The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)

by Grace Burrowes

  “Let’s try this with the piano,” Val suggested, and she heard his words, or much more of them than she’d heard before. She couldn’t see his mouth when he used the speaking tube, so she must be hearing him. It felt like a tickling in her ear and like so much more.

  “I remember this.”

  “You remember how to speak,” Val said into the tube. “I thought you might. But come, let me play for you.”

  He grabbed her by the hand, and she followed, Sir Walter Scott forgotten in the hay as they ran to the house. He led her straight to the music room, shut the door, and sat her down on what she’d come to think of as her stool. It was higher, like the stools in the ale houses, and let her lay her head directly on the piano’s closed case. Val took the tube and put it wide end down on the piano. He leaned down as if to put his ear to the narrow end of the tube.

  “Try it like that.”

  Morgan perched on the stool and carefully positioned the tube at her ear. Val moved to the piano bench and began a soft, lyrical Beethoven slow movement, meeting Morgan’s eyes several measures into the piece.

  “Can you hear?”

  She nodded, eyes shining.

  “Then hear this,” he said, launching into a rollicking, joyous final movement by the same composer. Morgan laughed, a rusty, rough sound of mirth and pleasure and joy, causing Val to play with greater enthusiasm. She settled in on the stool, horn to her ear, eyes closed, and prepared to be swept away.

  She’d been wrong. She wasn’t infatuated with Val Windham; she was in awe of him. He’d brought her music and the all-but-forgotten sensation of a human voice sounding in her ear. All it had taken was a simple metal tube and a kind thought.

  “Good God almighty.” Dev glanced across the library at Westhaven. “What’s gotten into the prodigy?”

  Westhaven looked up from his correspondence and focused on the chords crashing and thundering through the house.

  “He’s happy,” Westhaven said, smiling. “He’s happier than I’ve heard him since Victor died. Maybe happier than I’ve ever heard him… He tends to stay away from Herr Beethoven, but if I’m not mistaken, that’s who it is. My God…”

  He put down his letters and just listened. Val could improvise melodies so tender and lilting they brought tears. He could be the consummate chamber musician, his keyboard evoking grace, humor, and elegance. He knew every drinking song and Christmas carol, all the hymns, and folk tunes. This, however, was heady repertoire, full of emotion and substance.

  And he plays the hell out of it, Westhaven thought, amazed. He knew his brother was talented and dedicated, but in those moments, he realized the man was brilliant. More gifted than any Windham had ever been at anything, transcendently gifted.

  “Jesus Christ, he’s good,” Dev said. “Better than good. My God…”

  “If His Grace could hear this,” Westhaven said, “he’d never say another disparaging thing about our youngest brother.”

  “Hush.” Dev’s brow knit. “Let’s just listen.”

  And they did, as Val played on and on, one piece following another in a recital of exuberant joy. In the kitchen, dinner preparations stopped. In the garden, the weeding took a hiatus. In the stables, grooms paused to lean on their pitchforks and marvel. Gradually, the music shifted to quieter beauty and more tender joy. As the evening sun slanted across the back gardens, the piano at last fell silent, but the whole household had been blasted with Val’s joy.

  In the music room, watching Morgan smile up at him, Val had a queer feeling in his chest. He wondered if it was something like what doctors experienced when they could save a life or safely bring one into the world, a joy and a humility so vast they could not be contained in one human body.

  “Thank you,” Morgan whispered, smile radiant. “Thank you, thank you.”

  She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, and he hugged her back. There were some moments when words were superfluous, and holding her slight frame against him, Val could only thank God for the whim that had made him pick up the tube. He let her go and saw she was holding out the tube to him.

  “You keep it,” he said, but she shook her head.

  “I cannot,” she said clearly.

  “Then let’s leave it in here,” Val suggested. “You can at least use it when we speak or when you want to hear me play.” He put it on top of the piano, puzzled and not a little hurt by her unwillingness to keep the thing. He’d first thought to get her one when he’d seen a pair of old beldames strolling in Brighton, their speaking tubes on chains around their necks like lorgnettes.

