“I will do my very best to avoid such interactions in the future… but you must know, Edmund has been very forward with Beatrice. Very forward. If that happens again, I will not be swayed and he will be removed from this house.”
Her expression was speculative as she reached for his hand. “You’ve grown very fond of her in a very short time, haven’t you?”
“She has been very kind… beyond that, she is a woman who lives under the protection of this household. That protection wards against both internal and external threats.” His answer was a non-answer, but he was not prepared to discuss his very primal feelings for Beatrice with his mother.
“I told her that all of your pranks as a child were simply because you wanted her attention,” Lady Agatha offered with a sad smile. “Some things even time cannot alter.”
“It is not that way,” he denied. “You are reading into things when you should not… and whatever my relationship with Beatrice is, you should not be thinking of it now. You must rest. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, going into York to fetch a man that traveled on one of the ships I served on—a skilled and very effective physician. We will discover what is weakening you so.”
“Dr. Shepherd has been our family physician for years… he is a country doctor, yes, but he has always treated our ailments very effectively. This is simply a part of growing older, Graham. Physically, my life has been blessed with luxury and plenty, but the mental strain has taken its toll. That is all.”
“Then it will not hurt to hear that from another source,” he insisted.
She patted his hand as Crenshaw returned bearing a tray with a steaming pot of tea on it. “Very well, my son. Go and I will rest.”
Graham rose and, almost as an afterthought, stooped and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “I am very glad to be home… to have found my family again.”
“Are your memories coming back at all?”
He shook his head. “No… but they will. Soon enough, I’m sure. Goodnight, Lady Agatha.”
“Will you not call me mother, then?”
“Not until we are certain.”
“Some of us,” she said, “already are.”
“Very well, then. When I am certain. Goodnight.”
Graham left Lady Agatha’s room. It wasn’t intentional that his path took him near the corridor that housed Beatrice’s room. He leaned against the corner there, considering his options. From beneath her door, he could see light. Was it simply from the fire in the hearth, or was she awake, candles blazing?
While he was paused there, debating whether or not to seek her out, something else caught his eye. Beyond her chamber, at the other end of the hall, Christopher emerged from a hidden door. Graham, still concealed by the corner where he lurked, watched as the boy headed down the hall that branched off that corridor.
Curious and even suspicious, Graham hurried after him, keeping his booted feet on the carpet that ran down the center of the corridor to muffle his steps. As he rounded the last corner, he saw Christopher disappear behind a heavy, oaken door at the end of that short hall. It was the tower, or one of them. Inside the castle, he’d lost track of west and east to know which one. The building, in and of itself, was a maze, a rabbit warren of cobbled together additions from the past four centuries.
Graham stopped short. Where had that information come from? Where had that innate knowledge of the history of Castle Black been hiding in the recesses of his mind? Before he had time to examine that fully, the oaken door began to open again.
Perhaps it was instinct or perhaps it was the urge not to give away his own hand, but Graham hid. Ducking into a recessed doorway, he entered the darkened room there and waited for Christopher to pass. Where had he gone? What was he hiding up there?
When the coast was clear, Graham emerged from his hiding spot. Immediately, he tried that heavy, oaken door and found it locked. His indecision over seeking out Beatrice was at an end. Turning back, he retraced his steps to her chamber door, but found himself thwarted. The light was no longer seeping beneath it. She had sought her bed and he would not wake her. Cursing under his breath, he headed for his own chamber and another sleepless night.
Chapter Eight
Graham began the morning with a visit to Lady Agatha. Her dragon of a maid had let him in but only just. As he seated himself in the chair placed next to Lady Agatha’s bed, he noted that while she certainly appeared less weakened than she had the night before, she still did not look well. Her pallor was sickly and her fatigue was obvious in the hollows beneath her eyes.
“I fear that my return, if in fact I am Lord Blakemore, has done you more harm than good,” he admitted with regret. It had not been his intent and, yet, it was clear that the shock had, indeed, been too much for her.
“I will not have such foolishness uttered in my presence,” she said. “I do not have the words to express the joy that I have felt since you returned. My body may be weak, Graham, but my spirit is soaring. I could not bear it to think you regretted coming back to us… I know that your welcome has not been as enthusiastic on all fronts, but trust me when I say that Edmund’s opinions matter far less to anyone than he is capable of grasping.”
He smiled at that. “Why do you tolerate him so?”
“He grew up here,” Lady Agatha offered, pausing to take a sip of her tea. “His mother had died so very young, and Sir Godfrey, well… sometimes he was fine and at others not. Regardless, he never gave Edmund the attention and guidance that a young boy needed. He would bring Edmund here for ‘visits’. The length of those visits would grow and the time he actually spent with Sir Godfrey shrank year after year, until, without anyone ever explicitly stating it, Edmund had become a permanent fixture.”
Graham considered that carefully, how two wounded people such as Lord Blakemore and Lady Agatha had become the de facto guardians to a likely unwanted boy. “Was he always so determinedly unpleasant?” Graham asked.
