by Jane Feather
His son set a chair for him by the fire and then pulled up a stool and sat at his knee, clearly ready for the paternal inquiries that always accompanied his father’s visits.
The parlor was, as always, bright and neat as a new pin. The fire crackled in the hearth, where the brass fender and andirons gleamed. Alasdair felt himself relaxing in the cozy, homely comfort. He stretched his legs to the blaze, resting his gleaming hessians on the fender.
“So, what’s the problem with the Latin and Greek, Tim?”
“I’m not at all good at them,” the boy said. “Were you?”
“I wasn’t too bad at Greek.” Alasdair took a tankard of ale from a rosy-cheeked serving maid. “Thank you, Sally. Is this your homebrewed?”
“Aye, the master’s right partial to it,” Sally said. “Will I get you some supper?”
“Where is Mike?” Alasdair took a deep draft of ale.
It was Tim who answered him. “There’s a cow in calf. I wanted to help, but Mike said I couldn’t. He said it wasn’t work for me.” There was a distinct note of grievance in his voice.
“Now, Timmy, you know Mike wants what’s best for you,” Lucy said briskly. “You’re to learn your lessons and go to a proper school and grow up to be a gentleman like your father.”
Tim’s expression was one of pure disgust. “I don’t see why,” he said, his eyes on his father now. “I don’t want to be a gentleman, I want to be like Mike.”
“Now, Timmy, don’t you be talking like that!” Lucy advanced on him, her bright blue eyes flashing. “Such ingratitude! With all your advantages.”
Tim subsided with a mutinous mouth. Alasdair sipped his ale without comment. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed when his son had lost the tractability of early childhood. Alasdair’s parenting role had been very simple hitherto, but it had been directed toward supporting Lucy. It hadn’t so far taken into account the child’s emerging character.
“Here’s your supper, Alasdair,” Lucy said with relief as Sally returned. “Timmy, fetch the table to the fire.”
Tim dragged over a gate-legged table, and Sally spread a checkered cloth before setting out dishes and bone-handled cutlery.
“Will you take Ellen to bed, Sally.” Lucy kissed the baby and handed her over, then she refilled Alasdair’s tankard, helped him to game pie and a dish of roasted onions and another of baked cabbage and bacon. She was cutting bread for him when a door banged from the kitchen regions.
“That’s Mike.” Tim sprang to his feet and charged for the door, yelling, “Did she calve, Mike? Is everything all right?”
“So much for Latin and Greek,” Alasdair observed.
“Oh, you mustn’t take any notice of his fancies.” Lucy laid an urgent hand on his arm. “Indeed, you mustn’t, Alasdair.”
“Evenin’, Lord Alasdair.” A burly figure appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. He was wiping his hands on a cloth. Mud clung to his boots.
“Evening, Mike. Was it a heifer or a bull?” Alasdair inquired.
“A fine little bull calf.” Mike beamed and took the tankard of ale his wife handed him. “Sired by Red Demon. The calf’ll be a grand stud in a year, I’ll be bound.” He sat down and bent to unlace his boots, saying apologetically, “Eh, I’m sorry for the mud, Lucy.”
Tim with an air of importance hurried over with the bootjack, and Mike ruffled his hair as the lad bent to help him. “We’re tryin’ to keep him at his books, Lord Alasdair, but I doubt he’d rather be out in the fields.”
“Yes, that I would,” Tim said firmly.
“You may think differently when you go away to school,” Alasdair suggested, forking a piece of pie into his mouth.
Tim glanced at his mother and said nothing. Her usually sweet expression was for once very forbidding.
The conversation roamed pleasantly around farming issues, horseflesh, and the hopes for a good harvest, and when, after an hour or so, Alasdair rose to leave, Mike rose with him. “Your horses’re at the Red Lion as usual?” he asked. “I’ll walk you round.”
Alasdair nodded his acquiescence. He sensed that the other man had something on his mind. Alasdair kissed Lucy, passed a caressing hand over his son’s tousled hair, refrained from offering any paternal instructions as to sticking with his books, and went out with Tim’s stepfather.
