Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 4
“Don’t ye be worrying ‘bout that, Mr. Cale. Ye friend more than pays the tab.” She giggled and moved on to the men at the next table.
“I do not mind working off the tab,” he said with a wink.
That’d be the only thing the man had ever earned in his life, Connor couldn’t help thinking.
Connor stood. “You have not changed, my friend. If there is nothing else, I will be on my way. I must return to feed the foal.” He dropped a curt bow and turned to leave.
Before he took a step, the man grabbed his arm, halting him.
“I need more money to continue in London,” he spoke low.
“I plan to travel to London soon myself. I will bring you funds then.”
“Make sure you do, or I will be forced to quicken the downfall of Foldger’s Foals.”
Connor made no comment, seething at the impossible position he’d been put in. But if it was a choice between Lady Vi or his own return to society and respectability, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate. Connor would choose his own needs above all else.
Chapter 4
Brock strolled into Haversham House and nearly fell to his knees. It was hard to enter this place without memories flooding his mind. Memories of his beautiful mother, heavily pregnant with the twins. Or his young brothers sliding down the main balustrade during their games of pirates. Of his father, voice raised in anger over the improper escapades of Winston and Cody.
Eventually, his thoughts always came back to her--Lady Viola Oberbrook. How he despised the woman! Lord help him, and everyone around him, if he ever came face to face with that siren. He was unsure of what had become of her, and he had no desire to inquire as to her current whereabouts. He knew the unpredictability of his siblings, their tendency toward rash decisions and their scorn of consequences, but why had only his brothers suffered that day? With both dead, the blame should have fallen on her shoulders, no matter the unfairness of that fact.
“My lord.” His butler bowed before him. “May I relieve you of your overcoat?”
“Thank you, Thamston. Please have water brought up for a bath. I’m afraid after two days in the saddle I smell worse than the stable I visited.” Brock shrugged out of his coat and started for the stairs.
“My lord?”
“Yes, what is it?” He stopped mid-stride, turning back to Thamston.
“Mr. Jakeston awaits your presence in the front parlor.”
“Well, why did you not say so sooner?” Brock changed direction and headed to the closed door off the main foyer, throwing it wide to greet his oldest friend. “Harold! I distinctly remember saying I’d send word when I returned from Hampshire.”
His sudden appearance startled his friend, who looked to be dozing off in an overstuffed chair, his feet resting on an ottoman. Mr. Harold Jakeston snapped up straight and lifted his booted feet from the delicate, cream cushion of the ottoman. “I apologize for lurking when not invited.” His hair stuck out at odd angles and his eyelids were heavy with lack of sleep.
Brock snorted. “You are always welcome in my home, my friend. You look exhausted. Another row with your father?”
“Is it that obvious?” Harold rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Not to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I. They would assume you always look this downcast and bleak. Has Thamston or Miss Styles been in to offer you refreshments?” Brock asked.
“No, no. I did not seek to impose upon them.” Harold flung his hand in front of him, warding off Brock’s concern.
“Is it the vicar debate again?”
“Whatever else would it be?”
“You must come clean and tell him you have no intention of following in his footsteps.” Brock moved to the sideboard and poured two healthy fingers of brandy.
“But as the third son, I have no other options. Without a shilling to my name, the path may well be forced upon me.” Harold’s hand swiped at the hair falling across his forehead.
“Have a drink. Everything will appear better after.”
Harold relieved Brock of a tumbler. “No sherry?”
“The situation calls for something a bit stronger, would you not agree?”
Harold nodded and tipped the glass to his lips, draining the amber liquid.
“Another?”
“No, thank you.” Harold moved back to his napping chair and sat, his overly stressed body crushing the cushion under its weight.
“I will be traveling to London soon to start my quest for a bride,” Brock said. “I insist you accompany me. Maybe we can marry you off to an heiress. Then you would not have to worry about your father or his vicarage.”
“It is almost too much to hope that things would transpire thus.” The tension melted into despair and he sank further into the chair.
Brock tilted his own drink to his lips and pondered his friend’s predicament. He hadn’t thought about Harold accompanying him to London before, but it would be advantageous for them both. Harold could get away from his father, and Brock would not be alone during his first foray into society in over fifteen years. He had been no more than a lad when he’d chosen the career path of a military man, against his father’s wishes.
