The Silent Love

by Diane Davis White

  Mary went across the yard, her legs having returned to her, and called to her father as she approached. "'Tis late, old father. Time you put up for the night. I... have something important to tell you, and I would that you cease the bellows."

  Gillian looked at his daughter with some surprise, for seldom did she venture near his shop, the noise and black dust and smells being not to her taste. "Well then, we'll stop for tonight. Be you here early lad, for we've much to finish tomorrow."

  He patted his young apprentice on the shoulder, turned it into a slight push and sent the lad on his way. "I'll just finish up... be off with you."

  Gillian then looked a sideways glace at Mary as he busied himself tamping down the fire and putting the forge to rest for the night. "What then, daughter, do you deem so important that you would seek me out at my work?"

  He grunted the last words as he leaned down to pick up a fallen sledgehammer and set it against the forge. His voice was not angry, nor even irritated, but his eyes were worried, all the same.

  "Old father, you'd better sit down, for what I'll tell you will surely knock you from your feet."

  "Have you come to tell me then that my grandson lives?" Gillian had never quite believed David was dead, for as he pointed out to his daughter during the worst of her grief, and several times thereafter, if there was no body in the grave, the man could still be alive somewhere.

  He had a gut feeling about it, and though Mary had disdained to believe him, he was now in a position to say 'I told you so'. But of course, he never would.

  "Aye, that I have, old father. That I have." Mary slumped onto her father's work stool, for the knowledge, though welcome and surely uplifting to her heart, had once again taken her strength with the shock of it, and she pressed her hands to her brow, feeling the heat of blood rushing to her face. "At the cottage he is, and wants us to come to him. Sent his body servant to fetch us in a trap."

  "I would that he'd never gone from us, but, if he is truly back, I'll strop the lad good for putting us to such trouble." The old man was only speaking rhetorically, for he had never raised a hand to David and it was only a manner of speaking that he should say so now.

  Reaching out a hand, he spoke softly, "Here Mary, let me help you up, lass. Ye look a fright 'tis certain. Get a smile then, and let's be off."

  .

  * * * * *

  .

  David heard the approaching trap and stepped out into the darkness, lighting his pipe as he waited. His stomach was clenched with nervous tension, though for the life of him, he could not imagine why. He knew that he had to explain why he had been here awhile and not come forward, and that his grandsire was likely to give him a set down for it, but that would not be so bad. It was his mother that worried him, for he knew her temper well and if she were overset, she might stop speaking to him.

  She had done so once before when he had taken a long time visiting her from London, and it had taken him a week before she would acknowledge his presence. When it came to her son, Mary Strongbow was very touchy. He supposed it had to do with his being taken from her as a child, and she could not abide separation from him now. Chuckling at the thought, David supposed that she might heave him over the railing for not being dead after all.

  She came bounding out of the trap, not waiting for assistance from Carlton, and strode across the yard, her skirts swirling about her fast-paced legs. Opening her arms, she came up the steps, and David dropped his pipe, grabbing her in a wordless hug. Hee swung her about as best he could, for the woman was tall and solidly built, not a light feather like Hannah. Releasing one another, they stood with clasped hands, and she pulled one hand free to trace his face, as though not quite believing he was there.

  "My son... 'tis glad my heart is to see you."

  His grandsire, following slowly along the dark yard, assisted by Carlton—who did not touch the elder, but hovered in case he should fall—complained to the hapless man in querulous voice: "Let me walk! Demned if I don't know how to cross a dark yard. Not so old that I need coddling like a babe."

  Instead of deferring, Carlton laughed aloud and answered the old man, "Aye, sir, and if you do fall I'll catch a hiding from your grandson. Let me do my job and be peaceful about it."

  David let go his mother's hand and went down the steps, grasping the old man in a bear hug that caused him to grunt. He returned the hug for a moment then shoved David away, saying: "And it's high time you came home. Been swimming all this time, have you?" There was a catch in his voice, a tremble as well.