  Morgan nodded solemnly but put the tube inside the piano bench, out of sight.

  “You don’t want anyone to know?” Val guessed.

  “Not yet,” she replied, staring at the closed lid of the bench. “I heard once before,” she said, her voice dropping back to a whisper so he had to lean in close to hear her. “We crossed the Penines, and something changed, in here.” She pointed to her left ear. “But the next morning, I woke up, and it had changed back. Can we try the tube again tomorrow?”

  “We can.” Val smiled, comprehension dawning. “Your ear opened up because of the altitude. When you descended, it closed up again.”

  Morgan looked puzzled and turned her face away.

  “Even if I can’t hear tomorrow”—she hunched her shoulders against that terrible possibility—“thank you, Lord Valentine, for today. I will never forget your kindness.”

  “It was most assuredly my pleasure.” He beamed at her. “Will you let Lord Fairly take a peek at you?”

  “Look only,” she said, her shoulders hunching more tightly still. “No treatments. And you will come with me?”

  “I will. Westhaven trusts the man, and that should tell you worlds.”

  “It has to be soon,” Morgan said, biting her lip.

  “I’ll track him down in the next few days. He’s almost always at home these days, and I run tame around his pianos.”

  Morgan nodded and took her leave of him, her joy in the day colored by her recall of Anna’s plans. It had been almost a week since Anna had gotten Grandmama’s letter, and a perfectly pleasant if hot week, too. Morgan knew the earl had something to do with Anna’s lighter moods. Oh, Anna still fretted—Anna was born to fret—but she also occasionally hummed, and she hugged Morgan when no one was about, and she smiled—when she wasn’t staring off into space, looking worried.

  Good Lord. Morgan stopped in her tracks. What was she going to tell Anna? When was she going to tell Anna? Not for a day or two, Morgan knew, as improvement could be deceptive. Her hearing sometimes got better during really bad storms, only to disappear when the weather moved. Worse than the loss of hearing, though, was the loss of speech.

  She’d never realized how the two were related until she couldn’t hear. She lost her ability to gauge the volume of her voice and found she was whispering—or worse, shouting—when she thought her tone was conversational. Eventually, she’d just given up, until she was afraid to attempt speech again, the patterns not even feeling familiar to her lips, teeth, and tongue anymore.

  But that could all change, she thought. If the speaking tube still worked tomorrow, it could all change.

  The week had gone so well, Anna thought as she rose from her bed. It was another beautiful—if sweltering—summer day, and she’d enjoyed her efforts to complete the Willow Bend interiors. The earl had chosen surprisingly pretty and comfortable furniture, suited to a country home, and to a country home that wouldn’t be simply a gentleman’s retreat from the city.

  He’d had few suggestions regarding the decorative schemes, predictably. “Avoid purple, if you please,” or “no flights of Egyptian fancy. My sisters are imaginative enough as it is.” He liked simple, cheerful, comfortable arrangements, which suited Anna just fine. They were easy to assemble, clean, and maintain, and better still, easy to live in.

  And if she felt a pang of envy that some other woman, one dear to Westhaven, was going to be doing the livin
g at Willow Bend, she smothered it. She smothered her anxieties regarding her grandmother’s warning and set to bargaining with herself fiercely instead: I’ll work on the Willow Bend interiors until the letters arrive from the agencies. I’ll enjoy the earl’s attentions until I have to leave. I’ll leave Morgan in peace until I know for certain when and where we’re going…

  Her life, it seemed, had degenerated into a series of unenforceable bargains made with herself, while the business of the household moved along heedlessly.

  The Windham males had taken to hacking in the park early in the morning, with Pericles sometimes escorting two of the younger stock or taking a day to enjoy his stall and hay. The men came back hungry and usually in high spirits.

  When Devlin St. Just had moved in, he’d brought an ability to tease with him, and it was infectious. With only the earl and Lord Val in residence, it was as if their shared grief had pushed out all but the driest humor. With Dev underfoot, bad puns, jokes, ribbing, and sly innuendo cropped up among all three brothers. To Anna, the irreverent humor was the conversational equivalent of the occasional bouquet in the house. It pleased the eye and brought visual warmth and pleasure to the odd corner or bare table.

