The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  The flint dropped on the ground beside the ashes. Jamey pushed himself to his feet and went for the kindling. “Are you planning to do any work about the place today? I can stay a while and help. They shan’t be looking for me for hours.”

  “Nay, I don’t much feel like...” Israel’s voice was so hushed that Jamey didn’t hear his final words. He picked up the flint and turned to his new friend.

  “I’ll need a bit of steel…or a knife if you…” He stopped, getting for the first time a good look at the other boy’s battered face. “Israel?”

  He moved closer and saw the bloody shirt. Panic twisted a knot in his belly, but Jamey moved and crouched next to his friend. Using his left hand, he touched the fresh blood on the worn sleeve of the shirt. There was more on the back, but as Jamey tried to pull him forward to look, the other boy winced in pain.

  “Your face...all this blood...” Jamey felt his stomach lurch at the sight of Israel’s face. One eye was swollen shut. There was a lump on his forehead. A cut still bleeding on the puffy lips. “My Lord! What did you do?”

  “I am a slave, remember?”

  “They can’t just beat you for nothing. Who did this to you, Israel?”

  “No one cares who done this to me!”

  “I care,” he cried. “I shall go right now and give them some of the same.”

  Israel shook his head, and Jamey could see he was in pain. “They are far bigger.”

  “Then I can…I’ll throw rocks at them. I will make them pay for this.”

  The other boy dropped his chin to his chest again.

  “Someone has to teach them a lesson.”

  The slumped shoulders spoke of defeat, and Jamey had a sickening feeling that this was not the first time Israel had faced a beating.

  “Size is not everything, you know,” he started hopefully.

  “I know. Color is.”

  Jamey swallowed a knot in his throat and fought back the tears that were burning his eyes. He sat down in the dirt next to his friend and pulled his knees up to his chest. In his mind he saw the Africans he’d seen in shackles in Bristol.

  “You are different only if I am different,” he said a little while later. “But I’ve had someone to protect me. My mama has looked after me since forever. You need a protector...until...you get strong and can take care of yourself.”

  Israel didn’t say anything, so Jamey laid a hand gently on the boy’s knee.

  “I am not brown-skinned, but people try to hurt me, too.” His friend continued to look down. “One day, two summers ago, my friend George and I were coming back from fishing down by the docks in Philadelphia. This sailor started yelling at me for throwing something at him...and I had done no such a thing. And then, before I knew it, he had me by the ear and was cursing at me pretty fiercely, yelling about how he was going to break my other hand so I would have two crippled hands. Now, I really hadn’t done anything wrong. He just didn’t like me...maybe because he thought I was weak. Maybe because he could see I was different than him.”

  Jamey remembered how scared he’d been. It didn’t matter how much he squirmed or what he said, he had been sure that he was going to have his good hand broken.

  “Then, just when I thought I was done for, my mama showed up. She is just a little thing, you know. But how she faced down that son of a bitch! She just walked right up to him and lit into him, scolding him like a schoolboy. Why, she looked to be about ten feet tall.”

  Jamey felt himself fill with pride with the memory. He saw Israel lift his head and wipe at the bloody corner of his mouth with a dirty sleeve.

  “Wait!” Jamey put a hand on his arm before scrambling to his feet and fetching his mama’s scarf. Carefully, he laid it on the other boy’s knees. “Use this. She won’t mind. I know anytime I’ve ever been hurt, it’s made me feel better to hold something of hers.”

  Israel stared at the fine linen on his lap.

  “I can’t touch this. They’ll hang me, for sure, for stealing it.”

  “They can’t. I gave it to you.”

  After a moment, Israel touched a corner. Then he brought his head near it and, closing his eyes, he breathed in the smell. Jamey knew the smell. Lavender. He watched the bruised face, the sad expression.

  “So this is what having a mama is like!”

  Tears sprang into Jamey’s eyes, but he tried to fight them back. “No one would dare to beat you again if my mama took you as a son!”

