Chapter 16
Oliver responded with a grunt when Sofia knocked, but some of his rancour dissipated at the sight of her.
“Finally! Every time the door opened, I thought it would be you, but alas, a different maid every time. Have they hired every woman in the country to dust their parlours? I don’t think I’ve seen the same one twice.” He lapsed into their native tongue. “It’s good to see you, little flea. Come here.” He held up an arm, then waggled his fingers when she didn’t immediately move in his direction.
“You stole the duke’s liquor. I smelled it on you this morning when I came by to make sure you were still breathing. The bottle was behind the potted plant.”
“I was stabbed! It was medicinal!”
“You’re a drunk and you cannot steal from His Grace.”
“Technically, I did not steal because I came into this world as the legitimate heir seventeen months prior to that uptight bastard. I cannot steal what rightfully belongs to me.”
“Oh, and you want to be the Duke of Northam, do you?”
“No, of course not,” he scoffed, “but that’s entirely beside the point. What I want is enough money to buy the same calibre whisky as that usurper has collecting dust in his cellar, and to make sure my sister never goes hungry again.”
Her arms thrown akimbo, Sofia glared. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not starving. And it’s entirely due to the Ansons.”
Oliver made a disgusted face.
“This is all about you, Oliver. You’re angry at Papa for keeping secrets. You would rather fill your gut with liquor than take a good look at the man you have become. Well, I don’t blame you. I too have the overwhelming urge to drink when I look at you.”
Oliver threw his head back into the pillow, staring silently at the ceiling, then sighed. “I don’t want to fight with you, Sofi. Now that I’m in Northam Hall, I don’t need your help. You can keep your hands and your conscience clean… which is just as well because you’re rot at blackmail. You’re meant to be searching for paperwork, not frolicking with your valet.” His voice had gone soft and teasing but Sofia refused to be moved by the familiar sound. “All I need is a few uninterrupted hours in His Grace the Usurper’s study to compare my bigamist father’s signature, and then we can leave.”
Sofia had the sensation of scrambling for solid ground, like the ocean’s waves were leaching away the sand beneath her feet. The only hope she had of protecting the Ansons with Oliver here on the estate was to remain involved and buy time, however reprehensible the behaviour felt. She walked to the edge of his bed and sat down.
“It won’t be that easy for you. Northam’s study is a hive of activity, and finding you in there will garner more than a little suspicion. The duke is a smart man, and he already senses that you’re trouble. However much I disagree with you, I don’t want to see you transported for theft.” She laced her fingers with his, a plan taking shape in her head.
“I’ll help you. My presence in Gabriel’s study won’t be questioned. I’ll search every drawer until I find what you want, but before I do”—she swallowed hard, her muscles tensing in preparation for the fight she knew was coming—“I want something in return. I want you to stop drinking entirely for a month.”
Oliver jerked his hand away, his mouth already opening to respond as the dark slashes of his eyebrows drew downward. Sofia continued before he had a chance to speak.
“One month, and then I will search his study. You have my word. But you cannot have a drop of alcohol, Oli.” She wanted to demand six weeks, but that left too many opportunities for the situation to go more pear-shaped than it already had. Too many opportunities for someone to notice that, beyond his dark skin and extra weight, Oliver was a mirror image of Gabriel Anson and the duke before him.
The only physical trait Oliver seemed to have inherited from his mother, Sarah’s, side of the family was the pigment of his maternal grandmother’s skin… an aspect of her family tree Sarah had neglected to mention to her husband, the previous Duke of Northam, prior to the birth of their son. Oliver had his grandmother’s beautiful tone, the colour of warm umber.
So unjust that the colour of one’s skin had the power to dictate the choices and paths one had available.From the moment he had come into the world with packaging several shades darker than that of his mother and father, the entire course of Oliver’s life had changed.
According to the letter Oliver and Sofia had found tucked away in one of Sarah’s old books, the letter that had begun the slow unravelling of their lives, Henry, the old duke, had become enraged in the weeks after Oliver’s birth, insistent that Sarah had cuckolded him. Only then had the truth of her lineage been tearfully admitted. Her father was just as she had said, an Italian nobleman with an unremarkable title and no money to speak of, but her mother had been a brown-skinned cobbler’s daughter.
