Slightly Noble

by Lilly Gayle

  Our son. Any joy she might have felt at hearing him say those precious words faded when she looked into his eyes. Jack was a just man, but his temper was ferocious, and she believed he had inherited that temper from his father. “Please, Jack. Do not let him bait you.”

  “Go. Outside.” His words were a whispered growl that made her cringe. Memories of Lord Drury shivered over her, peppering her skin with gooseflesh. Her skin crawled at the memories of his lips and then his fists on her body. Her stomach clenched.

  “Do not be like him,” she whispered past a throat constricted by fear, not knowing if the “him” to whom she referred was his father or Lord Drury. “Do not let your anger rule your heart.”

  Something she said must have registered. Or maybe it was the fear she heard in her own voice that made him listen. The tension did not leave his body, but the rage faded from his eyes. Pity made a brief appearance before he shuttered his expression and stared at her with a face as hard as the marble floor beneath her feet. “Please. Check on Will.”

  A wife was supposed to obey her husband, but this was one order she could not follow. If she left the room, she feared Jack would beat his cousin to death. Not that he did not deserve a good thrashing, but…

  Mr. Flick swayed on his feet, a sneer on his face and a vindictive gleam in his bloodshot eyes. The rustle of silk prevented Abby from disobeying her husband outright.

  Jack stiffened and turned toward the door. Abby and Mr. Flick followed his gaze as a plain-faced woman dressed in a lovely emerald visiting toilette entered the room. The butler followed just far enough inside the room to grasp the double doors and pull them closed as he backed into the hall. The soft thump and metallic click of the doors latching together broke the sudden silence.

  “Hello, Jack…Ardmore.” She smiled stiffly. “It seems odd calling you that after all these years.”

  The tension returned to Jack’s body tenfold. Abby felt it in his bicep as she clung to his arm. “I imagine you never thought to call me that at all. Did you, Aunt Margery?”

  Pink tinged the woman’s pale cheeks and quickly faded. “I suppose I did not consider it much at all until recently. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”

  She breezed into the room as if skating over ice, sending a chill down Abby’s spine. The woman seemed as cold and heartless as a serpent. Then she turned and met Abby’s gaze. Regret or some other humbling emotion seemed to pass behind her eyes but was gone just as quickly. “So, you are the new Lady Ardmore.” She nodded. “You are just as lovely as Jack’s mother.”

  “And you hated her because of it, did you not?” Jack challenged, all but spitting the words.

  Lady Margery turned to face her nephew. Abby could not see the expression in her eyes, but she noted the stiffness in her shoulders and the trembling in her hands just before she curled her fingers into her skirts, gripping them as if holding on to the edge of a cliff. “Yes. I did.”

  Jack’s jaw went slack, as if surprised by her admission. Then, his eyes blazed. “Your lies destroyed her.”

  A sigh escaped Lady Margery’s lips before she turned slightly to stare up at a portrait over the fireplace of a dark-haired man who upon first glance, looked nothing like Jack. But as Abby stared at the man who was most likely his father, she noted the same dark, fathomless brown eyes and broad forehead. The strong jaw and chiseled cheeks were remarkably similar as well. In fact, it was only the difference in coloring and perhaps, size, that set the two men apart. Jack’s shoulders were broader and his hair was blond. Jack’s father had dark hair, and it looked as if years of exposure to the sun had tanned Jack’s skin to a color that seemed more natural on his father. But, there was no mistaking the family resemblance.

  “You have grown up to look very much like him,” Lady Margery said quietly.

  “Pity you did not see the resemblance years ago,” Jack snarled.

  “Ha!” Mr. Flick staggered forward. “I look as much like him as Jack. It is in the Norton blood, the same blood that runs through Uncle William’s veins as well.”

  Lady Margery turned, regret and disappointment clearly visible in her gaze as she faced her son. “Please, Morris. Do not make this any worse than it already is. You have Ardie’s coloring, but you have Braxton Flick’s bone structure. You look as much like your father as I looked like mine. Ardie, William, and myself took after him, but William had mother’s light hair and complexion.”

