She couldn’t wait to tell Samantha.
Chapter Twelve
One week. He’d been in residence in Glenwood Manor for one week and he was ready to bloody kill himself.
Maybe not that extreme, but he was dangerously close. He’d always heard stories of haunted castles; he never realized he owned one.
But he was quite certain that the ghosts haunted only him.
And that the haunting was in his own memory.
Everywhere he turned, some reminiscence surfaced. He couldn’t walk into the breakfast room in peace without some damn word from his father floating through his memory, reminding him of all the ways he’d failed. Every mirror he’d pass would reflect the man he used to be, not the man he was.
And the bloody silence.
It was like the inside of a crypt.
The servants walked around silently, whispering in soft tones only when absolutely necessary, a result of decades of training to be invisible to avoid wrath.
It was as if they expected him to be his father, and as such, had reverted to walking on eggshells that had defined the way of life at Glenwood Manor.
Ramsey knew it all too well. Like walking on fragile ice, you stepped cautiously, trying to remain unseen, unnoticed, to simply blend in.
It was easy for the servants. They were imagined so far below his father’s station that they were only spoken to when absolutely necessary. Almost as if the man thought just speaking to them muddied his hands from their lower station. Ramsey shook his head in memory.
But as a child, the only child, the heir, Ramsey couldn’t hide from his father’s view or scrutiny.
He stood from the chair in his study and walked over to the window. The hill behind the manor was stately, an ancient wood pointed to the heavens like tiny green arrows, while the white puffy clouds made the sky a richer blue in contrast. But the beauty was lost to him. He felt like a prisoner looking through bars of a jail cell at a sight that was just a reminder of freedom out of reach.
Facing his demons had been harder than he had anticipated. He closed his eyes and leaned a hand on the window frame.
A timid knock came at the door, and Ramsey welcomed the intrusion on his bleak thoughts. “Yes?” He turned.
“Pardon, my lord. But I took the liberty of bringing you tea.” The longtime housekeeper, Mrs. White, cautiously walked into the room with a servant girl following her with a tray laden with tea things.
“Thank you, how very kind,” Ramsey replied, trying to be everything his father was not. In a word, he wanted to be gentle.
Such a simple word with such complicated execution.
“You’re quite welcome, my lord. Shall I pour for you?” she asked after dismissing the servant girl.
“Yes, please.” He was grateful for her thoughtfulness. Growing up, she had always been the one he could count on for a word of encouragement.
“Still two sugars?” she asked, a twinkle in her green eyes, a touch cloudier in complexion than he remembered.
“Yes, of course,” he replied. Then proceeded to do something his father would never have supported. “Thank you, Mrs. White. You’ve been loyal and kind and often the only encouraging voice I can remember. I don’t know that I ever said how much I appreciated you, but I give you my thanks now.” He bowed his head respectfully.
Mrs. White blinked, handed him the cup of tea, and then withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Oh, my lord. I cannot tell you how that blesses my heart.” She paused, then tilted her head as if considering him.
“Yes?” he encouraged.
“May I be frank, my lord?” she asked, albeit a bit insecure.
“I would treasure your frank opinion, Mrs. White.” He took a tentative sip of tea. Perfect.
Mrs. White twisted her wrinkled lips and then took a breath. “From the day you were born, we knew there was only two options for you.”
Ramsey blinked, intrigued. “Yes?”
“You would either be worse than your father, God rest his soul, or you’d never measure up to whatever forsaken standard he created for you. Regardless, you would lose either way. You were born without hope, my lord. I cannot tell you how it has plagued me to watch you grow, and be helpless to offer any solace to your young heart.”
Ramsey was moved by her insight and care, but was also practical enough to understand it was impossible for anyone to combat the powerful influence of his father’s will, let alone for a servant even to try. He appreciated her heart, however, and felt it necessary to mention as much. “You did what you could, and I appreciate every effort. My father was not a man to be challenged, and in your way, you assisted more than you can ever know.”
The housekeeper, clearly relaxing as she hitched a shoulder, continued. “We tried ever so hard, my lord. We took extra caution not to excite the master or stir his wrath in any way. We kept quiet, moving about the house as ghosts, we did. It seemed the smoother things ran at the estate, the less anxious and . . . exacting he would be to you.” She sighed. “But I’m afraid all our efforts only amounted to a small help, and for that I have deep regret, my lord.”
Ramsey considered her words, mulled them about in his mind as he looked at their hidden meaning.
The silence.
The walking on eggshells.
The blending in.
The ghosting of the servants . . . was all for him.
For his benefit.
To ease the wrath of a tyrannical father on his only son, an entire household of servants had mobilized to do anything they could to provide whatever protection they could offer him.
It was humbling.
It was startling.
It was . . . healing.
“Mrs. White. I don’t know what to say,” he answered inarticulately. “I had no idea that you had all taken such great pains.”
“It was happily done sir. You always were such a kind, good boy,” she answered.
And of all the things she had said, that was the most profound. Good? Kind? Never once had he used those words to identify himself, let alone his childhood.
Inadequate.
Imperfect.
Lazy.