  “That’s not the way things work.” Israel tried to open his eyes. The left eye was now completely swollen shut. The good one had tears in it. “And if you are my friend, forget all of this. If he hears that I complained, then I shall be far worse for it.”

  “Who?” Jamey asked again.

  “Never you mind! In fact, it’d be better for both of us if you didn’t even see me today.”

  Leaping to his feet, he stumbled out of the hut. Jamey followed him across the meadow and then stopped as Israel ran off into the woods, the linen scarf clutched tightly in his hand.

  ***

  There was no getting around it. Stanmore knew it. Everyone knew it. The first day in the country at Solgrave was hell. It always had been. It always would be. It was just a good thing for them that the two stewards were so damned capable at running his households.

  Nonetheless, waiting for the two brothers to work through their inevitable routine always managed to try Stanmore’s patience. It was like watching two mastiffs circling each other—growling and snapping, their heads low, shoulders hunched, each one looking for the opening that would give him ascendancy over the other.

  Daniel was house steward for Solgrave. Philip was steward of the London house and the elder of the two by ten years. Therefore, based on some idea of primogeniture even in service, the dour-faced Philip felt it was his duty to criticize and to “guide” his brother on matters Daniel had been seeing to quite competently at Solgrave for over twenty years. It didn’t matter that Daniel’s responsibilities and the number of people who reported to him far exceeded Philip’s. It was simply a tradition that they should bicker for the first twenty-four hours, and Stanmore had long ago learned just to stay out of the line of fire and out of the servants’ wing.

  Besides, he often thought with a grin, the two would be dreadfully hurt if he ever decided to leave Philip in London.

  By the time Stanmore returned from his swim down by the ruined mill, the carriage conveying his steward and his own personal servants from London had arrived and the household was bustling with activity. Determined to avoid his stewards, the earl retreated to his own chambers to clean up and dress. As a result, he asked no one about Mrs. Ford’s whereabouts, including his valet, who retired quickly from the dressing room with Stanmore’s wet clothes and boots.

  What they had shared in the shadow of the old mill had happened quite unexpectedly. And yet, his arousal had been so potent that even the second dunking in the lake had not completely cooled his ardor. As he stood gazing out his windows at the stables beyond the grove of trees, though, he realized that it was incumbent on him to speak to Rebecca and make her understand that there should be no apologies for what had taken place. They were both adults. Both had past marital experience. Indeed, with a woman like her, candor—or something akin to it—was the best course of action. Just because their stations in life differed substantially, there was no reason why they should not act on their mutual and quite obvious attraction. So long as they maintained a modicum of discretion, so long as she accepted the fact that there could be no permanency in their liaison, what could be the harm in it?

  The knock on the door brought him out of his reverie. Daniel entered with Philip on his heels.

  “I see there is to be no escaping you two today.”

  “Beg pardon, m’lord?” Daniel replied after bowing.

  “What is it?” Stanmore watched Philip circle the chamber, inspecting the furniture for dust or any other sign of expected negligence.

  “M’lord,” Daniel conti
nued, frowning but determined to ignore his brother. “Mr. John Clarke, M.A., is waiting in the library, as your lordship requested.”

  “And drinking your port, more than likely,” Philip muttered as he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from a perfectly starched linen covering a table by the window.

  “Philip, kindly tell Mr. Clarke that I’ll be down shortly.” He paused as the two began to bow themselves out of the room. “And Daniel, see that the new tutor is offered a glass of our best Madeira.”

  John Clarke had not changed much in the almost twenty years since Stanmore had last seen him. When young Samuel Wakefield had been a student at Eton, Mr. Clarke’s old bag wig with the locks of unruly hair sticking out from beneath it had been legendary. And if the man had grown partial to his wine, he didn’t appear to be any the worse for it. After greeting the old scholar and exchanging a few general pleasantries, Stanmore immediately focused his questions on what he wanted to know.

  “From what you have seen of James this morning, Mr. Clarke, do you believe he will be ill-equipped to attend Eton in the fall?”

