Chapter 22 #2
“A man in his late fifties. Our mother’s older brother,” Ezekiel said. “Round in the stomach and prone to gout. Red, cheery face and fair hair like his sister and me.”
“Is that a description of Gabriel?” Maria asked.
“It is,” Damien said. “He was here a week before he died. I am surprised that he did not mention your existence.”
Ezekiel made to sit, but Damien stopped him with a raised voice.
“I did not give you leave to sit in my presence, Master Ezekiel!”
Ezekiel froze, then smiled thinly. “While I hold no title, not even a courtesy title and no inheritance to speak of, I am your brother. I am not a peasant farmer who comes to beg for an indulgence from the lord of the manor.”
He sat. Damien’s hand slapped the table like thunder.
“It remains to be seen who you are!”
“In your mind only. As to your question regarding Uncle Gabriel, it was decided to keep mother’s pregnancy from our father.
She was planning to escape with her child and her unborn child and start anew.
As it happened, she could not wrest you from him and was forced to leave before it became too obvious that she was carrying me. ”
A maid arrived with a trolley of tea things, accompanied by a selection of light bites. Ezekiel attacked both with gusto, then stopped, glancing at his host and at Maria. Flushing, he put his plate and saucer aside.
“My apologies. I have been without food for two days; my funds were exhausted bringing me to London.”
“But I met you at a tea room,” Maria said.
“And it was a monumental effort of willpower to resist the lovely food that you laid on, Your Grace. But I wished to focus on our conversation. I am, however, rather hungry.”
Maria looked at Damien, eyes imploring. He rolled his eyes and gestured to the trolley.
“Do not stand on ceremony, Master Ezekiel, please satisfy yourself.”
Ezekiel tucked in.
“I have always believed that my mother was murdered by my father,” Damien said, carefully ensuring he chose single, personal pronouns, not the inclusive plural that would bring Ezekiel into the family.
“Uncle Gabriel feared that very outcome. He helped our mother escape after she discovered she was pregnant with me,” Ezekiel said.
“Pregnant by whom?” Damien said bluntly.
“By our father,” Ezekiel said, refusing to be drawn.
His self-control was admirable. His clothes were well-made but plain, and had clearly been repaired more than once. There was much to be admired if his story was true.
If half of that story was true, then Ezekiel had suffered in his life and struggled. The fact that he was here, self-possessed and confident, was laudable. It spoke of determination and character.
“I was born in Newcastle and grew up in Bamburgh. Gabriel provided an annuity for our mother, and we lived comfortably, if simply. When she died…”
Ezekiel stopped, staring into space, eyes unfocused. His mouth worked as though he were seeking words. Damien felt an echo of his emotion. He felt it when he thought of his mother’s passing, and he averted his gaze, refusing to look at the young man.
“When was that?” Maria asked softly.
“I was ten. I am given to understand that when I was born, you were six,” Ezekiel said to Damien, who nodded.
“How did she die?” Damien asked, unable to keep the urgency from his voice.
He leaned forward; hands clasped together atop the desk.
It has always been a given that her life was cut short by that brute. I mourned her and raged against the injustice. But now I find she lived for years away from me. Was she even happy?
“Influenza. It swept through the town and took many lives. Mother tried to help the afflicted. That was her nature.”
Damien nodded again, looking down at the desk.
“I remember her as being kind. I have few memories of her, but that is very clear.”
“She was,” Ezekiel agreed. “Though I wish she had been more selfish.”
Damien smiled tightly; his words echoed his own thoughts. He met Ezekiel’s eyes and something passed between them.
I am beginning to believe him. Has Maria weakened me so much? A few months ago, I would have thrown him off my land with a thrashing for his trouble. Now I reminisce.
He broke away from Ezekiel’s gaze and cleared his throat, standing.
“That is all very well, but it does not constitute proof. You could be an impostor intent on inveigling your way into Winterleigh for personal gain.”
“I will vouch for Ezekiel,” Maria said. “Having spoken to him and heard what he has to say here. I believe him.”
Damien looked at her, trying to hide his disbelief. Maria sounded absurd. She must realize how little a single impression of Ezekiel would be as evidence.
“That does little to quell my suspicions.”
“Then try harder,” Maria shot back.
He grinned wolfishly. “Can you offer any proof, Master Ezekiel?” he asked.
Ezekiel sighed, putting aside his tea and sandwiches, and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. He undid his coat and then unlaced his shirt, pulling it wide.
“I should not hesitate, but as I suspect you do, I regard it as unsightly and prefer to keep it covered.”
Damien leaned forward, forgetting himself enough to gasp. On Ezekiel’s chest, spilling across his left breast to the collarbone, the skin was stained red.