  Mr. Flick harrumphed, and Lady Margery turned to face Abby. “Ardie was my pet name for Jack’s father. I was the oldest, and he was like my very own baby doll. I loved him dearly and miss him still.”

  “And what of your other brother?” She cast a quick glance at Jack, praying her forward behavior would not earn her a public reprimand. He caught her eye, gratitude evident in his gaze before he looked at his aunt as if curious to hear her response.

  She shrugged. “William was nothing like Ardie or me. It was more than just his light hair. It was his attitude and temperament. He ignored societal strictures and cared nothing for tradition. He loved his boats and the sea. And he was not at all particular with the company he kept. So, naturally, I was shocked as well as pleased when he made friends with the daughter of a baronet, and I fully expected him to wed Sir Lionel Ridge’s daughter.”

  “Why would you think that?” Mr. Flick sneered as he staggered past his mother and slumped onto one of two matching, richly upholstered, carved rosewood divans flanking the fireplace. “Ardmore held the title and the purse strings. Uncle William was little more than a fisherman.”

  “He was a successful merchant,” Jack said in that harsh voice that sent fear coursing through Abby’s veins. “He did not live off of his brother’s charity. He forged his own destiny.”

  The anger in Jack’s tone turned to pride, but it did little to soften his cousin’s attitude. Mr. Flick may not be a noble himself, but he was the grandson of a viscount and the son of a lady. He was the Honorable Mr. Flick, although, there seemed nothing honorable about his behavior.

  Like most others who carried noble blood, Mr. Flick seemed to believe an individual should not be permitted to achieve social or economic success through hard work and perseverance. His kind believed allowing such upward mobility would provide an equalizing principle that could elevate commoners above their betters. And like many sons of second sons or daughters who did not marry nobles, Mr. Flick had relied on his family name to help him feel superior. Most likely because he had not the brains or ambition to achieve any degree of success on his own.

  Mr. Flick harrumphed again, sounding like a matronly old woman. “You would think that. You are no better, and your father knew it.”

  “Enough!” Lady Margery raised her voice, gaining her son’s attention. She looked at Jack, her pale face showing so little emotion she may as well have been molded from wax. “William was in love with your mother, but her father did not want her to wed a man without a title. He offered your grandfather a huge dowry to convince Ardie to marry her.” She laughed, the sound bitter and sad. “I was so disappointed when Ardie agreed. Apparently, he loved her, too. Everyone loved her. And I grew to hate her.”

  “And you turned everyone against her, including my father.” Jack stepped away from Abby, leaving her cold and desolate in the middle of the room.

  ****

  Aunt Margery’s gaze slid to the floor. “For years, I believed William was your real father. And I hated your mother for breaking both my brothers’ hearts.”

  Jack’s pulse drummed in his ears as he paced in front of the door, stopping to glare at his father’s portrait before turning to glare at his aunt. “So, you fostered my father’s doubts, and he believed your lies.”

  A tear escaped from the corner of his aunt’s rheumy eyes and rolled over her cheek. “Only because he knew your mother did not love him. She married him to please her father, but she was still in love with William.”

  “You were jealous!” He raised his voice for the first time in recent memory.
Uncle William had taught him years ago that a good captain did not lead by instilling fear into his crew, but by gaining their admiration and respect. With his size, he had quickly learned not to raise his voice, for the louder he spoke, the less others seemed to hear. But Abby had heard his shouted words just fine, and it looked as if once again, he had frightened her.

  She cringed and took a step away from him as if to cower in the corner. Was it because of the abuse she had suffered at Drury’s hand? Or because she was still afraid of her husband’s violent temper?

  “Please, do not be like him,” she whispered again.

  “Abby…” He stepped toward her, but she backed away, tearing his heart from his chest.

  “No.” That one word nearly crippled him. He stopped and stared, ignoring his aunt’s gasp and his cousin’s vile laughter. But then, Abby raised her chin, challenging him rather than showing him fear. “Do not be like your father and misjudge what you have failed to hear. Listen to your aunt.”

