Red, Red Rose

by Marjorie Farrell

  “This is Baynes,” said Charlie. “He’s been here ever so long, since before I was born.”

  Val nodded stiffly and followed Charlie into the hall, very aware that the eyes of all the servants were on him. He could only imagine what they must be thinking: that their sweet young viscount had foolishly brought home his bastard brother, a dirty blacksmith’s apprentice.

  Oh, God, and he looked the blacksmith’s apprentice. Val groaned despairingly as he looked at himself in the pier glass. His best suit of clothes had been made for him over a year ago and he had only worn it to church on Sundays for a few hours, so it was stiff and uncomfortable…and too small. He had filled out considerably over the last year and it seemed the weight of the blacksmith’s hammer had stretched his arms more than a few inches, he thought with grim humor as he looked at what seemed like yards of white shirt which were exposed. He had to leave the top button of his jacket unbuttoned or else he was afraid he’d rip the seams. But he straightened his shoulders, reminding himself that he might be a blacksmith’s apprentice, but he was a damned good one, and the muscles produced by hard work were nothing to be ashamed of.

  * * * *

  He was so eager to get his ordeal over with that he was the first in the library.

  “His Lordship and the viscount are not down yet,” Baynes had informed him. “But there is a fire going and I will pour you some sherry, sir.”

  Baynes was suiting action to words when Val stopped him. “No, thank you, Baynes, I’ll wait until the others come down.”

  Actually, looking at the fragile glasses, Val decided he’d wait till hell froze over. He was used to solid tumblers of ale, not flimsy crystal that looked like it would break if he tightened his fingers around it.

  “I’ll leave you, then, sir.”

  “Er, thank you, Baynes.”

  The library was a more inviting room than he had expected. The fire was burning cheerily, throwing strong light upon a deep red Turkish carpet. There was a large desk tucked into the bay window and rows and rows of books on the walls.

  Val had read and reread his Robinson Crusoe and third volume of Shakespeare over the years. He had been hungry for new books, but the only time he had brought one home from the lending library, George had mocked him unmercifully about his pretensions—although George was happy enough to use his reading and calculating skills in the business. Now George didn’t have to ask his wife to read orders or keep the accounts for him: He had Val to do it.

  There were shelves of books in many languages, Val discovered before he came upon a name he recognized: The Tragedies of ‘William Shakespeare, in a leather-bound volume. He lifted it down carefully and opened it slowly; there it was, the same table of contents: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; Othello; and King Lear. Val turned to Lear immediately, searching for one of his favorite passages, Edmund’s speech at the beginning of Act One. Val had read it to himself many times over the years, so that he had it by heart:

  “…Why bastard? Wherefore base?

  When my dimensions are as well-compact

  My mind as generous and my shape as true,

  As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us

  with base? With baseness? bastardy? base, base;…

  Now, gods, stand up for bastards!”

  Once or twice on a walk through the local woods, Val had declared the whole speech, shouting out the last line as though someone might hear him and come to his rescue. Edmund might have been a villain, but Val couldn’t help but feel sympathetic.

  He had been so caught up in the play that he didn’t hear the library door open and he jumped and nearly dropped the Shakespeare when a man’s voice greeted him.

  “You enjoy Shakespeare, do you, Mr. Aston?”

  Val was tempted to tug his forelock and say, “Oh, ay, my lord, I do be fond of auld Will, what I can make out of him, that is.” The earl’s comment sounded innocent, but Val was sure he was surprised his bastard son could read at all. But he resisted the temptation and merely placed the volume down on a side table before facing his father.

  It was immediately clear that Charlie closely resembled the earl, for despite the fact that the man’s hair was lightly streaked with gray, it was the same as his son’s: a dark gold. His blue eyes were a shade lighter than Charlie’s, but at first glance, Val only thought, with a pang of loneliness that surprised him, how much it must please the man to have a son so like him. Then he began to notice details. The earl’s gaze was cool and shuttered, where Charlie’s heart was in his eyes. His face was long and narrow, and his nose…. Val unconsciously reached up and traced his own. He had thought he was very like his mother: curly dark hair, gray eyes, and a complexion that browned in the sun. But his nose was as aquiline as the man’s before him.

