Chapter 5
Stretching his legs after supper was a preferred habit of Ronan’s that he had started within the last couple of years. He couldn’t quite recall how it had begun, or he simply didn’t wish to remember, and only tried to use the time to sort out his thoughts.
“It’ll snow again.”
A duke is never alone. Wasn’t that what Father taught me? I cannot be too peeved, I suppose, since I invited him.
He sent a dour look to Hobbes trailing alongside him with a small booklet and pen. Half a mile from the house, they had slowed their conversation as he grew lost in thought. The butler has been polite enough not to interrupt him until now.
Noting the way the old man was slowing down and limping, however, Ronan restrained the sigh. “Let’s turn back.”
“You usually go twice as far,” Hobbes said with a frown.
They both knew the older man would deny any knee pain, so Ronan muttered, “I’m tired and it’s cold. The nursemaid can carry on as they always do.”
“I shouldn’t like to disrupt your usual schedule. You don’t need to mind me.” Hobbes gave a hard nod before starting forward––away from the house.
This time Ronan rolled his eyes. He stuffed his hands into his coat but trailed behind as they picked the walk back up. Tall as he was, and being duke, he typically chose a long stride that had him ahead of the nursemaid.
“Down, down, pwease!”
Chuckling, the nursemaid obeyed her little charge. “All right, then. Cap first and there we go! Look at you.”
They were several yards ahead, those two. He paused to watch as the young boy jumped three times and clapped his hands. Those blond curls of his bounced just as high. The boy saw him and waved before immediately growing distracted with a bird flitting by right off the path.
“How did matters fare this morning?”
Tearing his gaze from the boy, Ronan eyed his butler.
Whatever softness started to settle within his ribs grew firm.
Most of the time, Hobbes knew better than to ask invasive questions.
This one sounded innocent. But there was a glimmer in his eyes and they both knew.
They knew what Ronan had gone to do that morning.
So he turned away. “London is dreary as ever.”
This was one of the smallest estates he owned, only comparable to his London townhouse that hadn’t been inhabited for over four years.
This one, Golden Corner, was a large cottage with eight bed chambers.
It was the first property his father had purchased once he was given the title for his accomplishments with his gold mines in three countries.
Wealth made on blood and pain and darkness.
Each mine had been visited by him first in his youth and then once he came into the title.
Both times, he had sworn never to go back.
He had since closed down one of them when two shafts collapsed, killing twelve people.
The other two were adapted for better safety conditions.
He had considered closing them. Tried, even.
But there was so much legal tape tied up with the Crown that he couldn’t make it happen.
All he could do was try to manage them better.
But all of it had left a mark on him. Everything within his family had marked him.
Ronan’s past had drained him, bit by bit, weighing him, until dreary was his entire world.
“Both of us know I did not speak of London. I meant your conversation with the young lady who insisted upon a betrothal that was never formalized or established by you,” Hobbes reprimanded him in a gentle scolding tone.
“You’re a clever lad. You would have discovered her name and home quickly enough.
Did you speak to her? Resolve the matter? ”
His lips twitched before he could help it. “You haven’t called me a lad in years.”
“Because we have a new lad in the house. Master Ollie.”
Together they turned to the two-year-old Oliver who was laughing as he ran from his nursemaid. The harried woman glanced back at them with worry before charging after him with his cap in hand. Already his ears were red with the chill but he didn’t seem to mind.
An absolute scamp. Just like his mother. Only he doesn’t like me as much. Why doesn’t he like me?
“We do indeed,” Ronan murmured, hating himself for keeping his distance. But Oliver never cared for him when he came around. The boy always tucked himself into Anne, the nursemaid, but never him.
“A charming lad, our Ollie. You should go to him.”
“No, Anne has him sorted.”
The two of them paused to watch Anne collect the boy in her arms, the two of them laughing.
It was her daughter, Mary Anne, who had nursed Ollie through his first year of life.
Then she had left for the Americas and now Anne, with no family thereabouts, had accepted the roll.
She was slowing down these days with her old bones but reassured Ronan that the boy kept her young.
Of course, that could be a lie, Ronan realized. He watched her hold the boy for only a moment before setting him down. As the lad took off once more, she was stretching her back.
"Anne," he said in a low voice. “How does she fare? Does she complain oft?”
Hobbes came closer to give him a wary look. “She is three and sixty, Your Grace. It can be a difficult age, especially for managing a spray young master. But she does well. You can see for yourself.”
“Blast it, Hobbes, I mean that I am concerned for her welfare. If she injures herself, then Oliver…” Ronan clenched his jaw. “I will not put her out. There will always be space for her. You should know I would never be so cruel. But does she need help? Help she will never ask me for?”
The sternness in Hobbes’ face softened. Too much. Ronan turned away, hunching his shoulders. He was not here for kindness, for sympathy, or even understanding.
“I beg your pardon for any assumptions,” his butler said at last. “You have always been considerate, Your Grace. A good man. I believe soon, yes, Anne might appreciate some help. It may take even three maids to manage the spry young master,” he added on a lighter note.
Ronan gave a short nod. “Thank you.”
I suppose then that everything will sort out just the way it would. I was right.
“That being said, I did note your distinctive avoidance to my prior attempts to talk with you about the young lady. What did you find today during your short morning in London?”
Careful not to look the man in the eye, Ronan answered, “I may have found the woman I’m going to marry.”
“What?” Hobbes dropped his paper and pen. Harrumphing, he attempted to bend down for them. But his knee was clearly bothering him. It was a struggle to sort out, a once spry man of military experience now weathering the later years. “I say, Your Grace, if I… erm, hold on…”
Unable to watch him struggle like that another second, Ronan retrieved the fallen items. The paper was dampened by the ground.
Still, his list remained legible of all the requests he started to make.