Henry had been willing to condescend to the prospect of raising a half-Italian heir to a dukedom, although he had clearly been in no rush to bring his new bride home, but for his heir to be of mixed African lineage was one step too far. An impulsive marriage, motivated by lust, was difficult enough to sustain, but for their fragile new union to be tested so unexpectedly proved too much trouble for a man who was supposed to be enjoying a grand tour of the Continent. To protect herself and her child, Sarah fled north from Naples to Pisa.
Settled in a new place with no family and an infant to care for, she tried to put that ill-conceived season of matrimony behind her and married Sofia’s papa. Papa was a widower of primarily Sicilian descent who had no children of his own, and he did not care whether the baby in her arms was the son of a duke or his legally begotten son. Oliver was a boy capable of soaking in all the knowledge Papa longed to share, and that was enough.
But safety for Sarah had been brief. She had contracted a fever and passed away shortly after her second marriage. Years passed between Sarah’s death and her papa’s marriage to Sofia’s mother.
Fuelled by the shock of Sarah’s letter, Oliver had researched. And with that research, he’d discovered Henry had declared him and his mother dead at sea from a boating accident. As Henry Anson’s wedding to Sarah, and the entirety of their brief marriage, had taken place on the Peninsula, the few English aristocrats aware of its existence had been happy to ignore his suspicious lack of grief. Instead, they’d celebrated the return of an eligible duke to the British marriage mart. He wed his second wife with the same alacrity as the first. This time, however, he wed a proper English rose—Gabriel’s mother. Gabriel was born before Oliver, the legitimate heir, was even out of nappies.
Four weeks wouldhave to be sufficient time for Oliver to get sober and gain enough clarity to choose a less destructive path. As it was, she was putting too much stock in people’s inability to notice details when the face before them was not white. And as much as she did not wish to acknowledge the evidence that was obvious to anyone who cared to notice, she had no doubt that Oliver Lioni was the “rightful” Duke of Northam. Aside from the colour of his skin, he was a dead ringer for his father, whose massive, life-sized portrait hung in the gallery.
“I mean it, Oliver. Not a glass of wine with dinner, nothing.”
A clash of wills commenced in a minutes-long staring match, wherein neither Lioni was prepared to budge from their stubborn claim to higher ground. Finally, Oliver’s gaze dropped to the counterpane and Sofi nearly crowed her victory. She kissed his cheek instead. “Four weeks isn’t so very long, Oli.” She stroked his stubbled jaw.
“Fine,” he grumbled, wrapping his arms around his sister and pulling her off balance into a hug. “For you, I will do it, little flea. One month.”
Sofia knew Oliver was not doing this for anyone other than himself, but, in that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care. This was her chance to find her brother again. And with any luck, once he was clear-headed, he would come to care too much for this place and its people to see it harmed, just as she had. He wasn’t a monster, just a man who couldn’t see past his own feelings of betrayal. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him yet that Gabriel was just as much a victim of their sire’s misdeeds as he was.
Oliver reclined into his down pillow. “I suppose I can’t ask for better accommodations. This bed alone is enough of a reason to stay put for four weeks.”
“Don’t get too comfortable.” She mussed his hair. “There is too much temptation here, and I cannot ask the duke to lock away all his liquor to make the time pass easier for you. There is a hunting cabin just past the carriage house. It’s stocked with everything that you need and nothing that you do not.”
His eyes narrowed, both hands tunnelling into his hair. “Is that to be my jail cell?”
“No, of course not. Christopher and some of the servants will make themselves available to you. Company for walks, companionship to pass the time, help with keeping house. And I will visit often to slaughter you at checkers.”
“Watchdogs.” He spat the word, colour rising in his cheeks.
Since Sofia could not honestly deny the accuracy of the word, she met the accusation with silence, her lips pressed together. “Call it what you will, but if I am to keep up my half of the bargain, I need to be certain that you are keeping yours. Now, how is your wound?”
“Fine,” he growled.
“Don’t be surly.”
“You can’t expect me to be happy. You’re taking away all the comforts that make the moments between drinks more tolerable.”
When she reached to fold the blankets back, he swatted her hand away. It was an inconsequential, harmless movement, but her body remembered the bruises he had left and reacted instinctively. Lurching backwards, she tucked her arms close to her chest.
Oliver’s eyes widened and his jaw fell slack. Without so much as a blink, he watched her fidget under the scrutiny of his gaze. He shook his head back and forth as if to deny what he had clearly seen.