  Nonetheless, Colonel St. Just watched her with a calculating gleam foreign to either the earl or Lord Val. St. Just was a bastard and half Irish. Either burden would have been a strike against him, but his papa was a duke, and so he was received.

  Received, Anna thought, but not welcomed. That difference put a harder edge on St. Just than on either of his brothers. In his own way, he was an outsider, and so Anna wanted to feel some sympathy for him. But his green eyes held such a measure of distance when they looked at her, all she felt was… wary.

  Still, he was supportive of the earl, proud of Val’s music, and well liked by the staff. He always cleaned his plate, flirted shamelessly with Nanny Fran, and occasionally sang to Cook in a lilting, lyrical baritone. He was, in a word, charming, even to Morgan, who usually left the room as quickly as she could when he started his blather.

  “Hullo, my dear.” The earl strolled into Anna’s sitting room and glanced back at the door as if he wanted to close it.

  “Good morning.” Anna rose, smiling despite herself, because here was the handsomest of the Windham brothers, the heir, and he wanted to marry her. “What brings you to my sitting room on this lovely day?”

  “We have household matters to discuss.” His smile dimmed. “May I sit?”

  “Shall I fetch the tea tray?” Anna frowned and realized he wanted to settle in, which would not do, for many reasons.

  “No, thank you.” The earl took the middle of the settee, extended an arm across the back, and crossed one ankle over the other knee. “How are you coming with the Willow Bend project?”

  “I’ve ordered a great deal in the way of draperies, rugs, mirrors, smaller items of furniture, such as night tables, footstools, and so forth,” Anna replied, grateful for a simple topic. “It is going to cost you a pretty penny, I’m warning you, but the results should be very pleasing.”

  “Pleasing is good. When will it be ready?”

  “Much has already been delivered. The rest should arrive in the next few days. I understood there was some urgency about this project.”

  “There is. I want it done before fall, when I’m likely to be dragooned into the shires by my dear papa for some hunting.”

  “If you don’t want to go hunting, you’d best arrange something with your brothers, so when Papa issues his summons, you are otherwise occupied.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “And have you gotten right on finding us a butler? Stenson is more in need of stern guidance than ever.”

  The earl burst out laughing at that image and shook his head as he rose.

  “Send me some candidates,” he said. “Their most important qualification must be their ability to withstand the duke’s inveigling. I should be on hand Monday and Wednesday next week, though I have appointments back-to-back on Tuesday. I’ll expect you to accompany me to Willow Bend on Thursday.”

  “Me?” Anna rose, as well, memories assaulting her: The earl drinking champagne from the bottle on the library floor, his hand slipping over her bare buttocks in the dark of night, the single rose he’d brought her… “I don’t believe that’s wise.”

  “Of course it’s wise,” the earl said. “How else am I to know which table goes in what room, and which drapes to hang where?”

  “I can write it out,” Anna suggested, “or go when you’re not there.”

  “I am the owner, Anna.” He peered down at her in consternation. “What if I take issue with your decisions? Are we to trundle out there on alternate days until all our quibbling is resolved?”

  She admitted the silliness of that but not out loud.

  “You aren’t afraid, are you?” He cocked his head, frowning. “It isn’t likely we’ll be stuck in a second monsoon, but we can take the coach if you’d feel better about it.”

  “Let’s see what the weather portends.” Anna did want to see the place put to rights. “Who will be doing all of the stepping and fetching?”

  “The property is now swarming with locals ready to do the earl’s bidding for a bit of the earl’s coin. Much of the work should be done before we arrive, but I want your eye on the finished product.”

  “Very well, then. Thursday.”

  “And I’ve been meaning to ask you why you always fall silent when St. Just is in the room.” He sidled a little closer and waited for her reply.

  “The colonel doesn’t particularly care for me. It’s merely his tacitly stated and perfectly legitimate opinion.”

