Kit was so deep in his thoughts, he didn’t realise he’d arrived home.
The door swung open before he could so much as place a finger upon it, and Tom stood in the doorway, grinning. Six foot one inch of pure muscle, his teeth flashing white, his perfect smile only very faintly marred—or perhaps perfected—by the slight crookedness of his left front tooth.
“What d’ye think, guv?” he asked Kit, blue eyes sparkling.
Kit blinked at him, not understanding. “What do I think of what?”
Tom huffed in exasperation. “The new livery!” he exclaimed, gesturing at the ensemble gracing his form: midnight-blue coat and breeches trimmed with dark-gold braid and large gold buttons.
“Oh, of course!” Kit said, stepping back to admire him more fully. “Oh, yes, Tom, that’s very handsome indeed. The dark blue is wonderful with your eyes.” He stepped forward to stroke the lapel of the coat, then clapped Tom on the shoulder and smiled. “Now you look the part.”
“I reckon so,” Tom said, standing aside to let Kit enter, then closing the door after them and following Kit into the hall. “Give me your hat, guv.”
Kit cocked a brow at him. “Give me your hat, guv? Hmm. You’ve a bit of work to do before I can say you’re acting the part.” He took his hat off and handed it to Tom. “Are you really sure you want to do this footman lark?”
Tom flushed slightly. “Course I do.” he said. “Standing around looking handsome is right up my street—don’t need no brains for it, do I? I know I forgot to talk right when you come in just now, but that’s just on account of me getting a bit giddy over my new garb.” He cleared his throat decisively, then added in a quieter and more polished voice, “May I take your hat, sir?”
Kit quirked a smile. “That’s much better, but for the record, I disagree with you on the brains bit. Clara and I have rumbled you—you’re very quick.”
Tom flushed with pleasure. “I don’t know about that, but don’t worry—if it’s true, I can hide it.”
Kit chuckled.
“Anyways, I reckon it’ll be easier for me to remember how to behave, now I’ve got the proper duds,” Tom continued. “Should keep me right.”
Kit clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. But keep up the lessons with Clara. It won’t do you any harm. Now, I’m going up to my sitting room. Could you ask Mrs. Saunders to send up some tea?”
“Right-o, guv.” Tom cleared his throat. “I mean, yes, sir.”
Kit suppressed a sigh. However bright the man was—and Clara thought he was very bright indeed, notwithstanding his complete illiteracy—the role of footman was plainly not coming easily to him.
Kit made his way upstairs to the small, cosy room that was his own private space. The house had a formal drawing room too, where they could receive visitors, but when he was alone, he always chose this room. The walls were painted primrose, and two matching walnut bookcases stood on either side of the fireplace, the mellow wood glowing in the late afternoon sun. Small as it was, the room was dominated by a decadently plush chaise longue upholstered in antique gold damask. Several fat cushions in the same fabric were piled up at the head end.
It was rather like a throne.
Closing the door behind him, Kit gave a happy sigh and began unbuttoning his coat. Once he had it off, and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, he removed his boots, then padded over to one of the bookshelves in his stockinged feet, reaching for the plain wooden box sitting there—his writing slope.
Humming contentedly, Kit carried the box over to the chaise longue where he settled himself down, placing it on his lap. After fussing with the cushions, he leaned back to unlock the box. It opened out into a wedge shape, high at the back and sloping down to less than two inches in height at the front edge, a perfect elevation for writing or drawing. The slope itself was covered in tooled red leather, and there were several ink bottles stored in the cubby holes at the rear of the box. The writing implements were held in a small side drawer, and some of Kit’s notebooks were kept in the document compartment hidden beneath the slope.
Kit pulled out the topmost notebook and turned to the next clean page.
He was thinking about what to draw when the knock at the door came.
“Come in,” he called.
Tom popped his head round. “Your tea, sir,” he said in the lofty voice he used when he was making his best effort at being a footman.
“Excellent, Tom, bring it in.”
It was not, of course, only tea. Alongside the tea was a plate of toasted crumpets. Mrs. Saunders was incapable of sending a tray to Kit without adding something to eat.
Tom set the tray down and poured a cup for Kit, adding milk without waiting for Kit’s direction. He didn’t hand the tea over though. Instead he stood there, staring at Kit, a disapproving expression on his face.
Kit smiled at him. “You can leave the tea on the table. I can reach it from here.”
Tom frowned and pressed his lips together as though trying to keep himself from talking.
Kit raised his brow. “That will be all,” he said sweetly.
Tom closed his eyes and for a moment, Kit thought he was going to manage to stay silent, but then he opened them and blurted. “You’re going to get ink on that sofa and ink stains is worse than port wine to get out.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked out, muttering under his breath about idiots who didn’t know the first thing about cleaning furniture.
Kit watched him go, smiling ruefully, then turned back to his notebook.
It was well over an hour later before he raised his head.
Again, it was a knock at the door that roused him, and he blinked, almost dazed, noticing the still-full cup of tea on the table and the untouched crumpets.
“Come in,” he called.
This time it was Clara.
