Chapter Thirteen
James
James was still reeling over Georgie’s revelation about her husband the night before.
James was no innocent. He knew there were men who enjoyed the company of other men, but it was always in secret.
They lived under the constant threat of social ruin, imprisonment, or even execution if discovered.
Homosexuality between men was not only stigmatized, it was illegal, punishable under sodomy laws in Britain.
Many gay men, especially those of the gentry or professional class, married women to fulfill societal and familial expectations.
From what he knew, these marriages often involved little to no physical intimacy, and may have only been platonic partnerships.
Discretion was everything. Codes, body language, and phrases in Latin or French were used to test safety.
London had known meeting areas called Molly Houses, which were essentially secret pubs or lodging houses where they could find others seeking similar companionship.
These places were constantly surveilled and raided.
He’d always felt a deep sorrow for the men who were forced to live lives of deception.
However, he’d never met anyone, man or woman, who was in a marriage of that variety.
It made his heart hurt, thinking of sweet Georgie in her dressing gown, hearing the news that her marriage would not be at all what she expected. Like he’d said to her last night, she deserved better.
Now, he stood near the fireplace in the drawing room, absently adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as the morning light filtered through the tall windows. February had brought the crocuses and soon to bloom daffodils and early blooming cherry trees but the chill in the air remained.
Mrs. Ellsworth was seated near the hearth, her hands folded neatly in her lap, watching him with the mild patience of someone who had already accepted she’d be needed to steer this process.
“Are you certain I really need a valet?” James asked. “I’ve gotten along without one for months now.”
Mrs. Ellsworth didn’t look up from her notes. “Lord Ashford, it’s not a question. You must have one.”
He glanced at her. “It seems like a waste of money.”
Her mouth softened into something close to a smile. “You and your brother wanted to be returned to the life you were meant to have. That is happening. Now.”
“All right, fine.”
“The first interview is for the butler position,” Mrs. Ellsworth explained.
A knock came, and Mrs. Ellsworth rose to admit the first candidate. A tall, silver-haired man entered, posture straight and expression calm. He moved with quiet assurance and nodded once in greeting.
“Mr. Isherwood,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “Formerly in service to the Earl of Stanhope.”
“Lord Ashford.” He bowed. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“Thank you for coming.” James gestured to the chair opposite. “Please.”
Mr. Isherwood sat, folding his hands over his lap.
They spoke for several minutes. He explained his experience overseeing large households, his preference for quiet efficiency over spectacle, and his ability to handle unexpected challenges with composure.
James asked few questions but listened closely. There was a steadying quality about the man. His voice was even, his gaze direct, his answers free of flattery.
“Are you aware of the history of my family?” James asked. “My father?”
“I am, my lord.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“It bothered me that they hung an innocent man. We all knew it at the time.”
James sat forward. “Who do you mean by we?”
“Those of us who have worked for the noble houses in this area. His reputation was such that it was impossible for any of us to believe differently. Although tragic and irreparable, I am pleased to see that justice has returned.”
“Very good,” James said. “I must warn you, though. I have not been raised a gentleman. There is much for me to learn. I hope you’ll be patient with me.”
“Whatever you need, Lord Ashford, I shall do and be honored to serve.”
Mrs. Ellsworth offered a small nod behind Mr. Isherwood’s back. James followed it.
“I believe you’ll suit us well,” James said. “Welcome to Ashford.”
The man bowed again. “Thank you, my lord.”
He departed, and a few minutes later, the second candidate entered. He was a much younger man, dressed in a clean but unassuming coat. His hair was neatly combed, and his gloves were tucked respectfully under one arm.
“Mr. Digby,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “He comes with a reference from the Marquess of Leland’s household.”
The young man stepped forward. “My lord.”
James studied him. He had expected someone stiffer. This man seemed quietly confident, but not ingratiating.
“I understand you’ve served as both footman and valet?”
“Yes, my lord. Most recently for Lord Leland’s eldest son. I was his valet until he married last year.”
“What do you consider the most important part of your role?” James asked.