  “Why no, m’lord.” Clarke bowed slightly, a habit Stanmore noticed him doing after nearly every sentence he spoke. “I would say that Master James is a shy lad. But that’s to be expected, I should think. Of course, that may perhaps hinder him somewhat in making friends. But that is not uncommon in a first year boy.”

  Stanmore moved away from his desk and sought the sunshine pouring in through the large windows looking out over the lake. “How much is he lacking in his studies, compared to other lads of his age?”

  “From what I can see, Master James needs work in the classics. But outside of that, m’lord, he appears quite proficient in his reading, writing, and arithmetic. I even noted the lad speaks a bit of French when prompted.” The scholar clasped his hands behind him and rocked on the heels. Stanmore had seen him do that a hundred times in the classroom and knew that the man was feeling more comfortable. “Of course, I have had only a morning with him. But as we spend more time together, I can assure you that I will see to it that he will be well prepared, by the time fall term starts, in all areas of study.”

  The earl turned his gaze out over the water of the lake. He wondered if Rebecca had returned to the house. Finding that he had to push aside the enticing image of her entwined in his arms, he turned again to the teacher. He couldn’t allow himself to become overly absorbed in this affair.

  “What of his hearing?” he asked, frowning. “What difficulties will arise when he is thrown in with other lads at Eton?”

  Mr. Clarke’s eyes were focused on the colorful pattern of the Persian carpet. Finding his answer in the man’s hesitation, Stanmore turned back to the window.

  “M’lord, that is a difficult q-question. He wouldn’t be the first Etonian to have a hearing p-p-problem. In my judgment, m’lord, Master James…”

  A soft knock on the door drew both men’s gazes. At Stanmore’s call, Rebecca hesitantly opened the door, took a step in, and looked about the room.

  “I must apologize for the intrusion, m’lord,” she said quietly.

  The thought occurred to him that there was something quite charming in the fact that she had not gathered her hair up on top of her head since he’d set it loose by the old mill. The thick waves of red silk tumbled appealingly over her shoulders, bright against the ivory skin and the new dress.

  “Your presence is always welcome, Mrs. Ford.”

  She curtsied shyly to Stanmore but refused to meet his gaze. She turned to the tutor. “Mr. Clarke, by any chance were you planning any lessons for Jamey...for James this afternoon?”

  “I...I th-th-thought...the...the... m-m-m-morning lesson was enough, m-madam.”

  Stanmore turned with surprise to the stammering scholar, who stood blushing fiercely and bowing with every word. A rival, the earl thought, his amused gaze shifting back to Rebecca. He couldn’t help but admire how compassionate and attentive and polite she behaved in the face of the man’s suffering.

  “Then, you have no lessons planned for this afternoon?” she asked gently.

  “N-N-No, madam. As we d-d-discussed earlier, n-n-not f-for the f-first day.”

  The hint of anxiousness that flickered across Rebecca’s face at Clarke’s answer did not go unnoticed by the peer. He noted the way her knuckles went white as she clutched the fabric of her dress.

  “Thank you, Mr. Clarke. M’lord.” She backed toward the door. “I’ll take my leave of y—”

  “Mrs. Ford!”

  She paused with a hand on the latch, her face paling visible.

  “Mr. Clarke, leave us.”

  The tutor mumbled his hasty farewells before departing from the room. After stepping to the side, she stood motionless by the door, but Stanmore could see a storm brewing in the blue eyes.

  “Kindly close the door, Mrs. Ford,” he asked gently.

  She shook her head. “I should prefer not to remain, m’lord. I was on my way—”

  “Mrs. Ford, I am not about to ravish you in this room. Close that door.”

  At her hesitation, Stanmore strode to the door and closed it himself. Turning, he took her hand in his and led her away from the door. The fingers were icy, her expression clearly nervous. She did not try to remove her hand, but her anxiety was palpable.

  “What is wrong, Rebecca?”