“What did I do to you?” His normally rich baritone voice sounded empty and cold. “You’re… afraid of me. What the hell did I do, Sofi?” His expression pinched into one of unadulterated disgust, and he shoved his hands beneath the coverlet as if he could no longer stand the sight of them. Her heart ached for Oliver in that moment.
She inched closer, but the turmoil in his eyes stopped her. “I never thought you meant to hurt me. I bruise easily and you were not yourself.”
“That’s just it, Sofi. This is me. I am bitter and brutish and I don’t have the luxury of pretending to be something I’m not. Not when it puts you at risk. This is who I am now, and I don’t know that I’m capable of being anything else. You need to go.”
“Oli, no.”
“Go, Sofi. I’ll play by your rules and tolerate your watchdogs, but I don’t want you anywhere near me until this is done.” She watched his throat work as he swallowed.
“I mean it, little flea.” His voice had fallen off to a mere whisper. “Go.”
Turning, she fled.
Christopher stackedthe last of Gabriel’s freshly starched shirts in the clothespress and closed the drawer. “Gabe, if you don’t need anything more, I’m going to see if Hamish is home.”
Violet was lounging against her husband, reading a scientific journal. At the mention of Hamish, she peeked over the top.
“I would be very pleased to have your company, Violet.” Christopher figured her presence would help as he tried to convince Hamish to spend his time dodging the fists of a grouchy Tuscan.
“Oh yes, I would love to come along!”
Gabriel’s arms tightened around the duchess. “The last words out of your mouth, prior to this invitation, were that you were exhausted and couldn’t possibly spend another moment on your feet.”
“No, what I said was that I couldn’t spend another moment on my feet unless it was on the path to Hamish’s house. You must have misheard.”
Gabriel’s arms didn’t budge, and his gaze met Christopher’s imploringly.
Christopher cleared his throat. “Hamish’s home? You must have misheard me, duchess. What I said is that I would be unavailable in the next few hours, occupied with activities that would be of absolutely no interest to Violet.”
Violet’s nose wrinkled. “Has anyone ever told you that spinelessness is very unattractive?”
“So is unemployment and homelessness I hear,” Gabriel said.
Violet peeled Gabe’s arms from where they still clutched around her slender waist. “The two hours each day where Christopher performs a task pertaining to his duties scarcely constitute work.”
“All the more reason to maintain my position. I’m not cut out for manual labour, Your Grace.”
Determination set in her expression, she stood. “Very well. You two may remain here discussing the state of Christopher’s employment while I visit Hamish. I’ll fetch the children. Zach will want to see him.” She gave Gabriel a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned and quit the room.
Gabriel watched her go before planting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor between his feet.
Christopher watched him, not unsympathetically. “Violet isn’t the sort of woman that can be penned in for your peace of mind, Gabe. She’s rather like one of her goats. Patch one hole in the fence and she will barrel through another before you’ve had time to put the hammer away.”
“I know that, Keene. Of course I know that.” He shook his head.
“I don’t suppose any actual conversation has occurred. Are you planning to wait until she’s round enough that she can no longer reach her feet to put on her shoes?”
Despondently, Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“With all due respect, I believe you’ve already ‘done it.’ Now you need only sit back and wait the required amount of time for a tiny, loud human to arrive.”
Gabriel shot him an impatient look. “Come on. If we don’t hurry, Violet will be halfway there by the time we make it out the door. Maybe on the way you can tell me more about where babies come from.”
Christopher pickedat his supper and tried to pretend that he wasn’t constantly aware of Sofia’s absence at the meal.
“Have you seen?—”
“She was headed towards the carriage house,” Jeremy replied.
Nodding his thanks, Christopher abandoned his meal and left through the kitchen door, passing by the carriage house en route to the cabin. He was eager to see Oliver settled and to reassure Sofia that plans were in place. Eager to see her, full stop.
He found Sofia in the sitting room, clutching a bouquet from the garden. She didn’t turn around when the front door clicked shut nor when he cleared his throat.
“Sofi?”
Her head snapped up, then back down to the flowers in her hand. “I wanted to leave him something cheerful so he would know I was thinking about him.”
Christopher nodded, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders, then eased closer.
