Young Clay ran toward them, David's face shining in the child's countenance. "Papa! Aunt Mary! Look what I have found!"
His small hands formed a cup and within lay a small white butterfly, it's wings whipping frantically as it tried to escape his grasp.
Gently, Mary reached out, opening his little hands, allowing the butterfly to escape. "You must not capture the butterflies, Clay. The are free creatures of God and must be left to do their business."
"What business is that?" The Marquis forestalled the child with his question, looking at her with some amusement. He waited for her answer with anticipation, for Mary never bored him with the mundane and always had something witty, if not profound, to impart.
"The business of making this world a place of beauty. For like the bees who carry the pollen, the butterfly nurtures the flowers in much the same way."
"Ha! I have caught you out. You cannot mean that! Never heard such foolishness... "
"Be quiet you ancient wastrel, for you know naught of this. 'Tis you who are foolish."
"Papa... Aunt Mary!" The boy looked at his grandparents with some puzzlement for they seemed to be fighting, but they did not look angry at all. Deciding that they were too engrossed to pay attention to him, he started to leave, but took no more than a step before he was halted by Mary's voice.
"Clay, stay here now with your Papa. I must go and see about getting our lunch brought out here."
Mary came up from the bench with a sprightly move, for the woman was young yet compared to the Marquis and she patted the child upon his head as she walked away, telling him, "Keep your Papa company until I return," and added with a mischievous grin in the Marquis direction, "should he fall out of his chair, you must send for Dobson at once."
She heard the boy's peal of laughter and the Marquis' indignant grumble as she strode away, her heart full at the sound, for she had thought never to feel peaceful again, but she was.
Mary Strongbow came daily to the manor, for the Marquis was not recovered enough for her satisfaction and she liked being near him, though she denied it to herself, giving her excuse for her visits as his continued ill-health. She fooled no one, least of all the Marquis, and her company and her attention delighted him.
Hannah detected their growing affection with gladness, though often it opened her wounds afresh to see them together in their companionship, for she would never know such a thing. Often in the night she would catch herself listening for the sound of footfalls at her door, or awaken from a dream of him, only to find her bed—and her arms—empty. Her life continued lonely, devoid of his presence.
In the year gone by, Clay had grown tall, his face more like David's as he lost his babyishness and his manor more spoiled and less endearing as he learned his place in the scheme of things.
Sometimes the child was not even likeable, for he had developed a haughtiness that could only come from his grandsire. Hannah despaired of her efforts to keep him humble, for a humble Marquis was unheard of, and her efforts were thwarted at every turn by the old man, who taught his grandson, if not to be mean, to be arrogant.
Hannah went often to the small graveyard where a stone had been erected with David's name upon it. It stood at the end of the row, next to his brother's, lonely and apart, in her eyes. There was not even the comfort of his body in the grave, a body whose bones had long scattered on the floor of the ocean.
She would place a small bouquet of wild flowers in the little vase that had once sat upon her bedside table and she would drop to her knees in prayer.
Prayer that they would be forgiven and as she prayed thus, she came to forgive him and herself, remembering his gentleness with her, and realizing how he must have come to dislike what he had done. Her spirit gradually lifted and Hannah felt better than she had since coming to Darlington Manor.
She took to speaking with the man, as though he could hear her, and told him of her fears for their child, and her every day cares for her new responsibilities as the Marquis gave over more and more of them to her.
It was as though, by unburdening herself here in this quiet place, she could renew her strength, and she was close to her silent love, at least in essence. For she had ceased thinking of him as her lover... now he was simply her love.
Sometimes—like today—she could swear he was close by—his presence haunting her as she knelt at his grave. It was as though he touched her with a look, though she knew she was alone.
The feeling comforted her though, and the sensation was stronger each day that she came there.
Chapter Sixteen
~~
David Strongbow looked down upon the woman, her light wispy hair shining with golden high lights as she bowed her head over his grave. A strong feeling of repulsion went through him at the idea of his headstone, for David was not dead at all.
He sat in the bough of the tree, hidden from her view by the leafy branches, his eyes trained on her small figure, so lithe and graceful.
Wanting more than anything to reveal his presence, he knew he could not. But his heart sang with the knowledge that she cared enough for him to bring the flowers and the little vase, which he saw as a symbol of their relationship. It warmed him to see it there.
He had been at the cottage for nearly a month, yet, had not come forward. The ordeal of his shipwreck was with him still. After drifting for days on a piece of decking, he'd been pulled—near dead—from the water by a passing fishing boat.
It had taken him months to get back to England, and, when he had shown up at the solicitor's office, Mr. Maguire had near expired from fright.
He had sworn the solicitor to secrecy, his motives unclear even to himself, and less clear to Mr. Maguire, who argued his father's failing health as a reason to reveal that he lived.
David had prevailed in his decision, however, and though he drew funds from his account, the attorney covered the action by making it appear a withdrawal for the child's trust.
David had then gone to his London quarters where he'd hired the servant recommended by the solicitor. Provisioning himself for a several month stay, he'd gone to the cottage, knowing that he would not likely be found out for no one ventured there.
