masters, too, but that didn’t mean one wanted to spend all one’s time with them, after all.
But when the boy climbed down from the menservants’ carriage and stood before him, Alfred frowned. The boy’s skin seemed clean enough, maybe from the dunking he’d gotten when he’d saved Thomas. But he wore a shirt so threadbare it was nearly transparent, and the badly sewn rents in it were almost as appalling as the many patches on his ragged britches. And he was barefoot. Such a person couldn’t sit next to Alfred’s children, no matter what a service he’d done for them. But Thomas wanted him.
It was a lucky thing that harborside shops carried everything settlers in this rough land required. But even so, Alfred’s three coaches and two wagons waited for nearly a half-hour while clothes and a pair of shoes were purchased for the boy. He emerged from the shop and stood before Alfred for inspection. He wore a plain linen shirt, a clean pair of britches, and a simple pair of shoes. His fair hair was combed and caught back in a neat queue. There was nothing lavish about his clothes, but there was no fault to be found in his appearance at all now. Still, his new master frowned. Although the lad was lean to the point of starvation, bruised to several colors on his thin face, and dressed in the most simple clothes money could buy, he still looked every inch an aristocrat.
It might have been in his bearing. He held his wide shoulders straight as his back, and he stood tall. It might have been in his face. His even features were calm and his light eyes watchful. It might have been his manners, as good as Alfred’s own. Or his accent, which, though not quite English, was also not quite colonial and held an air of cool, reasonable conviction…and interest, laughter, and kindness. By the time they were an hour down the road, Alfred found that he liked the lad. He made Thomas laugh like a boy again. While Thomas laughed at the droll stories Jared told about native customs, little Della sat and stared at him, her eyes wide as her precious china doll’s were.
“It sounds great fun!” Thomas said when Jared finished telling how many kinds of fish there were to catch. “I can’t wait! Father, is there a stream on our land?”
“Aye, and a pond and the river nearby. But we must wait to see what the doctor says.”
“But I’ll dress warm,” Thomas protested, hope and frustration clear in his voice. “You heard Jared. He said the summers are hot here—much hotter than at home. Why, it’s warm here already, and the natives go about half clothed; you saw that for yourself.”
“Aye, but you aren’t a native. We’ll wait on what the doctor says,” Alfred answered decisively. Seeing the question in Jared’s eyes as Thomas fell still, he added, “My boy has a weak chest. He wheezes summers as well as winters, though winters are the worst. One of the things that brought us here was the climate. Hot in summer and temperate the rest of the year, I heard.” He paused, frowning at himself for making excuses to a boy—and a former bond-boy at that.
“Exactly,” Thomas crowed, excited again, “so there can be no good reason for me not to fish with Jared as soon as can be!”
“But our summers are damp as well as hot,” Jared said gently, “and sometimes that can bother people with a wheeze; it makes them sneeze and cough. It’s because of all the flowers. There are so many here, growing wild as well as in gardens. Higgins, my old master, had that problem. But there are remedies: drinks and potions. They use Indian herbs and flowers here. Yes, real Indian cures, and they work, too. They use flowers to cure flower fever.” He paused, smiling at Della’s fascinated stare, and added, “One of them is a flower blue as your eyes, my lady. Though not so pretty,” he added teasingly, with a little smile.
She flushed and looked down, pretending to fuss with her doll’s hair in order to avoid his eyes, though in a second she was peeking up at him again under her lashes.
Gallantry! Amazing, Alfred thought. And from what was less than a beggar boy, since a bond-boy was not valued as much as a free man, of course, or even so much as a slave. A slave was an investment to be protected, and a free man might seek other employment. A bond-servant was expendable. If he lived to work out his bond, it only profited himself. This lad had been the lowest of the low until hours ago and yet he spoke like the man he was fast becoming, and not only that, like the nobleman he’d pretended to be. Astonishing, Alfred thought.
“Do you have anything that cures giggles?” Thomas asked with a grin. “Because that’s what my sister suffers from the most.”
“No, I don’t,” the little girl said in a gruff voice, but tears sprang to those great blue eyes, and her thumb popped into her trembling mouth.
“But why should anyone want to cure giggles?” Jared asked with just the right amount of wonder in his voice.
Nurse beamed at him, as Della stared, her tears forgotten. Alfred sighed with relief. The boy was sound, whatever nonsense he’d spouted back on the dock. That must have been sheer bravado, whistling in the face of defeat; it showed spirit, not madness. No question that he himself still had the touch with people as well as investments. In a matter of years, he’d have the money to return to England, vastly successful, the youngest son with as much money as his fortunate brothers who’d only had to be born to get it. And with luck, this chance-met bond-boy would be a useful addition to his family. He was gently bred, whoever had raised him. And strong and clever. He obviously knew this land, too. The children would be bound to feel out of place, and Jared would be of great help to them.
