Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Almost two weeks had passed since Simon’s fever broke, and the little boy had returned to running around like nothing had happened: a wild thing that reveled in the outdoors, racing across the lawns just to see how fast he could go, splashing in the reflecting pool simply because it delighted him, chasing butterflies because he was in awe of their beauty, running amok with the gardener’s dogs, riding his mare under Malcolm’s careful supervision, and begging Malcolm to teach him how to climb trees, fish in the pond, and get the dogs to obey.
They were, perhaps, the happiest two weeks of Malcolm’s life. So happy, in fact, that he forgot he was supposed to be pretending to be his amnesiac self.
His smiles were no longer forced, his laughter came almost easily, and he reveled in every moment he got to spend with Simon, learning everything there was to know about the little boy who would one day replace him as Duke of Highcastle.
“Malcolm? Malcolm, are you out here?” Octavia’s voice called to him like music across the rose garden, where he was showing Simon a caterpillar and explaining how, one day, it would become a beautiful butterfly.
“By the gate!” Malcolm called back.
She appeared a few moments later in a floaty dress of cream muslin, an embroidered ribbon giving the suggestion of a waist. Her hair had been curled and pinned into a bun, a few locks framing her radiant face. He did not know how it was possible, but she became more beautiful every day.
Not that he had told her that, or would, for the closer he wanted to get to her, the more he urged himself to pull away.
“What are we learning today?” Octavia asked wryly, as she sat down on a nearby bench. “Not how to skin rabbits, I hope.”
That was, perhaps, not one of Malcolm’s finest moments.
The gamekeeper had brought over a brace of the animals, and Malcolm had decided that he would prepare the rabbits so the cook did not have to.
He had not, however, expected Simon to come running out to find his father with bloodied hands, a small pile of rabbit skins, and the bodies lying out on a stool.
The poor boy had wept for an hour, yet it had not stopped him enjoying his rabbit stew later that afternoon.
He’s a gentle boy, as he should be.
Barnaby had been a gentle boy too, unable to stand up to the cruelty of their father.
It was Malcolm’s hope that Simon would become something in-between: a gentle man, but a strong one too. There was every chance he would be, considering he did not have a father so relentlessly cruel.
“I’m teaching him about butterflies,” Malcolm said. “He’s having trouble understanding how a caterpillar becomes a chrysalis becomes a butterfly, but we’re getting there.”
Simon, oblivious, stared at the caterpillar that was, at present, wiggling down his forearm. Transfixed by the creature.
“I have always thought it to be pure magic,” Octavia said with a dreamy smile. “Too much understanding can ruin things, sometimes.”
Malcolm laughed gruffly. “I would warn ye never to say that to a naturalist or a botanist or any manner of scientist.”
“Then, it is lucky I have no cause to meet such people,” Octavia replied, her smile hurting his heart. “Do not mistake me, I find the way the world works fascinating, but I do like to keep some of the mystery and magic.”
He knew he should have left for Scotland a week ago.
He should have told her about his condition and gone, before he could spend too much time with her and their son.
He should have put an end to the pretense the moment it began to veer into risky territory.
He had told himself every morning that today would be the day that he revealed his restored memories and made his excuses to depart, but every night he went to bed with the secret still unspoken.
Would it be so terrible to stay?
The question circled around in his head almost constantly, the answer changing with each rotation.
He was not his father, he knew that, but he might yet become him.
Or what if his presence led Simon to become a man of cruelty?
Worse yet, what if he truly began to care too much, and that care caused him to lose them?
“Was there something ye wanted?” he asked, perhaps a little coldly.
Octavia’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “I… received a letter from Evelyn. She has invited us to have dinner tomorrow.” She paused, lowering her gaze. “I thought it might be good for us to attend. You have not seen my brother in a long time, and I know he is keen to meet you again.”
I shouldn’t.
“Will there be others there?” he said.
“I do not think so.”
Would it make ye happy if I attended?
He nodded slowly. “And ye don’t want to dine with them on yer own?”
“As I say, I think it would be… pleasant for you to be there, to see my brother,” she murmured. “But if you do not want to, I shall not press the matter. I am aware that you are still not entirely comfortable with dinner parties.”
He knew she meant because he was supposed to have forgotten all of the etiquette he had been forced to learn by Anthony, but the same thing was true of him now. He could not stand dinner parties. Then again, if it was only going to be a party of four, he supposed he could bear it for an evening.
Put on a performance for her brother, then what?
He was aware he should probably refuse and stop delaying the truth, but instead, he offered her a smile and said, “Aye, why nae? I don’t mind dining with yer brother.”
He could not remember much of the man, but maybe he could take Hugo to one side and explain everything. Tell him to take care of Octavia in his absence, the way that he could not.
“Truly?” Octavia brightened, her head rising up, her eyes wide with joy.
Malcolm shrugged. “I have to eat; might as well be someone else’s effort.” He paused. “Shall I bring some rabbits?”
“Malcolm, no!” She covered her mouth with her hand, a laugh slipping through her fingers. “Goodness, I doubt I shall ever civilize you.”
“At my ripe old age of three-and-thirty, I can’t be learning new things,” he replied with a sad smile. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
I’m sorry I can’t be who ye deserve.
