by Sara Portman
The older man drove a hand through his thick gray locks, leaving them uncharacteristically disordered. “The proper way of things is for a man to learn the duties of his father so that he may one day fill his role. My dawdling in getting an heir means that I will not live to see Alexander reach his manhood. He will have to learn from someone else. I would like him to learn from you.”
Michael stared at him. What illness had hatched this plan? “You expect me, a bastard by-blow, to mentor your son in the ways of a nobleman?”
“I want you, my son, to aid in the education of your brother.”
Now he was a son? “You forget that I have not been mentored in the ways of a marquess.”
The marquess cleared Michael’s objection with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense. You’ve been educated right alongside aristocrats and your performance at school was exemplary. I purchased you an officer’s commission so that you might add that distinction to your record, but you far exceeded expectations. You’ve had a commendation from Wellington himself.”
“And a daily reminder of my military service,” Michael added, knowing full well it was a churlish reaction to the praise.
“I can’t do it, damn it,” his father bellowed, bringing a hand down to slam it on the desk. The force of the action drew a hacking cough from him, weakening the drama of the moment. “I can’t do it,” he said, less vehemently.
“How, precisely, do you imagine me teaching Alexander the duties of a marquess?”
“First you shall marry Miss Thatcher. She will bring a significant marriage settlement. I will name you as trustee for Alexander. You will take over management of the family estate at Brinn Abbey. The funds from Miss Thatcher will be sufficient for you to make necessary improvements. You shall run the estate and teach Alexander to do it as he grows, so that he can take it over when he reaches his majority.”
“So I shall manage Alexander’s estate for him until such time as he is able to displace me?” This was preposterous. No. He didn’t want to go to Brinn Abbey. He wanted to go back to Rose Hall. “No. The boy is only twelve. It will be a decade or longer until he is able to manage the estate on his own.”
The marquess’s expression was grave. “There is no one else I trust.”
Michael nearly laughed. Should he feel complimented? His father trusted him enough to see to protection of the worthwhile son? Why not, when he was the expendable son? Where was the grave remorse for the next ten years of Michael’s life that would be sacrificed on the altar of familial duty?
He spoke slowly and clearly. “I will marry Miss Thatcher, and you may keep the marriage settlement, provided I am given Rose Hall. Then you can find another steward to manage your estate.”
“I’ve already told you—I want you. That is the point. I want you to run it.”
“You want me to run your estate—Alexander’s estate—until I am no longer needed, then you would like me to go away again.”
“What are you getting at?”
Michael shook his head. “I have served your convenience enough. Either I am an asset to to the marquessate or a liability. Which is it?”
“Liability? What are you blathering on about? You should have been a damned marquess instead of me. You’ve become a better lord of the manor than I’ve ever been. That’s why you must be the trustee. Don’t you think I receive the reports? Why do you think I put you at Rose Hall after the war? Second to Brinn Abbey, it’s the largest and most complicated of my properties.”
“You sent me to Rose Hall to teach me to run an estate?”
“Of course. Why else would I send you?”
“To have me out of the way.”
The marquess scoffed. “Nonsense. If I wanted to forget about you, I’d have settled a sum on your mother thirty years ago and sent her off to find her own way, posing as a widow or some such thing.”
The suggestion brought forth a thought of Juliana, for that had been her plan precisely—posing as a widow. Of course, Juliana was not the mother of a bastard child. He had made certain of that.
“Or I would have sent you somewhere insignificant to live,” his father continued. “There’s a cottage in Scotland I’ve only seen once. Maybe I should have sent you there instead,” he mused, his lips curving at the thought. “I would like to have seen what you would have made of it.” He laughed fully then, the vision taking hold. “You would have set yourself up like some clan chieftain up there, I’m sure of it.”
“What would make you think that?” Michael asked, not in the least amused by his father’s imaginings.
His father laughed again. “Don’t pretend I don’t know what’s going on up there in Yorkshire. All the women are in love with you and half the men owe their livelihoods to you directly. The other half have you to thank indirectly. My secretary keeps me informed. You are like some benevolent version of a feudal lord who has brought prosperity to all your subjects with your hops growing and your brewery.”
His expression sobered as rested his forearms on the desk. “I’ve no right to ask more of you Michael, but I want to learn from my mistakes and do better for Alexander than I have done for my first son. This arrangement shall see you both settled.”
“Impossible. I belong at Rose Hall.”
“Do this,” the marquess said, leaning forward in his chair and tapping a finger on his desktop. “Do this and I shall give you Rose Hall. You can go there now and then, keep things running smoothly. And when Alexander is ready, you can return there permanently. Do this and Rose Hall will be yours.”
Michael did not respond. Taking a wife he’d never met and had not chosen had seemed a high price for Rose Hall, but a worthwhile bargain in the end.
He’d underestimated his father’s price. His father wanted the marriage and a decade of Michael’s life. The entire reason Michael wanted Rose Hall was so that his life would be his own, his efforts toward his own gain. But it would not be—not for years—if he agreed to this.
