Gayle Wilson

by Lady Sarah's Son

  The caressing fingers stilled. The child turned to slant a look over his shoulder. The blue eyes were no longer alight as they had been when he’d spoken from the top of the fence. Or even when he had approached the mare. Now they looked almost as they had in the clearing when, alone and friendless, Drew had been surrounded by a ring of catcalling enemies. Suddenly, at what was in the child’s eyes, Justin would have given anything to be able to take back his question.

  “Do you mean Brynmoor?” the boy asked.

  Compelled by the darkly adult hauteur in that cold, blue stare, Justin nodded.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Andrew said. “He doesn’t want to teach me anything. I stay away from him.”

  And what hell that must be for a child like this, Justin thought. Living in the same household with a mad old man who disliked him. The same household, he remembered, into which Sarah had wanted to introduce his presence. And perhaps this was why, Justin realized. Because of this child. Her son. An outcast from his own society, just as his mother was. Despised by his grandfather for a sin that was not of his making.

  “Did you cry when they cut off your leg?” the boy asked.

  The bluntness of the question was startling, given everyone else’s reticence to discuss that amputation. Almost no one had commented on the loss of his leg since he’d been home, Justin realized. Or at least no one had commented to his face, he amended, very well aware of how tongues in the district wagged. The obvious changes the war had wrought in the new earl would certainly have been discussed, simply not in his hearing. Not talking about it, however, didn’t change the reality. A reality he had seen reflected in Sarah’s eyes as she watched him limp across the Randolph cottage.

  “I don’t remember,” he admitted, honestly trying to recall the operation. Those memories seemed hidden in a haze of conflicting and blurred images. “I had been well primed with brandy and laudanum,” he said, looking down into eyes that hung on his every word. “I know I yelled a fair amount,” he said, deliberately lightening his tone.

  “Because it hurt you?”

  Wynfield nodded, his throat tight.

  “I yelled when Sarah dabbed my cuts with liniment,” Drew said comfortingly.

  “I think yelling is allowed,” Justin said softly.

  “Especially if they are cutting off your leg,” Andrew said graciously, turning his attention back to the mare.

  The subject had been settled to his satisfaction. And after all, Justin conceded, there wasn’t a great deal more that might legitimately be said about it.

  “But he didn’t mind, Sarah,” Andrew argued. “I promise you he didn’t. He put me up on the mare he’s selling at Tattersall’s and let me ride her. He didn’t mind me visiting him one bit.”

  “And neither did you mind,” Sarah said, turning his argument against him. Her words were abrupt and more angry than was her wont in dealing with Andrew. The last time he had visited Wynfield Park without permission, however, she had warned him about what would happen if he disobeyed again. “You didn’t mind what you have been told over and over.”

  “He is our neighbor,” Drew said, his voice very small.

  “You did not have permission to go there, Andrew, and nothing you say can change that.”

  The curly head hung. Not so much, Sarah suspected, in remorse as in anticipation of the punishment she had foolishly threatened. A punishment she would now have to administer. She realized, without knowing what to do about it, that this entire escapade had been blown out of proportion. After all, Drew had come home and confessed his transgression, too excited about the success of this particular trip across the ford to keep it from her. But then, he had always been an honest child.

  “He didn’t mind,” Andrew said again, plaintively this time.

  “Well, I minded,” Sarah said. “You must learn that you can’t continue to disobey because it suits your purposes. Soldiers who disobey orders are punished.”

  Given Drew’s present fascination with anything of a military nature, especially his fascination with a certain ex-soldier, she thought this argument might carry more weight than the consideration that she had been worried when she couldn’t find him. She didn’t really believe her father would hurt Andrew, but his age-clouded mind had lately latched on to the idea that Drew didn’t belong at Longford.

  Sarah couldn’t know how much Brynmoor remembered about Amelia’s elopement or about David Osbome’s role in it. Or even about the story she had told him when she had brought Andrew home. Her lie about fostering a dead relative’s child had been paper thin, of course, and certainly no one else had believed it.

