Chapter 7
Deimos raced down the wide staircase of Heron House, headed into the foyer, and whisked himself into the breakfast room. It was quite late, he knew, but he loved his sleep. So many of the Briarwoods got up early in the morning, but not himself.
He loved to luxuriate. Beds were marvelous places. And in the winter, or even an English spring, how wonderful it was to be surrounded by soft feather pillows, a down mattress, and the best of blankets.
There was something wonderful about waking up to the soft light, savoring the feeling of being alive, and marveling at one’s luck to have so much.
He loved easing himself out of bed in the morning with a good book.
Often, so that he could face the mad antics of the world, he chose philosophy. Some might think that a bit much before one’s first cup of coffee, but he found that the right words helped turn his mind to the possibilities of man’s best self, rather than his worst.
His favorite was Marcus Aurelius.
When the world got strange, which it did just about every day now, Marcus Aurelius was always there to guide him.
If Marcus Aurelius could keep calm with all that was going on in Rome and his empire, surely Deimos could keep calm in his small section of England.
He tried to keep his eyes on the fact that almost everything in his life was good, but there were days when it was quite difficult not to drown in the horrible misery of the world.
It was part of being a Briarwood, this balance of understanding what needed to be done and fixed and, of course, still managing to enjoy life.
He did a very good job of enjoying life, he rather thought, mostly because he had the most wonderful parents in the whole world.
And as he dashed into the breakfast room, he spotted his father and mother sitting side by side, as they always did, at the long table covered in dishes of dark grapes, bright oranges, crisp apples, and trays of the most delicious breakfast items.
And his heart did the silliest little leap to see them still so in love. Much like his readings of Marcus Aurelius, his parents’ love fortified him in a world that felt terribly unstable.
His mother, Priscilla, was looking into Hector’s eyes, spreading butter over a slice of toast that wasn’t for her. She knew exactly how much butter his father liked. She placed it upon his plate. “There. Just for you, my darling.”
Hector beamed down at her. “We must get you something now.” And he picked up a scone, buttered it, and put it on her plate.
He watched them quietly from the door, savoring their gentle and rather banal chat.
Now, of course, his parents did not need to do such things for each other, such simple things, but they loved doing them. And that was why they looked at each other as if they were one.
And as one, the two shared a gentle kiss.
Before the kiss could grow—though no son should know such a thing, he knew his parents were still quite passionate—Deimos cleared his throat and stepped fully into the room.
“You two are down quite late,” he said.
He strode to the table, grabbed up a cup, and poured coffee from a large silver pot into it. He nestled the pink painted porcelain in his palm, savoring the heat and the aroma of the roasted beans.
His mother, a lovely woman who was cheerful and big-hearted, tilted her head and eyed him up and down.
“And who is accusing us of lateness, my dear? We have been up for at least an hour.”
“We were out quite late at a Shakespeare performance at the school,” his father added.
“Oh?” he queried. “Not at Estella’s theater where Muriel is performing?”
“No, of course not, my dear,” his mother clucked.
“You really should come back and watch one of the performances that your sisters, Celia and Emilia, put on. The group of students right now are most excellent.”
“I do go to almost all of them, Mama, but last night I was convinced to go to a ball.”
“And it seems it was a very good idea,” Lady Priscilla said, backing down in her assessment that he should have attended one of the performances in the East End. In fact, his mama looked like the cat who had had the cream. “Perseus was telling us all about your dance with Miss Mitchell.”
He sputtered coffee. “Oh, did he?”
“Yes,” his father continued. “Laertes said the two of you were clearly in cahoots, and none of us should leave London any time soon because the chapel could be needed.”
“Laertes talks too much,” he drawled and then tried again to take a drink of coffee.
“Now, tell me more about Celia and Emilia,” he said swiftly, hoping to distract his parents.
Deimos was quite proud of his sisters, who had no doubt departed for the city hours ago to do their work there.
He loved the fact that his father had started the school and that his mother’s father, his grandfather, had financed more schools throughout all of England.
But as the only boy, he had been sent to school and then to Oxford.
He had studied the martial ways, and he had taken up the life of a young buck on the town.