He hated it. He hated the entire idea. He looked around the room. Perhaps he had considered too soon, and the power between father and son was not so reversed after all. Here he sat considering another banishment, another direction for his life that was not piloted by him.
The cut crystal of his father’s glass glinted in the candlelight as he lifted it to his lips, awaiting Michael’s response.
Damn him, Michael thought. He hadn’t even offered Michael a drink.
* * * *
Dinner at the boarding house was subdued. Mrs. Stone presided over the long table with a pinched expression and ate little, seemingly more interested in supervising the behaviors of her diners. Conversation was allowed, but kept in hushed tones and thus limited to those in one’s immediate proximity. Juliana sat between a thin, quiet girl in the starched gray uniform of a housemaid, and a buxom girl with sly eyes and a wide mouth who looked exceedingly disappointed to find her herself seated next to the newcomer. She spent most of her time quietly gossiping with the girl at her other side.
In all, there were eleven women at the table including Juliana and Mrs. Stone. She tried to smile at a few of the unfamiliar faces, but she had no idea how to go about beginning a conversation and assumed they were likely to be more comfortable if she did not. She mostly kept her head down and attended to her meal. Because of her quiet, however, she did overhear a number of the conversations. Most of the women, she learned, were employed and discussed the happenings of the day at the house or shop in which they worked. Others discussed wages. She learned a few of their names. The dark-haired girl to her right who liked to gossip was named Kat. She seemed to be an authority on everyone and Juliana wondered how long she had stayed with Mrs. Stone.
When the meal was finished, several of the girls made their way to sit together in the front parlor. As no one invited Juliana and she would not want to simply tag along, she followed the others who chose to retire to their
rooms. She lay on the narrow bed and considered her housemates. Most seemed younger than she was. Although some were just as quiet as she’d been, none seemed particularly anxious or frightened. They were all women living independently in the city, supporting themselves and managing their own lives—under the watchful eye of Mrs. Stone of course. She wondered what some of the young women below would do if faced with her particular quandary.
Based on the wages over which one woman had complained at dinner, she thought they would be shocked at the prospect of her two-thousand-pound inheritance—or three thousand now, she amended. The amount was likely more than would cross their palms throughout their entire lives. Even her bank draft for one hundred thirty pounds would seem like a fortune. Surely, if one of these women meant to set sail for a new life, one hundred thirty pounds would seem like a vast amount with which to depart. It would support her modestly in England for an entire year. Surely, it would be enough to find a start in America.
But only a start. In order to be truly safe from her father, she could never contact Mr. Peale again, never notify him of her whereabouts. She would have to find a position and support herself. She wouldn’t mind the work. She was used to hard work. But she would have to find the work first.
She would make do.
Because she would not go back.
And maybe someday, when it was likely that her father was gone, she would return to England, collect her years of unpaid allowance, and settle into a quiet cottage. If she returned from abroad, no one would question her widow story then. She could live out the rest of her days as she had always intended.
She felt relief to have decided. She lay back on the pillow and granted herself permission to rest easy, now that her decision had been made.
Only she didn’t rest—not right away. Michael had been right. As the sounds of the house quieted around her and other thoughts cleared away, she was confronted with the memories of their night together. He was even right about the blushes and the breathlessness. She wondered where he was this night? It was not likely that he was somewhere in the city, lying abed, thinking of the same thing as she. Had he met his bride-to-be already? Had he obtained his father’s commitment to give him Rose Hall?
She hoped he had. She hoped he was pleased with his bargain and would be content in his changed life, with a wife by his side, as true owner of Rose Hall. She even wished Gelert well.
* * * *
Alexander plopped onto the sofa next to Michael and looked at him with that scrutiny of a child that would be impolite if practiced by an adult. “My mother says your leg was hurt in the war,” he announced. “Did you fall on it?”
Michael set the newspaper aside. It was not as though he’d been concentrating enough to actually read it anyway—he’d merely been passing the time until dinner and it had been ineffective in distracting him from his thoughts. He turned and looked at the boy. “Yes. After I was shot.”
New interest lit in the boy’s eyes. “You were shot?”
“Yes.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes. It was quite painful.”
“Did you scream?”
“No. I don’t believe I did.”
Alexander nodded in approval at this fact. “Is there shot in your leg, still? Is that why it pains you?”
“Soldiers don’t use shot,” Michael explained. “The musket ball was removed by a surgeon.”
“How did he take it out?”
Michael paused. “How?”
“Did you see him do it?” Alexander pressed.
“I did not, actually.” Michael had no recollection of the surgeon removing the musket ball. He distinctly recalled being shot. He had vague recollections of Albert calling to him. He also clearly remembered awakening later, with his leg wrapped, and receiving an account from Albert. He was either drugged or unconscious when the surgeon tended him. “I was not awake, or at least not aware when the surgeon removed it,” he told Alexander. “If you would like to hear all the vile details you shall have to ask Albert, the coachman. He was there.”
