Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“This is gibberish,” Malcolm said, resisting the urge to tear out every page of the exasperating ledgers so he could use them as kindling. “Utter gibberish.”
The butler, Mr. Lincoln, stood by with the patience of a saint. “It is difficult at first, I’ve no doubt about that, but I’m sure there must be a mention of your cipher somewhere.”
“Wouldn’t it be at Highcastle?”
The butler hesitated. “Ah, well… you used to send duplicates rather often. I would put them away for you in this very study, Your Grace.”
Malcolm observed the man. “So, ye must have kenned me quite well, then?”
“Reasonably, Your Grace.” Mr. Lincoln put on a nervous smile. “I have been in your employ for six years. Indeed, you chose me personally to come to Huntfield to help Her Grace settle into the manor.”
“Ye were at Highcastle before that?”
The butler nodded. “I was.”
“Ye don’t sound Scottish.” A flicker of wariness crept up the back of Malcolm’s neck.
“Oh, I’m not, but my mother was. She came from a village near to your castle, and it was her wish to be buried there,” the butler explained at a clip.
“I stayed a while after the funeral, and that is when I saw your advertisement for a butler. Although, if I may, I was somewhat glad to be tasked with tending to Huntfield instead, for the Scottish weather was terrible for my rheumatism.”
Malcolm considered the butler’s story while he tried to read the wretched ledger again. If Mr. Lincoln had been in his employment for six years, then the man must have been there during the honeymoon and the three months that Octavia spent alone in that dreadful, gloomy place.
There were so many things that Malcolm wanted to ask, yet he was uncertain if he was ready to hear the answers.
Where did I go after the honeymoon? Why did I stay away? Why was I nae there to take care of my wife? Why was I nae at the birth of my son? What did Octavia make of me back then? What sort of man was I? Why did I make a deal like that with my wife?
“And ye’ve nay idea how to read any of this?” he asked instead, showing the page to the butler.
Mr. Lincoln squinted. “Perhaps, I could decipher it with some time.”
His mouth opened, and then closed again.
“Go on,” Malcolm encouraged. “What is it ye want to ask?”
“Can you really not remember anything?” the butler blurted out, as if he had been holding onto that question for some time. “Have ten years really just… disappeared out of your head?”
Malcolm chuckled. “Aye, they’re all gone, maybe temporarily, maybe not.”
“So… do you remember your father?”
Malcolm’s laughter died. “Aye, I do.”
“And your mother?”
Malcolm nodded.
“Your brother?” the butler said, wincing.
It was that twist of the mouth that drew Malcolm’s sharp attention. He had tried to ask Doctor Stanforth about his family, for in his memory, they were still alive, living in an Edinburgh townhouse. But the good doctor had refused to answer.
“It won’t help your recovery if I just give you the answers, Your Grace,” he had explained, despite Malcolm’s protests. “Indeed, it may hinder your recovery if I tell you about them.”
Such words had hardly conjured notions of good tidings, but the doctor had been immovable, a vault of secrets that Malcolm had not been able to break.
Mr. Lincoln, however, did not seem to have been warned by the doctor.
“My last memory of ‘before’ is being around a campfire with soldiers,” Malcolm said. “I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t bitter; I was oddly content to be there. It was the night before a big battle, which I ken I survived, but I can’t recall.”
The butler paled. “So, you don’t know what happened?” His eyes scrunched in confusion. “Or do you? Did the doctor tell you? Some of the Highcastle staff, perhaps?”
Malcolm shook his head. “As I said, that was my last memory of ‘before.’ I have no notion of what happened in the ten or so years after, but I ken I haven’t seen any of my family, and they haven’t been to visit, and if I’m duke of somewhere, then my father is assuredly dead.”
“He is,” the butler confirmed, a catch in his throat. “He died the same night he received word that he was due to inherit Highcastle from his cousin, as there were no other male heirs.”
Dark laughter rippled from Malcolm’s throat. “A fitting end for such a vile man, to have been handed everything, only to die before he could get a single taste of it.”
“You were, of course, the next in line,” Mr. Lincoln continued, wearing a rather startled expression. “That is why you returned from war.”