Kit’s brows pulled together when she entered. Clara never ventured up here, treating this room as Kit’s private enclave. She had forbidden Peter from entering too, despite Kit saying he didn’t mind. She insisted that Kit needed at least one room in his own house to himself. Kit always reminded her that if he did not want her and Peter around, he would say so, and she would smile and nod. But the truth was, he did rather like having this one little room to himself.
Looking at Clara now, though, he could see that something was wrong.
“Clara,” he said worriedly, “what is it?”
It was only after the words were out of his mouth that he began to notice the other signs that pointed to her distress: her face was pale, her expression pinched into anxiety, and her light-brown hair—usually so neat—was coming down on one side.
She gave a faint sob, then looked horrified, as though she hadn’t expected to do that.
Kit quickly set the writing slope aside and rose, going to her and drawing her fully into the room. He guided her to the chaise longue and sat her down, settling himself beside her.
“Has something happened?” he asked, trying to sound calm even as his heart began to race with alarm. “Is it Peter?”
When she shook her head, he could not hold in his sigh of relief. “Then what?”
“It’s—honestly, it’s silly. I feel such a fool,” Clara said. But her voice shook and he could feel her trembling beside him. It was difficult to believe this was Clara, who was as solid and sensible as the day was long.
“Tell me.”
Clara swallowed. “I took Peter to the park on the way home. He played with two other little boys for a while, while I talked to their mother—then Peter was hungry so I took him to get a bun at the baker’s shop. We were walking home when it happened—” She broke off and took in a long, shuddering breath.
“Clara? What happened?”
She turned her head and met Kit’s eyes, her own wide and shocked. “We were—I was—there was a man—” She choked out a cry.
“Are you all right?” Kit demanded, alarmed. He ran his gaze over her anxiously. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, nothing like that, but
he was…” She met Kit’s gaze with her own wide-eyed one. “This will sound quite mad, I fear, but I think he was following us, Kit!”
Kit frowned. “Are you sure?” Despite his words, he instinctively believed her—Clara was the most level-headed person he knew.
Clara dropped her head into her hands. “I—I don’t know, I really don’t, Kit! Why would he follow me? But yes, that’s what I thought. He kept his distance, but he just walked behind us, all the way home. Thankfully Peter didn’t notice.” And then, unbelievably, she began to cry.
Kit blinked, astonished. Clara had experienced more than her fair share of tribulations in her life, but this, he thought, was the first time he had seen her cry.
Belatedly, he realised that rather than stare at her, he should be comforting her. Carefully, he put his left arm around her and pulled her close. She fell against his chest and began to sob, while he stroked her hair, murmuring soothingly as she cried her heart out.
At length, she quieted, only small, irregular hiccoughs shaking her body. His shirt front was damp from her tears.
“Better?” Kit asked.
She nodded, raising her hands to wipe at her eyes. Slowly she straightened, moving away from him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking anywhere but at Kit. “I don’t know what came over me. It was probably nothing. He never even spoke to me. I feel like a perfect fool now, burdening you with this nonsense. I probably just panicked and convinced myself.”
Kit gazed at her doubtfully as she rose to her feet, smoothing first her skirts, and then her hair. “I’m glad you told me,” he said carefully. “Even if it was nothing.”
She sent him a relieved smile, and he smiled back reassuringly. But inside, he felt uneasy. Clara was usually so unflappable. She was all phlegmatic common sense. Not at all the type of person to panic, not without good cause. To see her this distressed alarmed him.
And he could not help but wonder whether—despite her own protests to the contrary— her instincts had been entirely correct.
4
Henry
Henry woke to unfamiliar sounds.
He was used to his quiet suite of rooms at Avesbury House, in the depths of the Wiltshire countryside; used to waking up to quiet birdsong and gentle sunshine and not so much as a creak of the floorboards until he chose to ring for someone.
It was very different here, in the townhouse in London. It was a well-sized property, but compared to the sprawling country pile that was Avesbury House, the Curzon Street house was positively cramped. As well as Henry himself, his daughter Marianne and her husband Jeremy, and Freddy, his younger son, there was a hoard of servants, whose activities began shortly after dawn and appeared to involve walking up and down the stairs and corridors nearly continuously. Moreover, the clattering of horses and carriages from outside, accompanied by the voices of servants, tradesmen and delivery boys began absurdly early and did not let up till late into the evening. Henry liked to sleep with the window open at home at this time of year, but the noise of the city made that impossible, so that, when he woke up, he felt muggy-headed and altogether out of sorts, before he’d so much as thrown his bedcovers off.
Henry sighed and sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. He was turning into a curmudgeonly old man. Seven-and-forty and as set in his ways as a septuagenarian.
Difficult to believe he had once loved living in London so much that he hadn’t been able to imagine living happily in the country again. He had returned to Wiltshire with Caroline and the children eighteen years before, expecting to be tearing out his hair with boredom within a few months. Until then, he had been a fond but slightly distant father to his children, a role that seemed to have been decided for him and with which he had passively played along without ever questioning it. But over those months, as Caroline had gradually declined, he’d realised he would have to do his best to make good the hole her death would leave in their lives. He would have to be both father and mother to them.