“Out with it, Mike,” he said when they’d turned into the lane and his companion had still said nothing.
“Well, it’s difficult, like. I know the lad’s not my own.” Mike drove his hands into the pockets of his britches. His long stride slowed a little. He took a deep breath. “But it’s like this, see. He’s got a right fine touch with the horses and cattle. He’d rather be learning about crops, and harvesting, and what to look for in the weather, and consulting almanacs, than he would reading Latin and Greek.”
Alasdair wasn’t at all sure what to say, so he said nothing.
Mike continued. “Lucy has it in her head to make a gentleman of the boy. And with his father, like … I can see why. But living as he does … with us … well, I don’t see it working. No offense, Lord Alasdair.”
“None taken,” Alasdair said. “But he’s my son.”
“Not in my house, he’s not.”
Alasdair drew breath sharply. If anyone but Mike had said such a thing, it would have been a hostile challenge. But Alasdair knew and valued Mike Hodgkins. And he knew, an unpalatable fact perhaps, that the man spoke only the truth. Alasdair paid for his son’s schooling and for his upkeep. His contributions to the Hodgkins household were considerable, but they were financial, not emotional.
As if reading his thoughts, Mike continued bluntly, “We’re right grateful for your help, Lord Alasdair. I won’t say it’s not made all the difference in a lean year, but the lad’s happiness is all that really matters. The lad’s and Lucy’s. I think they’d both be happier if we made a clean break, as it were.” He gave a little sigh as if ridding himself of a massive burden.
“You’re asking me to drop out of my son’s life?” Alasdair demanded. “Not to see him again?”
“God’s blessing, no, sir!” Mike sounded horrified. “You’re the lad’s natural father and he knows it. He’d not know what to think if you disappeared. I’m only saying that maybe it’s confusing for him to think he has to live up to expectations that’re so different from what he knows. The lads he plays with … even …” Mike paused. He pushed back his cap, running a gnarled hand through his hair. “His sister,” he said finally.
It sounded like an afterthought but Alasdair guessed that it was probably the central point of Mike’s argument. The difference between his own child’s future and his stepson’s.
“It’s not that I begrudge the boy his opportunities,” Mike said diffidently into Alasdair’s silence.
“I know that. And I know what a good father you are to Tim,” Alasdair said warmly. They had reached the door of the Red Lion and he paused. “But I’ll not have him thinking that I disowned him.”
“He’ll never think that, sir.” With an impulsive gesture, Mike took Alasdair’s hand between both of his own. “I just think he would be happier if he felt he wasn’t different from the rest of us.”
“You want me to bring the ’orses round, sir?” Jemmy’s voice spoke out of the darkness. He had been on the watch for Lord Alasdair and now appeared from the inn’s stableyard. He nodded to Mike, who nodded back.
Alasdair gestured his acknowledgment to Jemmy, who disappeared again. “I don’t ever want it said that I reneged on my responsibilities.” A deep frown corrugated Alasdair’s brow. For the first time he could see clearly what Tim’s life would be at Eton or Harrow. He would have no friends. He wouldn’t fit in anywhere. The family circumstances of his peers would be a galaxy apart from his own.
Alasdair realized that while he’d been congratulating himself on doing more for his natural child than anyone would expect, his plans for the boy’s future would do Tim a grave disservice. Unless … “Should I take the boy in myself?
” he said almost to himself.
“Only if you want to kill his mother,” Mike responded instantly and with some ferocity. “And 111 not stand for that, Lord Alasdair, I tell you straight.”
“No, of course not. Give me some time to think. I’ll come back in a week or so. I’ll talk to Tim about it then.”
The clatter of hooves heralded the return of Jemmy leading Alasdair’s horses.
“Good blood there,” Mike approved. “You’re a fine judge of horseflesh, Lord Alasdair.”