Malcolm raised his gaze to the butler. “And my mother? My brother?”
They were the only two he cared about. Theirs were the fates that he had been desperate to know, though Stanforth had denied him that.
“Your mother and brother passed within weeks of each other,” Mr. Lincoln replied, his head bowed. “It was, perhaps, a year after you left for war, if my memory is correct. The staff at Highcastle told me all about it and, occasionally, you did too.”
“Barnaby is… gone?” A lump clogged Malcolm’s throat.
He had assumed that his mother and father were dead, but his younger brother? He had… hoped, more than anything, that Barnaby had not visited because he had been out there in the world, enjoying the adventures he so richly deserved. Free from their father, at last.
The butler dipped his head in a small nod. “He is, Your Grace.”
“How?”
Mr. Lincoln shook his head. “I don’t know, Your Grace. It was the one thing no one at Highcastle ever spoke about. All I understand is that he died rather young, while you were away.”
For the first time since waking up in that place, Malcolm wished he were back at Highcastle where he might find out more from the servants who had been there at the time.
Grief pinched at the muscle between his ribs, and he slammed the ledger shut. He knew, deep down, that he must have grieved his brother already, that the wound was not fresh, but Mr. Lincoln had just taken a knife and reopened it.
Is this why Doctor Stanforth didn’t want to tell me?
He had warned him not to do anything to addle his mind, and there was nothing more addling than grief. It was a dark shadow that could suck the life right out of a person, overwhelming the brain until you could not think clearly.
“Your Grace?” the butler said anxiously. “Did I say something wrong? I did not mean to.”
Malcolm forced a smile and got to his feet. “Nae at all. I’m glad ye told me. But, right now, I need to stop hurting my eyes with these duties and see the family I have left.” He paused. “Do ye ken where my son is?”
Simon would cheer his spirits and help him to push down this rising grief, back to where it belonged.
“I believe he is in the nursery, Your Grace,” the butler said.
With a grateful nod, Malcolm headed out, as far from baffling ledgers and the ghosts of his dead family as possible.
“Papa!” The little boy flew across the airy nursery, straight toward Malcolm.
Immediately lightened, all of his troubles vanishing, Malcolm stooped and swept his son off the ground in one smooth move. With no effort whatsoever, he threw the boy up into the air and caught him, much to the squealing horror of the nursemaid.
She was different to the one who had dozed in the greenhouse, but seemed no less wary of him.
“Again!” Simon cheered, giggling.
With a grin, Malcolm threw the boy upward once more, and caught him with ease.
The poor nursemaid clasped a hand to her chest, looking as if she might faint.
“What would ye like to do this morning?” Malcolm asked, as he settled his son against his side, a strong arm wrapped around him.
“Mama said you were busy,” Simon said, in his sweet, halting voice, thinking of his words before he spoke them.
Malcolm smiled. “I was, but I thought I’d come and see ye instead of doing my work. All of that boring nonsense can wait. So, what shall we do? What shall we play?”
The little boy brightened. “Horsies! We can see the horsies?”
“Ye want to go to the stables?”
Simon nodded eagerly. “Please, Papa.”
“Why then, that’s where we’ll go. I’m sure my horse will be thrilled to meet ye,” Malcolm said and, with a nod to the nursemaid, carried his son right out of the nursery.
A short while later, they found themselves at the paddock beside the stables. Simon sat perched upon the fence, Malcolm holding him to ensure he did not fall, as the great black stallion plodded over to investigate.
“This is Rogue,” Malcolm said, putting out his free hand for the stallion to nose.
Simon grinned. “Good morning, Rogue.”
The horse chuffed and turned his attention toward the boy, sniffing him.
“I love him,” Simon cooed, laughing as the horse nudged him gently in the chest.
Malcolm glanced toward the stables. “I would let ye ride him, laddie, but he’s a wee bit lively. What do ye say we put ye on a gentler mount? Do ye have a pony of yer own?”
The boy shook his head. “Mama says it… um… is not safe.”
