Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Will's laughter followed him home. It broke loose as soon as he rode out of earshot and was no longer in danger of offending his charming hosts.
Angelic goat! He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard.
Mercury trotted toward Eversham Hall while the earl reveled in his encounter with the neighbors.
Even the confirmation that most of the county enjoyed a good harvest buoyed him.
He admired the woman's knowledgeable account.
It proved he had been right to fire Eversham's land steward.
The fool had botched the harvest. He put what little they had harvested in a damaged shed on top of rotting hay.
His incompetence forced them to buy feed for the winter. Being right gave Will cold comfort.
His elation dimmed completely when Stowe, Eversham Hall's morose butler, greeted him in the at the door.
“Her Grace wishes to see you, my lord,” the old man intoned. “"She said to tell you it is most urgent.”"
“It always is,” Will muttered, as he dragged his feet up the stairs toward Sylvia's sitting room. Unrepaired fences paled next to the damage Emery Wheatly had done in private. He had reduced Will's beautiful, vividly alive little sister to a weeping bundle of misery.
If God is just—and I know He is—coals are being heaped on Emery's sinful carcass right now, while I repair the havoc he left behind.
That thought sat ill in Will’s belly. He had to pause in front of Sylvia's door to gather his self-control.
When he pushed the door open, heavy, uncirculated air and the suffocating smell of lavender and burnt feathers assaulted his nose.
Heavy draperies over every window made the room so dim he had to blink to adjust. He longed for the sunny barnyard he had just left.
Sylvia Wheatly, Duchess of Murnane, swathed in black, languished on a chaise lounge, holding a handkerchief to her nose.
Thin, pale, and perpetually ailing, she bore no resemblance to the confident young woman who had danced through her first Season just before Will left to join the army in 1803.
Upended books and broken porcelain littered the floor.
“Why can't he come when I call him? Doesn't he know I need him?” she complained loudly. Her rant sounded like a tired litany.
Who, the late duke or me? It didn't matter. She craved a man's attention.
“Oh, Chadbourn, thank goodness you're here. Fire this woman!” his sister demanded, pointing with an upswept arm toward her lady's maid, cowering in the door to Her Grace's dressing room. The duchess collapsed back against the chaise.
“She is utterly incompetent,” Sylvia whispered, her breathing raspy and ragged. “She misplaced my tonic and only found it moments ago. Turn her out without a character.” She finished her pronouncement with a dramatic arm across her eyes.
The maid's pleading look tore at Will. He had ordered her to hide the opium-laced tonic. Obviously, she had not been able to withstand the duchess's whining. How on earth am I going to find a position for a lady's maid?
Sylvia peeped out. “Is she gone?”
Will sighed. He gestured toward the hall and followed the maid to the door. His whispered reassurance and request to meet him in the butler's pantry in an hour did little to wipe the fear from her face. He would think of something.
“Is she gone?” Sylvia's voice quavered.
“We will reassign her.”
“No! I demand she be turned off without a reference!”
One thing he had learned: his sister cowered before the voice of authority. “You will leave that to me,” he said as firmly as he could manage.
Sylvia crumpled immediately, and Will's heart sank. “Yes, Chadbourn, of course,” she whined. “Do as you see fit.”
He would rather she showed some spirit and railed at him. Not that he would turn the maid off. He would just have to make sure the poor girl came nowhere near the duchess. That, and find a lady's maid made of sterner stuff.
The duchess lay back with her eyes closed and moaned. “You don't know what I suffer.”
Will struggled to formulate a reply. He bit back a harsh rebuke.
“Get up, get outside, get fresh air,” had not worked in any of the dozen ways he'd worded it so far.
Guilt, all too familiar, plagued him. He had failed to protect her during her debutante year.
He left her in the care of his na?ve parents, who saw only the good in people.
If he had stayed, he'd have investigated Emery Wheatly and known him for the selfish rotter he was. He wouldn't fail her again.
