Chapter 9 #2
“Never liked the fellow,” he muttered. “A shallow, self-absorbed fribble, out for his own gain. Had I been here, I would have advised you against the match.”
Her lips quirked. “And I would likely not have listened.”
Jack grinned. “True. But then I would have simply gone and pummeled Matherton to a pulp to warn him off.”
The arrival of tea and a hearty selection of pastries forestalled any further discussion of the subject. The housekeeper had insisted on carrying in the tray herself and went through the ritual of arranging the table with everything positioned in perfect order.
“Cook sent your favorite gingersnaps, Master Jack, along with the cakes. And she promises to have a custard tart ready for supper.”
“Thank you.”
“I had her add a wedge of Stilton and a slice of pigeon pie to accompany the fresh-baked bread.” Peering over her spectacles, she clucked in disapproval. “Look at you, poor mite. You need some good English fare to put some flesh back on those bones. Thin as a rail, you are.”
“And twice as pale—isn’t that how the old nursery rhyme goes?” Kyra ducked her head to hide a smile. Even in his present state, her old friend was hardly a ‘mite.’
Mrs. Ganton wagged a finger at her. “You, too, Missy. A tiny sparrow eats more than you do. When I come back, I don’t want to see aught but crumbs left on this platter.”
Jack snapped off a jaunty salute. “You know I never dare disobey a direct order from you, Ganny.”
“Hmmph.” The housekeeper tried to maintain a stern expression, but as she moved through the blade of sunlight, the glitter of wetness in her eyes softened the effect. “And pigs may fly.”
“Speaking of gammon, I would welcome a platter of Cook’s special spiced ham for supper.”
“I shall pass on the request,” answered Mrs. Ganton. “No doubt she will cosset you with any delicacy your heart desires.”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child—isn’t that an old English adage?”
Kyra looked around to find Rafael leaning against the fluted moldings of the doorway. His face was angled in such a way as to hide all but the upward curl of his mouth.
“Indeed,” replied Jack cheerfully. “A fact that was drummed into me often enough in my misspent youth. The slap of the birch on my bum left a lasting impression!”
“Oh, fustian,” she said. “As if your father ever resorted to corporal punishment, much as you deserved it.”
“Well, I might be guilty of a slight exaggeration—but I’m sure Cook took a cooking spoon to my bottom when I filched a handful of her freshly baked gingersnaps.”
Straightening from his slouch, Rafael interrupted the banter by clearing his throat. “Speaking of your father, Jack . . .” He stepped back to reveal the earl’s frail figure hovering in the shadows.
Hendrie took a tentative step forward. “Dear God in Heaven. D-Dare I believe it is really you?”
Jack levered to his feet, and in the flickers of sunlight dancing in through the windows, she saw a spasm of emotions ripple beneath his usual sardonic smile.
“Halloo, Father. Yes, I’m afraid you are stuck with me for a little while longer. Like a cocklebur, I seem to be a stubbornly difficult entity to dislodge from this mortal world.”
Hendrie drew in a lungful of air and let it out in a wordless sigh.
The sound seemed to break the awkward silence. Both father and son moved at once and in a heartbeat were in each other’s arms.
Kyra quietly rose and went to join Rafael in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on the intimacy of the moment.
“I seem to have turned into a watering pot this afternoon,” sniffed the earl when at last he broke off his embrace and began to search his pockets for a handkerchief.
Jack’s eyes were none too dry either, she noted. “Would you care to join us for some tea, sir? I will ring?—”
“To the devil with tea,” said Rafael. “I think the occasion calls for a bottle of champagne.”
A loud pop, a cheerful fizz. Rafael watched the sparkling wine bubble up in the crystal glasses, the effervescence swirling with the soft laughter to create a simple symphony of joy.
As Hendrie poured the libations, Jack was recounting the details of his ordeal—the slow recovery of his consciousness, the difficult retreat through Spain to French territory, the kind French officer who had befriended him and helped arrange his freedom and, finally, passage back to England.
Rafael knew from his own experience that there was a darker side to the story that his cousin was holding back.
The fetid field hospitals, the screams of the dying, the agony of bouncing over rutted roads
Those nightmares would linger, but he and Jack were among the lucky ones. They were alive.
Alive.
“A toast,” he said, raising his glass. “To life.”
“Amen to that,” seconded his uncle with unabashed enthusiasm.
Kyra’s reaction was harder to discern. She hesitated and seemed to be contemplating the tempest of tiny bubbles exploding in her wine.
Which must mirror her own conflicting feelings, he mused. Her heartfelt joy at the return from the dead of her old childhood friend had to be tempered by the painful reminder of her sister’s tragic accident.
There would be no miraculous resurrection.
As for her own spirit . . .
“Yes, to life,” she said softly, echoing of his own sentiment. “It is precious beyond words, is it not?”
“Indeed,” he agreed. Their eyes met. “Without question.”
Hendrie uncorked another bottle, the happy flush on his face no doubt accentuated by a surfeit of spirits. Rafael swallowed a grin, along with another taste of the wine. They would all likely end up well foxed this afternoon, but if ever a day deserved excess celebration?—
“Good Lord, Hendrie, I just heard the news from Mr. Wogdon, who says he just delivered your son to your door.” Kyra’s father rushed into the drawing and paused to catch his breath. “Good Lord,” he repeated, catching sight of Jack “It is you, you young scamp!”
“In the flesh, Your Grace,” replied Jack.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” The duke blinked and pursed his lips.
“I am delighted to see you. But be forewarned that if you think you can return to your habit of galloping your stallion through my south orchard and trampling the young saplings, you had best think again.” A sniff.
“I am still capable of taking a switch to your bottom.”
“I would expect no less, sir,” drawled Jack.
“Have some champagne, Pierpont.” Hendrie thrust a glass into his neighbor’s hand. “You may breath fire and brimstone later, but for now let us have naught but jovial sentiments to celebrate the moment.”
“Right-ho.” The duke drained his glass in one long swallow. “Speaking of celebrations, I think your son’s return calls for a rather large one, don’t you think? There are a number of neighbors and friends who will want to offer their felicitations.”
“A party,” mused Hendrie. “Yes, of course. That’s a splendid idea. Perhaps an outdoor supper in the gardens, now that the weather is warming, with tables of punch, and fiddlers from the village to add a note of jolliness to the evening.”
Rafael saw the duke slant a quick look at his daughter.
“Actually, I was thinking of more than a supper party. It seemed to me that all of Jack’s friends both here and in London would love to welcome him home with something grand—like a festive ball.”
“But Father . . .” whispered Kyra.
“A splendid idea,” exclaimed Hendrie before she could say more. “Though the ballroom here is in the older part of the house and may be a bit cramped for a large gathering.”
“Then let us hold it at Pierpont Manor! There is more than enough room for dancing, and I can easily accommodate a number of people in the east wing, so we need not worry about limiting the guest list.”
“Father,” Jack said, but Hendrie appeared not to hear him.
“Ah, an evening aswirl with silks and satins, and everyone dancing until dawn!” The earl was smiling from ear to ear. “It’s been quiet as a crypt here for far too long. It’s about time to have some laughter and revelries.”
Kyra was looking pale as a ghost.
“What say you, Jack?” added the earl.
Jack drew in a measured breath. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps a bit of laughter and revelry will do us all good.”