Digby took a moment before answering. “To make your day run more smoothly than it otherwise would. To anticipate what you need, not just respond when asked.”
James nodded slowly. “And what if I don’t always know what I need?”
“Then we’ll learn it together, my lord.”
“I don’t know how to dance,” James said. “What would you tell me to do about that?”
“I know the perfect instructor for you, my lord,” Digby said. “If you hire me, I shall put it all together for you.”
“You’re hired, Mr. Digby,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Once Digby had gone, Mrs. Ellsworth returned to her chair. “I’m pleased, my lord. I hope you are as well.”
“He seems more than adequate. And he’s willing to work for a man like me, which won’t be easy.”
“Nonsense.”
“I’m not learned in the ways of Society,” James said. “Part of his work will be helping me to appear a gentleman, when really I am a working man.”
“But, my lord, you are a gentleman. It was stolen from you for a time but that has changed.”
James sat as well, the warmth of the fire easing into his shoulders. “What do you think people will see when I arrive in London? A man in a fine coat pretending to be something other than a soldier or tavern owner. Or a clever card player.”
Mrs. Ellsworth’s voice was gentle. “What they see or think of you is not your concern. You must see yourself as worthy. Whether they see you as a gentleman or a tavern owner matters little compared to how you see yourself.”
James didn’t respond right away. He stared into the flames, thinking through what she’d said. It was true. If he felt like an imposter, others’ impressions had no bearing on, well, anything. He would be miserable, regardless.
“If I may suggest, my lord, that you simply take it one day at a time. Everything will fall into a rhythm of familiarity soon enough.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ellsworth. As always, your counsel is wise.”
“It is my honor, Lord Ashford.”
*
The fire had burned low in the grate when Digby knocked once on the bedchamber door. “Your bath is ready, my lord.” Digby bowed slightly while his free hand automatically straightened a candlestick on the side table. “If it pleases you.”
James blinked from where he sat in his shirtsleeves, thumbing through estate papers. “You’ve prepared a bath? Is this something I should expect every night?”
“Yes, my lord.” Digby moved to the mantel, straightening another candle before lighting a fresh taper. “I notice how stiff you are in the morning and a bath will do you good.”
“War injuries,” James said. “They’ve made me less limber than I should be.”
“I understand, my lord, having served myself. Tomorrow will bring rain and the dampness will settle in your bones. A warm bath tonight will help.”
James glanced toward the window but it was too dark to see the nature of the weather. However, this time of year in England was almost always chilly and damp. “Can you sense the rain?”
“The air has that particular weight to it,” Digby said. “Your body knows it too, I’d wager. Old injuries often do.”
“Very well. You’ve convinced me.” James followed Digby into the adjoining chamber, where a hip bath had been positioned before the fire.
Steam rose from the water’s surface like incense, and towels rested in neat arrangements.
Mrs. Ellsworth had recently purchased new linens and towels for the household.
Memories of living in his cramped apartment above the tavern were beginning to fade with each decadent day.
Digby withdrew a small vial from his waistcoat, adding several drops to the water with the reverence of a man mixing medicine.
“Lavender?” James asked, catching the familiar scent from his childhood bath.
A memory surfaced of a time not long before they took his father away.
His father had visited the nursery after traveling for a few days on business.
Sebastian had already bathed and was in his pajamas, but James was still in the water, getting a thorough scrubbing from the governess, who complained about the dirt under his fingernails and behind his ears.
Papa had dismissed the governess, saying he would finish getting his boys ready for bed and she could retire early.
James understood now, as an adult, how unusual it was for a man with the title of duke to spend such intimate time with his children.
But perhaps he’d sensed how the loss of their mother had left a void that only he could fill.
James could not remember what they talked about, if anything, but the scent of lavender oil had remained fresh in his memory.
From then on, he’d associated that smell with the gentle love of his father.
His gut twisted with grief. If only he could see him one more time.
Ask him questions about himself. Stories he could keep and pull out when he was especially missing him.
“Lavender reminds me of my childhood,” James said to Digby. “But I smell something else too. What is it?”