Chapter 14
The sound of cutlery clinking against china pierced the heavy silence between Alaric and Catherine. He flexed his fingers, readjusting his grip on the knife as he thought about their exchange.
“Yes, Oliver, you may be excused.” Catherine’s voice drew Alaric’s attention back to her.
Oliver nodded wisely, cradling the sleeping puppy in his arms. He had named her Daisy after the flowers on the lawn , just before Alaric told him to go inside and get ready for dinner.
As Oliver left the table, he beamed at Alaric. Alaric could not help but offer him a small smile in return. “There is a pen made up for Daisy in the nursery, and one of the grooms has agreed to keep her company overnight.”
Oliver hesitated, his eyes darting from Catherine to Alaric and then to the sleeping puppy in his arms.
“There is a bed there for you if you wish to stay with her.” Alaric saw the tension drain from Oliver’s frame. “But I warn you, she will wake you up asking to go outside. The footman will take her, and if you wake, you may accompany him.”
“I will have Annabelle leave your coat in the room. It will be cold,” Catherine added.
Oliver grinned at both of them and left, the sleeping Daisy in his arms. Alaric watched him go, but the joy he had felt in the gardens felt like a distant memory.
He felt a prickling on the back of his neck and realized Catherine was watching him. He met her gaze, then looked down at his hands out of habit. His fork was in his left hand, his knife in his right.
“The cutlery is correct. You are getting much better about not swapping between the two,” Catherine said.
“Practice makes perfect.” Alaric shrugged and speared a piece of venison on the end of his fork. “Though I doubt I would have improved quite so swiftly, without your intervention.”
“I am glad that I could help.” Her knife clinked against her plate.
Silence fell between them again, so heavy that Alaric wondered how it did not crush them both beneath it. He took a sip of his wine.
“You did not mention that you had set up the nursery for Oliver earlier.” Catherine speared a potato with her fork, her eyes watching Alaric for any sign of emotion. “I assumed Daisy would be in the kennels.”
Alaric chewed the cut of venison in his mouth and swallowed slowly. “I thought about it, but I worried that Oliver might insist on staying with her.”
“He probably would have done,” said Catherine. Alaric thought he saw the beginnings of a smile on her face.
“Given your intent to distance yourself from him, I thought you would be pleased. Especially since you will not have a puppy causing chaos in your chambers.” Alaric could not quite hide the bitterness in his voice.
“I have no wish to fight with you, Alaric.” Catherine met his gaze, her blue eyes full of steel. “We both know this was only a temporary arrangement.”
“You gave me an ultimatum. I do not appreciate such things,” he replied, his own voice cold.
“I was frustrated, and I wanted you to see reason.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “You have to admit, with each day that passes, it seems less likely that we will find something to prove he is not your son.”
“I care for the boy, Catherine, and I will do right by him, but he is not my son.” Alaric shrugged.
“How can you say that?”
“I have no memory of him. No memory of a woman or a lover. I have nearly all of my Oxford days back, and my Grand Tour. There were no dalliances.” His head began to ache. “When I think about such things, I feel… it is like a fire is in my heart. Anger so violent it makes me sick.”
“I want to believe you, Alaric, but—”
“Do you? It is not as though it would change things. You would still wish to go back to your life.”
His anger burst through, but to his relief, Catherine did not recoil.
“It would tell me a little more about the kind of man you were.” Her voice was soft, and there was a note in it he could not quite place. Sadness? Pleading? “There is a world of difference between a man who abandons and forgets his own son, and a man who only forgets his wife.”
“Then believe me.”
“You are asking me not to trust what I see with my own eyes. He looks remarkably like you. His eyes watch me with the same intensity as yours. He notices everything around him. And his hair, it is just like yours.” She pointed to Alaric’s dark hair.
“Even the way he moves reminds me of you, especially now that he is more confident.”
Alaric’s head was pounding even more now, and he closed his eyes. He felt like he was going to be sick.
“I think he moves more like... my father.” The words slipped from his mouth before he realized what he was saying.
“Your father?” He could hear the surprise in Catherine’s voice, though it sounded far away.
“Yes. I was always told I looked just like him. The same jaw, same eyes. The same hair. Deverell blood runs deep.” His last words sounded as though they were from a different voice.
