Chapter Eight #2
Quite against his better judgement, Montague thought back to his time living in the house of Trefusis.
It had been a time of unpleasantness, loneliness, punishment for things he had not done and isolation from all others.
Montague could not recall being permitted to play games.
He had certainly been stopped from going into the library.
But he had always been told that was because he was a Laidley, not a Trefusis. Surely his cousin would not have adopted the same ways for his own boy?
Despite himself, Montague considered the child before him. He was slender, like all men of the family. But was he too slender? Had he been deprived, perhaps, of his meals?
The thought repulsed him, a strong reminder as it was of his own childhood.
‘Well?’ Montague said aloud, hardly remembering what he had asked the boy.
The boy flinched at the strong inflection of the word.
Damn. He didn’t mean to frighten him. What he wanted from him, Montague hardly knew any more.
What the hell was he supposed to do with him?
‘I… I like Mr Soldier.’
Mr Soldier? Who was this, a servant at his uncle’s estate? ‘Mr Soldier?’ Montague asked gruffly.
John nodded. ‘I’ll get him.’
The child scampered up the stairs two at a time and he returned holding onto a faded red scrap of wood. Montague’s heart stopped.
The Captain.
‘This is Mr Soldier,’ John said proudly, holding out the feeble toy soldier. ‘I found him. I rescued him from—’
From the cupboard on the landing near the linen cupboards.
Yes, Montague could remember the day well.
He had been caught with it, the one toy he had managed to bring with him to the cold and unwelcoming house, and his uncle, the Earl of Trefusis then, had taken away the toy with a smile of malice and thrust it into the cupboard.
‘And you’ll never see your precious Captain again,’ his uncle had sneered.
But now Montague was seeing him again. His toy, his only tie to his past, his parents, being clutched in the arms of a boy who had never had anything else to cling to.
‘—fought in many great wars,’ John was saying warmly, straightening one of Captain’s arms. Ah, the only arm, Montague could now see. ‘I found him in the cupboard.’
‘Yes,’ Montague said hoarsely, hardly able to believe it. ‘Yes, you did. I… I used to play with Captain, a long time ago.’
The boy’s nose scrunched. ‘You mean Mr Soldier was yours?’
‘Mr Soldier, yes, of course.’ Montague could hardly believe it. ‘A long time ago.’
The child looked down at his toy, faded and weathered from decades of affection and abandonment. He swallowed hard before holding out the meagre thing. ‘I… I suppose you want him back.’
Montague fought down the instinct to reach out for his only childhood companion. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t a frightened little boy any more. He didn’t need Captain to protect him.
Another little boy did.
‘No, you…you keep him.’ Montague cleared his throat. ‘Mr Soldier, eh?’
‘Ah, there you are, Master John,’ came Mrs Draveham’s cheerful voice as she stepped into the hall. ‘Did you find your coat?’
Montague’s attention snapped to his housekeeper, and then to the boy, who had coloured and who clutched the toy soldier close in his arms.
‘I—’
‘He was just going upstairs to get it and I waylaid him,’ Montague said heavily, more out of pity for the wretch than anything else. ‘Go on with you, boy.’
The boy nodded and scampered up the stairs, Mr Soldier tight in his embrace.
‘He’s a strange thing,’ Mrs Draveham said quietly to her master. ‘Quiet. Doesn’t say much.’
‘No,’ said Montague darkly.
They stood in silence for a minute before the boy reappeared at the top of the stairs, pulling on his coat.
‘Come on, then,’ the housekeeper said brightly. ‘Off we go.’
Precisely what excuse the woman had dreamt up to get the boy out of the house, Montague did not know. He did know his spirits relaxed immediately as the pair of them shut the door behind them.
Dear God, was he that heartless?
Perhaps, he thought darkly as he stepped across the hall into the drawing room where the bureau had been moved last year. And there was only one way to resolve this and that was to marry.
Swiftly.
But before he could start thinking about how to ensure he won this competition with the delectable Miss Calliope Oliver, there was a letter he had to reply to. Annabelle would not take kindly to being left out of this family matter, even if she no longer bore the name of Donovan.
It did not take Montague more than five minutes to find Annabelle’s letter, but it took a great deal longer to think of precisely how he would answer it.
After all, so much had occurred. Trefusis was dead.
The boy had arrived. Miss Calliope Oliver had driven him to distraction and made him wish he was kissing her—
Perhaps not something one wrote to one’s sister.
After many crossings out, and a curse that echoed around the drawing room, Montague had written out a clean copy of the letter he would send to his sister.
Annabelle,
Thank you for your last—I hope this letter finds you well and welcomes you back to your new home in London after your honeymoon. If your husband is not treating you like the angel you are, inform me at once and I shall visit and give him a good wallop.
The heat here has been unbearable, but that is nothing to the mess our cousin Trefusis has left me in.
I should say the late Trefusis—I presume you have not heard, gallivanting across Europe as you have been, but he’s dead.
His boy is with me here in Brighton and it appears I will not be able to get rid of him.
Parenthood has called far earlier than I would ever have expected and I now intend to solve the problem in the easiest way: by marriage.
Mark my words, by the time you receive my next letter, I shall be engaged.
There are plenty of women here who would be delighted to become a marchioness and when I have found the most foolish woman in Brighton, I will marry her.
She can take care of John, the new Earl of Trefusis—an eight-year-old boy—and can provide me with my own heirs to boot. I only hope I can suffer her company.
Write soon. Tell me all the silly little things that air-headed women need to hear to fall in love, and I shall provide you with a sister-in-law posthaste.
I remain your ever affectionate brother,
Montague
Montague grinned. She would understand the pain underneath the levity. Distant though his sister might be, in both age and geography, Annabelle always took him far more seriously than his nonsense might suggest.
That was all to the good—for now, he thought darkly as he sealed the letter and placed it in the franking box for Draveham. He would have to see about getting himself this wife.
One who was easily biddable. Who marvelled at his title. Who simpered at every word he said.
That was the sort of woman he surely should be seeking, but a face flashed into his mind that he had not been able to forget since he had first seen her.
He had not written Miss Calliope Oliver’s name in his letter to his sister, but Montague could not imagine anyone else fulfilling the role. All he had to do was create a painting so wonderful that even the great Glenarm could not beat it. Easier said than done, perhaps.
But to win Miss Oliver? Well, he’d go to any lengths.
Almost any lengths.