A discreet scratch at the door relieved him of the necessity of a reply.
Sylvia ignored the knock.
“Enter,” Will said.
The door opened, and a young boy trussed in formal clothing and unsullied linen entered the room, escorted by his tutor.
The boy looked ready to choke on his collar.
Charles, the new duke, worried him even more than his sister did.
The boy acted like an old man—a fearful, perpetually nervous old man—nothing like a child, nothing like the delightful boys who chased pigs and imagined goats as angels.
At ten, he had yet to attend school, yet to visit London, yet to ride a horse.
The late duke intended him for Eton, but any effort on Will's part to broach the subject with the boy's mother resulted in another outburst of uncontrolled weeping.
“My darling!” Sylvia exclaimed. "Come read to me while my tonic works its magic. You know how your voice soothes me."
“Sorry, Mother. We are in the midst of studies and—”
“Do studies matter more than your mother?” she snapped.
“Of course not,” Mr. Franklin, the tutor, soothed. “Your Grace's needs always come first.” He gave Charles a shove toward his mother.
“Has he finished his Latin?” Will demanded.
Mr. Franklin startled. He had not seen Will, and obviously wasn't happy to see him now. The man had avoided every effort Will made to inspect the boy's studies. The toady would rather court the duchess's approval than educate his nephew properly.
“Today's lesson went well,” the man replied stiffly, eyes on the duchess.
“Latin!” Sylvia mocked. “Poor boy. Come here, my darling, and comfort your mother.” She pulled an obviously reluctant Charles into her arms. When he pulled back, she pushed a book into his hands. “Read to me, my sweet.”
Charles looked at it with distaste. Will put an arm around his shoulder. The book contained poetry of the sloppiest, most sentimental kind. “What were you studying?” Will asked the boy.
“We just started the English Civil War, Chadbourn,” the boy said sadly, a note of longing clear in his voice.
The earl's lips tipped up. Any red-blooded boy would rather learn about war than read inane poetry. Perhaps there is hope for him yet.
“Uncle Will,” he corrected, not for the first time. “When your mother sleeps, come and look for me in the estate office.”
“Yes, Uncle Will,” the boy said meekly.
“What do you want with my son?” Sylvia demanded.
“Did you know there are two boys close to his age living nearby? I thought Charles might—”
“Unthinkable! We do not go there.” Sylvia said, chin up. “Emery forbade it. They are not people we wish to know.”
You can't be. They never come here, the one named Freddy had said. Will remembered the boy's insistence on it, and the woman—Catherine—reminded him of his manners. Interesting.
“Why did Emery object?” he asked.
“He didn't wish us to see his…” Sylvia paused, glancing at Charles. “It is not to be discussed.”
She patted a spot next to her on the chaise and pulled Charles forward. The boy threw one last glance at Will and, with the look of a prisoner going to his fate, began to read.
She may not want to tell me why the neighbors are ignored, but I'll find out sooner or later, Will thought. He left quietly.
* * *
Charles knocked on the estate office door soon after, as requested. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.
Will exchanged a few words with the boy about his studies, encouraging his interest in history. When he ordered Charles to the stables, however, panic filled the boy's eyes.
“I can't!”
“We've discussed this. A young man of your station must ride. We'll take it in stages. I know you can do this.” Will had waited two months since the boy's father's funeral. Enough was enough.
Moments later, Reilly, Eversham Hall's head groom, led out the gentle mare Will had chosen for the boy's lesson. Charles backed away sharply, as soon as the horse came near. He knocked a rail off the fence, and caused the horse to rear up.
Terror gripped Will at the sight of pounding hooves. He dove forward and pulled his nephew out of harm's way. “Think before you act, for God's sake!” he shouted. “That horse could have squashed you like a bug.”
“I—” the boy choked out.
“What were you thinking?” Will demanded, gripping the boy's arms with two hands.