This voice was grave, deep, but somehow weaker. The world around Alaric swam as his head felt like it was going to cleave itself in two. The smell of whiskey filled the air.
The world faded. Alaric was a little boy again. He was looking for his father. He heard voices coming from his study. No, it was his father’s study.
He pushed open the door. “Father? I wanted to show you what I found.”
“Oooooh!” a woman shrieked.
Alaric did not recognize her. She had curly red hair and green eyes. Why is she sitting on his lap?
“Drat it, you halfwit, how many times have I told you to knock?” His father’s hands were around the woman’s waist. “Get out!”
Alaric fled. The memory shifted, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. The smell of stale whiskey filled his nostrils. “It will be our little secret, do you understand, boy? Your mother does not need to know.”
He could hear crying in his mind. It was his mother.
He knew that now. In that memory, he was older—a man, fully grown and powerfully built.
His father was slumped on the floor with a bottle of whiskey beside him.
In the corner, a maid was scrambling for clothes, while his father motioned for her to come back to his side.
Alaric’s lip curled. “Get out.”
He did not bother to look at her face. She was one of many, and Alaric knew there would be more. That was the sort of man his father was.
“You do not give orders in my house. I am the man here, boy.” His father tried to get to his feet and swayed ominously.
“You are a drunk, a pathetic, lecherous rake who is a disgrace to our family name,” Alaric spat.
“You sanctimonious little– ” His father’s words were cut off as the man lunged toward Alaric.
He stepped out of the way easily. His father swore. “You think you are so much better than me? Just you wait. Once you have had a taste, you will see. You are my son. You share my hunger. That is what men do, boy.”
“That is what dogs do,” Alaric growled. “I will never be like you.”
His father’s laughter echoed in his mind. “You already are.”
“Alaric? Alaric?” It was a woman’s voice.
“No.” Alaric breathed in, lavender filling his nose. The world snapped back into focus, and he found himself staring at Catherine.
He blinked hard, his heart pounding in his chest. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He set his knife and fork on his plate, not wanting her to see how much his hands were shaking.
His jaw was clenched so hard he feared his teeth would break, but he did not know how to relax his face. If I do, I feel like I will howl with rage.
“What happened?” he could see Catherine’s eyes traveling over his body, inspecting him as though looking for some sign of illness.
“I...” A part of him wondered if he should tell her the truth, that he had remembered the kind of man his father was, but then he heard his father’s words. ‘You already are.’
“I do not like talking about my father.”
“I see.” Catherine’s eyes darkened, and an unreadable expression crossed her face.
“I did not mean to slip from the conversation like that.” Alaric took another deep breath, feeling his heart settle into a slower, steadier beat. “My father… he was not a pleasant man, and I have no wish to speak of him further.”
“Is that why you do not wish to claim Oliver as your son? He reminds you of your father?” Catherine asked.
“No.” The word came out harsher than Alaric had meant it, and he sighed. “It is because he is not.”
But what if he is my father’s? His father had died five years ago. What if he had sired another son? He certainly had enough lovers. I expect I have at least half a dozen half-siblings I do not know about. The thought made him sick.
He needed to find out more, but who would know? More importantly, who would tell him the truth? The servants had made no mention of his father’s lecherous ways, though it was clear they had no affection for the man.
A thought struck him, and Alaric added, “Though I think I may have thought of a potential lead to explore.”
“Oh?” Catherine tilted her head to one side.
“I will write to Hale and invite him to join us for a day. There are things he may know, but I cannot risk asking him in a letter.” Alaric held out his wine glass for one of the footmen to refill. “Who knows, he may be able to help me recover more of my memories.”
Catherine’s fingers tightened around her cutlery, and Alaric noticed that her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “Perhaps. I am sure it will do you good to see an old friend.”
“He feels more like a brother to me. His estate is not far from here, and our fathers were close.” Until mine seduced one of Hale’s father’s servants. Alaric put the thought from his mind. “We were together nearly constantly. We went to Eton and then Oxford, and he even joined me on my tour.”
“He was at our wedding, I believe, though I did not get a chance to speak to him.” Catherine tapped a finger against her mouth. “He was the only person you spoke to, even though we had a crowd of well-wishers.”