  “He likes you.” The earl dipped his head and kissed her cheek. “It might be he doesn’t trust you. More likely, he simply envies me, because I saw you first.”

  Anna’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment, but the earl was gone in an instant, no doubt drawn into the breakfast parlor by the scent of bacon, scones, omelets, and—more especially—by the sound of his brothers’ laughter.

  Eleven

  “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  Anna swept the deep, deferential curtsy required in the presence of a lady of high rank. “Would you like to wait in the formal parlor, the breakfast parlor, the family parlor, or the library?”

  “It’s such a pleasant morning,” the duchess said. “Why not in the gardens?” Anna found herself returning her smile, as the gardens were the better choice. After several days of increasingly miserable weather, the humidity had dropped in the night, making the morning air delightful.

  “Can I bring you some iced lemonade?” Anna asked when she’d seen the earl’s mother ensconced on a shady bench. “The earl and his brothers usually return from their morning ride about this time and go directly in to breakfast.”

  “His brothers?” The duchess paused in the arrangements of her skirts and blinked once. “Can you spare a few minutes to sit with me, Mrs. Seaton?”

  “Of course.” Anna assumed a seat on the same bench as the duchess. There was a subtle, pleasant scent to the woman, a gracious but simple hint of rose with a note of spice. It didn’t fit with what Anna thought a duchess should smell like; it was much less formal, prettier, more sweet and loving.

  “Westhaven’s brothers join him regularly for breakfast? I was aware Lord Valentine was a guest here, but you include St. Just in this breakfast club?”

  “I do,” Anna said, feeling cornered. Would the earl want his mother knowing St. Just lived here?

  “Is St. Just another guest in the earl’s home?” the duchess asked, frowning slightly at the roses. She was a pretty woman, even when she frowned: willowy, hair going from golden to flax, and green eyes slightly canted in a face graced with elegant bones.

  “I would be more comfortable, Your Grace, did you put that question to your sons,” Anna said. A small, surprised silence followed her comment, and the duchess’s frown became a smile.

  “You are protective of him,” she obs
erved. “Or of them. That is admirable and a trait we share. Can you tell me, Mrs. Seaton, how Westhaven is going on?”

  Anna considered the question and decided she could answer it, honestly if somewhat vaguely.

  “He is a very, very busy man,” Anna said. “The business of the duchy is complicated and demands much of his time, but for the most part, I think he enjoys getting matters under control.”

  “His Grace did not always see to the details as conscientiously as he should. Westhaven does much better in this regard.” As understatements went, that one was worthy of a duchess, Anna thought, and the duchess was loyal to her duke, which was no surprise.

  “And how is Westhaven’s health?”

  “He enjoys good health,” Anna said, thinking that was honest at least in the present tense. “He has an active man’s appetite, much to Cook’s delight.”

  “And is he treating you well, Mrs. Seaton?” The duchess turned guileless eyes on Anna, but the question was sincere.

  “He is a very good employer,” Anna said, feeling an abrupt, inconvenient, and wholly out-of-character wish that she had someone to talk to. The duchess was as pretty and gracious as an older woman could be, but she struck Anna as first, last, and always, a woman who had borne eight children, taken in two of her husband’s by-blows, and buried two of her sons. She was a mother, a mama, and Anna sorely, sorely missed her mother. It had taken this conversation to remind her of it, and the realization brought an unwelcome lump to her throat.

  The duchess patted Anna’s hand. “A good employer can still be a selfish, inconsiderate, clueless man, Mrs. Seaton. I love my sons, but they will wear their muddy boots in the public rooms, flirt with the maids, and argue with their father in view of the servants. They are, in short, human, and sometimes trying as a result.”

  “It is no trial to work for Lord Westhaven,” Anna said. “He pays honest coin for an honest day’s wage and is both reasonable and kind.”

  “Your Grace?” Westhaven smiled as he strolled from the mews. “What a pleasure to see you.” He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek and used the gesture to wink at Anna surreptitiously. “Have you been haranguing Mrs. Seaton about how to fold the linens?”