Those were the words that bore his name as a child. Yet in a swift turn, he wondered if maybe Mrs. White spoke the truth.
“I can see you don’t believe me, my lord. And after all the times your father spoke such opposite things over you, I can comprehend why.” She paused, as if just stopping herself from going further. Her eyes sharpened, and some sort of resolution was fixed. She gave a slight shake of her head, then continued. “But it’s the truth. Never once can I remember anyone having a harsh word from you. Rather, remember the time you took a beating because you said thank you to the butler for finding your lost boot? I can’t tell you how Salberry was tortured for feeling he aided in such a cruel treatment of you. And then the time you found cook’s little one above stairs, nearly toddling into your father’s library. Good Lord, I can’t even imagine what would have happened had you not scooped up the little boy and carried him to the kitchens. Cook is convinced you saved her position in the household. My lord, I could name time and time again.” She paused, considering him.
It was too much.
It was one thing to think that your father could be wrong in all the horrible things spoken over you, and your future as a child. But to have someone who lived in the same hell, who knew the man behind the title, and confirm those same helpless feelings.... He scarcely knew how to fathom such a thing.
And rather than feel alone, he felt all the weight of an entire staff supporting him, pulling for him, supplying him with assistance whenever in their power to give it. In a five-minute stretch, so much of what he had known as a child had turned on its ear, in the most helpful way.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Mrs. White asked.
Ramsey didn’t trust his voice, so he simply shook his head. The housekeeper curtsied, and then quit the room.
Leaving him with his spinning th
oughts, though, this time he wasn’t as haunted by them. Like looking through the backside of a mirror, he reflected on his childhood, and saw things differently. He wouldn’t put it past Mrs. White to embellish the truth about his character as a boy, but he certainly didn’t believe her to be dishonest about such a thing. That being the case, what she said had to carry some weight, had to be built upon truth.
Why was it that one could go throughout life knowing that they were more than what they’d been told they were, but it never fully took root till someone else, someone who had walked that similar road, came alongside to affirm it? How long had he tried to convince himself that he was worthy, honorable in spite of the many failures and especially the sham that was his marriage? Yet all his efforts were to no avail.
A simply violent, desperate attempt to validate himself, only to fall short time and time again.
Only to prove his father right, again and again.
It was a whirlpool, pulling him lower and lower without any aid to rise above the torrent.
Heathcliff and Lucas had many times encouraged, affirmed, and even stated frankly that his father was a bastard. And Ramsey agreed that his father was one of the cruelest men, but certainly some of that leaked into him. He was, after all, his father’s son. So as such, Ramsey had seen himself with the truth that not only did his father’s cruelty lurk deep within him, but he carried what his father never seemed to touch—shame.
In turn that only equaled one thing: utter and complete failure.
But Mrs. White’s words were like a balm to the gaping wound of his soul. Because she knew. She had lived in the manor, seen the fits of rage that would send crystal to shattering, walls to shaking, and often, Ramsey to his room with welts, bleeding and bruised. And for her to say it wasn’t deserved. For her to tell him that he wasn’t his father . . . well, if anyone knew it, it would be she.
And the weight of three decades of self-recrimination fell off his shoulders like unloading a heavily laden cart. He breathed deeply, this new freedom from within, and gave his head a slightly astounded shake.
All this time, he thought the demons he needed to face bore his father’s name.
But in truth, the demons were far closer. They were within his own heart, believing the lies his father spoke, owning those lies, living them out.
No more.
He glanced to the window and then strode over to it, for the first time appreciating the view.
Because he was no longer that prisoner; he was set free.
And freedom was a beautiful thing, indeed.
Chapter Thirteen
Grace bit back a smile of anticipation as they arrived at the Morris ball that evening. She hadn’t said much to Samantha by way of her new acquaintance, but had implied that she was excited for the evening. She was sure that Samantha and the viscount would be watching with interest, but she didn’t concern herself with it.
The Morris estate was a beautiful residence on Park Lane, with great stone pillars guarding the entrance. The grandeur of the entrance was built upon by the high-rising balcony overlooking the beautiful ballroom of their residence. It was a well-attended party, and Grace heard Samantha mention “crush” to describe it. It was an accurate representation of the collection of people, but rather than feel suffocated, she was too excited as she looked for a particular individual. The music floated through the air while footmen in scarlet offered lemonade to those who forwent the current dance.
Lord Wiltmen approached their party and asked for the next dance. Grace could feel Samantha’s scrutiny, probably wondering if this were the gentleman who had caught her fancy. Grace ignored her attention and graciously accepted Lord Wiltmen’s invitation. He gave a crisp bow and promised to return.
When Grace turned to Samantha, her eyebrows raised in silent question. Grace gave a definitive shake of her head and lifted a glass of lemonade from the passing footman’s tray.
“Would it be unforgivable for me to say I’m quite exhausted with the London scene?” the viscount commented quietly to his wife, but Grace overheard and gave a slight grin.
“Yes.” Samantha replied succinctly. “Especially here.” She gave a slightly arched brow expression. “You may seek refuge in your sanctuary later on.” She gave shake to her head as she smiled.