“But then I realised that anything I placed them in would make an unforgiving projectile if it met with someone’s head.” She let out a humourless laugh.
Christopher slipped the bouquet from her fingers. “How long have you been standing here?”
“A while,” she admitted. “He’ll stay in the cabin and tolerate the company of his ‘jailors,’ but he doesn’t want to see me.”
Christopher nodded even though he didn’t precisely understand.
“He doesn’t want to subject me to his temper. If he loses control, he’s worried he will… hurt me.”
Christopher let out a breath and reached for her hand. It was the first glimmer of decency he’d seen in Oliver, but the decision was clearly wreaking havoc on Sofia, so he held his tongue.
“I don’t want to leave him to deal with this all by himself.”
Christopher lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles, holding them against his mouth for a long moment before letting them go. “This isn’t something you can help him through, sweetheart. No one can really. But he agreed to come, so that’s got to mean something. How did you get him to agree?”
She shook her head and looked away. She would not answer him, he realised.
“I’ll stay with him tonight. Hamish and Jeremy have both agreed to help, but in the end, it will have to be his choice.”Christopher changed the subject. “How many years separate you from your brother?”
“Almost ten. He is thirty-eight years old. Oliver’s mother, Sarah, passed to her reward when Oliver was a mere babe. It was years before Papa married my mother, and then I arrived.”
“What of your mother? You’ve never mentioned her.”
She shrugged one delicate shoulder. “I don’t remember much, and what I do isn’t worth remembering.”
Christopher stepped away to fetch a lightweight tin cup, then began arranging the flowers Sofia had collected.
“She left my father when I was small. I don’t think motherhood was what she thought it would be. She avoided both my brother and I whenever possible, but she used to plait my hair at night. One tight, economical braid.” She trailed her fingers down the nape of her neck. “Even though there was nothing gentle or comforting in her rushed fingers, I thought of it as our special time together. She sat quietly while I rambled on about my day, allowing me to empty all my stories and adventures into the space between us. One year, my brother bought me a beautiful doll for Christmas. I loved her, but her hair wasn’t quite long enough for my clumsy fingers to weave together.”
Christopher watched her surreptitiously as she disappeared into the memory, her eyes far away from the small room. He continued moving the flowers in various arrangements, giving no attention whatsoever to the task.
“No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t plait her hair. I became frustrated and cried. When I didn’t stop at Mama’s command, she threw her hands into the air and asked what the problem was.”
Christopher trimmed the end of a long stem and placed it back into the water, then turned, waiting for her to continue.
“I told her I wanted to be a good mother and arrange her hair, to show her that I loved her.” Sofia’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I feel so stupid now, so naive to have seen affection where there was none. She told me that love had nothing to do with it. That she only plaited my hair at night because five minutes of wasted time and inane chatter was preferable to the thirty minutes she would have to endure untangling my rat’s nest in the morning if my hair was not contained.”
Christopher loosened his choking hold on the single flower, tucked it beside the others in the tin cup, and took the three steps that brought him to her side. Close enough to touch. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop himself from doing so, certain that if he did, Sofia would realise the door she’d left cracked open for him and slide it closed.
“Still, my childish heart searched for a means to earn her love. I thought that if she never had to be troubled with my hair, she might come to like me more, so I fetched her sewing scissors and ran out of doors. I was getting ready to cut off my hair when my brother found me and wrestled the scissors from my hands. I exploded. Told him everything. From that night until I learned to do the task on my own, Oliver plaited my hair before bed.”
Sofia looked up, her dark eyes wide. “And he didn’t rush me, nor was he silent. He laughed and asked questions, even about the parts of the day he’d been with me. He listened like every story was new. Like there was nowhere else he wanted to be and no one else he would rather listen to.”
Christopher was certain his heart would never be the same again, cracked wide open by his sadness for the little girl Sofia had been and by his tenderness for the woman before him. A woman who was desperate to bring back some of the brother who had shown her love when no one else had.
He pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond. He wanted to hold her. To reassure her that she was perfect and loveable and that he would do anything to protect her heart from ever being hurt again. To beg to be the one who heard her stories about each day as she readied for bed. But he understood how difficult it must be to accept those kinds of words when love had been so cruelly withheld at an age when it should have been abundant. So he swallowed his promises, rusty in his throat, and kissed her instead. Softly. Gently.
“Let’s go and get that brother of yours.”