  Her head lifted, the troubled eyes meeting his. He saw the small tremble of her chin, and Stanmore had to garner every ounce of his control to keep from pulling her into his arms. His thumb caressed the back of her hand, but she quickly pulled it out of his grasp.

  “James has run off again. Is that it?”

  She took a long moment before finally giving a nod. This confirmed that her nervousness had nothing to do with the intimacy they’d shared by the old mill.

  “Put your mind at rest, Mrs. Ford,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are not in Philadelphia. This is a large estate with many attractions for a lad of his age. Just because you cannot see him every moment of the day, you need not think that he is in any danger There are many who work here, in the house and in the stables and on the farms, and all of them consider it their foremost responsibility to look after the lad. While the lake has its dangers, the boy has made it patently clear that we needn’t worry about that. In short, you can cease your fretting.”

  A deep blush colored the skin of her neck and her cheeks. “I am sorry to appear so foolish, m’lord. Old habits are difficult to break.”

  “There is no need for an apology, Mrs. Ford.”

  Stanmore caught her impatient look toward the door.

  “If you will forgive me, m’lord.” She tried to go around him, but he took hold of her elbow.

  “When was the last time anyone saw the lad? And what is it exactly that has you so alarmed?”

  She gave him a grateful look. “We...I was the last one. I have already spoken to a number of the servants, and it appears that he didn’t come back here after he left the old mill. He is probably still running around in his wet clothes and—”

  “The day is warm and pleasant. I assure you, he will not suffer from being outside.” His words sounded patronizing even to his own ears.

  “I can see that my shortcomings as a parent are readily apparent to you, m’lord. However, I am making every attempt to hold back and allow those who will be very much a part of James’s future to take an active part in his life.” She took in a half breath and stared at some invisible mark on his coat while moving slightly to detach her elbow from his grasp. “Nonetheless, my good intentions and my love for your son are separate matters entirely. I fear I will never be able to sit idly when I think he may be in danger. Good day.”

  It took only a few strides to overtake her at the door. Stanmore knew this was not the time to engage Rebecca in a discussion of love versus attachment. Personally, he seriously doubted that such a thing as love really existed. He’d never been the recipient of it in his life, of that he was certain. He had felt passion, bu
t that was another matter entirely. And he’d never harbored any feeling that he might confuse with love. Attachment, though, was a much simpler matter to deal with. James had lived with her for many years, so naturally she was attached to him. And as these things went, once Rebecca and the boy were separated, they would both adjust. Presently though, he preferred Rebecca to stay at Solgrave, so winning the point would hardly be in his own best interest.

  “Allow me,” he said, opening the door and following her out. “I assume you plan to go in search of him.”

  “I...I was planning to take a walk. The deer park is extensive, but there is a chance I might cross paths with him.”

  “Do you ride, Mrs. Ford?”

  Still avoiding his gaze, she shook her head. “No, m’lord. I think this is hardly the time—”

  “Then I shall arrange for you to learn while you are here at Solgrave. It will facilitate chasing after James immensely, I should think.”

  She nodded politely.

  “I have a proposition for you, Mrs. Ford.” He turned, finding her startled eyes upon him. “I will go after James. I know where he is.”

  “You know?” she cried in disbelief, stopping and facing him.

  “Well, I should say I have a strong suspicion that he has returned to the same ruined cottage where I found him two nights ago.”

  “Then you don’t believe he has run away again.”

  “I do not.” Stanmore turned and moved off a few steps, motioning for a footman to bring his gloves.

  “Have a horse brought around,” he told the servant before turning back to Rebecca. “I believe he has found a refuge of sorts in it. He probably sees it as a place to play…as I assume most young boys would.”

  “But is this cottage not far off?”

  “I’ll ride over myself and make certain he is there. However, getting back to my proposition.” He paused again. “I am planning on staying at Solgrave for a while. I will not be returning to London for a fortnight, at least.”

  She blessed him with a smile that nearly stunned him with its beauty. Rebecca Ford was a woman who needed to smile more, Stanmore thought, forcing himself to move toward the door.