by Diane Gaston
Brent remembered the agony of being in the old marquess’s presence, the sure knowledge that sooner or later he would do something to raise the man’s ire. It pained him that his son looked exactly as he had once felt.
He was not like his English grandfather, no matter how hard the marquess tried to make him so. Half of the old man’s rages were on that very subject. How Brent failed to live up to the old man’s expectations. How very Irish Brent was.
From a corner of the room, a maid stepped forwards to remove the covers from the dishes, starting with Brent’s. His plate was filled with a generous slices of ham and cheese and one thick slice of buttered bread.
‘Do you know our nurse, Eppy, Papa?’ Dory glanced at the maid.
Another unfamiliar servant, Brent thought. ‘I do not believe so. Good afternoon, Eppy.’
Eppy’s face turned red. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘M’lord.’
She uncovered Miss Hill’s plate and then the children’s. Their portions were smaller and the cheese on their plates showed definite signs of teeth marks.
So much for keeping the plates covered.
He glanced at Miss Hill, curious as to how she would rebuke them.
She merely returned an amused look. ‘Who would like to say the blessing?’
Brent put down the fork he’d picked up.
Miss Hill’s question was directed at Cal, who visibly shrank into himself.
Dory piped up. ‘I will!’
Brent could not remember the last time he’d said a blessing before eating, but the brogue of his Irish grandfather returned to him—Rath ón Rí a rinne an roinn...
He no longer remembered what the words meant.
Little Dory straightened with great self-importance. ‘Bless, O Lord, this food for thy use, and make us ever mindful of the wants and needs of others. Amen.’ She spoke the words so fast they were nearly incomprehensible.
Miss Hill smiled at her. ‘Very nicely done, Lady Dory.’
The little girl beamed.
She picked up her fork and stabbed down at a piece of ham. Cal merely moved his food from one side of his plate to the other.
Brent would learn nothing about his son if he did not address him. ‘Calmount, Miss Hill tells me you can read.’
Cal’s eyes rose and glanced at him.
‘Cal likes reading,’ Dory explained. ‘He reads a lot.’
Brent turned back to Cal. ‘What sorts of books do you like to read?’
The boy looked stricken.
‘We read books about plants,’ Dory piped up.
Miss Hill exchanged a knowing glance with Brent. Dory did indeed speak for her brother.
They ate in silence for a few moments, as if they’d all caught Calmount’s inability to speak. It was unbearable. Worse still, Brent’s head continued to swim and was starting to ache from too much brandy.
Miss Hill broke the silence. ‘Shall we tell your father what we were planting in the garden today?’ She pointedly looked at Calmount.
Dory rushed in to answer. ‘We planted peas and radishes and Mr Willis told us just how to do it—’ She launched into a detailed explanation of Mr Willis’s instructions, glancing from time to time to her brother.
Brent tried to listen, but memories flooded him. His Irish grandfather’s voice rang in his ears again, instructing him on how to plant the potatoes.
The man lived only four years after Brent was whisked away from him. Grandfather Byrne fought at the side of his kinsman, Billy Byrne, in the Irish Rebellion and was killed when Brent was fourteen. Brent read about it in a newspaper account.
The pain of that loss struck him anew and, for a moment, he could not breathe. Miss Hill kept up the conversation about the garden, but sent him a puzzled look. He blinked away the stinging in his eyes.
Had he stayed in Ireland, what would have been his fate? Would he have become an Irish rebel, too? Or would the others have shunned him because the blood of English nobility flowed through his veins? He’d long concluded he could belong in neither place. He belonged nowhere.
Dory’s chatter filled the empty spaces. Brent tried watching his son, but that only intensified the boy’s pain. And his own.
He wanted to spare his son pain. He wanted his son to be spared the suffering he’d endured. He wanted his son to feel he belonged wherever he was.
Clearly, he’d already failed.
‘Papa? Papa?’ Dory’s tone mimicked her mother’s.
‘What is it?’ he responded, trying not to sound vexed.