He wished he could be the memory-less version of himself that had not yet suffered too much, and had even prayed for it some nights, for his memories to be removed again. But there was no undoing it. After almost a fortnight, even the doctor had declared that the recovery was probably permanent.
“What a relief it must be!” Stanforth had said, rather proudly, as if he was the one who had put the memories back himself.
“Aye, a relief,” Malcolm had lied, for who would not choose to forget all of the worst things that had happened to them, if given the chance?
Octavia chuckled. “Ah, but the gardener is always saying that his dogs cannot be taught anything new, and then they go and learn a new trick anyway.”
“So, I am a hound?” he teased lightly.
“You might be,” she replied, getting up. “I shall write back to Evelyn with the good news. She will be so pleased!”
She hurried off before Malcolm could say anything more, and as he returned his attention to the caterpillar, explaining how they all looked different, and that was how you could tell what butterfly they would become, he wondered if it really was too late for him to change.
It had been a long time since Octavia was this excited to attend a dinner party, even if it was just going to be a small affair between family.
In a lovely dress that she had purchased for the occasion, she swayed to the rhythm of the carriage and could not stop looking across to the opposite squabs. Malcolm looked breathtakingly handsome tonight, though, as far as she could tell, he had not done anything different.
“If ye keep staring at me, yer eyes will fall out,” he said, meeting her gaze.
She immediately looked away. “I was not staring.”
“Aye, ye were.”
“Well, I am… surprised that you agreed to come with me,” she said defensively. “I suppose I cannot quite believe that you are sitting there, ready to have dinner with my brother and his wife. You have never done so before.”
He shifted his attention to the window, where the hedgerows passed by, spiny fronds scraping at the glass. “Well, it’s nae so easy to have dinner in England when ye live in Scotland.”
“I suppose that is true,” she murmured, startled by a faint flutter of panic in her chest.
Every time Scotland was mentioned, regardless of the context, that feeling struck with greater intensity. It was ironic, really, that she had spent five years so very glad that they lived such separate lives, and now the thought of separation brought on a rush of panic.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“Miss what?”
“Scotland. Highcastle. Your solitude.” She paused, shaking her head. “Sorry, I keep forgetting that you do not remember. But… you must remember Scotland? The townhouse in Edinburgh that you once told me about?”
His eyes darkened, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “I miss nothing about that townhouse.” He hesitated. “It had a pleasant garden, I suppose, and a fine view of the castle. And there were walks by the river that I didn’t mind, or a walk up Arthur’s Seat.”
“Arthur’s Seat?” She had never heard of it before.
“Aye, it’s a hill. I don’t ken why it’s called that; something to do with King Arthur, I imagine,” he replied, his tone flat, to the point where she almost regretted asking about Edinburgh at all. “I’d go there sometimes to watch the sun rise or set. A place to seek some peace.”
She furrowed her brow. “Your house was not peaceful?”
He barked a cold, dry laugh. “Ye could say that.” His eyes met hers. “But what of ye? What of yer home? I assume that’s where we’re going.”
“It is,” she replied, annoyed that he had diverted the conversation but unwilling to press him. “My home was… peaceful enough. I was ignored, mostly, by my father. And my mother died when I was rather young, so I did not have her to give me attention.”
“I’m sorry.” Malcolm’s expression softened.
She shrugged. “You have no need to be. I do not remember her very well, and you cannot truly miss what you cannot remember.”
“I’m nae sure that’s true,” he countered. “I think ye can miss the absence of someone that used to be there, even if ye can’t remember them.”
His voice was a knife to the heart; a sentiment she had often believed but had never been able to put into words. Especially during the years leading up to her debut and, indeed, her debut itself, she had felt that way, missing the mother she could not even picture in her head.
“Hugo was a surprisingly good substitute,” she said, laughing it off.
“He was all I really had when I was younger. My father only cared about him, but Hugo only cared about me. In truth, I do not know if my brother and I would be as close as we are if it were not for the loss of my mother, so I suppose there was one small blessing to come from it.”
“I’m glad ye had some comfort, just as I’m sorry that ye didn’t have yer mother there to give ye the attention ye deserved.” A thickness in Malcolm’s voice made her observe him more closely, noting the creases of pain at the corners of his eyes, the stiffness of his posture.
She was about to ask what had saddened him, when the gates of her childhood home came into view, the crunch of the gravel under the carriage wheels rather ruining the quiet atmosphere within.
A short while later, the carriage rolled to a halt outside the front doors of Ravenvale.
Evelyn was already standing there, with Hugo at her side, as if they were waiting to welcome newcomers and not Octavia, who had lived there until the day she left for Scotland, married to Malcolm.
A manor that had only truly been a home to her once her father was gone.
“Welcome, welcome!” Evelyn chirped as a footman opened the carriage door.
Malcolm exited first, and turned, his eyes gleaming, to put out his hand for his wife.
Swallowing nervously, though she could not explain why, Octavia took his hand and held onto it tightly as he helped her down. It was the first time he had touched her in weeks, and when he suddenly let go, she felt the lack keenly.
It is like our wedding day… Only, this time, she did not want him to let go of her hand.
She shook off the thought and fixed her attention on Evelyn. “What are we having for dinner?”