“Thinking? The beast did not behave as he ought, Chadbourn,” the boy said. His voice quivered.
“Don't blame the horse for your careless behavior.”
“They are foul beasts, no matter what you say!” The pale face looked ready to crumple.
He's waiting for me to give him a verbal lashing—or worse, Will thought. He dropped his hands. “I'm not angry with you, Charles,”he said, when he had control of his voice. “I'm sorry I shouted. Fear made me cry out.”
“Horses don't like me,"”the boy blurted, in a voice that just missed being a whine.
“Nonsense!” Will squeezed his eyes shut. It isn't his fault. “You lack experience, that's all.” And this episode will not help.
“But His Grace, my father, said—”
“He said a great many things that were less than correct, Charles. We've talked about that.”
The boy nodded but didn't look convinced. In the end, the lesson was postponed for another day, so horse, rider, and uncle could calm down.
Charles bolted toward the house. The earl ran his hand through his hair and pounded the fence rail in frustration. The sound of a throat being cleared caught his attention.
“Respectfully, my lord, you might be wanting to know about the boy and horses,” Reilly said, pulling his forelock.
“Tell me,” the earl said curtly. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Tell me, please. I will be grateful for anything that may help.”
“Th' boy took a bad spill when he were a wee lad.”
“Go on.”
“T'ain't my place to say, but the mount His Grace chose may have been a bit too large and spirited for one that small.”
“How small was he?”
“It were his third summer, my lord.”
“What did His Grace do when he fell?” Will asked, with a sinking heart.
The groom looked uneasy. He rubbed a line in the dirt with his toe.
“Don't hold back now. I need to know. His Grace is gone.”
“Shouted at the boy. Told him a duke's son did not fall. Told him—”
“I see,” the earl said through clenched teeth. “Did he try again?”
“Once more that summer, but the lad raised a fuss. Terrified, he was. His Grace had him…” The groom looked away.
“Flogged?”
“I heard caned, but I don't know myself.”
“Did he try again?”
“Every summer.”
“No success?”
“Got him around the stable yard once or twice. Boy's fear made the horses skittish. Horses made the boy worse.”
“Let me guess, the horses were not well chosen, and the duke blamed the boy.”
The groom looked down. “I'll be getting back to work,” he said.
Will felt sick. He had failed Charles, too.
It had taken him too long to realize that Emery kept his family isolated, and why.
The duke and duchess attended Will and Sylvia's father's funeral, but left quickly afterward.
Her responses to Will's letters were stiff and infrequent.
Overwhelmed by his new title and responsibilities, Will had bowed to his brother-in-law's wishes.
He should have known better. Abusers cover their crimes in secrecy. Eventually, he suspected Emery censored Sylvia's mail, but the man died before he could investigate. Only then did the full measure of damage become clear.
His mind went to Songbird Cottage and the boys there. Young Freddy approached Mercury, a huge, spirited stallion, with confidence, skill, and no fear. Once again, the idea arose that the boys at Songbird Cottage might be good for Charles.
Still, Sylvia's veiled comments about those who lived there stood in the way. It would be like Emery to establish a mistress next door. That's what Sylvia hinted. He certainly had more than one in town. The woman, Catherine, didn't look the part, however.
Perhaps I should investigate. Could those boys be hers? She would have been awfully young, but then, Emery always did like them young.
If the boys are Emery's, the estate bore some responsibility for them. A thought made his heart stutter. The boys could be Charles's brothers! The thought of investigating cheered him. Songbird Cottage would certainly be more entertaining than the rest of the messes he had to clean up.
Besides, I have to find a decent steward, he thought. Better than decent. My own land is calling me home, and Sylvia can't oversee this mess.
He could ask about local candidates at Songbird Cottage. It was reason enough to visit. That thought was enough to get him up early with a smile on his face the next day. Perhaps I can see how the animal nativity has progressed, he thought with a grin.