“Maybe my son has inherited that at least,” Alasdair said. It was an attempt at a jest, but he had the feeling that it had sounded more sour than jovial. He held out his hand to Mike, making up for that discordant note with the warmth of his handshake and his smile. “I’ll return soon. Don’t ever believe I’m not grateful for what you’ve done for Tim.”
Mike looked satisfied. He shook Alasdair’s hand briskly. “We’ll be looking forward to seeing you then. I’ll be having a word with Lucy in the meantime. Prepare her, like.”
Alasdair took the reins and whip from Jemmy and climbed into the curricle. It seemed that Mike now considered the whole matter settled. He gave his horses the office to start.
Jemmy, who was accustomed to chat with his master when they were driving alone, kept silent during the drive back to London. Lord Alasdair was clearly preoccupied.
Alasdair was thinking of life’s supreme ironies. That cozy domestic scene had been the ruin of his relationship with Emma. And yet how truly un-threatening it was. Now.
Honesty forced him to admit that three years ago, before Mike Hodgkins had appeared on the scene, the situation had a different construction. Then Lucy had been living under his protection with her child. He had visited Chiswick several times a week, and while their sexual relationship was on the wane, there was still great intimacy between them. He hadn’t wanted to expose that intimacy to Emma. It had seemed something very private, very special. And therefore, of course, very threatening to the woman about to become his wife. But in the arrogance of his own self-absorption, he hadn’t recognized that.
He would always be fond of Lucy, always take responsibility for his son’s welfare. Emma had thrown the example of the duke of Clarence at him that afternoon, and while Alasdair could hardly be said to be the devoted father of ten children by a woman with whom he’d lived as husband for some twelve years, there were perhaps parallels. The duke was always proposing to rich eligible ladies, but none had yet succumbed, even for the title of royal duchess. Mrs. Jordan and ten Fitzclarences would always be a factor in whatever marriage the duke contracted.
But would Emma now be threatened by Alasdair’s past with Lucy, by his gangly son who wanted to be a farmer? Would that cozy little cottage in Chiswick fill her with revulsion?
She was no prude. Far from it. But when Henry Ossington had dripped his malice into her ear, she had reacted as violently as if she’d been told her fiancé was a depraved and murderous Bluebeard. She hadn’t given Alasdair the opportunity to explain, had merely left London and gone to Italy the night before the wedding, leaving him almost literally at the altar. It had been left to Ned to tell him why—and left to the jilted bridegroom to offer an explanation to wedding guests and a world agog.
His lips were set as he drew up in the mews at the back of his lodgings. However much it could be said that he had wronged Emma, Emma had certainly had her revenge. His humiliation had been profound.
“Look into stabling for Lady Emma’s horses, Jemmy.”
“Aye, sir.” Jemmy was untroubled by the curtness of the instruction and went to unharness the team.
“Oh, and there’s something else I want you to do first thing in the morning,” Alasdair said, and told the intrigued tiger what he wanted done.
Alasdair walked around to his front door. He glanced up at the windows of the floor above his own. They were dark. Where was Paul Denis? Paying court to Emma at some soiree?
He would have to develop a plan of campaign, but he was feeling too dispirited tonight for intelligent thought.
He awoke in a much clearer frame of mind and was at breakfast when Jemmy was shown in. “Lady Emma and Mrs. Witherspoon’s gone out in the barouche, sir. I watched ’em go.”
Early for Emma, Alasdair reflected. It was barely ten o’clock. He rose from the table. “I’ll not need you again this morning.”
“I’ll be about arranging stables for Lady Emma’s cattle, then.” Jemmy tugged a forelock and disappeared.
Alasdair called for his valet as he went into his bedchamber, throwing off his brocade dressing gown. Ten minutes later, he was walking quickly to Mount Street. The street was quiet; a nursemaid shepherded a trio of children, one of whom was bowling a hoop that narrowly missed running up against Alasdair’s immaculate beige pantaloons. He brushed aside the nursemaid’s apologies. The careless child, an unprepossessing boy with a runny nose, was staring at him rudely. Alasdair regarded him through his eyeglass until the child dropped his eyes.