Perhaps his sisters were happier than he was. The thought had never hit him, and it did in that moment like an arrow through the heart. He sucked in a quick gasp and then slurped coffee to hide it, so that his parents were not alarmed.
He’d never had such a thought in his life, but suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps Alice’s words were not just for herself, but for him.
Who was he?
In all of this, in all his merrymaking, was he just a rake? Was he just someone who consumed good things and pleasure, or was he like his family that made the world better? He’d always rather thought he made the world better just by being pleasant in it.
But now? Now he wondered if that was enough. Did he even like being a rake? He’d thought so. Or had he just done it because that’s what all young men did?
The thought shook him.
“You look quite perplexed, dear boy,” his father said.
“He looks as if he’s thinking most difficult thoughts,” his mother agreed. “Thoughts about a young lady, perhaps?”
“Stop that, Mama.”
Her brows rose. “Stop what?”
“Do you doubt my intelligence that you think I shall believe such prevarications?”
His mother’s eyes danced. “Never,” she said. “You have always been exceptionally intelligent, but sometimes I worry you’re going to waste it all on—”
“Mama, you know that I am not a wastrel.”
Hector let out a sigh. “Of course, you’re not.
If we thought you were a wastrel, you would have been surrounded by me and your uncles years ago, and we would have put good sense into you.
It’s important, my boy, to enjoy your life.
We’re not worried about you settling down for some time.
And when you’re ready, you will, and you’ll take up the mantle of the family, just as every single one of us has done. ”
He nodded. Of course he would.
“But we worry that you have not found your purpose,” his mother said gently.
He beamed at them. “I have found purpose though,” he said.
“Oh? Truly? Do tell us?” his mother asked, taking a bite of her scone, eating it before she swooned with the pleasure of it. “Ellen makes the best pastries.”
Ellen, of course, was the dear friend of Hester, who was married to his cousin, Calchas. And Ellen and Hester knew their way about a kitchen in a way that most could never dream.
An idea struck him. He was going to have to go downstairs and have a word with Ellen and see if she would assist him in his plans.
“And what is this purpose, my dear?” his father encouraged, clearly as curious his wife.
He cleared his throat. “I am going to help a lady find herself.”
“How interesting,” his mother said, clearly worried. “And this lady is?”
“Alice Mitchell,” he stated.
His father choked on his toast.
“Alice Mitchell? Muriel’s sister?” his mother asked, quite astonished.
“The lady I was in cahoots with last night,” he said, smiling now, feeling as if he’d found solid ground.
“How wonderful! I was speaking with the dowager duchess about a wedding breakfast.”
“Mama,” he gasped. “I did not say we were getting married.”
His mother’s gaze widened. “Did you not?”
“I definitely did not.”
But to his mother, whatever he had said didn’t seem to have mattered. She was hearing wedding bells, and she appeared thrilled.
“My dear,” his father urged, “allow our poor son to have his coffee in peace. No doubt his brain is not yet quite as sharp as it should be without it.”
He laughed. “Thank you, Papa, for coming to my rescue.”
His father arched a brow. “Well, I won’t be able to rescue you for long, my boy. I can see the gleam in your mother’s eyes, and she’s most excited at the idea of having a few grandchildren.”
Deimos’s laugh turned into a groan. He understood why his parents had put all their hopes in him.
Celia and Emilia did not seem as if they would have children. They seemed to be firmly on the shelf by choice.
And he knew his mother would make such an excellent grandmother. He knew it was hard on her, the waiting and hoping that her son would finally bring that into her life, but perhaps. Perhaps…
And suddenly the image of a beautiful little girl with dancing eyes and soft blonde curls about her face came to his vision, and he was shocked. He’d never felt like this. He’d never imagined anything like this.
But it was undeniable because this little girl was not just an image of Alice, but of him too.
For the very first time in his life, he was imagining having a child.
And it hit him with hope and power and a longing he’d never felt before. Because it felt so much bigger than just himself.
Bloody hell. Was this what he wanted? A family of his own? A child with Alice?
But she had made it very clear she had no wish to entertain the idea of marriage with him at present, hadn’t she? He was going to have to see. She’d already made it quite clear that she did not wish to marry someone who pitied her.
