Chapter 28
King’s Head
Vereker assumed they would stay the night, maybe two or three, maybe a week, maybe never leave.
Ryder and Alex/Graham had each brought a portmanteau with changes of clothing for two days, but Vereker assured them it would not be a problem.
After all, both men were similar to size as him.
He would provide them with all the clothes they’d need.
Even nightshirts. Ryder had expected this, but realized Alex—Graham—had not.
He’d told his own valet, Flaubert, before they’d left for King’s Head he would be away for several nights and thus he could have a congé, perhaps travel to Brighton to see his sister.
His news was received with a quivering lip and a pronouncement of doom for his master’s future appearance without his fine hand to guide the ship, so to speak.
It was Vereker’s valet, Terrance, who would see to both Graham and Ryder.
Terrance had been with his lordship only ten years, he confided to Graham, ever since the retirement of his former far-too-old-fashioned valet.
“Nice enough was Mr. Marriot, and surely he could prepare and fashion a lovely white wig in his younger years, but now, in modern times, he was sadly ill-equipped to cut a gentleman’s hair and style it appropriately.
” Terrance went on to tell a fascinated Graham he was married to a lovely round-cheeked wife and father of four exceptional sons, living in one of the houses on King’s Head property, a lovely big cottage that could house future offspring, since he was a man of great vigor and his wife a woman of great fortitude.
Graham hadn’t really wanted anyone to take care of him, but he let Terrance do as he wished since he was brimming with enthusiasm and excitement and amazing stories to regale the long-lost son who was finally home, at last. No sooner was Graham allowed to step into the high tester bed, no nightshirt much to Terrance’s disapproval, the sheets warmed, naturally, than Terrance told him about his sharp-brained son Peter, who could catch any duck in the village pond.
Graham was relieved to hear Peter was only four and not fourteen, and wondered if he and Simon had ever tried to catch the village ducks.
When finally Terrance bid him a pleasant good night and blew out the gas lamp, Graham found sleep was a long time coming. He stared up at the dark ceiling—were there fat cavorting cherubs lurking in clouds overhead? Maybe a young lady wearing a white flowing robe playing the lute?
As he finally dozed off, he thought yet again how his life had changed so utterly in such a short period of time.
How long would it take him to come to grips with his new self?
His family, his actual family. He repeated it to himself.
I am Graham Hepburn. I am now Viscount Whitestone.
I have a father and a sister and a brother-in-law.
I had a brother, Simon—and was he dead as I was supposed to be?
He had to be dead. Graham felt pain over his brother’s death even though he had no memory of him.
Graham—it was a good name and now it was his. He wondered what his middle names were.
He lay there, trying desperately to remember—anything—but there was nothing at all, not even a whisper of anything at all familiar. His last thought before he fell asleep was Alex Ivanov no longer existed and wasn’t it odd what life could do to a young man?
He saw himself naked, sheep all around him in the large open park in front of King’s Head, and he was readying to dive in the wide ribbon of green water, called the Green Stream.
But he wasn’t an adult, he was young, only a boy, and he was wildly happy, the sun high, bright and hot on his skin.
When he cut cleanly through the water, he hit the bottom and prepared to kick off but suddenly he couldn’t move his arms or his legs.
He was suspended helpless, felt horrible pressure building in his chest. He saw bubbles from his breath and then there weren’t any.
Graham jerked away, gasping for breath, his heart pounding.
The dream faded away like fingers of fog in the sun, and all he could remember was pressure on his chest. But somehow it seemed now that he hadn’t been the one to drown, another had been there, another who drowned, but that made no sense at all.
When Terrance awakened him the next morning for his bath, he felt again a phantom pain in his chest, or perhaps not his chest, but another’s.
He shook his head, looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel.
It was early, but as Terrance said on a stifled yawn behind his hand, “I told his lordship you were young and needed invigorating sleep, but he is so very anxious to see you, thus this too-early hour. It must be said, I am a bit on the tired side myself since my precious wife did not wish to release me from her arms even though baby Kincaid wanted his milk.”
Graham didn’t take in all the words, but he felt the boundless enthusiasm and couldn’t complain.
He bathed, shaved himself much to Terrance’s disapproval and tucked a white shirt into his britches.
Terrance had told him his lordship really wanted his son to wear one of his own shirts since they were of a size and so Graham had complied, thinking again how strange it was to suddenly have a real father and to be someone else entirely.
There was a knock on his bedchamber door. Graham called out, “Come.”
And there stood his father in the doorway, his heart in his eyes.
Vereker could only stare at his magnificent son, tall, straight, so finally made, such a beautiful face, and his mother’s vivid blue eyes, miraculously returned to him.
He was really here, wearing one of his own shirts.
He was so filled with pleasure and gratitude he had to keep himself from shouting to the rafters.
He’d decided during the long night he would donate a new stained-glass window to Vicar Piercebridge’s church in St. Lucy Head.
He would renovate the vicarage. He would increase his yearly stipend.
He would bless this man for all his days.
But for the vicar, his son would have been lost to him forever.
Not unhappy, no—raised with love by Mr. Sherbrooke, but not his.
Would he ever have remembered his own father?
Vereker had to force himself not to run to his son and pull him close, feel the strong heartbeat, the strength of him.
Terrance paused, felt a lump in his throat when he saw the incredible happiness in his master’s eyes.
He blinked, swallowed. “My lord,” he said, “Lord Graham is nearly finished dressing. As you can see, your shirt fits him quite nicely. I saw to Mr. Sherbrooke first because I knew you’d want his young lordship to get much-needed sleep. ”
Graham looked at his father, strong and graceful, so very perfect, and somehow it felt natural to smile at him. “Good morning, sir. Thank you for the shirt. Terrance is right, it fits me well.”
The words burst out. “It fits you well now, but then, you were just a boy, tall, skinny as your fishing pole, always on the move if you weren’t studying steam engines and trains, playing with all the farmers’ children, not like Simon who was—” He shook his head at himself.
“Look at you now, Graham, a man, full grown and your mother’s brilliant blue eyes—” He stopped, smiled.
“Forgive me, I probably am repeating myself.” He watched Terrance ease his son into one of Graham’s own morning coats.
His smile bloomed again as he stared at this young god. “You look perfect.”
Terrance said, “He does indeed. My lord, Blakeney told me Lord Graham is the picture of you at his age, with, naturally, his mother’s unforgettable eyes. I polished his boots.”
“Blakeney is correct. Thank you, Terrance, even his boots look perfect. Graham”—oh, how he savored saying his name—“it is time for us to meet Mr. Sherbrooke in the breakfast room. Blakeney has already escorted your guardian downstairs.”