He had then begun his secret visits about the manor, seeking a view of the girl and her child. He had been startled to see Hannah was a girl no more. The six years gone by since she'd come here as a bride had changed her into a lovely woman, gracious—and if a bit forbidding in her aloofness—still, quite gentle.
He watched her activities and those of the boy, his eyes hungry as they followed the child's movements about the lawns and garden. Occasionally, Clay would venture into the woods—for which the boy was heartily scolded, sometimes punished.
He would that he could approach his son, but knew that no good could come of it, for he was bound to leave here again, as soon as he'd recovered sufficiently from the illness brought on by exposure and thirst.
David suffered now from a plethora of infirmities. His long hours in the burning sun had weakened him, and the thirst and hunger had slowed him as well. He suffered nightmares that left him drained and nauseated, and sometimes he would be paralyzed for hours afterward, stunned by the ferocity of his dreams.
It had driven the breath from his lungs when he first espied his gravestone. He had followed Hannah there and watched her leave the bouquet, wondering who lay beneath that small headstone. He had approached the place after she had gone, and seeing his name upon the stone, had nearly fallen over, overcome with his own mortality.
'In Memory of David Strongbow
1797—1824
Beloved son of Clayton Larkspur and Mary Strongbow'
He had stared long at the simple inscription, the hair rising on his nape and his skin going clammy with the eeriness of it all. He was very much alive, but for the deadness in the hollow of his heart, and he went from that place quickly, as though chased by a demon.
.
* * * * *
.
Clay wandered into
the forbidden forest, hiding behind a large oak as his nanny, Elspeth, called to him. When he heard her footsteps going away, he came out and went along the overgrown but still discernible path; the path that led to the cottage. Creeping through the brush on his hands and knees, Clay peered through the leaves of a small current bush at the small structure, waiting for the man to appear.
For the last several days, Clay had come here, fascinated by the stranger he had discovered in the forest, and though he had no fear of the man, his instinct against being seen was strong. He waited, hardly breathing, for near an hour, then feeling quite disappointed, he turned about to scurry his way home.
David heard a noise in the brush, and lifted his head from his book, listening. The sounds were loud and something larger than a squirrel thrashed about out there, he knew. Rising, he went to the window and peered out, spying a bright red splash of color in the brush. Clay was always made to wear bright colors; the easier to find when he hid from his nanny. He lay the book down, pushed the door open quietly and hurried across the yard, calling, "Hey there now. Be still and show yourself!"
His voice was that of such command, that Clay could not disobey and stopped where he stood, one foot lifted in his progress. He wobbled slightly, but kept his foot high.
As Clay stared, more in curiosity than fear, the man came forward and looked at him, then seemed almost to jump back, though he did not move. Clay, in his turn, began to lose his balance, perched as he was on one foot, and only the quick forward motion of the man's hand as he steadied him, kept Clay from falling into a particularly nasty bramble bush.
"You can put your foot down. I meant only to stand still, not to freeze your stance." The deep rumble of the voice was somewhat familiar, and Clay thought the man looked familiar as well, but he knew that he had not seen him here before this week, and so ceased to wonder. He obediently placed his foot down, standing still.
The man stepped back, letting go his arm, and Clay reached automatically to rub the spot, as the man had a very strong grip. Clay looked up, craning his short neck, for the man was tall, though he was thin and emaciated.
He stared into his own face, and, though he did not know just yet, he sensed again that tingle of recognition, not just from the face but, from the man's touch... and his voice. His curiosity aroused once more, Clay queried the man. "Are you a cousin? Do you know me?"
"I... I know who you are, yes. But I am no... cousin." David was taken aback by the child's frank question and wanted to divert the boy, lest he ask too many of those. "Would you like to have a drink from my well? The water is fresh and cold and you look a bit thirsty."
He eyed the grubby dirt streaked face. "You look like you could do with a wash as well. I am sure you mother would not be happy to see you so dirty."
The boy relaxed and grinned, thinking of how his mother would scold and nodded his head, amber eyes sparkling. "Yes sir, she surely will be angry... but perhaps if I just wash my face—"
He followed the tall man willingly, with no trace of fear for this stranger, and stopped by the well in the small yard. Looking around, he could see that everything was neat and well tended. A man, obviously a servant, walked in the vegetable garden nearby, picking and selecting the items he would use for the meal.
"Is he your servant?" Clay, his five-year-old curiosity overcoming manners, could ask more questions in a minute than a man could think of answers in a day. "What is his name?" He sipped from the tin cup, dribbling water down his chin.
"He is my man servant, yes, and his name is Carlton." David waved a careless greeting to the fellow who doffed his cap and went on with his vegetable selection. Lifting a towel from the edge of the well, he dipped it in the bucket and handed it to the boy to wash with.
A wren glided over their heads and swooped away on silent wings and the boys eyes followed its progress then returned to the stranger. "How come you live here? Is this my Papa's house?"
