Chapter 35
King’s Head
Vereker felt infinitely blessed as he listened to Vicar Piercebridge wax eloquent on the miraculous return of his beloved son, Lord Graham, Viscount Whitestone.
He pictured a new stained-glass window, perhaps showing the Last Supper in bright colors, installed directly behind the ancient pulpit.
Light would flood in, rainbow colors, if, that is, it wasn’t raining.
It would be perfect. He would visit Canterbury himself, make inquires.
Perhaps a lovely window could be made and installed by the end of the year.
He couldn’t stop smiling, even now remembering every detail of his time with his son the previous day, meeting all his tenant farmers who, naturally, remembered the young boy, friends with all of their sons and daughters, and Graham had met those sons as young men now, many married with children.
Even if they knew he had no memory of any of them, nothing was said.
Vereker encouraged Graham to speak of his time at Oxford, his plans to make English trains the very best in the world, talking of his ideas for water boilers, and he felt so blessed that he himself had the same interests, only he didn’t believe he was as smart as his son.
Well, Madeline had been brilliant, so many ideas she’d had, so many improvements she’d made on simple everyday tools, like a special knife to peel potatoes, simple really but Mrs. Sample had been thrilled.
It was odd, though. He’d never before thought of her in that light until Graham spoke of ideas to lessen the lurching of a train and he would swear he heard her voice.
Graham sat beside his father in the family pew, dark green embroidered cushions for Hepburn bottoms for nearly two hundred years now.
He was mildly embarrassed when Vicar Piercebridge smiled continuously at him during his sermon about God’s wondrous miracles, giving himself no credit.
But of course everyone in St. Lucy Head knew of his amazing discovery by the vicar, that he was the one responsible for the return of the Long-Lost Heir, no need to belabor the point and be accused of self-aggrandizement.
To Graham’s pleasure, the vicar also spoke about Graham’s blessed savior Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke, who’d actually saved his life and made him his ward.
He further added that because of Mr. Sherbrooke’s goodness, he, the vicar, was able to meet the young Viscount Whitestone and recognize him as the Hepburn heir and he’d come home to his beloved family.
Graham watched Ryder’s face. He knew him well enough to realize he was deeply embarrassed.
Of course Graham had already met nearly everyone in St. Lucy Head, shaking so many hands, accepting so many bows and curtsies when they’d arrived at the late Norman church with its ancient stone bell tower set on a lovely grassy hill, the Channel its backdrop.
An impressive church and he’d had no memory of it at all.
He was grateful Ryder sat on his other side, close, a bulwark from his earliest memories, always there ready and willing to protect him, love him, give him every opportunity. Then his father, seated on his other side, touched his arm, smiled at him.
His father.
After service, given more hands to shake and well wishes, Graham wondered how he could get himself alone after luncheon.
He wanted to visit his Uncle Tally. But it seemed the only time his father wasn’t beside him was when he had to relieve himself.
But then his father, all regrets, told him and Ryder he had to attend to a problem with a tenant farm dispute.
He prayed it wouldn’t take long to resolve, and looked toward Graham.
Graham knew he wanted him to accompany him, but also knew it wouldn’t be the done thing.
Graham left Ryder discussing hunters with Donner.
He got directions from Blakeney for his uncle Tally’s cottage in the eastern forest. He quickly changed into breeches and a simple white linen shirt and boots.
He himself saddled the velvet-nosed chestnut Stanley, gave him a carrot from Cook’s garden he’d seen lying in a basket.
He rode the short distance to the cliffs overlooking the English Channel.
It was a splendid sight, the sun bright overhead, fanciful white clouds scattered over a blue bowl, a perfect day.
As he stood there, Stanley beside him, softly blowing, a stiff wind off the water tangling through his hair, he saw Cam again in his mind’s eye, smiling, no, she was grinning like a bandit at something she’d said—or he’d said.
He missed her. He was aware of a hollow feeling deep inside him, muting the very air around him.
She should be standing here beside him, making a jest, admiring the bright, choppy water, the glorious view from this vantage point, giving him a look of awareness, and he knew to his soul she would want to be standing beside him as well, the wind blowing her skirts against her long legs.
It was an ache, deep and abiding. What was he to do?
Well, now Cam’s father couldn’t object to him.
He was now a lord—how very odd that felt—Viscount Whitestone.
He was a proper gentleman, not a waif saved by Ryder Sherbrooke, well educated, well dressed, to be sure, but still a nobody of no account at all who didn’t even know who he was. But now he was somebody worthy of her.
