Chapter 25
Alex stood motionless. He hadn’t wanted to walk into that room, walk into that unknown.
He felt apart from the man who wasn’t really him, couldn’t be him, could it?
There was no spit in his mouth. Then he felt Ryder’s hand lightly squeeze his shoulder.
He said quietly, “I know you feel like you’ve been knocked sideways, but it will be all right.
You are Graham Hepburn, you’re finally home and that’s a wonderful thing, a miracle really.
Don’t question yourself, don’t doubt—don’t question this miracle.
Now, take a deep breath and look around at this splendid library.
I do believe it rivals your uncle Douglas’s library at Northcliffe, and that means your father—yes, your father—loves books just as you do.
Take another deep breath, that’s it, and look around. ”
Alex nodded numbly and stared around at the walls of books.
Ryder was right. This magnificent library did indeed rival Uncle Douglas’s.
He walked to one of the bookshelves and stood looking at the books at eye level.
He didn’t see Cicero or Plutarch, but rather Brunton’s A Compendium of Mechanics, Lardner’s The Steam Engine, and there were well-worn copies of Practical Farming and Grazing and Stephens’s Book of the Farm.
And then, to his immense pleasure, he saw Kater’s A Treatise on Mechanics.
Alex felt some of his gut-wrenching anxiety fall away as he continued to read the titles.
So many more treatises on agriculture, mathematics, even building a kitchen …
Higher on the shelf he saw Shakespeare, John Milton, John Locke, Adam Smith, so many more, pages cut showing they’d all been read, probably many times.
My father is a modern man, a man of many interests.
Alex reached for a treatise on modern mechanical designs for farm equipment but left it where it was.
He grinned hugely, grabbed up a black leather-bound book and turned to Ryder standing beside a large mahogany desk, watching him.
“Sir, here are Grayson’s novels, this one’s really terrifying—The Demon in the Wall. Here are all of them I believe.”
“Obviously he’s a man of excellent taste,” Ryder said, grateful for the momentary distraction.
Alex heard voices outside the door and quickly pushed Grayson’s novel back with its brothers. A man’s deep voice and Blakeney’s, low and smooth, a touch of excitement. He felt frozen to the spot.
The door slowly opened. Alex watched a tall man stride into the room, Blakeney at his heels. Alex’s first thought was, He looks powerful, he looks like a man who knows who and what he is.
He wore fashionable black trousers, a white waistcoat, white neck tie and a white shirt.
His thick dark hair was threaded with silver and brushed back from a high forehead, but unlike Alex’s, his eyes were a pale gray.
He looked fit, strong, formidable in body and spirit, this man who was his father.
He recognized the stubborn chin, his own chin, the dark complexion, the high cheekbones.
Vereker Hepburn looked at Ryder. “You are Mr. Sherbrooke? Welcome to my home. I had expected Blakeney to show you into the drawing room when you arrived.”
“Thank you, my lord. You must wonder why I am here.”
Vereker Hepburn didn’t answer. He was looking beyond Ryder to stare at a young man standing in front of the bookshelf. There was something, something—
Blakeney couldn’t hold it in, he said, trembling, his voice nearly breaking with emotion and excitement, “My lord, it is Lord Graham. He is home again.”
Vereker didn’t move. “Wh-what?”
“Your son is returned to us, Lord Graham is home. Please come forward, my boy, come forward.”
Vereker stood stock-still, unable to believe what Blakeney had said, unable to accept what he saw, unable to take in the magnificent young man who now stood not six feet from him, his hair mahogany dark, his lean face slashed with high cheekbones—no, no, it couldn’t be possible—and then he stared at the vibrant blue eyes, vivid, startling, his precious Madeline’s eyes.
He was tall and fit and so very beautiful, so very perfect—no, how could it be possible?
No, it simply couldn’t be. Vereker swallowed, swallowed again, words beyond him.
Eleven years spooled through his mind, eleven long years and no word of Graham or Simon.
And he’d given up finally. His life had continued, but the hole in his heart remained jagged and deep, filled with distant grief.
He stared at the young man, into those amazing blue eyes, wild eyes, and said, his voice hoarse, “Graham?”
He couldn’t help himself, Vereker walked swiftly to him, grabbed his shoulders in big hands.
He closed his eyes trying to take it in.
Then he whooped loud and pulled him close, just as Blakeney had.