Dory gazed at him with her huge blue eyes. ‘Why are you not angry at us now about the planting? You scolded us very severely when we were in the garden.’
Calmount looked alarmed and not very surreptitiously kicked his sister under the table. Dory kicked him back.
Brent took a bite of cheese and swallowed it, giving him time to compose himself. ‘I was not angry at you.’
‘At Miss Hill, then,’ the child persisted. ‘Why did you scold Miss Hill?’
He knew what the old marquess would have done had Brent spoken to him like that. Bitten his head off and spat it out.
He refused to respond in like manner. ‘I—I was mistaken...’
Dory seemed even more emboldened. ‘Miss Hill said you thought she had made us into field labourers.’
He glanced gratefully at Miss Hill. ‘I did indeed.’ It was an excuse a child would believe. ‘I thought next she’d have you selling your wares at market.’
Miss Hill smiled and Dory burst into giggles. ‘It was a lesson, silly! To teach us how things grow. She’s been reading to us about it for days and days.’
He cut a piece of ham. ‘So you are not to be planting my fields?’
Dory dissolved in more giggles. ‘No!’
He could follow this tack. ‘Has Miss Hill started reading to you about cleaning the stables? Will I see you raking out the hay and polishing the tack?’
Calmount looked very confused.
Dory turned to Miss Hill. ‘May we read about stables? I like horses very much.’
Miss Hill laughed. ‘Perhaps we can read about horses and visit the stables with your father’s permission, but I have no plans to teach you to muck out a stable.’
‘May we visit the stables and see the horses, Papa?’ Dory fluttered her lashes, reminding him too much of her mother again.
‘Not today.’ His tone sounded sharper than he’d intended.
Calmount immediately stared down at his plate, looking stricken.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ Brent added.
Maybe tomorrow he’d have more control over his emotions.
He stood. ‘I must be going. I—I have some estate business to attend to.’
‘Do not forget about tomorrow!’ Dory said.
He nodded towards her and turned to Miss Hill. ‘May I see you in the hallway for a moment?’
‘Certainly.’ She placed her napkin next to her plate and followed him from the room, closing the door behind her.
She immediately spoke. ‘Do you see? It is as I described.’
He closed his eyes against the sight of her, so close, before nodding. ‘He seems so...so sad and so frightened.’
‘Yes!’ Her voice brightened.
He forgot what he wanted to say to her and his head was throbbing. ‘I—I have much to do today.’ This was a lie. All he needed to do was recover from too much brandy, too much emotion and too many memories. ‘I will spend more time with Calmount tomorrow. I’ll—I’ll arrange a visit to the stables.’
‘That will certainly make Dory happy.’ Her lovely smile faded quickly. ‘But what of Doctor Stoke? Will you see him?’
He might throttle the physician if he met the man in person. ‘A letter should suffice.’
* * *
Anna had no idea when Lord Brentmore would send for them to see the stables, but she made certain the children were ready bright and early, having Eppy dress them in clothing suitable for the out of doors.
‘Will Papa take us to
the stables like he promised?’ Dory asked as soon as Anna entered the nursery.
She swept a stray curl off Dory’s forehead. ‘If he said he would, I am sure he will.’
His prompt arrival so soon after she had posted the letter to him had been as astonishing as his burst of temper upon his arrival. Truth was, she did not know what to expect from him. In any event, she must believe his concern for Lord Cal was genuine. At least he’d believed her about Cal and would not even listen to Doctor Stoke. That seemed a miracle in itself.
For the moment her job seemed secure as well, which was a great relief. She was becoming very fond of the children and confident in her duties towards them, but she was lonely. She missed her home at Lawton House and especially missed Charlotte. She expected no correspondence from her parents, who could not write, but why had Charlotte not responded to her letters? Had she been so easily forgotten?
She shook these questions out of her head and faced the children. ‘We will start our lessons, as always. Your father will come when it is convenient for him.’ She handed a slate to each of the children. ‘Dory, you may practise the alphabet. Lord Cal, I want you to write a sentence about planting radishes.’