She smiled at that. “No. He was a sweet boy, but he did become decidedly less so over time. In fact, every time Sir Godfrey came and went, Edmund would grow sullen and unhappy after his departure. He became particularly unpleasant to poor Beatrice in your absence.”
She paused for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts and then continued. “You all played together as children, sometimes more peacefully than others. But, it was a comfort to me to have him near after you were gone… it was a connection to a time before everything had changed. He was always so dear and so sweet to me, despite his snobbishness to dear Beatrice—that was his father’s doing, by the way. He was always worse when Sir Godfrey was present. That, I fear, has not changed. He writes to Edmund every day and every day the boy grows more discontent.”
It certainly had not changed, but he’d lay the blame at no one’s door but Edmund’s. Edmund had behaved badly enough toward Beatrice in his own right that Sir Godfrey’s influence was the least of their concerns. But he’d told Lady Agatha the night before all he meant to of Edmund’s actions toward Beatrice. Instead, he replied, “I have no recollection of him. Or of this house.”
“Yet you are never lost here,” Lady Agatha stated pointedly. “You go unerringly to whatever area it is that you are seeking and you do so without guidance… if that does not prove that this is your home, what could?”
He had no answer for that. It still puzzled him. The knowledge was innate, simply a part of him, like walking and talking had been, or reading. Those skills and knowledge had remained, while personal details had simply vanished. And there were other things that he dared not share with anyone, flashes and glimpses in his mind that made him feel as if he were going mad.
“It will come back to you in time, I am sure, just as you said last night,” she continued. “But regardless, there will be no talk of leaving and no talk of regretting your decision to return. I could not be happier unless your father was here to share it with me.”
“What was he like?” Graham asked. It was a selfish question, making her linger on mem
ories that would cause her pain, but the need to know was insistent.
She pointed to a small box on top of her dressing table. “Bring me that box.”
He rose and did as she’d bid. When he returned it to her, she opened it carefully and withdrew a miniature portrait in an elaborate, gilded case. “He was nearly the age you are now when this was painted. We had not been married very long… I was still a young bride and very enamored of him.”
Graham accepted the small painting and stared down into a face that could nearly have been his own. The skin was pale, that of a gentleman, but, otherwise, the similarities were undeniable. But there had been something in her tone that alerted him. “You were enamored of him as a new bride… did you not remain thus?”
Lady Agatha ducked her head. “Your father was the best of men, Graham. But I was not the best of wives. I married him because he was handsome and wealthy and charming—I was so young that I truly believed those things were all that mattered. I was more concerned with whether or not the other girls envied me than with whether or not I could make him happy, and likewise that he could make me happy.”
Graham frowned at that, more puzzled than ever by her confessions. “Did you love him at all?”
“I did not love him then, but I did in time. You must believe that!”
“Why would I doubt it?”
“Again, I was not a good wife… I did not understand that his diplomatic duties would require leaving England and moving far from my family and friends. Or that he would often be occupied with other things that were far more important than simply catering to my whims. I was petulant and spoiled, and I behaved abominably. Yet, he never lost patience with me. He never failed to forgive me, even for the things which I could not forgive myself. And he loved you… he loved you fiercely. He was determined that you would grow up to be the very best of men.”
He would be disappointed then, Graham thought bitterly. What kind of man would be proud of a son who had been both a thief and a pirate, a man who’d been flogged publicly for his crimes?
“I know what you are thinking. I can see it clearly on your face,” Lady Agatha said. “It would not matter to him. I saw the way you shielded Beatrice when you thought Edmund, in his temper, might strike her. The fearlessness you showed in rescuing her when it might very well have placed your own life at risk—you are everything he would have wanted you to be and the things you had to do in order to survive without us do not matter now. Do you understand me?”
He desperately wanted to believe that. “I need to speak to Beatrice before I leave for York. Do not get out of this bed today. Take your meals here and spare yourself the badgering Edmund will no doubt greet you with. Please?”
“I will… if you tell me truthfully—what are your feelings for Beatrice?”
Graham answered her as honestly as he could. “I do not have the ability to express them… only to say that they are unfamiliar to me and I am out of my depth.”
“Then it can be nothing other than love… or at least the beginning of it. It would have pleased your father, I think. He loved her like a daughter and often worried for her future. Had he known how short his time would be with us here, he would have done more to secure it.”
“And if I am not Lord Blakemore?” he asked.
“There are worse things than to be loved by a man who does not have a title,” she reproved. “You’re nearly as bad as Edmund with your snobbery!”
Graham didn’t gainsay her. He simply left the room and went in search of the woman who had occupied most of the conversation and nearly all of his thoughts.
*
Beatrice did not go down for breakfast. She found herself reluctant to face Edmund and Christopher with their false concern, if they even bothered with that. Eloise would still be in bed. According to Betsy, she’d had two bottles of very potent wine delivered to her room the night before. But it was not Christopher, Edmund or Eloise who had sent her into hiding.