  Despite the flimsiness of her explanation, however, her father had not forbidden her to bring the boy home. And it had been easy at first to keep the baby out of his way. Out of sight, out of mind. Especially out of the way of a mind that had begun to lose its battle against the encroaching darkness of senility, which tightened its grip with each passing month.

  Now Andrew was no longer a baby or a toddler, but an active little boy... A little boy who needed a father’s firm hand, she acknowledged. Or a grandfather’s. And having neither, it had been left to Sarah to teach this child how to become a man—a gentleman, she amended—fit to take his proper place in society, which was a role she was scarcely suited for.

  “Will you flog me?” he asked. “Like they flog soldiers?”

  Nausea climbed into Sarah’s throat at the image, but it was not so far removed from what she had threatened. This particular threat had been the housekeeper’s suggestion. Mrs. Simkins had raised five sturdy sons, and she had said this was the way other boys Andrew’s age were punished.

  Sarah looked at the cane lying on top of the scarred desk of the schoolroom. It had been left from her father’s childhood, she supposed. It had certainly never been employed to discipline either her or Amelia. A more docile pair of children it would have been difficult to find. One harsh word from their father, one glimpse of his purpled, enraged face, and they were almost too frightened to move.

  Andrew was not that way. His temperament was very different from theirs. And of course, his father’s blood as well as Amelia’s ran through his veins. That was Sarah’s greatest fear—that she would fail to subdue the tendencies in Andrew that he might have inherited from his wayward father. That was why Amelia had entrusted him to her. It was part of the responsibility Sarah had undertaken with the deathbed promise she had made her sister.

  “It is a cane and not a whip,” she said, sick at heart.

  “I won’t cry,” Andrew said, his eyes suddenly flashing defiance. “You can’t make me cry, Sarah. I may yell,” he said, his voice for the first time touched with real fear, “but I won’t cry. He didn’t cry, not even when they cut off his leg.”

  Justin, she thought. Apparently this was something he and Andrew had discussed during their meeting today. And she had warned Drew not to talk to the earl about the war or his injury. It seemed that nothing she said had any effect on him anymore, she realized in despair. Just as her entreaties to David Osborne four years ago had had no effect on what he had done.

  Somehow the image of amputation Andrew had introduced into the conversation lingered in her mind, along with the thought of Osbome’s lack of responsibility. They had cut off Justin’s leg to stop the spread of an infection that, if left untreated, might have cost him his life. The operation might have been brutally agonizing, but it had been necessary and undertaken for the patient’s own good. For the patient’s own good...

  “You must lean over the desk,” she said, her chest thick with self-loathing over what she had to do. She had never struck Andrew in his life, but Mrs. Simkins had warned her that she was making a baby of him. A spoiled baby too accustomed to having his own way. And when he went away to school, the housekeeper had said, or even when Sarah hired a tutor...

  It will be the boy who suffers from your lack of mettle then, my lady. Better to discipline him firmly now and be done with it. Better for him. You’ll see
.

  Trembling, Drew bent forward, exposing his small backside, which was still covered with the mud-stained trousers he had worn on his visit to Wynfield. Sarah couldn’t stand the thought of using the slender birch to stripe the pale white skin of his bare buttocks. This would be hard enough.

  Taking a deep breath, she drew back her hand and brought the birch down. And then again, steeling herself to complete this duty by keeping the maliciously smiling face of David Osborne in her mind’s eye. When it was done, Andrew had made good on his promise. Like his hero, he, too, had refused to cry, even after the three strokes had been administered.

  Alone in her room after the ordeal, however, Sarah found she was not so brave as Drew. Or as the earl. She also acknowledged that as much as she had hated disciplining her sister’s son, some of the tears she shed afterward were the result of something else that had happened today. Something quite different from Andrew’s punishment.