  “Ah, yes, the Faringdon nose,” said the earl. “If I’d had any doubts, that would have done away with them,” he continued with dry humor. “Charlie has my coloring, but his mother’s face and nose. While you….” The earl hesitated. “You have Sarah’s coloring and my beak.”

  He said Val’s mother’s name so easily. There was no shame in his voice, just a statement of fact, uttered in the blandest of tones. Val had imagined this scene many times. He would confront his father. When the man spoke disparagingly of his mother or denied her, he would challenge him and beat him within an inch of his life. He would rail at the Earl of Faringdon as Edmund had railed. He would demand satisfaction.

  But in his fantasies, the earl had been a gross man, a corrupted member of the nobility, not this elegant person before him who gazed at him with quizzical interest.

  “You do not deny me, then, my lord,” Val finally said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Yet you never sought me out?” Val worked very hard to keep his tone as even and unemotional as his father’s.

  “Your mother and I agreed that it was best I stay away from you both,” the earl answered noncommittally.

  Val wanted to ask, “Best for whom?” but he remained silent and after a moment his father—no, he would not call him that—the earl continued.

  “Charlie was very affected by his mother’s death. When he accidentally found out about your existence, he kept after me. He has a very loving heart, Charlie,” said the earl with a quick, almost apologetic smile, “I thought it might be good for him to find you, once he learned of your existence.”

  “But you never would have told him of me yourself.”

  “No,” the earl admitted softly. “But here you are, and we might as well make the best of it, shall we?”

  Val never knew what he might have answered, if anything. He was ready to stride out the door and walk the long way back to Westbourne when Charlie came into the library.

  “I am sorry I am late, Father. Val.” He was trying to act the sophisticated young viscount, but his eyes were as curious and eager as a puppy’s.

  “We were just getting acquainted, Charles,” said his father. “I was asking Valentine if he enjoyed Shakespeare.”

  “Do you, Val? I find him a great bore, myself,” Charlie confessed with an exasperated grimace that made Val smile.

  “I am afraid I do. At least the plays I have had the opportunity to read.”

  “You see, Father,” said Charlie.

  “Charles, we agreed not to discuss this now.”

  The interchange was so quick that Val almost didn’t notice it. He didn’t understand it, at any rate, and put it out of his mind.

  “Would you like some sherry, Valentine?”

  Since the earl was already pouring it, Val realized that it was a rhetorical question and extended his hand, praying that the glass would be safe.

  “Charles?”

  “May I, Father?”

  “I think that the occasion calls for it. After all, it is not every day one discovers a brother,” the earl said dryly.

  Once the glasses were filled, Charlie lifted his and, looking over at Val shyly, gave a whispered toast: “To your homecoming, Val.”<
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  The earl’s eyes widened, but he lifted his glass at his son’s words, and Val drank his sherry wondering how such a sweet, heavy liquor could leave such a bitter aftertaste.

  * * * *

  Charles Faringdon thought the evening would never end. Thank God for Charlie, he told himself later as he stood in his bedroom, looking out the window. At least the lad had kept the conversation going, asking his brother questions about hammers and horseshoes.

  Val had smiled more than once at Charlie’s questions, and Charles had thought his heart might break, for it was Sarah’s smile that lit up the boy’s gray eyes, which were Sarah’s eyes.

  * * * *

  Sarah had been right to keep him away. He knew that with his mind. He had been betrothed to Helen when he’d met her. It was a match arranged years ago by their fathers, but he was also very fond of Helen. But the only woman he had ever loved passionately and completely had been Sarah Aston.

  He would have married her if she had let him, thrown it all to the winds: the estate, the earldom, his reputation, her reputation. But she had refused him.