Once Caroline had passed away, he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of London, with all the clamouring crowds and commotion. The children had been heartsore, and so had he. And, of course, by then he’d known he had no reason to return.
Christopher had never answered his final letter.
So he’d let the London house to tenants, arranging to stay in hotels for his occasional unavoidable trips to town. Curzon Street was a fashionable address—too fashionable for a man who had never had much interest in polite society to begin with and who had absolutely none after his wife’s death. The children loved being at home. They loved their horses and playing by the river and running wild. And they were safe there. Henry had hired the best governesses and tutors he could find to avoid sending any of them to school for those first few years after Caroline’s death.
How quickly the years had passed since then. One moment, his children had been small, and now—quite suddenly, it seemed—they were all grown. And here he was, back in the townhouse in Curzon Street.
Sighing again, Henry threw back his bedcovers and rose from his bed, rubbing wearily at the tense spot between his brows. It had been warm last night with the window closed, and he had been restless. But there was no point lying in bed all morning hoping to fall asleep again—that would certainly not happen.
Making his way to his dressing room, Henry shook his head over the swift passage of the years, wondering—as he occasionally did these days —whether he had built too much of his life around his children.
In some ways, he’d had no choice. They’d needed him badly after Caroline’s death. Some fathers might have withdrawn from their children, becoming an even more distant figure, but Henry had drawn closer. In truth, their demands had kept him going in those dark and difficult days. They had given him a reason to wake each morning and shaped each day with purpose. He had not wanted to be apart from them.
And later, after little Alice’s death, there had been years when he’d been too frightened to leave them alone. It was terrifying how quickly disaster could strike. He had taken one short trip to Salisbury—the first time he’d left the children since Caroline’s death—and when he returned three days later, his youngest child was in a high fever from which she had never awoken.
Henry poured the water from the ewer into the washing bowl, sluiced his face with it, then straightened, meeting his own gaze in the looking glass
The man facing him was familiar, but a little older than he expected.
Time had sped past at an unholy rate. For years, Henry had been the centre of his family—he still was, he supposed, but now his children were drifting away from that centre, leaving him feeling somewhat redundant.
George, his eldest, was soon to be five-and-twenty, a serious, quiet young man. A good man, Henry thought, but lately, a melancholy one, and for reasons he could not discover. George preferred to spend his time in Wiltshire. He was the most self-contained of Henry’s children and the one he worried most about. Marianne, his sunniest, easiest child, was three-and-twenty, happily married and pregnant with her first child. It was for her sake he was in London now. And Freddy, at two-and-twenty was… well, Henry wasn’t quite sure about Freddy. He appeared to be unwilling to have any kind of discussion about his future with the father he had once adored and chattered away to about everything under the sun.
Henry's children were, each of them, quite grown, and busy with their own lives. And of course, that was how it ought to be, only sometimes, he could not help but wish for those older, easier days when they had clamoured noisily for his attention.
Only one of his children would always be with him. Alice, who had passed away two years after her mother, at just five years old.
Some losses eased with time. These days, his grief over Caroline’s death was just a faint ache. But even now, fifteen years later, Alice’s loss had the power to overwhelm him.
As the years wore on, it felt like Henry was the only person who remembered her, his darling youngest girl. Guarding
her memory had begun to feel like a sacred responsibility. One that both pained him and was, somehow, the pinnacle of everything he had ever been: Alice’s father.
Henry thought of her every day—that was something no one else knew, not really. He spoke to his other children of Alice from time to time, and they would humour him with kind words and memories of their little sister. But he knew they did not really understand how altered—how fundamentally altered—he had been by her death. That he had lost a part of himself that day that could never be made good.
Caroline would have understood, and while he was glad she had been spared that grief, sometimes it was hard to bear alone. To have no one who shared the depths of his sorrow, or missed Alice as he always would.
His sorrow would always be there, but he was fortunate to have joy in his life too. And if he was a little melancholy just now over the slowly growing distance between him and his children, perhaps those feelings were the impetus he needed to force himself out of his comfortable existence.
Like a fledging trembling on the edge of the nest.
Henry eyed the grey temples of the man in the looking glass.
A rather elderly fledging, in his case.
Sighing, he turned away and went to get dressed.
Marianne and Jeremy were in the breakfast room when he arrived downstairs.
Henry had made a wedding present of the townhouse to his daughter and her new husband prior to their marriage, and Marianne had promptly redecorated the place from top to bottom. The old breakfast room, which had been a rather dark and chilly room at the back of the house, had been turned into a music room, and the new breakfast room, which got the morning sun, was warm and cheerful.
“Good morning, Papa,” Marianne greeted him, smiling brightly.
“Good morning, darling,” Henry replied fondly, dropping a kiss on her dark head. He was taking the opportunity to enjoy as many of these affectionate moments as he could while he had her. Soon she would be gone—Marianne and Jeremy planned to leave London within the next two weeks for Jeremy’s estate in Kent, where the baby would be born. Indeed, since Henry had arrived in London two days ago, all Marianne seemed to talk about was how eager she was to go, and how busy and uncomfortable London was at this time of year.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 4