Alasdair walked on. As he turned up the steps of Emma’s house, he noticed a rather hunched, elderly looking man in a heavy greatcoat on the far side of the street. He appeared to be looking up at the house, but when Alasdair caught his eye, he turned and shuffled off, coughing into a handkerchief, the rasping hack sounding painful.
Harris answered his knock with the expected information that Lady Emma was from home.
“I’ll leave her a note, Harris.” Alasdair walked into the hall. “I’ll write it in the salon. I know my way … no need to show me up.” He gave a pleasant nod and strode up the stairs.
The salon was deserted, although a small fire burned in the grate. Alasdair stood in the middle of the room and examined the bookshelves set into two alcoves on either side of the fireplace. Emma’s library was extensive, augmented now by Ned’s books.
Would she perhaps have kept a posthumous memento of her brother in one of his own books? It would be very like Emma. Either that or she might have put it in a book that her brother had given her. There had never been anything random about her many and varied hiding places.
He had known brother and sister so well that he recognized the volumes that came into both categories and began a systematic search through them. If he was disturbed by one of the servants, they wouldn’t think it particularly strange of him to be looking at the books. His place in the Grantley family was too well established for anything he did to cause particular comment.
But no one disturbed him for a while, and he had opened, leafed through, and shaken out two dozen books before Harris opened the door and brought in a decanter of madeira.
“I thought you might like some refreshment, sir. Seeing as how we don’t know when Lady Emma will be returning.”
“Thank you, Harris.” Still holding the book he’d been examining, Alasdair accepted a glass of wine. Harris had drawn the conclusion that the visitor had decided to await Lady Emma’s return. There could be no other explanation for his protracted stay in the house.
He sipped his wine and glanced idly out of the window. The man in the greatcoat had returned and was still standing on the opposite side of the street, looking up at the house.
“Have you noticed that man there before, Harris?”
Harris looked out of the window. “No, sir. Should I run him off?”
“Unless he has legitimate business outside the house.”
Harris went off and Alasdair watched curiously as a footman ran across the street and accosted the man. The exchange was a short one and the greatcoated individual turned and wandered off down the street.
Alasdair ran his fingertips over his mouth, deep in thought. Why would someone be watching Emma’s house? Some protective guard set by Charles Lester? Or was it more sinister? The mysterious someone else who was looking for the missing paper, for instance?
But then again, it could have been a totally innocent passerby with an interest in Georgian architecture, of which the house was a fine specimen. Alasdair returned to
the bookshelves.
Half an hour later, he had turned nothing up and he had examined all the volumes he recognized as having some connection with Ned. Where else to look, apart from Emma’s bedchamber and dressing room? To enter those rooms, he would need a much more elaborate strategy. But for now, there was the music room. Ned had not been a musician himself, but he had given Emma many gifts related to music. She could well have hidden something among her sheet music, or in the pianoforte bench, or in her music case.
He hurried from the salon and down the stairs. A footman emerged from a door at the end of the hall leading to the servants’ quarters. He hurried toward the front door, thinking that Lord Alasdair was taking his leave.
Alasdair waved him away, saying that he had left something in the music room on his previous visit, and entered the room at the rear of the house. There he stood and took stock, trying to think where to look first. Emma was not the tidiest of mortals, and since she would allow no one to touch anything to do with her music, the room was littered with piled sheet music, books, score sheets, notebooks filled with her own notations and compositions.
He went through the piles of music, her music case, the contents of the piano bench, careful to leave everything just as he’d found it. The porcelain candlesticks had been a present from Ned, he remembered. Graceful, delicate delftware, exquisitely painted. He took out the candles and ran his finger around the socket. It was just the sort of place Emma would choose; but not on this occasion.
He set the candles back into their holders. His eye drifted to the French doors into the walled garden. He stiffened, moved swiftly to the door. There had been a flicker of movement to the side of the garden, human movement, he would lay odds. And yet there was no one there, nothing to see but winter-bare trees and sad looking shrubs.