Chapter 3
The front door-bell rang.
Daniel Durst glanced up from Scott’s The Monastery, which he’d been reading aloud to his wife.
She likewise met his gaze over her mending with confusion that equalled his own.
As it was half-past three on a Sunday afternoon and they had no expectation of any callers, he knew not what to make of the bell.
“Perhaps it’s Aunt Molly?” was his sole guess.
The furrow betwixt Sukie’s brows bespoke her own conjectures, but rather than give them voice she set aside her mending in silence and went to answer the bell herself, leaving him alone in the parlour.
He perched on the edge of his chair and kept his place in the book with his fore-finger whilst he awaited her return.
“Good afternoon, miss! Is your mistress at home?”
The slight-yet-strange accent aroused Daniel’s curiosity. More importantly the voice was that of a gentleman and most certainly not Sukie’s aunt. Daniel laid the book aside and went to assist his wife in dispelling any confusion.
Before he arrived, another voice arose.
“Oh, I beg your pardon—we are looking for the address of a Mrs Daniel Durst. Does she dwell nearby?”
Daniel staggered. From the first syllable he recognized the voice. But it couldn’t possibly be…
And yet there upon his doorstep stood his guardian, Mr Grigsby.
The hat he held in his hand had been recently swept off his bald pate, if the askew nature of the pale wisps of hair that remained above his ears were any indication.
He appeared more careworn than Daniel remembered him; still better than Daniel had feared he might fare without Lofthouse to look after him.
Far older, somehow, though scarce more than a year had passed.
But there remained a brightness in his eyes and a smile that creased every corner of his round face, and the gaze he cast down upon Sukie was a genial and gentlemanly one.
Beside him stood a stranger, a man of middling age wearing a perfectly unobjectionable frock coat, with a likewise kindly smile shining through his close-trimmed beard.
What had possessed Mr Grigsby to cross the sea from London to Port Hawkesbury, Daniel couldn’t fathom.
Nor could he fathom the maelstrom of contradictions whirling through his own heart in reply.
The familiar sound of the kindly elder gentleman’s words sparked a long-forgotten joy, and yet alongside that joy came fear and grief, neither of which were swept aside at the sight of him, though the joyful ache mounted.
Still moreso when Mr Grigsby caught Daniel’s eye over Sukie’s shoulder.
First, there came that friendly spark Mr Grigsby ignited for all fresh acquaintance. Then a glint of recognition that sent Daniel’s heart into his throat. Only an instant afterward for it to resolve into the vague amiability his guardian would cast upon any stranger.
“Forgive me, sir,” Mr Grigsby told him. “I quite mistook you for someone else. You bear a great resemblance to a Mr Felix Knoll. But now of course I see my error. Mr Daniel Durst, I presume?”
Daniel swallowed down the unaccountable lump in his throat to reply, “I am.”
Mr Grigsby struck out his hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I am Mr Ephraim Grigsby, guardian to Miss Flora Fairfield—or I should say her former guardian, though in truth I feel some responsibility toward her yet, though the guardianship itself has of course passed on to you as her husband. She’s told me a great deal about you in her letters, though,” he added with a chuckle, “I cannot imagine she would bother to speak oft of myself to you. An old hulk has few charms to recommend it against a bold young ship-o’-th’-line. ”
Daniel accepted his handclasp in silence.
Even this did not jog Mr Grigsby’s memory.
He knew he must say something. Yet his tongue refused to move.
That his own guardian shouldn’t know him…
Tantalus himself knew not such torment. His conscience demanded he reveal all.
He owed the poor old gentleman everything he had.
And yet, the selfish fearful part of him demanded his silence.
Was it better to be known as himself with neither recognition nor affection, or to claim to be someone else—the pale shadow of a reflection of someone who never existed and yet whom his guardian loved—and face a return to life beneath the yoke of false identity?
“Is Mrs Durst at home?” Mr Grigsby asked, oblivious to Daniel’s inner torment—as he had been for so many years of Daniel’s life.
“We will not tarry long. I’m certain she has a great many responsibilities as keeper of her own household,” he added with a fond chortle. “But I would be glad to see her well.”
Daniel might lie on his own behalf, but he could never deny his wife; though she in her infinite goodness would never have blamed him for self-preservation. However, he managed to force out the words to accompany his gesture towards her. “This is Mrs Durst.”
Sukie curtsied.
Mr Grigsby glanced between them with evident confusion. Nonetheless polite, he enquired, “Then—forgive me—where is Miss Fairfield?”
