Chapter 006 Percy
"He is a good man."
Mrs. Fernsby’s voice was soft. Reverent. She gazed down at the scene before us.
The warning rose instinctively in my throat—do not fall in love with him—before I swallowed it. She did not mean it like that. She meant only that our master was a good man.
Because of this.
Henry sat on the floor. The nursery rug.
It was the safest place for them. With only one arm, he worried constantly about dropping her. Or tripping. On the floor, surrounded by pillows, gravity had no claim on them.
Isabella lay on her back. Six months old. Not yet crawling, but alert. She stared at her uncle.
He made a face. Cheeks puffed. Eyes wide.
She blinked. Then gurgled.
I watched his shoulder—the left one—tense as he leaned over her. I worried about discomfort. The hard floor against his hip. The strain on his back. But his expression was light. He was trying to make her laugh.
Caroline had been stunning. A diamond of the first water, as they said in London. Isabella promised to be just as handsome. Though perhaps difficult to tell when she was mostly cheeks and drool.
But she was enthralled.
She grasped his hand. His one hand.
She did not care about missing limbs. Or the pinned sleeve. Or the cane lying just out of reach. She wanted only affection. The undiluted attention she received from Mrs. Fernsby, the staff, and now, Henry.
Please let her know only kindness.
It was a prayer. I was not a praying man, but for her? Yes.
Let him be here to protect her.
She was an orphan. Two healthy parents, gone in months. Henry had survived twelve years of war, amputation, and the hell of Waterloo. He was broken, yes. But he was here.
He was proof that death could be cheated.
"Percy?"
I stepped forward. "My lord?"
"Do you believe she looks like William?"
I moved closer.
I had little experience with children. Isabella was the first infant at Crosswood since Henry was born, thirty-five years ago.
And I had been born a fortnight later.
I examined her. Small features. Dark hair.
"Perhaps." I tilted my head. "The shape of her lips. The Hartridge visage is quite distinct."
I crouched down. My knees cracked slightly.
"She has Caroline’s eyes, though." I met his gaze. "Sorry."
He shook his head. A small, tight movement. He glanced around.
Mrs. Fernsby had stepped out. Trusted us. Or perhaps just giving the Earl his moment.
"Old hurts, Percy. I long forgave her for choosing my brother. He did not have... Well, you know."
William was not half Black.
Yes. I knew.
My resentment of Caroline had spanned our entire acquaintance. She never knew. She paid me no mind. I was furniture. A servant. If my father—the butler then—had caught wind of my enmity, he would have banished me.
I stayed for Henry. Even when he was gone. I held to the hope he might return.
And he had.
"She does have Caroline’s eyes," Henry said softly. "I am glad we have portraits. And a few of William. She shall know her parentage. They loved her."
He said it with surety. More than he had a right to. William died before she was born. Caroline followed two months later. But she had been wanted. The whole house knew of the miscarriages. The desperate need for an heir.
Now they had one.
Unless Henry married. Produced a son.
"She is all I need, Percy."
He looked at me. Dark eyes serious.
"She is the legacy."
"You might—"
"No, my friend. I will not."
Friend.
Sentimentality. It was the baby.
"You are too personal, my lord," I said, keeping my voice light.
He shrugged. One-shouldered. "You are my valet. My confidante. If I choose familiarity—"
"And how is my charge doing?"
Mrs. Fernsby bustled back in.
I straightened quickly. Nearly tipped over. I steadied myself against the wall.
Henry never released Isabella’s hand. "She is well, Mrs. Fernsby. You are very good for her."
The wet nurse blinked. Flushed. "I am the lucky one, Lord Hartridge."
He cleared his throat. "I understand you were a governess before you married Mr. Fernsby."
She crossed herself at the name. "You understand correctly, my lord. I had three of Miss Marston’s nieces under my charge." She straightened her spine. "I would have remained, except... I fell in love."
And lost him. And the child they wanted.
"Miss Marston mentioned that to me last night." Henry offered a crooked smile. Not a happy one. "Except I believe she meant it... cruelly."
Ah.
So that was the source of the foul mood.
"Miss Marston... does not hold governesses in high regard."
It was a risk. Speaking ill of the gentry. The richest family for miles. But Mrs. Fernsby was straightforward. If she thought Henry contemplated marrying Blanche Marston, she would warn him. Even if it cost her everything.
"Miss Marston’s opinion is worth less than nothing." Henry’s tone hardened. "Would you be willing to stay on? Once Isabella is weaned. To become her governess? I am looking for someone who will be here for years. Unless..."
Unless you find love again.