The townhouse was to be cleaned up and filled with a few servants, some of his luggage brought there, and a room updated here at this estate.
“Here.”
Hobbes scowled at the help but accepted it nonetheless. He nodded his gratitude, straightening the papers and brushing off some dirt and melting snow. “Thank you, Your Grace. Might I inquire as to why you would be choosing a wife all of a sudden?”
“Why not? I am a duke. It is expected.” Ronan nodded to Anne who was glancing back at them. He gestured back toward the house and turned, pausing only for Hobbes to join him.
His servant was still pulling himself together through the shock. The older man wasn’t known for his stammering. “Yes, but… You don’t simply… Your Grace, surely a matter as serious as a marriage should be taken carefully. Seriously.”
That was an old lecture Ronan hadn’t heard in a long time.
Surely the entire household could recite the lectures he once received from his father.
Marriage was important, marriage was brilliant, marriage was necessary.
It was mentioned once after his father passed, by a solicitor, and Ronan had promptly let him go.
I rehired him the next week, but it did a fine job in silencing the topic for good. Or at least for a few years.
“You told me last month I was the most serious man you know.”
He started walking again, picking up his feet, as the cold began to get to him.
It seeped through his boots and gloves and scarf.
Most of the snow was beginning to melt here.
But there was a chill inside of him that he couldn’t seem to thaw.
Having uncomfortable conversations such as these did nothing to help the matter.
“Which begs the question about this impulsive choice.” Hobbes collected himself through deep breaths.
“I know you like your games. Or used to. But this… marriage isn’t just about a clever match like your father always desired.
It’s not about appearances amongst the ton and it’s not meant to solve problems you think you might have.
Choosing a wife, that should be about heart. About trust.”
Ronan frowned. “Do you not trust me?”
“I would never say such a thing.”
“Then trust me now.”
“I do, Your Grace,” Hobbes’ terse voice came through, raising Ronan’s hackles as it was abundantly clear his servant still had something more to say. “But it’s not simply about you anymore. You are more than just Ronan now.”
He turned back with a frown to his servant, but paused. Hobbes nodded behind them as they both glanced at Anne cooing to Oliver who had agreed to be put back in his pram. He must have finally settled down. Soon, he would have his bath and be put to bed.
No, it’s not just about me any longer. It hasn’t been for years. What haven’t I done to make amends? To try to fix the past? Hobbes doesn’t understand yet but this is why I am doing it, why I must wed.
“It’s not for me,” Ronan admitted, his voice low and raw. “It’s for him.”
Hobbes inhaled deeply, his voice shaky when he managed a quiet note of understanding. “Ah. I see.”
After all, this was not the world that young Oliver Ward was supposed to be living in. He deserved something else, something better. Already he had lost so much. All Ronan had been able to give him so far was a family name and maids who could make him smile any part of the day.
Just thinking of the boy made his heart wrench in a painful manner. He didn’t know what he was doing. He’d never been an uncle before. He’d hardly been a brother. All Ronan wanted was to make amends. He was willing to do whatever it took, even be a father.
If only I knew how.
“Does she know?” Hobbes asked when they resumed their walk.
“No.”
“She should. Everyone should. The fact that there was no announcement…”
Ronan scoffed loudly. “To say what? A healthy boy who has no parents?”
“You took him in. He’s family.”
“The ton will want to know more. They always have questions. Their noses are everywhere they don’t belong,” Ronan added on a harsh note. “I have kept him hidden and safe.”
Hobbes nodded. “I know. You’ve done well by him. But what about when he wants to see the world? We all know your father couldn’t stop you from exploring. Will you lock Master Ollie up when he grows older? He deserves to belong in your world as you have before.”
Blast it, I hate it when he is right.
It wasn’t that Ronan disagreed. He simply didn’t want the world to know. To care. To see without understanding. Yes, he intended to formally adopt the boy as his own. But he hadn’t announced the birth––just the death. Few people knew of his existence, and that offered a modicum of peace out here.
All along, I have known I would need to introduce him to the world. Already there are questions and eyes on us. Now that he visits the village with us, people see. They talk. And the rumors will grow into a dragon I cannot slay.
“I will right this,” Ronan said as they reached the house. The two men clambered inside but stayed close for Anne and Oliver to make their return as well. “The marriage will help matters. Everyone loves a wedding.”
“Very well. I suppose it makes sense, then, your requests,” Hobbes added with a short wave to the notebook. “I shall do what I can. Will it be a quick wedding, then?”
He shook his head. “No, there’s no rush to marry. Custom expects a betrothal. This will give me time to observe the lady, see what sort she truly is. Above all, she must be trustworthy.”
Nodding, his servant gave him a thoughtful smile before opening the door. There was Anne scooping the sleeping boy out of the pram. She struggled with him in his arms, coming around the wheels. It jerked slightly so Hobbes stepped up to manage the miniature vehicle.
As for Ronan, he offered his arms. “I’ll take the boy.”
“Are you certain?”
It was easiest for him to be around Oliver when the young child was already asleep. Most nights he watched Anne sing him to sleep, hiding back in the shadows before taking a turn in the rocking chair. “I am. We can skip his bath tonight, I think. Shall we take him to bed, Anne?”
“Yes, yes, Your Grace. I think that’s a fine idea. Poor boy is tuckered. Might I lead the way for you? Let me take a candle.”
“I’ll prepare your evening soak,” Hobbes murmured quietly.
Ronan nodded in agreement as he followed after Anne. They made their way through the quiet house. In his arms, he carried the warm body of the boy who slept peacefully without a care in the world. He looked so angelic it nearly broke Ronan.
Tonight, he didn’t stay long. He returned to his bed chamber and spent most of the night staring out into the starry sky, cursing his own existence.