  "No sir, but I did swim and float for near a week. Dead I should be, and you'd be pleased were it so, I've no doubt." The old man grunted in response, and David took his arm, aiding him up the dark steps.

  Carlton went around them and hurried into the house, setting the chairs round the fire and lighting the lantern on the table. He then went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of fine brandy, setting out three glasses next to it on the small table.

  "Need a glass for yourself, you impudent cur. Won't have you drinking out of the bottle." Gillian looked at Carlton and winked, then went to sit in the most comfortable of the chairs, sighing as his ancient bones were eased of his weight. He'd liked the man instantly, for his lack of deference—measured with respect—which showed strength of character. He was his own man, and Gillian could appreciate that.

  David seated his mother, and then pulled a low stool close to her chair and sat upon it as he had done in his youth, resting his head upon her knee. Carlton came forward and placing a kitchen chair, sat backwards upon it, joining the cozy group. They talked long into the night, their voices low and sweet. Carlton learned the answers to many, if not all, of his questions.

  He learned that the young master was a bastard and his father was the Marquis, and learned, as well, that Mary Strongbow was a woman of courage and faith, her father a man of principle. He did not learn what he had suspected from David's ravings during his fever. They spoke not of the young marchioness or her child.

  "Did you know then, that your employer was born here in this cottage?" Gillian turned his head to Carlton and waved a hand round the room. "For 'tis certain it was he, no fairy was abroad that night to steal him away, and the midwife told us he was surely my grandson, though he looked a monkey-faced brat."

  "Grandfather! Be gentle, for I've only been alive these few hours. If you tell such tales, Carlton will be off to another employer without a backward glance." David laughed, and shook a finger at the old man.

  Mary was quiet and listened to their prattle with a contentment borne of having found what she had thought was surely lost to her forever... her son. She reflected on how she would tell the Marquis, and knew that she must speak to David on this subject soon, but was reluctant to change the gay mood. After awhile, she could wait no more.

  "David, what will I then tell the Marquis? And should you want him to come here to visit you? I think perhaps you would not wish to go to the manor... things have changed there." She alluded to Hannah and Clay, of course, and David knew well what she meant.

  "Yes, if you could see him in the morning, mother and tell him, it would be best. Should he want to come thrash me as grandfather has threatened to do, I shall stand ready for my punishment."

  "Aye, and well might I do what I have threatened afore this night is done." Gillian swung a meaty hand against David's shoulder, nearly knocking him off the stool.

  "I will send him a note now if Carlton will carry it. He should not be made to suffer a longer wait for this news, and I would see him myself now, but I am already so tired... the brandy has done me in."

  Mary stood up and moved her hands over David's head, as though feeling for bumps, although she only wanted to touch him as proof of his existence. Her eyes had seldom left him the evening long.

  The brandy and good cheer had mellowed them all, and Carlton knew himself to be a part of the circle, for not once had he been asked to fetch or carry. These seemed like his own people, and he was inclined to
believe he would stay here about, even if David dismissed him.

  Carlton had other business not far away, but he could let it wait awhile in a good cause. For David was healing before his eyes. Had he known that the man was so starved for his family, he would have taken it upon himself to fetch them long before now... but of course, he had not known, and thus it was a moot point.

  "I should be glad to do so, madam." He stood and bowed at her, for which he received a slap upon his rear by the old gentleman, whose inroads into the brandy was deep.

  "Don't go a bowing to her... she's airs enough as it is. Just do her bidding and keep quiet, all's expected I am sure." Gillian made to swipe at him again, but Carlton very adeptly stepped away. The gesture somehow reminded David of the day his father had poked him with the kindling and his heart warmed at the memory.

  Mary went to the table and wrote a short missive, and Carlton took it, folding it carefully before putting in his breast pocket. He then left hurriedly, and heard Gillian Strongbow call after him: "Be quick, but don't overturn the trap, lad. 'Tis dark and you're well spotted with drink."