Pity. How could he ever pity Alice? Oh, no. He was going to have to show her just how well he thought of her. And he was deeply grateful that she was the one who had engineered the time they were about to have together.
“Best get on your way if Alice is expecting you,” his mother said, taking another bite of her scone.
His father nodded. “Yes. I wouldn’t look too coy, my boy. Ladies love an eager fellow.”
“Do they?” he asked. “I always thought ladies liked someone who was a bit hard to obtain.”
“Only in books,” his mother said.
He laughed. It was true. The entire Briarwood family knew that there was no point trying to trick a gentleman or a lady. If one tried, it usually didn’t go well.
It was best to just come out with what one wanted. Life was far too short for too many games. He finished his coffee, plunked the cup down, and started to head out the door.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything, my dear?” his mother asked.
“No,” he said with a smile. “I have a plan that includes something quite delicious, and it’s not on this table.”
His mother nodded, clearly pleased, clearly hopeful.
It hit him then. He wouldn’t let his mother down. Or his father. Or his family. And he bloody well wasn’t going to let Alice down either.
Somehow, he was going to sort this out. Just like the rest of his family, he was going to be happy. Truly happy.
He lived such a grand life that he’d assumed that was what happiness was.
But here, with his mother and father, he knew that he’d been mistaken.
Real happiness was sitting with the one you loved, buttering toast and scones, and gazing into each other’s eyes as if nothing else existed. And he had a strong feeling that only Alice was going to be able to help him discover that kind of happiness.
He swallowed back that thought and raced down to the kitchens, where Ellen was busy making cakes and cooking bread. Lady Hester Briarwood, Calchas’s wife, had already departed for the tea shop that she and Ellen ran.
“Ellen,” he began, “I am in desperate need of your assistance. I am going to collect a young lady soon and she dearly loves cake.”
“Alice,” Ellen said simply with a grin. “You’re going to collect Alice.”
He stared at the older lady who brought to mind a marvelous mother hen, then laughed.
“Everyone in the house knows, do they?”
“Of course they do, my dear. Everyone in this house knows everything. Even the servants—especially the servants,” she added with a wink.
“I think Alice prefers chocolate cake,” he dared to venture.
She waggled her brows. “I have already made one, just in case you were clever enough to think of it.”
He gaped at her. “Ellen, you are a soothsayer.”
“I am not a soothsayer,” she returned. “I am simply a wise old woman who has watched the marriage dance of many a young man and woman.”
“This is not a marriage dance,” he clarified, though he knew he was lying to himself. “I am merely—”
“Tut-tut,” Ellen cut in, “I don’t need to hear it. Do whatever you wish. Call it whatever you wish. That’s what Briarwoods always do anyway.”
“But you like us Briarwoods, don’t you, Ellen?”
Ellen’s eyes warmed. “Oh, yes. I’ve never been happier than when I’ve been in this house.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, then he crossed to her and pressed a kiss to her wrinkled cheek.
Ellen had been wrapped into his family, not as a servant, but almost like another aunt whom they all adored and loved. They took great care of her.
Though they wished to give her life with no cares, they couldn’t keep her out of the kitchens. She loved baking too much, and he was desperately glad of it, because she was so very good at it.
The entire family got to feel her love through her baked goods. Her apron was often covered in flour, though she did her very best to keep it pristine, and she was always sneaking goodies to the children, who adored her beyond measure.
Deimos was not a child, and he had not been one for a very long time, and yet he still adored Ellen. He loved her kindness and he loved her gentle wisdom, which was very different than his own grandmama’s wisdom, which tended to be blunter, but just as welcome.
“Now,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Off you go. With this!”
She turned to a wicker basket and swiftly packaged up chocolate cake, a jug of lemonade, and a few other treats for him to take.
“You show that young lady just how wonderful you are, and soon she shall be a member of this household. I cannot wait to make a cake for her every week. For no one loves cake as she does.”
He laughed. “You like her that much, do you?”
“Of course I do. She is lovely, just like her sister, Muriel, only gentler, and I think in need of someone to love her very dearly indeed.”
He bit his lower lip.
“Don’t worry, Deimos,” she said gently. “Of course that someone is you.”