Alexander nodded and Michael felt quite certain Albert would be receiving a visit before the day was out. The boy—his brother—seemed very young. Was Michael so bloodthirsty at twelve? He could not recall. At that age, he was already away at school.
“Do you not attend school?” Michael asked him.
“Not yet. I have a tutor. Father says I need to go away to school, but mother says it is not time yet. Father tells her she is being silly and only wants to keep me here because she will be sad when I am gone.”
That seemed a very probable story to Michael. “Do you want to go to school?” he asked.
Alexander stopped and gave a full moment of consideration to Michael’s question. “Yes. I think I should like to go to school. There will be other boys there.”
Michael nodded. It was sound logic.
“But it doesn’t matter, really,” Alexander continued. “If father decides I will go, then I will go.”
Michael understood that aspect very well. In some ways, it seemed, life was not so different for Alexander than it was for him.
“Alexander,” the gentle reprimand of the marchioness floated into the room as she did. “Are you pestering your brother again?”
“We were talking,” Michael said. “It’s no bother.” It wasn’t.
“He’s always so full of questions,” his mother said.
He didn’t mind Alexander’s questions. But he couldn’t help noticing how very young they made him seem. Perhaps not sending him to school had stifled his maturity. Alexander had a very long way to go before he was capable of managing his own affairs as a peer of the realm.
The marquess joined the group then, smiling indulgently at his wife and son then turning last to Michael. Michael received a nod and significant narrowing of the eyes that were meant to communicate the need for his timely decision. His response was a bland smile that offered no comprehension or commitment. He could not respond, as he had not yet decided.
A brief flash of frustration crossed his father’s face, but it passed quickly and the group went in to dinner.
* * * *
Juliana fell asleep thinking of Michael and Gelert, but woke up determined to leave them behind. She would leave everything behind in England—her father, her mother, and Michael too. The farther she traveled from these ghosts the more difficult it would be for them to haunt her.
She donned her lone wearable dress and went downstairs. She was not surprised to discover breakfast was very simple at Mrs. Stone’s boarding house. While she took her tea and toast, she listened to the chatter of the other residents, envious of their easy ability to exchange pleasantries and converse on idle topics. When she was finished, she sought out Mrs. Stone.
She found her seated at a small writing desk in the corner of the front parlor.
“Yes?” she asked when Juliana entered the room, not lifting her head or halting her hand as she wrote.
“I have a dress I need to mend. I was wondering if you might be able to direct me to where I could buy a needle and thread to do so.”
“There is a kit on the third shelf,” Mrs. Stone said, still writing but lifting her unoccupied hand to wave toward the bookcase on the other side of the room. “You may borrow it, provided you return it to me before dinner. If you require anything special, it will not be in the kit and you shall have to visit the haberdasher.”
Juliana found the referenced kit, a small metal box resting, as promised, on the third shelf. She unlatched it and looked inside. It contained needles, threads, miscellaneous buttons, a few scraps of fabric and crude lace, and a number of other items one might need in mending various garments.
“Thank you,” she said, closing the box and lifting it from the shelf. “I shouldn’t require anything beyond this.”
Mrs. Stone, back straight a
nd tall in her chair, continued writing.
Juliana stood in the center of the room and held the box. She bit her lip, tapped the box with her finger, and finally spoke again. “I am very sorry to bother you further,” she said, “but could I ask your assistance in another matter?”
“You may ask,” Mrs. Stone clipped. “I cannot promise that I will be able to assist.”
“This is my first time in London and I have a friend I should like to visit,” Juliana said. Lucy Brantwood may not consider Juliana a friend, precisely, but the exaggeration was a harmless one.
“You may go visiting provided you do not receive callers here and return by supper.”
“The trouble is ma’am,” Juliana said, “I don’t know how to go about finding her, but it’s rather important that I do.”
This drew Mrs. Stone’s attention. She finally halted in her task, pivoted in her chair, and peered suspiciously at Juliana “What is it that you are up to?”
Juliana quickly shook her head. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. A friend from home is recently married and living in London. I don’t have her direction, but I have…messages. From home. To deliver to her.”
Mrs. Stone’s eyes narrowed.
“She is the vicar’s daughter,” Juliana added, in the hopes that fact might make the entire situation appear more wholesome, but it did not appear to help.
Mrs. Stone pressed her lips into a thin line and Juliana wondered for a moment if this was precisely the sort of ‘trouble’ Mrs. Stone had meant when she had given Juliana the rules for residing here and if she was about to be turned out.
“What do you know of her?” the older woman asked sharply.
It took a moment for Juliana to register that she was not, in fact, being turned out and that Mrs. Stone was going to help. “Oh. Um. She is Mrs. Brantwood now. I know that she is living in London with her husband, and that he has started a shipping company called Brantwood Trading Company. He owns a ship.”
“London is a large city, Miss Crawford. Do you not know the general area in which she may live? Anything else that would help you to locate her?”