  “Spoken like a true commoner,” Morris said from the couch.

  Abby held her head high, meeting his gaze as if she were a born noble woman challenging an inferior’s impertinence. “I am a commoner, but my father is Henry Halsey, world renowned jeweler. Men like him and your uncle William are steering the world away from a society based on rank and privilege. The common man no longer needs the aristocracy to govern them or care for their needs. And free enterprise and the entrepreneurial spirit will bring society out of the dark ages and into a world where hard work and merit dictate success rather than the circumstances of one’s birth.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Abby paled. Eyes wide with panic, she met Jack’s gaze as if dreading the repercussions of voicing her bold opinion. Such forward behavior would have enraged his father, but Jack’s heart filled with pride.

  Smile firmly in place, he walked toward her, draped his arm over her shoulders, and pulled her close. She trembled beneath his touch, but boldly stood by his side.

  “Oh, please,” Morris sneered.

  Jack ignored him and turned to meet his aunt’s shocked gaze. “Rest assured, my wife did not marry me for my title or for my money. So it would behoove you both to still your vindictive tongues. I will stand for no man or woman speaking ill of her.” He turned to meet Morris’ gaze, staring until his cousin lowered his chin.

  “If only your mother had stood up to your father.”

  Jack jerked his head back around to glare at his aunt. She smiled and swiped at another stray tear. He could not tell if she was holding back a flood or if her eyes were always red and watery. Her taut, pale face held few clues to her emotions.

  He thought he saw her chin tremble, but her oddly smooth face never crumpled, and her waxy complexion never changed. Did she still whiten her face with borax, alum, and white lead? He vaguely remembered overhearing an argument between her and his mother over the toxic mixture she applied to her face in an effort to lighten her skin. A pale complexion had been all the rage then, as it seemed to be now. Abby was fair-skinned, but color often bloomed in her cheeks as it did now when he met her gaze. She was both lovely and smart. So, perhaps he should do as she suggested and listen to his aunt.

  Stiffening his spine, he turned toward her, keeping Abby close to his side. “She tried, but he sent her away.”

  A sad smile touched his aunt’s face. “No, Jack. When Ardie accused her, she never denied it.”

  “Can you blame her?” His heart beat like a drum inside his chest. “His accusations were a vile insult to her integrity.”

  “A less prideful woman would have denied the charges. When she did not, your father banished her in a fit of anger he quickly regretted. William was furious with your father, but Ardie ranted. He had such a temper, you know.”

  Jack knew all too well. He still remembered the beating he received for making the wrong sort of friends in Seile. But oddly enough, Lord Ardmore had never laid a hand on his wife. Was it possible he actually loved her?

  “He truly loved her,” Aunt Margery said as if reading his thoughts. “He was just so blinded by jealousy. He knew she was still in love with William, and he knew William loved her. Thinking to test them both, he sent William after her, hoping she would return home and beg his forgiveness.”

  Jack swallowed a lump rising in his throat, fear eating away at his composure. Had Uncle William, a man he believed noble and honorable, betrayed them both? Had he betrayed Jack? “Uncle William took us aboard the Lion’s Pride and carried us to America himself.”

  Had he done so because he coveted his brother’s family?

  “No, Jack,” his aunt said again. “He boarded the Andover first and gave your mother the message sent by your father. She refused to crawl to any man on bended knee and insisted your father come for her himself. William knew Ardie would never do such a thing. So, he and his men took control of the Andover. He had caught up with them in the English Channel and forced them to dock in Cherbourg. Then William sailed the Lion’s Pride back to Ridge Point to try to talk some sense into your father.”

  “My father didn’t want us.” Jack’s heart pounded so hard he could barely catch his breath. If not for the comforting support of Abby’s warm body tucked under his arm, he might have crumpled to the floor like a disheartened child.