Dory squirmed in her chair and made several pointed glances at the door while she laboured with her ABCs. Lord Cal quickly finished his sentence and put the slate down.
Anna picked it up and read aloud, ‘Plant radish seeds three seeds to an inch in a trench that is one-half inch deep.’ It was a verbatim quote from Mr Willis. ‘Very good sentence, Cal.’ She handed the slate back to him. ‘Now write a sentence about planting peas.’
He wiped the slate with his cloth and bent over it with his piece of chalk.
Anna glanced at Dory’s slate. The child was only on the letter D. Too busy watching the door.
A knock sounded and the door opened.
Lord Brentmore stepped inside. ‘Good morning.’
The room seemed to fill with his presence and Anna’s senses flashed into alert. She could not shake the image of a panther caged as she watched him move. The very air around him turned turbulent in a manner that she did not understand.
Cal had turned quickly back to his slate. Did the boy absorb the same impression of his father as Anna did?
Lady Dory, on the other hand, seemed oblivious.
‘Papa!’ The child jumped up from her chair and ran to him. ‘Are we going to the stables now?’
Anna’s heart beat faster. Would he be in a rage again? Or would he be kind?
His expression gave no sign. ‘When Miss Hill says so.’ He looked at Anna. ‘I do not wish to interrupt your lessons.’
Dory’s look was imploring.
Anna took a breath and made herself smile. ‘Well, there is no sense doing lessons with this one.’ She tweaked the girl’s chin. ‘She can think of nothing but horses.’ Lord Cal was still riveted to his slate. ‘Let me see if your son is near finishing his sentence about planting peas.’
Cal wrote hurriedly and handed her the slate, taking care not to look at anyone. Anna handed the slate to Lord Brentmore.
He read aloud, ‘Plant peas every two inches in a trench two inches deep.’
Anna glanced at Lord Brentmore before putting her hand on Cal’s shoulder. ‘Another good sentence.’
Lord Brentmore looked at the slate again. ‘Yes. A good sentence.’
Cal sat very still and stared at the table.
Dory skipped over. ‘Cal is excellent at writing.’
‘I can see that.’ Lord Brentmore appeared uncomfortable and Anna had the strangest sense that it pained him to be in the presence of his children.
She clapped her hands. ‘Let us get our hats and coats and gloves and we shall have our visit to the stables.’
Once they were outside, the children and Anna had to scamper quickly to keep up with Lord Brentmore’s long-limbed stride. Did he not realise that children had short legs?
They crossed the lawn to a set of buildings made from the same stone as the house. The wide door of one of the buildings was open and the stable master awaited them.
‘M’lord.’ He pulled at his forelock.
‘Good morning, Upsom,’ Lord Brentmore said. ‘We have come to see the stables.’
Anna waited to be introduced, but Lord Brentmore neglected that nicety.
She stepped forwards. ‘I am Miss Hill, Upsom, the children’s governess. We have not met before. And the children, of course, are Lord Calmount and Lady Dory.’
Upsom was almost as tall as Lord Brentmore and lanky, not at all like Anna’s father, also a stableman, but shorter than herself and thick as a tree trunk. The smell of hay and horse, though, made her homesick for Lawton.
‘Pleased to meet you, miss,’ the man said. ‘This stable is for the carriage horses and riding horses. The working horses are in a separate stable.’
They stepped inside. The stables were huge, more than double what Lawton possessed.
‘But there are no horses!’ cried Dory.
‘The horses are not here, my lady,’ Upsom said. ‘They are all in the paddock.’
Dory looked crestfallen.
‘We may go out to the paddock,’ Lord Brentmore said.
‘Yes!’ Dory jumped up and down.
‘Follow me, then.’ Mr Upsom gestured towards the back of the stables.
In the paddock beyond the stables several horses grazed. Lord Brentmore whistled and a beautiful ink-black gelding trotted over to the fence.
‘This is my horse.’ Brentmore stroked the horse’s muzzle.