Graham knew he was blessed, but he also knew to the deepest part of him that his life had now flown apart and was pushing him into a new direction.
He was both afraid and excited. He remembered overhearing Ryder say to his wife, Sophie, He speaks like a young gentleman. Someone didn’t want him to live.
He was now a peer, Viscount Whitestone, and that someone who’d tried to kill him was probably still close.
He turned away from the cliff and rode Stanley back into the eastern forest, looking for the path Alrick, one of the stable lads, had told him about.
Aye, ye needn’t worry, yer lordship, me fine boy Stanley knows how to find Master Tallyrand.
He knows the trail like the back of ’is hoof.
Master Tallyrand don’t want a well-marked trail, likes his privacy, he do.
Oaks and maples crowded in, tall, still winter bare, each tree striving to get the most sun.
The forest was silent, only the sound of Stanley’s hooves kicking up the occasional pebbles or a pile of leaves.
It took him only ten minutes. Stanley never paused, never sniffed the air, went left then right and left again until they reached a small clearing and in its center stood a stone cottage, a stream of gray smoke coming out its chimney.
Graham saw a garden to the side of the cottage, well planted, enclosed with low white-painted fencing.
He patted Stanley’s nose and looped his reins over a tethering post. He heard a whinny from a stable off to his left.
Stanley answered, tapped his right front hoof. Probably a mare.
Graham paused a moment to admire the well-scythed lawn. He walked along a beautifully set stone walkway leading to a heavy wooden front door painted a whimsical bright red. It was a lovely setting, a lovely property, an exquisite cottage.
The front door opened and a tall man, handsome, clean shaven, dressed in well-worn black breeches and white shirt, old boots on his feet, walked slowly outside, his eyes never leaving Graham’s face.
Again, Graham saw a flash of white in his mind, a thin sort of veil, then it was gone.
Graham said, “Uncle Tally?”
The man simply continued to stare at Graham, then he said in beautiful English, “Yes. I heard you were back. I’ve often wondered over the years if somehow you and Simon were alive, but of course as the years passed, I had to accept you were dead.
So long, so many years. How many? Eleven years?
But here you are. I heard there was no sign of your brother, only you.
Blakeney told me you were blanked-brained, had no memory of anything at all.
” He paused, studied Graham’s face. “You do not remember me?”
Graham said, “No, I don’t remember anyone or anything. I’m sorry.”
Tally cocked his head to the side, grinned, showing white teeth, then a full-bodied laugh.
“Ah, then you can’t remember when I called you and your brother insolent whelps, the two of you dirty little monkeys, both of you always into everything, always bothering me with your endless mischief and pranks, your constant demands I tell you all about Waterloo.
Simon even wanted to see the scar on my side from the sword thrust. As for you, you always wanted to know how I made my gardening tools, not satisfied until I showed you each step.
I even taught you how to shoe a horse.” He grinned.
“Well, it was actually the stable lad Odel, but I was there, watching closely.”
Graham couldn’t help it, he smiled back. “Did you show Simon your wounded side?”
Tally shook his head. “A young boy didn’t need to see an ugly puckered scar. So it is true, you have no memory of anything at all? Not even your father? King’s Head?”
Graham shook his head, but there—a blurred image of himself, a horseshoe in his hand, then it was gone.
Tally said, and Graham thought he heard a catch in his voice, “And Simon, he wasn’t with you. Then he’s gone.”
Graham felt a clutch to his heart even though he had no memory of his brother.
“It seems so. I myself was thrown, probably unconscious, into the Thames, pulled out by wharfmen who declared me dead. But Mr. Sherbrooke saved me, raised me, became my guardian. Vicar Piercebridge saw me, recognized me. Both Mr. Sherbrooke and I came to King’s Head. ”
Tally nodded because naturally, he’d already heard all of this.
He said softly, “You have your beautiful mother’s eyes.
She was wicked, was Madeline, she was always playing tricks on your father, on everyone, really.
I remember how she’d hide from him, leave clues, most of them mathematical, make him search her out.
Their laughter, it filled King’s Head. So long ago it was.
“Madeline helped me plant my garden, taught me how best to set the stone walkway given the diameter and thickness of each stone and how deeply it would sink into the soil. But she died.” He sighed.
“It was an awful time. Your father, my brother, he was so very proud of her, and her death destroyed him for a time. Well, Graham, come in and I’ll make you a cup of tea. How odd it is—you’re taller than I am.”
He paused a moment, stepped forward and brought Graham against him and squeezed him hard. “A man grown, of my size. I doubt you’re an insolent whelp now, my lord.”