She was also reluctant to face Graham again. He unsettled her, robbed her of the ability to think clearly and to maintain her hard-won composure. In short, he rattled her and made her yearn for things she did not fully understand nor was she entirely certain she should have them.
Peace had been found in a secluded corner of the third floor where she sat on a narrow window seat. Her sketchbook lay forgotten beside her as she watched the bitter and angry sea in the distance. Her peace was short lived, however. She didn’t need to turn to know that he had found her. His presence fell over her like a welcomed shadow.
“And what brings you to this distant corner of Castle Black, my lord?” she asked softly.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the elegant shrug of his powerful shoulders from her peripheral vision.
“You did, Beatrice. Are you hiding from everyone this morning or is it just me?”
“I think I’m hiding from myself more than anyone else,” she answered, finally tearing her gaze from the window and settling it on him. “Betsy said that Lady Agatha was taken ill last night. Is she better this morning?”
“According to her dragon of a maid, no,” he replied. “I’m leaving for York in a few moments. I know a fellow there, a renowned physician, who may be able to help.”
Beatrice raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You are certainly stepping on many toes, my lord. Have you considered that bringing in an outside physician might anger Dr. Shepherd so much he refuses to treat any of us after?”
“I have. I have also found that money buys a great deal of forgiveness… I need to ask you about Christopher,” he said.
“What of him?” It was a curious thing for Christopher to ever draw attention to himself. The boy moved like a shadow through their lives most of the time. He had, over the past several months, grown increasingly more sullen and prone to outbursts at times. It was almost as if he were two people. No doubt, the arrival of Graham and the proverbial nail in the coffin of his chance to become Lord Blakemore had increased his general discontent with life and would result in increased moodiness from him.
“Why would he disappear into the tower at night?”
Beatrice blinked at that. “I couldn’t say. He talks very little period and never at all to me. He is resentful of my closeness to Lady Agatha, of my very presence here. But he’s also resentful of Edmund, of everyone and everything… did you ask him?”
“No,” Graham admitted, turning and settling himself on the window seat beside her.
Beatrice gathered her skirts to make more room for him. It didn’t matter. Seated as close as they were, she could feel the heat of his thigh against hers through the fabric of her gown.
“I didn’t ask him. There was something in the way he moved, something furtive and secretive that lends me to believe he was up to no good… I tried the door to the tower after he left it and found it locked. For what possible reason?”
“Was it the eastern tower, then? The one past my room?”
“Yes.”
“It’s unsafe,” Beatrice replied, her brow furrowing in concentration as she considered the implications. “It was damaged in storms some years ago, crumbling to ruin. Because no one ever used it, Edmund refused to have it renovated. He said it was a waste of money.”
Graham grunted in response to that. “He says everything is a waste of money. Is the estate struggling? Is there some reason for his skinflint ways?”
“I do not know,” she answered honestly. “Such things would never be discussed with me even if I were to ask. While Edmund is hardly a spendthrift himself, Eloise is very much in fashion… a more likely explanation would be that funds from the estate are being used to support Sir Godfrey or to pay his debts as he continuously lives beyond his means.”
Graham stooped over and picked up her sketchbook. She wanted to stop him, to ask him not to look. But whether he saw it or not, he knew her thoughts were preoccupied with him, just as she knew his were with her. He’d been quite forthcoming about that. As he flipped the
book open and stared at her last drawing, his frown deepened.
“I look very angry here,” he said finally, indicating the charcoal sketch she’d completed of him.
“Fierce,” she said. “Not angry. But that was my intent and perhaps not my execution.”
“Why would you draw me when you are surrounded by so many subjects more worthy?”
She shrugged then, borrowing the gesture from him. “Because I like your face. I like that you do not hide behind polite smiles and make small talk only to attack the moment my back is turned. I like that, with you, what is seen in your eyes and in your expression is exactly who you are and what you are thinking at any given moment is clearly evident.”
*
“I remember this,” he said softly. It wasn’t fully fleshed or distinct with context, but there was a memory playing in his mind as surely as if the scene were unfolding before him. Children running in a field near the cliffs that overlooked the sea. He’d taken her sketchbook, running away with it and making fun of her drawings. It had been jealousy even then. He’d been jealous because she’d drawn a picture of Edmund rather than him. “You sketched a portrait of Edmund and I stole your book… I threw it over the cliff and into the sea.”
As he met her gaze, he saw the tears in her eyes, but a smile curved her lips. “Yes, you certainly did,” she said. “And I’m still quite angry about it. That book held some of my best work.”
“I have to go… I have to get to York and get back before dark.” He didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to stay there and explore those shimmering moments that had finally come into focus in his mind. It was the most distinct of any vision or memory he’d had since returning to Castle Black. He also wanted very much to know that she would be safe in his absence. And if he were entirely honest, he wanted to pick up precisely where they’d left off in her room, but with far less talking and much more doing. “About yesterday?”
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