Grace bit back a grin. She’d often wished to know more about the mentioned “sanctuary,” but hadn’t been able to learn much. All she knew was that it was a place of business of some sort, and that it brought the viscount back early in the morning. When she asked Samantha, she was given a very short, curt answer.
Which had to mean it was scandalous or off limits. But she couldn’t imagine anything too scandalous since Lord Ramsey was involved. Wasn’t he utterly terrified of scandal?
And for good reason.
If half of what happened to him had plagued her, she would be terrified it of it as well.
The music ended and the musicians paused before beginning once again. Grace turned to find Lord Wiltmen approaching. He offered his arm, which she accepted, and they were off to the dance floor.
It was the cotillion, which was one of her more graceful dances, and belatedly she felt a shiver of apprehension. What if Lord Westhouse requested a waltz? Good Lord, she’d be forced to warn him to watch his feet. It was only the kind thing to do, wasn’t it? But it was humiliating, too. Just the thought made her stumble on the turn for the current dance.
The cotillion made conversation difficult, but to Lord Wiltmen’s credit, he tried to engage her as much as possible. He was a kind man, but there wasn’t any spark that set her to seeking further acquaintance. And when the dance ended, he took her back to the viscount and then took his leave.
“He’s a nice gentleman.” Samantha remarked, watching him leave.
“Yes.” Grace couldn’t deny it.
She waited for Samantha’s reply, but instead was met by silence. As she turned to her friend, her attention was engaged just over Grace’s shoulder. A shiver of awareness tickled down her spine, and before she could identity it, a somewhat familiar voice spoke her name.
“Ah, Miss Grace, what a pleasure to see you again.”
Grace couldn’t restrain her grin, but tried to at least temper it before she turned and met the engaging blue gaze of Lord Westhouse. “A pleasure to see you as well. I had no idea you’d be here!” she teased, then laughed softly,
“Imagine that!” he played along. “I do love to surprise unsuspecting ladies.”
“You’re all charm and delight, Lord Westhouse,” Grace remarked, her breath catching as he reached out to grasp her hand and kiss it. His blue eyes searched hers, and breathlessness overcame her.
A gentle touch at her back made Grace remember her place, and she slowly withdrew her hand and turned enough to allow for introductions. After swallowing back her response to Lord Westhouse, she turned to meet Samantha’s inquiring gaze.
“Lady Kilpatrick, allow me to introduce you to Lord Westhouse.” Grace stepped back slightly to allow for a better situation.
Samantha offered her hand and Lord Westhouse bowed over it, then released her.
Grace fancied that he held her hand much longer, and she hoped that it indicated his interest in her.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Samantha replied. “My husband just departed to speak with a friend. I’ll have to make the introductions later, I’m afraid.”
Grace glanced behind Samantha and noted that the viscount had his back turned to them, speaking to another gentleman, one she didn’t recognize.
But then of course, she didn’t recognize many of the ton.
“I was hoping to collect on one of the dances you promised.” Lord Westhouse turned back to Grace, his smile welcoming.
“Of course, I’d be honored.” Grace replied. Please don’t ask for a waltz! she thought furiously as she forced her expression to remain calm while he continued.
“Would you honor me with the supper waltz?” he asked, his blue eyes regarding her eagerly
.
Grace silently groaned, but she gave a bright smile and nodded. “Of course.”
“Then I shall be back a little later to collect on that dance,” he remarked, then with a swift bow and a lingering look, he turned and left.
Grace watched his departure with interest, regarding the way that several ladies followed him with their gazes, and noting the way he cut a fine figure in his evening kit.
“So, I’m assuming that the reason you found the prospect of this ball more promising just walked away,” Samantha remarked quietly, her voice soft to keep from eavesdroppers.
Grace gave a slow nod, not quite ready to cease watching his departure. When he was hidden from view behind several people, she finally turned to face Samantha.
“Is he not charming?” Grace asked.
Samantha gave an amused grin. “He is indeed. His name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it,” she added thoughtfully. “Once the viscount ends his conversation and returns, I’ll have to inquire about him.”
After a moment’s pause, Grace watched while Samantha took a breath, then paused, her expression full of a question. “A waltz,” she simply stated.
Grace nodded slowly, understanding all the implications beneath the simple statement. “A waltz,” she repeated.
Samantha looked as if she wished to say something more, but then thought better of it and simply reached over and patted Grace’s shoulder. “It will be just fine.”
Grace gave her a rueful smile. “Oh, I know I’ll be fine. I rarely step on my own toes; it’s his toes for which I’m concerned.”
Samantha covered her lips with her gloved fingers to stifle a laugh. “You’ve improved.”
“Not nearly enough to cease being a danger,” Grace mumbled softly, then glanced back to where Lord Westhouse had disappeared. Just over the crowd, she could see a profile of his face before he turned to face the other direction.
Dear lord, he was handsome.
The next few dances began, and Grace was engaged for each by a different partner. Each dance left her with more nervous energy than when she had begun, and as the supper waltz music began, her hands were perspiring under her gloves.
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