  "Not spotted, old father. Blotted is the word you seek." Mary sighed and patted the old man's head as she passed his chair, then seated herself with a small plop. "'Tis you well gone in his cups, not him."

  David grew serious and spoke of his son. "The lad was here today. Was spying on me, it appears. I told him, of course, that I was your guest. He calls you Aunt Mary."

  Gillian drew himself up and puffed his chest. "Aye, and he calls me grandpa. 'Tis a fine lad he is, but the old devil... the Marquis, that is, fills the lad's head with such drivel about his upper class status I fear for his character. 'Tis well you are home, boy, for you must take him under your council and change his ways quick."

  "Not my place, grandfather. Would that I could do so, but it will never be."

  "Nonsense. The Marquis won't live forever, and you'll be the boy's guardian. In the meantime, you can befriend the lad and show him a different way. If you be a strong man, and I think you are, you'll gain his respect and show him better behavior soon enough."

  Mary interrupted what might well prove to be an argument, for she knew her father—when in his cups—had a tendency to follow a subject well beyond its final moment.

  "All will be different now that you are home, David. I think perhaps you can have a say in the boy's life. If you must blackmail the old man, you will gain control of his upbringing. I am thinking I must have a chat with Clayton soon. For I, too, have noticed the child's tendency for arrogance. It will not serve."

  As they continued to talk, Gillian fell asleep in the chair and David threw a cover over him. "Let him sleep, and when you are tired mother, go to the bed in my room. I'll just make do on the couch."

  "And what of Carlton? Does he then sleep on the floor?"

  "No, he sleeps where grandfather is, most of the time." David's eyes twinkled as he told her, "It will give them something to argue about, for I feel a fast friendship gathering between them."

  "We'll make Carlton a pallet then by the fire, and let the old man sleep where he is. He will be stiff and sore tomorrow, as it is. Putting him on the floor might just kill him," Mary said decisively.

  "He is a good man, my grandfather," David said with a fond smile for the slumbering elder. "I am fortunate to have had even a small portion of his influence, else I wouldn't have known the difference between my life as it was and as it should have been."

  "You have his blood in your veins," Mary replied softly. "'Tis what gave you the strength to withstand your father's evil machinations."

  "I would not call them evil," David protested, feeling a bit put out with his mother's continued condemnation of his other parent. "He did not grow up with the love and joy you shared with me. Having no mother or father to guide him must have been... difficult to say the least."

  "How then would you know this?" Mary's fine eyebrows were raised in wonder.

  "I have surmised it based on the facts," David said, totally unaware of Mary's flabbergasted state. "His parents—my grandparents—died when he was a babe, so it stands to reason he was raised by servants and guardians. Surely that does not take the place of loving parents."

  "You defend him, David." Mary's tone was not of censure but of awe. "I never thought to see you do that. When you came to visit all those years of your youth, you seemed to hate him so."

  "I have changed, Mother." David smiled. "And so has he."

  Chapter Seventeen

  ~~

  "Momma, can you keep a secret with me?" Clay, bursting to tell someone about the man in the woods, could only think of his mother, who never would tell a secret. But he had given his word to tell no one, so the boy was uncertain, then decided that it would be alright to tell his mother, for he trusted her with all his secrets.

  "I have always kept your secrets, Clay. What secret do you have now?" She played his game, for they had often shared silly secrets of no import to any but themselves and it was a sharing that she cherished, for it gave special meaning to their relationship.

  "Tell me quick, for you must sleep. The sandman is coming along... " she placed her hand to her ear and continued, "... Ah, here he is, coming up the drive."

  "Momma, nanny says the sandman is not real... that he is like my dreams." Clay looked importantly at his mother, as though he thought her silly for believing such things. "And Papa says she is for once very right, though he still thinks her brain addled and her mouth like a magpie... "

  "Hush, Clay. You must not repeat everything you hear, and the Marquis is not always as kind as he should be. I don't want you to be that way. Elspeth is a nice woman and fairly wears herself out on your behalf. Never call her a magpie."