“Och, every wee lad should have a pony!” Malcolm lifted his son off the fence and set him on his feet, the two of them walking into the stables.
The stablemaster greeted them warmly. “Are you here to feed the horses some carrots, Master Simon?”
“Yes, please,” Simon replied.
“Remember to keep your fingers out of the way,” the stablemaster warned with a smile, as he dipped a hand into a bucket and brought out a bunch of carrots. “You go on and feed them their breakfast.”
The boy gamboled off to perform the task, starting at the very rear of the stable. There, a great big black-and-white head appeared over the stall door and reached down, snuffling at the proffered carrot before taking a bite.
“Ye don’t have a very docile mare, do ye?” Malcolm asked, watching his son in pure admiration.
Just as the stablemaster had instructed, Simon was taking great care to keep his fingers out of the way as he fed the carrots to the horses.
“There’s Bessie. She’s an old girl,” the stablemaster replied. “Hasn’t thrown a soul off her back in her life.”
Malcolm cast the man a conspiratorial look. “Could ye saddle her up? I think it’s time for my son’s first riding lesson.”
“Her Grace doesn’t want him to ride yet,” the stablemaster said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I keep suggesting it’s better to start them young, but she doesn’t like the notion.”
“I’m his father,” Malcolm pointed out. “I won’t let any harm come to him. Saddle the mare.”
The stablemaster pulled a face and put up his hands. “I think every young’un should learn to ride early, so I won’t argue with you, Your Grace, but I’m just warning you that she won’t like it.”
“Ye let me contend with that.” Malcolm clapped the man on the arm in a gesture of gratitude, before walking down the row of stalls to join his son.
“Don’t let go!” Simon chirruped, his little hands gripping the reins tightly.
Malcolm smiled, his hand firmly on the guide rope. “I won’t, laddie. I’ve got ye.”
The mare was undoubtedly too large for a boy of four, his small legs barely making it halfway down the sides of the saddle. But the mare was gentle and slow, and she seemed to like having a rider in her old age, as she diligently plodded around the training paddock.
“I’m riding!” the boy cried out, his cheeks pink, his eyes alight with happiness, his entire demeanor radiating joy… and just a few lingering nerves.
“Aye, that ye are.” Malcolm lightly scratched between the mare’s ears to let her know she was doing a good job too. “We will have to get ye a horse that’s yer own size, though.”
“Really?” Simon gazed at his father.
Malcolm nodded. “Aye, really. This lass is a fine horse, but to truly learn how to ride, ye need one that’s right for ye.” He hesitated. “We’ll ask yer mother about getting ye one.”
He resisted the urge to tell his son that he would go ahead and buy one for him. It was one thing to teach Simon to ride without his mother’s say-so, but to completely circumvent her in order to gift their son a horse was quite another.
And Malcolm was trying to win her over; he could not afford to make any big mistakes.
“Mama won’t let me ride,” Simon said, relaxing into the sway of the mare. “She says it’s… um… a big danger.”
“There’s no danger as long as I’m with ye,” Malcolm reassured him. “Indeed, ye have nothing to fear as long as I’m near to ye. I won’t let ye fall off. I won’t let any harm come to ye.”
Simon pursed his lips and fell silent for a moment, his bright eyes clouding over. Whatever was on his mind, they were clearly large thoughts for a boy so small.
“But… Mama says you’ll leave,” he said at last, his lip trembling a little. “Then, I’ll not be safe.”
The boy’s sweet words cracked Malcolm’s heart, and he was sorrier than ever that he had missed so much of Simon’s life already. He hated that he had been absent from the moment the child was born—before then, even—and that there was a version of him that had chosen that separated path.
What else mattered in life but this?
“I promise, my dear boy, that I will try my very best nae to leave ye ever again,” Malcolm said in earnest. “If I have my way, I never will.”
He did not know if there was a part of Doctor Stanforth’s ankle analogy where the broken bone healed and became better than the original, but as he continued to lead his son around the paddock, he hoped that he might be that rarity.
I never want to miss another moment…
If that meant wishing to never remember anything of the past decade, then so be it; he would wish with all of his might.