Clay knew that all the property here about belonged to his father, and, thus, to him. He scrubbed ineffectively at the dirt, smearing it about his cheeks. "Do you know my Papa and Momma? And my Aunt Mary Strongbow? Oh, yes, and maybe you know my Grandpa Strongbow... he's very tall, like you. But he isn't really my grandsire, he just likes me to call him that."
David, heart thudding at the mention of his family and wrenching because his son called another father, could not speak for a moment. Finally found words, uttering them with caution as he took the towel and completed the wash, scrubbing the little face as he talked. "I have met your papa, but it was a long time ago and I am sure he would not remember me. This land belongs to your Aunt Mary, not to him, and she is my friend. I had her permission to come here any time, and since I've been ill, I am here to rest."
"Aunt Mary likes me too. She says I remind her of her son. I heard nanny telling cook that he was my half-brother, but he's dead. He went down with his ship."
The boy looked at the man, his eyes inquisitive, for it was clear to David that the child did not understand all the relationships. But he said nothing as the boy continued, "Of course, he is not Momma's son, so how he came to be my half-brother... "
Clay leaned forward, cupping his mouth as though to tell a secret and whispered solemnly, "I think nanny is a bit addle-witted, and Papa says she has a magpie in her mouth as well. So I shall not trust anything she tells me until I check with Momma."
Returning to his subject, the boy continued. "I guess he was drowned... but my Momma says he was a nice man. She told me a story about him. Shall you like to hear it?"
Clay looked innocently at his father, his eyebrows raised just in the same manner.
"Certainly, I would like that. But I can hear someone calling for you so you'd better go now." David gave him a small push toward the path and casually added, his voice not quite steady, "Can you keep my presence here a secret, just a while longer?"
"Yes sir! I like secrets. Momma and I have them all the time. It's fun." With that, Clay skipped off and disappeared into the woods, his bright little face now devoid of its dirt.
David sat in the shadow of the porch, mulling over what he should do. Now that the boy knew he was here, it was clear that sooner or later he would tell someone, for that was the way of children. Or, perhaps, someone might stumble upon him here in the cottage while looking for the boy, as he appeared an adventurous lad and wont to sneak off on his own.
Feeling a spark of parental pride, mixed with some fear for the boy's safety, David returned to his original thoughts. He knew that his idle of secrecy was over, but how then to give his family the news that he lived without throwing them all into shock? He could not just go away again, for having seen the boy, he understood that he was meant to be here, and indeed, he wanted only to stay.
"Carlton, I need you to carry a message... to my mother." David called to his companion, for Carlton was no mere servant and had proved his friendship and loyalty during the worst of David's bouts of delirium.
"Your mother, sir? Is she close by, then?" Carlton was surprised that David's mother would be near and never have come to the cottage.
"Yes... in the village. The smithy, Gillian Strongbow, is my grandfather and his shop is your landmark." He looked a rueful grin at the body servant. "But never tell him about me. He will come here and beat me to a bloody pulp, no doubt, for giving them all such... sorrow."
"Yes, sir, but where then, is your mother?"
"She lives in the house attached to the smithy and cares for her father." He saw all of the questions in the man's eyes, and got up from the step, saying, "It is a long story, Carlton, and I will tell you another time. Sure to entertain you a bit... but right now, I've a letter to write."
.
* * * * *
.
Within the hour, Carlton had made his way to the village, the dark evening shadows concealing his progress from all but the most curious eyes. When he reached the smithy shop, he stood peering this way and that, to be certain that no one was about, for David had in
structed him to deliver the letter with little fuss and much concealment. He waited for a cart full of hay to roll by, then scurried across the road, and knocked upon the door, one eye to the shop where a very large elderly man worked the bellows while his apprentice hammered the iron bar. A moment later, the door opened a small space and a woman looked out.
"Who is there? What do you want?"
"I've come with a letter for you. I was told to deliver it and give you this message, mistress." Carlton paused a moment while his eyes adjusted to the light and peered at the shadowy figure at the door. "I am come from David Strongbow, and he lives."
Mary threw the door wide and raised a fist, as though to strike him, but uncurled her fingers and took the missive he held out, recognizing the writing. "Come in then, and sit."
She took the letter and went to the fireplace, seating herself in her chair, for her legs were shaking so as not to hold her. She did not look at the man, who still stood near the door, but commanded him to sit, pointing at the other chair. "Give your feet a rest. I am not so far above you that you cannot sit in my house."
Carlton came forward, hat in hand, and sat on the very edge of a straight-backed chair, avoiding the rocker that sat facing the woman.
Mary looked at the envelope, and then opened it slowly at first, tearing the last of the paper away quickly, eyes devouring the neat script.
'Mother of my Heart, Please forgive my not appearing in person... I have been ill and just returned from London. I am at the cottage. I know this is a shock to you and would have you tell grandfather so as not to shock him more than necessary. I await you if you would come with my manservant. He has a pony and trap set near the path and you will only have to walk a short distance. Love, David'
"You have a conveyance nearby?" She looked at the man who nodded, not speaking.
"Then I shall just go along to my father for a moment and you can take us to him. Meanwhile, have a bit of cider to ease your throat... you look a man who has a thirst." She waved her hand at the crock on the table.
The Silent Love Page 16