  "But she is only a servant, and Papa says the servants are mine to command... like an army, only better 'cause there is no fighting and I am the only general."

  He looked in exasperation at his mother, whose lips were drawn in a disapproving line. "Don't you see? She is supposed to wear out for me."

  Sighing in weariness, for she had oft been down this road with the boy and was not proof against the Marquis when it came to planting seeds of behavior in the boy's mind.

  The old man was a master of deceit, as she had learned to her great regret, and she changed the subject quickly, lest she scold her son before he slept, something she would never like to do.

  "Well then, tell me your secret my son. For though you do not believe it, I hear the sandman coming."

  "I saw a man in the woods today. He lives in the cottage just beyond the pond."

  "What man? And how come you to go so far into the woods? There is an old cottage in a small clearing, but it has long ago fallen into disrepair, for no one lives there."

  A tingling of dread skittered along Hannah's spine.

  "But a man does live there. I talked to him. He's very nice, and he asked me to keep his secret." The boy sidestepped giving an explanation of his wanderings, and finished quickly. "You won't tell, will you Momma? I gave him my word, and Papa says a man is only as good as his word."

  "Well, for once, I can agree with your Papa, but you must not go into the woods again." Leaning down to kiss him goodnight, she brushed back his black curls, whispering, "I shall keep your secret Clay, never fear."

  As she reached the door he sat up and called her back. "Momma, he forgot to tell me his name, but he is not a cousin, for he said so, though he looks like... hmmm... he looks like Grandpa Strongbow."

  Hannah's knees went weak, and she returned to sit on the bed as the boy continued. "He 's a gentleman, for he dresses like Papa, but he is very thin... and he has a servant. He said he had been ill. Can we bring him some of Aunt Mary's broth? For it cures just everything... "

  "Go to sleep now Clay, and we shall see tomorrow what can be done to aid our new... neighbor." Gently pushing the boy back upon his pillows, she spoke in carefully casual tones, and her face betrayed none of her roiling emotions. She knew she would break her pro
mise about the secret. She had no choice. None at all.

  Hannah fled the room, her heart quaking in her breast and went to the Marquis in his study. He was reading a note, held in his shaky hand, and looked up at her entry with some surprise.

  "How come you are up so late, m'dear? Thought you had retired." He laid the note back on the desk and folded his hands over it, as though to shield it from her view.

  "Milord... Clay has given me a very odd story, and I would that you have it checked out in the morning. It seems there is someone living in a cottage in the woods... someone who looks like Gillian Strongbow. He said... a tall thin man, who was not a cousin and had a servant with him."

  Hannah, in her agitation, stood just inside the door, her hands worrying one another, though she was not aware even of that. Her eyes beseeched her husband to reassure her, but his words failed in that regard, instead, giving her a start that sent her flying to the nearest chair as her suspicions were confirmed.

  "I've had a message from Mary Strongbow." The Marquis indicated the paper beneath his hand. "She has... news that may shock you, for it has certainly done so to me... "

  "What news, then, Milord. Don't dither." Hannah, in her agitation, forgot to show the proper respect for her husband and was too overset to even notice that she had chided him in such a fashion.

  He ignored her outburst and instead, indicated the brandy bottle, saying, "You'd best fetch us a drink, Hannah. David lives."

  "He... what? David? Your son David?" She did not move from the chair and could only look at the old man before her, her face reflecting so many changes of emotion that he could not decide which was the most prominent of her feelings. Love, hope, fear, dread and joy warred for dominance in her eyes.

  "Yes... he is at the cottage."

  Bowing her head, she reflected on his words, then looked up, her amber gaze steady on him. "I had thought it might be... when Clay spoke of him. What then, shall I do?"

  "Why, welcome him home, lass. What else is there to do?"

  "He will want to live here, I suppose."