  Part of what she cried about was an offer that had been bravely made, a desperate attempt to seize her last chance at happiness. An offer that had been just as quickly rejected, she remembered bitterly, forever destroying it.

  Chapter Four

  When Sarah awoke the following morning, it was not yet dawn. Her night had been restless, full of uneasy dreams. Nightmares, she admitted, remembering the images that had played so vividly through her sleep. Images of war. Of the military surgeons’ bloodstained aprons and their ghastly instruments. And superimposed over them, Drew’s face, fighting the tears that had glistened, unshed, in his eyes while she had punished him.

  Even awake, she found the sense of despair those dreams had brought was not dissipated. It was joined instead by a deep regret and a foreboding that the events of yesterday marked a change in her relationship with Drew. He was growing up. That was undeniably true. But was he growing away from her as well?

  She pushed back the covers and put her bare feet on the floor. Without bothering to pick up her wrapper from the foot of the bed, she walked across her bedroom and opened the door to the hallway. Andrew slept in the nursery, one floor above, of course. She had often made this silent journey, tiptoeing up the narrow flight of servants’ stairs at the end of the hall to check on him.

  When she reached the upper floor, she paused outside Andrew’s door. She put her ear against the thick wood, listening for any sound. Apparently he was still sleeping. She waited, hand on the knob. The door creaked when it opened, and she knew she might wake him if she looked in.

  But if he woke, she thought, she could tell him good morning and begin repairing the chasm that seemed to have appeared in their previously close relationship. After all, she and Andrew really had no one else in the world but each other, and the sooner they mended the trauma of yesterday, the better it would be.

  She eased the door open, cringing a little at the noise it made. The nursery was still dark, the curtains drawn over the high windows. She tiptoed to the bed, her eyes gradually adjusting to the room’s dimness, and saw that it was empty. Her realization of what that might mean was slow in coming, however. It seemed impossible that Andrew should not be here. After all, there was nowhere else he could be.

  Her eyes scanned the room, searching every corner, wondering if the little boy could be playing a game. Hide and seek, perhaps. Or maybe he had heard the door and was trying to punish her for what had happened yesterday.

  “Andrew?” she called softly, holding her breath, listening for a stifled giggle. Drew had never been able to remain silent when she came close to discovering his hiding place. But there was nothing. No sound. The room was empty. It even felt empty, she thought. As cold and as lonely as this huge house would be without the dear presence of Andrew to lighten her days.

  “Drew?” she called more loudly. “Answer me, Drew,” she demanded, although her heart had already accepted what her mind denied. Andrew wasn’t here.

  She ran her hand across the tangled bedsheets and found they were cold. Wherever Andrew was, he had been gone long enough for his body heat to fade, so he had not hidden when he heard the creaking door. Her searching eyes discovered his nightshirt lying across the foot of the bed. They then flew to the row of low pegs on the wall. As she had feared, the clothing he had worn yesterday was not there.

  He had run away, she thought, her heart beginning to pound. Andrew had run away because of what she had done. She knew, of course, without any doubt in her mind, where he would have gone.

  The earl of Wynfield opened the door to Star’s stall and stepped inside. The gelding butted him gently in the chest, welcoming his master in a time-honored fashion.

  After all, they had been companions for many years and through difficult circumstances. Despite that, the gelding’s name had been added late last night to the bottom of the list Justin had dispatched to the great London horse market this morning. Star would bring a good price.

  When this was all over and done, the estate sold, Justin had realized, he would have no way to provide for the animal. No way to provide for himself, either, he acknowledged, lips flattening. Although he was willing to do without a great many things in order to pay what he could of the debts his family had accumulated, he was not willing to let Star go hungry.

  There had been few decisions in the last few weeks that had been more painful, but he knew he was doing what was best for Star. And nothing less than his long faithfulness deserved.