But first Alfred had to give him another chance to ease out of the corner he’d painted himself into, Alfred thought. The boy had said a foolish thing, a child’s boast in the face of tyranny. It was time to let him worm out of it so he could have a new beginning. “Jared, eh?” Alfred mused aloud. “Jared what? I disremember exactly what you said, lad.”
“Jared St. Andrew Bellington,” the boy said softly, “earl of Alveston. Exactly as I said. I’m sorry, sir,” he said into the stony silence that followed his pronouncement, “but there it is. It’s who I am, although I know it’s hard to believe.”
“Impossible to believe,” Alfred said harshly, “and I’ll thank you to remember it. So. You continue to claim it. I see. Is there anything else you insist upon that others would think madness? For I tell you straight, boy, it will not do. I’ll brook no nonsense. My family is my life, and if you have any odd kicks to your gallop, I’ll have it known here and now. I’m taking you into my house. I expect you to be a companion to my boy. I want no difficulties. None. If there are any, tell me now and I’ll give you the price of a ride back to town and your next meal and we’ll be done with it. It would be far better than what would await you if I discover that you in any way harmed my children, I promise you.”
“There will be no othe
r difficulties, sir,” the boy said quietly, though his face had grown very pale beneath its tan, and his thin, calloused hands were clenched in tight, trembling fists on his knees. “I cannot help who I am, nor will I deny it, because my heritage is all I have left to me. If it displeases you, I’m sorry, but I will not—cannot—give it up. But I promise I’ll do everything that I can to reward your trust in me. You bought my bond, but freed me in spite of it. You’ll find no other fault in me. I’d like to work for you, sir,” he added, gazing steadily into Alfred’s eyes.
Alfred saw his son’s face. “And how old are you?” he asked Jared wearily, his temper cooling. There’d be others to keep watch; the boy would be carefully observed until he proved his worth.
“Twelve, sir.”
“Only a year older than I am,” Thomas said with pleasure.
“And if I keep you on,” Alfred asked Jared, with a warning glance to silence his son, “do you promise to always protect and defend my son?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Done, then. You may stay on with us for a time. Your name is Jared Bellington—if you insist,” Alfred said. “But I’ll hear no more about it. Keep it to yourself. I warn you, I hold you responsible for my son’s well-being. His life and happiness are your only concern.”
“Father!” Thomas wailed.
“I will serve and protect him,” Jared said in a low, steady voice. He said it like a sacred oath, so solemnly that Thomas grew quiet, and even Nurse turned to stare out the window in the silence that followed.
Until a foggy little voice asked plaintively, “And me, too?” Della waited for an answer.
“Oh, but of course, princess,” Jared said. And they all laughed with relief.
*
The house was a grand one, by Virginia standards. Alfred climbed down from the coach and stood in the drive, staring at it. It was raw and new, but seemed well built, just as the letters had described: set among tall trees, itself tall and wide and whitewashed, with many windows and chimneys and a long, curving crushed-shell drive before it. It was the grandest house he’d seen since he had left the ship. It might do for a dower house at the estate where he’d grown up. He’d have to make do. This house was for a farmer and a businessman, and that was what he was determined to be. This new world had tobacco, cotton, produce, and spices that the old world wanted. He knew exactly who wanted them there. And he’d supply them—for a sizable fee, so that when he returned to his world, he could be a gentleman and pretend he’d never been anything else—and so that his children could inherit more than useless titles when he was gone. He didn’t know when that would be—that was the point. When he’d lost his beloved wife and the new babe so suddenly, he’d realized how impermanent life could be. He was determined to leave Thomas and Della something more than the bittersweet memories that haunted him; he was resolved they’d never have to live on anyone’s charity, not even his own brothers’.
That ambition, so odd in a nobleman, was what had brought him across the sea. But it was not so odd here. He’d noticed that same kind of ambition and pride in so many people here, even in such a lowly creature as his recently hired bond-boy. It was what drew him to the poor youth.
He turned to help his son down from the coach, and found Jared had already done it, and had taken Della out as well. The lad stood by the coach with Della in his arms as they both surveyed the house.
“Your new house,” Jared told the little girl.
“Yours, too,” she assured him. She drew up her legs so he wouldn’t set her down and put her arms around him and snuggled up against him so he could carry her home.
Chapter 2
There were perfectly adequate servants’ quarters in the new house: rooms in the attic for the females and a separate house behind the main house for the men, not to mention all the rooms above the stables. But no sooner was Thomas installed in his room than he insisted on having his new servant sleep close by.
“Jared will be happy to be in with the other lads,” Alfred said. “I dare say it will be better than any quarters you’ve had a while, eh?” he asked Jared.
“Yes,” Jared answered, “much better, thank you. I’m happy where I am, Master Thomas, believe me. I have my own mattress and my own pillow, and they’re near the window, too.”
“Della has Nurse sleeping next door, in her own room,” Thomas said in the flat voice that his father knew meant he was deadly serious.