Daniel couldn’t make himself say it.
As it so happened, he need not do so.
For just as Lofthouse had recognised him as the one he’d once known under that particular title, recognition dawned at last in Mr Grigsby’s eyes.
“Miss Fairfield?” he gasped, his astonished gaze sweeping Daniel up and down. “But—by Jove—why?”
“Won’t you come in?” Daniel forced himself to say.
Mr Grigsby looked no less bewildered at the invitation. Still he set his jaw beneath his jowls and gamely entered the house.
Whereupon he staggered.
Daniel caught him but barely.
Throughout all this, the bearded stranger beside Mr Grigsby had said nothing.
Now the stranger leapt lightly over the threshold with a curious ducking of his head beneath the door frame.
Within a heartbeat he had tucked his arm under Mr Grigsby’s and supported him without any apparent effort, though concern remained evident in the heavy knit of his brow.
Sukie’s voice rang out over the heads of all the men. “The kitchen is straight through to the back.”
Daniel thanked Providence for his intelligent and prudent wife.
Soon Mr Grigsby was safely ensconced in a chair at the kitchen table with a glass of water before him and Sukie bustling about making tea behind.
Daniel, who had assisted with neither the glass of water nor in bringing Mr Grigsby to the kitchen, knew he ought to do something, but his mind had run blank with horror.
He could scarcely meet Mr Grigsby’s gaze for fear the poor old gentleman would fall into an apoplexy at the sight of him.
Still, from what glances he stole, it seemed colour had returned to his guardian’s countenance.
When at last their eyes did meet, it was to find Mr Grigsby staring at him.
A faint smile flitted across Mr Grigsby’s features. “I beg your pardon—I’m afraid in my confusion I never introduced Mr Hull, my clerk.”
The stranger, who had stood beside Mr Grigsby all the while with a hand upon his shoulder, bowed.
Daniel nodded and murmured something—he knew not what—in reply.
The kettle sang out. Sukie hauled it up and filled the teapot. Mr Hull extracted himself from Mr Grigsby to allow room for her to deliver a steaming cup. As she did so, the clerk slipped beside Daniel and spoke in a hushed tone.
“If I may beg a word of you, Mr Durst?”
The request left Daniel so stunned that it was only belatedly he felt the queer mixture of astonishment and gratitude that the stranger would continue to call him by his true name even after Mr Grigsby had revealed his origins.
He couldn’t begin to fathom whatever Mr Hull wished to communicate to him in confidence.
Nonetheless, he felt Mr Grigsby would be perfectly safe in Sukie’s hands and likely safer without Daniel in his sight.
So Daniel acquiesced to Mr Hull’s request and led him into the front hall for hushed conversation.
“Pray forgive me,” Mr Hull began. “When I suggested we visit I had no idea—”
Daniel forced his voice to remain level despite his heart beating in his throat. Whatever fate might befall him this day, he would face it with a man’s courage. “No idea of what, sir?”
Mr Hull faltered. Not, however, in a manner suggesting shame or discomfort. Rather, the furrow betwixt his brows bespoke deep thought. “Forgive me, I know not the word for it in your tongue.”
Daniel didn’t think there was an English word for his existence. He pitied Mr Hull more than himself for its lack.
“Perhaps,” Mr Hull continued, “with your permission, I may attempt to explain what I do understand?”
Daniel gritted his teeth and nodded.
“That is,” said Mr Hull, “you are Mr Grigsby’s ward, and he has known you all your life.”
To a point, Daniel thought. For Mr Hull’s benefit he merely nodded again.
“However,” Mr Hull went on, “he has perhaps not understood the whole of you.”
Daniel baulked.
“And,” Mr Hull continued undaunted, “appearing now more fully yourself, the sight has startled him.”
Daniel stared at him. “You have the advantage of me, sir. I must ask how you came by this knowledge.”
Mr Hull hesitated, a queer sound emerging from his throat alongside an abortive gesture of his hand, as if to summon the words he lacked.
Eventually he settled upon, “It is not so uncommon an occurrence from whence I hail for a young lady to be revealed as a gentleman, or the reverse, or both, or neither.”
Whatever Daniel had expected to hear from him, it wasn’t this. Before he could halt his tongue he heard himself borrowing the stranger’s archaic words to demand, “From whence do you hail?”
Mr Hull blinked. “Goteborg. Sweden,” he added in reply to Daniel’s bewildered look.