  “Not true,” Aunt Margery said. “Ardie was just so stubborn and so filled with misplaced pride. He kept insisting I had been right about your mother all along. I finally confessed my jealousy and told him I thought you were his son. William swore he had never been with your mother, and I believed him. His parting words haunted your father until the day he died.”

  Jack forced himself to speak as if unmoved by her heartfelt words. His chest cramped, and his throat felt tight. Then Abby’s arm tightened around his waist, and the words came more easily. “What did he say?”

  Margery smiled and swiped once more at her eyes. This time, Jack was sure it was a tear. “He said he would watch over you and your mother until your father came to his senses or your mother came to hers. And when Ardie asked what he meant by that remark, William said, ‘If you no longer want her, then I do. And I will stay by her side until she realizes it.’”

  Jack’s head ached, and his chest hurt. He stepped away from Abby, turning to face the fireplace. His father’s portrait seemed to mock him.

  “He did love her,” Aunt Margery said, her words barely penetrating the haze of pain and fury.

  He turned with a snarl. Morris seemed to shrink against the sofa as Jack stared at him with all the pain and hatred in his heart. “Then why deny me my birthright? Why leave everything not entailed with the damned patent to him!”

  Behind him, he heard Abby’s soft sob—a sound of heartbreak and pity that tore at his soul. He wanted to take her hand and drag her from the room. He wanted to board the Lion’s Pride and sail to America with his new family, but first, he had to make peace with his past.

  Forcing his legs to move, he took a step further away from his wife and faced his aunt. Her pale face turned ash gray, and her lips tinged with blue. She inhaled sharply as if she had suddenly remembered to breathe. The blue faded, but her face was no less pale.

  “Am I truly Ardmore’s son?” The words were little more than a whisper.

  His aunt visibly swallowed. “Did you ever ask William for the truth?”

  “No.” That one word was a harsh growl that made his aunt cringe. But she did not cower or back away. Nor, did she question him further. She nodded as if understanding his reluctance to question the man who had become more of a father to him than Ardmore had ever been.

  “Ardie was not a demonstrative man,” she said quietly. “Our father had groomed him for the viscountcy from the cradle, and Ardie took to it like a fish to water. William wanted no part of the training. He once said he would be no man’s spare heir. Had he not been granted a commission in the Royal Navy, father would have given up on him completely.” She smiled ruefully and walked to the sofa across from her son
where she eased herself onto the cushions as if unable to stand a second longer.

  “Uncle William was always the fool,” Morris grumbled. When Jack glared, he turned away with a pout, staring once more at the cold fireplace.

  Without a word, Jack turned toward Abby, took her arm, and guided her to the sofa where he seated her next to his aunt. Ignoring her curious expression, he turned his back on the three of them, laced his fingers behind his back, and began pacing.

  “I do not believe Uncle William fathered me, nor do I believe my father cared one way or the other. But he did believe my mother had been unfaithful, and he wished to punish her through me. He was considerably older and had no way of knowing she would die before learning of the contents of his will. I am sure he thought he would die long before her and that we would return to England the moment we learned of his death. He had no way of knowing she would return in a pine box, but he knew how much Ridge Point meant to her, and that is why he left it to Morris.”

  A soft sob sounded behind him. Jack turned as Abby handed his aunt a lace handkerchief pulled from her reticule. Aunt Margery offered her a watery smile and dabbed at her cheeks. The anguished look in Abby’s eyes when she turned her gaze on him was almost more than he could bear. He hardened his heart, forcing himself to be unmoved by her tears.

  Aunt Margery sniffed. “Ardie was proud of you.”

  Jack normally prided himself on his ability to mask his expressions, but the incredulity he felt must have shown on his face.

  His aunt sniffed. “Honestly. He was. He kept up with you through letters from your uncle. William wrote twice a year.”

  Did father write back? Jack’s heart lodged in his throat. As a boy, he had wanted desperately to hear from his father. Even a single letter would have made all the difference, but no letters had come. Surely, Uncle William would have told him if a letter had arrived from England. Then again, Uncle William had never mentioned writing the viscount either.