  “It would not work, Charles,” she’d told him. “I am only a farmer’s daughter.”

  “Your father has been very successful, Sarah,” he had protested. “He sent you to school. You are a real lady, far more one than some of the members of the ton, I can assure you.”

  “He did send me to school, and I stayed until I could bear the loneliness no longer, Charles. I never fit in there and I would never fit in here or in London. I am afraid, in time, you would grow ashamed of me and regret your decision.”

  “Never.”

  “And I could not be the cause of a breach with your family, Charles. Nor the reason for a young woman’s humiliation and heartbreak.”

  “But you love me, Sarah.”

  “And I will forever, my dear. But I cannot marry you.”

  “Then I will find you a home, Sarah. Here and in London. If you won’t marry me, then we can still be lovers.”

  “No, Charles, I will not be your mistress,” she answered angrily. “That is no way to start off a marriage.”

  “It is the way most marriages are, my dear.”

  “In your world, perhaps, but not in mine.” She was silent for a moment and then said, with a quaver in her voice, “But I do need you to find me a place, Charles, where I can raise our child.”

  “My God, Sarah, you have to marry me,” he’d exclaimed, bruising her arms as he’d grabbed her and given her a shake as though that would get through to her.

  “I don’t have to do anything, Charles,” she’d replied, her eyes flashing.

  And that was part of why he’d loved her. She had no respect for his rank or fortune. She, a farmer’s daughter, was less in awe of him than some of the young women he’d met during the Season. She loved him for himself. But she also respected herself. There was no false humility in Sarah Aston, only a hard-earned realism.

  It took two more painful scenes before she convinced him. And so he sent his secretary out to find a suitable dwelling far enough from Faringdon and her home that she would be unrecognized, where she settled in as the newly widowed Mrs. Aston.

  Despite his promises, he had been driven by desire and heartbreak to try one last time to change her mind and he visited her dressed in a shabby suit so no one would guess at his rank. She had been a month away from giving birth and he thought she had never looked so beautiful as when she struggled up from her knees when he found her in the garden.

  “Charles! Oh, my dear, I have so wanted you to come,” she cried, unable to hide her joy at the sight of him.

  He walked with her in the garden, holding her arm and casting shy glances at her swollen belly.

  “Do you wish to feel your child kick, Charles?” she asked and placed his hand on her side. She laughed at the look of amazement on his face. “He…or she…is very active.”

  “Oh, Sarah, please come home with me,” he begged, knowing it was useless, but unable to stop himself.

  “It is best this way, my dear. You know it is.”

  “How could it be best to marry a woman I will never love?”

  “You know you are very fond of Helen. You will grow to love her, but only if we are apart, Charles.”

  “You are a strong-willed woman, Sarah.”

  “I have to be, Charles, for both of us.”

  They walked back to the rosebushes and Sarah leaned down and took a flower out of her basket.

  “Here, Charles. Roses have always been the flower of love. When you look at this, know that I will always love you. That it is only love that enables me to give you up.”

  “This is what I think of your love, Sarah,” he said with sudden, fierce anger and he ripped the petals from the rose and threw it at her feet. She flinched as though he’d slapped her, but only said a calm good-bye and walked slowly into the house. He watched her go, knowing he would never see her again, and, reaching out, plucked a half-blown rose, glad of the pain as a thorn stabbed the soft pad of his thumb. He thrust it into his jacket and rode away from her and all that had given his life meaning.

  Sarah had been right. He did come to love Helen, although he didn’t realize it until Charlie was born. But his love for her was very different from what he had felt for Sarah, who had been the love of his life, his “red, red rose,” while Helen was his everyday companion, someone who over the years became an integral part of his life. When she died, he was desolate, only able to take comfort from their son, who was so like her.

  He hadn’t wanted Charlie to find Val. He had hoped the boy would be rough and crude and that Charlie would recognize he had made a mistake and not invite him. Or that Val wouldn’t come.