‘This is your horse?’ Dory clambered up the fence for a closer look. ‘Did you ride him here?’
‘I did.’
‘What is his name?’ Dory asked.
‘Luchar.’
Anna’s brows rose. In an Irish myth she’d read, Luchar and his brothers killed their grandfather.
‘May I pet him?’ Dory begged.
Lord Brentmore hesitated a moment before lifting her up so she could reach the horse.
‘Gently,’ he said. ‘Keep your hand away from his mouth.’
Anna glanced towards Cal, who held back. Cal’s eyes were not looking at his father’s horse, but at another horse on the far side of the paddock, a majestic white horse galloping restlessly, back and forth.
She crouched down to Cal’s level. ‘What horse is that?’
He crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head.
Anna touched his shoulder and left him. Walking to Brentmore’s side, she gestured to the white horse. ‘Lord Cal was watching that horse.’
‘That was Mama’s horse,’ Dory piped up.
Brentmore put her back on the ground and averted his gaze from the beautiful white horse.
Cal stood stiffly, clearly disturbed as well.
What was it about the horse that upset them all? Anna had half a mind to ask little Dory. She was the only one who talked.
Brentmore turned away from the horses. ‘Do you children ride?’
Cal gave him a quick glance before withdrawing again.
Dory did not hesitate. ‘No. We do not ride, but we would like to ride above all things.’
‘Upsom!’ Brentmore called. ‘Have my horse saddled.’ He turned to his son. ‘Calmount, you are the oldest. You will be first.’
The boy’s eyes widened, but he looked engaged. Whatever had happened inside him when he saw the white horse had disappeared.
Well done, Lord Brentmore, Anna thought.
When Luchar was saddled, Lord Brentmore lifted his son on to the horse’s back and mounted behind him. He set a sedate pace, circling the paddock. Cal looked almost peaceful as he sat in front of his father.
When it was Dory’s turn, she could barely contain her joy.
Anna smiled, liking Lord Brentmore very much at this moment.
His reaction to the white horse caused her worry, though. She’d thought for a moment that he would explode in temper again.
The impending storm passed, though. This t
ime.
Chapter Five
Brent could not sleep. The morning at the stables had disturbed him all day.
He did not know what gave greater distress—Calmount’s suffering, Miss Hill’s allure, or the memories evoked by the white horse.
And little Dory.
She was so like Eunice. In her looks. Her charm. She possessed that gift of easy speech that so eluded Calmount—and Brent himself, if he were truthful. Eunice had always known precisely what to say to get what she wanted.
Except, perhaps, that fateful day when she was thrown from her white horse in her mad dash to catch up with her departing lover. She fell on to the hard rocks and broke her neck. When the news reached him in Vienna, his immediate reaction had been relief.
God help him.
But his next thought had been of how badly he’d failed her by not being the man she’d believed him to be. She’d been unfaithful, to be sure, but she’d also been made very unhappy by her marriage to a man with the blood of an Irish peasant flowing in his veins. Not even the birth of their son had made up for it.
As soon as Brent had heard of her death he’d hurried back to Brentmore for the children’s sakes, but, once there, had not a clue how he could assist them. He still did not know.
Did the children enjoy riding in the paddock? He hoped so. Certainly Dory had seemed to, but he could not tell about Calmount.
Afterwards he’d taken Luchar for a proper run around the estate, checking on the tenants’ welfare and on the planting. Luckily everything seemed well. The cottages looked in good repair. His tenants seemed content. His fields were verdant with crops.
At least his wealth did some good. It provided a comfortable livelihood to many people.
All his wealth, his huge house, his vast estate, had not prevented his children from living in a small set of rooms, their lives even more confined than his poverty-stricken early life in Ireland.
Awash with guilt, he paced the second floor in his shirt-sleeves and bare feet, surrounded by the trappings of his wealth.
It had been Miss Hill who had freed them from their prison, apparently defying Mrs Tippen in the process. He was beginning to see he owed her a great deal, not the least of which was saving his son from an insane asylum.