  Justin lowered his head and, closing his eyes, laid his forehead against Star’s nose, giving in again to the growing sense of loss he fought with each passing day. His hand automatically caressed the gelding’s sleek and powerful neck.

  “Are you crying?” a small voice asked.

  Startled, the earl lifted his head and encountered the wide eyes of Andrew Spenser, peering up at him from the floor of Star’s stall. The child was nestled in the straw, curled up comfortably in the darkness, almost under the gelding’s hooves.

  Still touching Star’s nose with one hand to reassure him, Justin reached down and grabbed the child by the back of his jacket. He stepped back, lifting Andrew up by that fistful of fabric. As quickly as possible without startling the gelding, he carried the child out of the stall. Then he shut the half door to prevent Star from joining them. Inquisitively, the horse put his head over it and whickered in protest at the desertion.

  Only when Drew was safely out of the way of those powerful hooves did Justin remember to breathe. More frightened than angry, he set the child on his feet with more force than was strictly necessary, still holding on to his jacket.

  “What the hell were you doing in there?” he demanded.

  “Sleeping,” Drew said. His eyes had widened at the tone of the question or at its language.

  “What are you doing here?” the earl persisted.

  “I’ve run away.”

  “Run away?” Justin repeated disbelievingly. “Away from home?”

  “I can help you take care of your horses,” the little boy offered, his voice hopeful.

  “Does Sarah know where you are?”

  “No,” Drew said, his eyes downcast.

  “Do you realize that she will be very worried when she finds you are gone?” the earl asked, finally releasing his hold on Andrew’s coat.

  “I don’t care if she is worried,” the child said bitterly.

  At his tone, Justin hesitated, his eyes examining the rumpled figure. Drew was wearing the same clothing he’d had worn yesterday, but the garments were wrinkled and covered with pieces of straw and dirt from the night he had spent in the stable.

  The earl reached down and touched the boy’s chin, forcing his face upward. He examined it in the growing light. The child’s cheeks, too, were covered with a layer of grime, through which ran the clean, unmistakable streak of tears.

  Justin began to bend, intending to get down on eye level with Andrew. He realized very quickly that would be impossible, given the inflexible nature of his right ankle. Instead, he put his hands under Drew’s armpits and lifted him.
He set the child astride a saddle that had been thrown across one of the railings. Delight flared in blue eyes that only a moment before had been full of anger and sadness.

  “Why don’t you care if your maman’s worried about you?” Justin asked softly, watching grubby fingers run over the polished leather. Justin kept his hand on the child’s waist in case he lost his balance, but Drew gripped the saddle with his thighs, just as he had been instructed yesterday.

  “She doesn’t want me to visit you,” Andrew said.

  His eyes fastened on the earl’s face as if seeking an explanation for that ridiculous prohibition. There were several, Justin supposed, but none he could make to a four-year-old. Just as his own reasons for not wanting to further this relationship could certainly not be spelled out to the child.

  “But you did, didn’t you? Yesterday and last night. And you came without her permission,” Justin said.

  “I don’t see why Sarah doesn’t want me to visit you. I told her you didn’t mind. You don’t mind if I come to see you, do you?” Drew asked, his tone again hopeful.

  “That isn’t the point,” Justin said. “The point is...”

  He paused, wondering why Sarah had made that restriction. After all, if he had accepted her offer, he and Andrew would have been thrown in close proximity. Of course, since he had refused, maybe Sarah was simply trying to protect her son. It was obvious that the child had already formed an attachment to him. One that, given their circumstances, could not be allowed to grow.

  And besides, he would be leaving as soon as everything was sold. If the child began to consider him as a permanent part of his life, then that departure would be wrenching. For both of them, he acknowledged, looking up at the small figure, whose eyes were still locked on his face, waiting for him to explain whatever the point was in Sarah’s trying to keep them apart.

  “The point is,” Justin continued, carefully skirting the real issue, “that you must do whatever your mother tells you. Soldiers obey orders, even when they don’t understand them.”