“Alcove, really,” Alfred said absently, “and that crate goes there, lads—easy now, easy—it’s glassware,” he called, because he was trying to placate his son and at the same time direct his servants as they set up his new household. “And Della’s a baby, Tom; that’s why Nurse sleeps nearby.”
“Am not a baby!” Della cried, outraged. “Am not! You said, you said!” she shouted. “You said I wasn’t anymore.”
“No, no, of course not,” her father said, flustered, “and so you are not. Five years old—my goodness, not a baby at all! A grown girl. But there you are, Tom,” he said a little desperately, his eyes following a crate that was being carried into the music room, “a girl, after all, has to have her nurse nearby. But you are almost a man.”
“Yes. Exactly,” Thomas said insistently. “He is my manservant, is he not? Didn’t you have your valet nearby at home?”
“So I did, but that was at our old home. This is our new home; I’m not at all sure I shall even need a valet here. Lord, Thomas, be reasonable.” He dropped his voice and whispered harshly, glancing over at Jared, who was standing nearby, pretending he didn’t hear. “We don’t know the boy. It’s enough I’m giving him a roof over his head, much less house room!”
“I’m very happy where I am,” Jared said stiffly. “I promise you I am, Master Thomas.”
“But I am not,” Thomas said. And kept saying it.
*
Alfred dressed formally for dinner and laughed aloud to himself as he did. When he had a wife, when he lived in London or in Kent, when he was on shipboard, when he was among civilized people, he had no choice but to dine in formal attire. But tonight, for the first time in his life, here in this crude land and now that he was on his own, it didn’t matter how he dressed. No one who mattered would see him, after all. Only servants. His daughter dined in her room with her nurse; his only companion would be his son. He supposed that after such a trying day, he could be excused for being informal. He could dine in the kitchens in his shirt sleeves if he wished.
But he was born a nobleman and had been raised a gentleman and he could no more eat in the kitchens in his shirt sleeves than he could cook himself the meal he would eat. Most of all, he told himself, as he inspected his neckpiece and decided he might need a valet after all, he had to set an example for his son. A gentleman remained a gentleman in all circumstances, whether or not there was anyone to judge him; that was what set him apart from common men. When he returned to England, he wouldn’t have become a savage, and his son too would be a perfect gentleman. Everything he did now was for Thomas, after all.
And so he stepped from his room smiling, wearing a long coat, waistcoat, shirt, britches, and a carefully tied cravat: the very model of a gentleman, the picture of a marquis’s son, even if he was the youngest. He was pleased with himself; He didn’t look bad. In truth, he was a fine figure of a man, hardly showing his years at all—a bit thicker at the waist and thinner of hair, but hardly old—at least not as old as he’d felt in England. This really was a land of new beginnings.
He was pleased with his first night in his new home. The land didn’t look savage; there were natives, of course, and crude farmers to be seen working in the fields. But the fields were lush, and the forests were being cleared at a rapid pace. There was money to be made here and a future to forge for himself and his son and daughter. There was time to make his mark, and this was the place in which to do it. It had been a dangerous gamble, a long and worrisome voyage, but now he was here, and now he had something to work for. He was content.
; Until he heard his son cry out.
He ran down the hall to his son’s room, fumbling at his side for the sword that wasn’t there—that he hadn’t worn because he hadn’t thought he would need it in his own house. His heart pounded, but he vowed he would fight with his own two hands—and teeth, if he must—to defend his son against whatever danger there was that he couldn’t imagine in this harsh new land.
He ran into Thomas’s room. But his son wasn’t there; he was standing at the door to the small anteroom beyond, staring in horror at Jared, the bond-boy. Jared stood against the far wall, white-faced, his hands trembling on the buttons to his half-open shirt as he hastily tried to do them up.
“What have you done?” Alfred shouted in rage as he seized the boy and slammed him back against the wall. “What? Tell me!” he cried, gripping the boy’s shoulder and shaking him for emphasis. Visions of what the boy might have done to Thomas enraged Alfred so much that all he wanted to do was to beat him into the floor. He raised his arm so he could strike the boy with his heavy hand.
“No, no, no,” Thomas wailed, but Alfred was seething with fury and seemed to hear him from a great distance. He saw the boy flinch as his head struck the wall behind him. Only then did Jared wince—as did Alfred.
Alfred’s arm wavered. The blow never fell. His hand stayed arrested in the air. Roy, he reminded himself, trembling with the effort of holding back. This is only a boy, whatever he has done. Alfred let out his pent-up breath in a harsh sigh and lowered his hand to his side. Jared, he saw now, had bitten his lip when his head struck the wall. There was blood on his mouth, but he stared straight at Alfred and there was no fear in his eyes, only resignation.
“What have you done?” Alfred asked savagely. He let go of the boy. One wrong word and he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself, no matter how much he disliked hitting a thin, defenseless youth, especially one who made no move to protect himself. Alfred’s fists clenched hard at his sides as he waited for an answer.