  Now here he was, looking just like his mother. He was a bit rough around the edges, but Faringdon was sure Sarah would have been proud of their son and happy to know that father and son had met at last. And he knew she would have wanted him to get Val away from Burton. Robinson had made inquiries and it was clear from village gossip that the blacksmith was a brutal man.

  Valentine had evidently survived his harsh adolescence, but whoever he had been before Sarah died—and Faringdon could not imagine Sarah raising anything but a warmhearted boy—was hidden deep inside. His conversation with his father had been respectful, but the earl was sure that the boy despised him. And why not? As far as he knew, the earl had deserted mother and son years ago, except for his financial support. Perhaps someday he would be open to hearing the story, but now the earl was sure any attempt to establish a relationship would end in Valentine telling him to go to hell. Faringdon smiled. One other thing he had inherited from Sarah: her damned pride!

  It took the whole first week, but at last Val began to relax and even enjoy his visit. Charlie was irresistible: full of enthusiasm and eager to show Val all his favorite haunts.

  Val enjoyed their rides and rambles and fishing expeditions. He had been working since he was eight and it was glorious to wake up in the morning and realize he was not at George Burton’s beck and call. That he could do whatever he wanted that day and the next. It would be hard to go back, but for now he’d decided not to think about it.

  He really could do what he wanted, he realized. Charlie was so pleased to have found a brother, so eager to make Val feel at home that he started out every day with, “What should we do this morning, Val?” At first Val would reply politely, “Whatever you wish, Charlie,” but after a few outings, Val began to express his own preferences. One visit to the village was enough for him; he was so conscious of people staring and gossiping. Everyone knew he was the earl’s bastard and he’d be damned if he’d be insulted here as well as at home. He loved fishing the river and an outing to Fern Pool was his most frequent request.

  One afternoon of his second week, he and Charlie were returning to the hall, their baskets holding three and two trout, respectively. As the earl and Robinson watched from the window of the library, Charlie punched his brother’s arm and said, “Tomorrow I�
��ll come home with four, I promise you, Val.”

  Val reached out his hand and tousled his brother’s hair. “I’ll wager you a ride on Shadow that you don’t, my lord,” he added humorously.

  “Oh, no, you don’t ‘my lord’ me,” said Charlie with a laugh. “Nor get a ride on my favorite mount, Val.”

  “Your son seems to have become very fond of his brother, my lord,” said Robinson.

  “To which son are you referring, Robinson?”

  Robinson cleared his throat in embarrassment.

  The earl smiled. “I know. Charlie is happier than I have seen him since his mother died. And Valentine seems to enjoy his company. Perhaps it is time to broach Charlie’s plan. Will you send the boys in to me after they have cleaned up, Robinson?”

  * * * *

  Val felt more than mere enjoyment in Charlie’s company. His half-brother was very likable, he’d told himself the first few days. But by now, as his visit was coming to an end, he knew his feelings for Charlie went beyond mere liking. Charlie’s warmth and ease with physical affection had opened a place in Val that had been long closed. He would miss his younger brother terribly, he realized. He would miss Faringdon and this part of Devon. Somehow the fields and trees and moors had begun to feel like home to him. The only person he wouldn’t miss would be the earl. The man had never shown him the least sign of affection. Not that Val wanted him to. Nor had he even attempted an explanation of his behavior with Val’s mother. Not that Val expected him to. And nothing he could say could excuse it anyway. So when he entered the library, he had his face fixed in his usual expression: a superficial look of respect that almost but not quite disguised his disdain.

  Charlie was already there and Val gave him a quick smile.

  “Come in, Valentine, and sit down,” said the earl. “We have something of importance to discuss with you, don’t we, Charles?”

  Charlie’s face lit up. “You are going to ask him, then?”

  “Why don’t you,” said the earl with an encouraging smile.

  “I have had a private tutor for years, Val.”

  “Yes, you told me about Mr. Cordell. He is on vacation.”