She was young. Thirty. She could marry.
"I would be honored, Lord Hartridge." Her breath hitched. "That would be my dearest wish."
"Perfect."
He released the baby’s hand.
"You may take her now."
Mrs. Fernsby scooped Isabella up. Cradled her close. She practically floated from the room.
Henry let out a sigh. Long. Weary.
"Was that so difficult?" I asked.
"I had not known. Blanche had been... vicious. Inappropriate. If I had any inkling of marrying her, that decided it. Mrs. Fernsby is dedicated. She is the reason Isabella thrives. The woman’s future is my concern. I owe her."
"And now she is cared for. For the next eighteen years." I grinned.
Henry rolled his eyes. Then sobered.
"Will you assist me to rise? My leg is stiff."
He should not have been on the floor.
I knew it. He knew it.
But I would never say it. The joy on his face earlier overrode my logic.
I moved to him. Braced my stance.
"Ready?"
He nodded. Gritted his teeth.
I hauled him up. Took his weight. He leaned heavily against me, then the couch, until I handed him the cane.
He gripped it. White-knuckled.
"That is... perhaps as much as I can do today."
Lines of pain bracketed his mouth.
"Much sitting last night as well," I noted.
Sitting at a dinner where he was miserable. Tension made the pain worse.
"We shall take a turn around the house," I said. "Before you take to your bed."
He scowled. "Percy."
"You will be unable to move tomorrow if you do not loosen up. You know this."
I could give as good as I got. We had learned the hard way. Rest without movement led to seizing. Agony.
He had to persevere. Put one foot before the other. For Isabella. For himself.
He groused. Muttered something about tyrants. But he allowed it.
We walked. Slowly. The rhythm of the cane on the floorboards. Click. Step. Drag.
We went from the front of the house to the back. I spared him the grounds. It was too cold.
"Quite a legacy," I said, gesturing to the hall as we reached the stairs.
"The Earl did an admirable job of growing the holdings. I am uncertain I will be so... aggressive."
"Your father could be ruthless."
"And yet he married my mother."
We started up the stairs. One. Two. Pause.
"That he did," I said.
"She was a lady."
"I am aware."
Henry never spoke of her. No one did. No portraits of the second Countess Hartridge hung in the gallery. The Earl had gone to London after William’s mother died. Returned eight months later with a new wife.
Henry was born. She died.
"I have no memory of her." He stopped on the landing. Breathing hard. "Like Isabella will have no memory of her parents."
"They will live through you."
"My mother lived through no one."
"For which I am sorry." I kept my voice low. "My father said she was a kind woman. Kept to herself."
"Oh?" He resumed the climb. "I suppose she would have been shunned."
"Perhaps not as the Countess."
"No. As you say. I am the Earl." His jaw tightened. "The disgust might have been thinly veiled last night, but it was veiled."
Because he was rich. Because he was titled.
Whether the disgust was for his skin or his shattered body, I did not know. Lady Amaryllis had been there. The Thorntons. The Marstons. I would hear the gossip soon enough.
But they respected power. And Henry had that.
We reached his chamber. He exhaled, a sound of profound relief, as the door clicked shut.
"A bath?" I asked.
"I do not think I could get in and out." He leaned against the wardrobe. "Not again."
"Then a wash. A nightshirt. Bed."
"The hour is early."
"Gentlemen are allowed to retire whenever they wish."
"I thought only ladies could beg off with a headache."
"Gentlemen should have the same privilege."
I moved to him. Deft fingers.
"What would I do without you?" he murmured.
"You need never know. I shall serve you until I die."
It was a fact. Not a boast.
Life was fragile. He might die first. I might grow old. He might send me away.
But I chose not to see those futures.
"I shall likely die first," he said.
I pulled the jacket from his shoulders. Careful of the pinned sleeve.
"Why do you say that? You are a man of leisure."
I reached for his shirt.
"I have hardly been that." He winced as I pulled the fabric. "Why must there be so many infernal buttons?"
"So I may get close and personal with you."
I grinned.
He rolled his eyes. But he did not pull away.
His chest was bare now. Scars and skin. Beautiful.
He met my gaze.
"You left."
I paused. "When?"
"This morning."
"Ah." I folded the shirt. "I heard voices. Staff. I decided that even though you ordered privacy, I was better off not lounging in your bed."
I placed the shirt on the chair.
"Will you come to my bed tonight?"
His voice was low. Rough.
His eyes—dark, brown, endless—flashed.
I swallowed.
"If you wish."
"I wish, Percy." He stepped closer. The cane tapped the floor. "I wish very much."