Vereker pushed back, but only a bit, never looked away from his face and whispered over and over, “Is it really you, my son? Really you, Graham? I cannot believe it—so many men I sent out to find you and your brother, Simon, so many prayers and finally I knew you were gone forever. I gave up—eleven years!” Still Vereker was afraid to believe it even though he saw the stamp of his features and Madeline’s on this young man’s face, more refined than his or his mother’s, so very perfect, pure, beautiful.
Vereker was swamped with feelings deep and wild—and gratitude, heaps of sheer gratitude, and such happiness—he clasped this precious young man in his arms—his son—and wept.
Alex had had no more doubts this man crying and hugging him hard was his father.
But Alex didn’t recognize him, not even a glimmer of a memory—but wait, the smell of vanilla, a light scent teased his memory, only to disappear into the warm air.
He felt his father’s strength and that strength felt somehow familiar.
Slowly, Vereker raised his face, tears sheening his eyes, and stared into his son’s face.
He realized they were of a size. “Graham,” he said softly, so much love and pleasure in his deep voice.
Slowly, Alex—no, Graham—felt the power of him, his strength, and felt this amazing man shudder and the realization of who and what he was slammed into him and he accepted it completely and utterly.
I am no longer Alex Ivanov, I’m Graham Hepburn and this man is my father. My father.
Vereker couldn’t look away from his son. He thought yet again, You and I are both stamped on his face, Madeline. He wondered at fate, remembered the pain, the grief, a part of him—but now, right this moment, everything was perfect, his son was with him once again. Graham, his son.
He whispered, “I knew you would have my height. Such long legs you had as a boy—” Vereker raised his hand and lightly touched his son’s face and words burst from his mouth.
“When I last saw you, you were no taller than my shoulder, but you were as brave and eager and wild as my stallion Brutus, always in trouble, always ready to fight and laugh and you loved anything mechanical. You were always fixing farming equipment, Mrs. Sample’s store that gushed smoke, fixing the leaks in the bathing room—it didn’t matter.
The tenants loved you because you always spotted something wrong before they did and alerted me or fixed the problem on the spot, you, a young boy.
You wanted to know how everything worked from your earliest years. ”
While Ryder looked on, beyond pleased, Vereker’s words continued to flow, no rhyme nor reason, “I remember you and I together read and discussed Lagrange’s Reflections on the Algebraic Solution of Equations.
And I watched you struggle to understand and when you did there was such joy and excitement on your face.
“You loved Gyllenborg’s A Natural and Chemical Treatise on Agriculture.
And I remember how you wanted Odel, our chief lad in the stables, to teach you to shoe your own pony.
And you did it well. Odel was so impressed with you.
” Vereker stopped talking, swallowed. He ran his fingers over his son’s face.
“You are just as I imagined you would be as a man. No, you’re more, you’re much more. You’re a miracle.”
He and his father had done all these things together? Alex looked at the tear tracks on his father’s face, his still brimming eyes, so filled with pleasure and love. He said, “You really recognize me, sir?”
His father blinked. “Recognize you? Of course, you’re my son, you’re Graham.
Your mother selected your name.” But what of Simon?
Do you know where he is? Questions for later, but not now, now he had Graham and he would be grateful for the rest of his life.
Graham—ah, the taste of his son’s name in his mind, it was exhilarating.
He never released his son as he said to Ryder, “Sir, how come you to be with my son? Where has he been? What happened?”
Ryder smiled. “It is a remarkable tale of happenstance, my lord. Alex—no, Graham—has lived with me for eleven years now. He is my legal ward. In this instance the Lord did indeed work in a mysterious way. As I said, we found you quite by happenstance.”
Vereker stared at him. “You said you have kept my son safe for eleven years? I do not understand, why happenstance? Why didn’t you bring him home to me immediately?”
Alex—Graham—said slowly, “Sir, I fear when my guardian saved me, I was nearly dead, drowned in the Thames, in London. When I mended, I had no memory of who I was.” He searched his father’s face. “I still don’t know. I’m very sorry, sir, but I do not recognize you.”
The earl stared from his son to Ryder and back again. “You were nearly drowned? You recovered with no memory? You have amnesia? But how is this? What do you mean you were in London? You and your brother and tutor were supposed to be in Paris. What happened?”
Before either Graham or Ryder could answer, the door opened and a very pretty woman marched into the room, lovely pearl gray skirts swishing.