As Harold seemed lost in his own thoughts, Brock surveyed the room in which they stood. His parents’ last portrait hung regally above the fireplace. The downward gaze of his mother’s eyes hid the grin that sought to overtake her face. She’d just found out she was pregnant again, after many years of trying. His father immediately commissioned the painting.
His father, the fifth Earl of Haversham, beamed with pride behind Brock’s mother. Neither had any way of knowing that in seven months’ time she would be dead and his father would be tasked with raising twins, with only the help of a twelve-year-old Brock and a household of servants.
And now, they were all gone: His mother, his father, and the unborn boys just thought of in that painting. If it hadn’t been for Lady Viola Oberbrook, his brothers would still be alive; his father would never have died of a broken heart. She had taken his family.
“Are you not listening to me?” Harold chided.
Brock tamped down the inner rage that constantly boiled at the thought of Lady Oberbrook, and turned away from his parents’ portrait. “I apologize. My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?”
“I asked how it went at Foldger’s Foals. Did you find their stock of good quality?”
Oh, he’d found something of quality there, although he wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the livestock for sale. “I was quite satisfied with the animals I saw.”
“How many did you return with?”
“They are not ready at the moment. In a fortnight, I will return and bring home eight foals.” While Mr. Cale had insisted on delivering the animals to Haversham House, Brock had expressed his desire to collect the animals himself. Would he gain another glance of the fair Lady Posey? His hopes were high on that front. “Until then, I will work on repairing the stables here. You are welcome to stay and help.”
“That may be just the thing I need.”
“I was going to bathe and get a fresh start in the morning, but we might as well start now,” Brock said. “Before your father says play time is over.”
Days had passed and still Vi had found no solution to her problems. An increase in sales and a decrease in wages would not help at this point. She sat upon a tightly cinched bale of hay and listened as Alexander, her strong, well-trained stable lad, pronounced each phrase as she’d dictated to him moments before. The boy, truly on the cusp of manhood, had been with her for years. She knew he had more to offer than his mangled arm showed. Capable and sturdy, he worked twice as hard as most of her men, his disability notwithstanding. She wished she’d had his insatiable drive at his age.
“‘May I take your coat, my lord?’ How’m I do’n, Lady Vi?”
Vi looked up to see Alexander, stopped before her. “I apologize. What was that?”
“My lady, you be alright today?” he asked.
“That is, ‘how am I doing?’ and, ‘My lady, are you all right today?’ And yes, Alexander, I have only been very busy as of late.” Vi watched as Alexander nodded and turned back to his work, continuing to recite his recent lesson.
The boy was smart, and worthy of a better life than Vi could ever give him. One day, he would be a stable master at a grand country estate or butler in a fashionable part of London…if only he’d dedicate himself to his studies. When he had become too old to stay at the orphanage, Vi had quickly taken him in and put him to work. She’d been happily surprised that his disability did not limit his physical abilities in the slightest.
“Very good,” she praised him. “Now, please recite Pope’s Essay of Man.”
“Again, my lady?”
Vi knew the work she demanded of him was mentally exhausting, but she hoped one day he would thank her. “Yes. Until you can recite the whole poem with perfect pronunciation, you will say it every day.” She smiled in encouragement. “You almost have it perfectly memorized.”
“I jus’ don’t be get’n—” he started.
Vi stood and swept the hay from her skirt, considering her words before she spoke. “Alexander, I have told you many times. To work in a grand house, for a noble man and his family, you must carry yourself at their level.”
Alexander stared blankly at her.
“Do you remember the day you were told you would have to find different lodging? And a job to pay for your own food and housing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did that make you feel? Alone? Desperate? In need?” she asked. These exact emotions had stuck deep within her; they lived in her every waking moment and darkened her slumber each night. She knew them firsthand.
Alexander pondered her question for a minute before responding. “Like I was good for nothing. I be scared to think about those workhouses and what happens to people like me there.”
She knew she was being overly hard on him, but she needed him to understand the consequences if he didn’t try his best, especially knowing she would not be able to take care of him for much longer. “I am here to show you, to teach you, that if you believe in yourself you will never be alone or destitute. No workhouse will be in your future.”
They were so very different—from completely different worlds, yet they were also mirror images. She an ex-lady of the ton, and he a discarded boy. There was so much she yearned to teach him, wisdom she wished she’d had at his age. She wondered if she would have heeded the advice herself.
“I don’ be know’n what a cripple like me could do for nobody.”
His words brought tears to her eyes. With only one functioning hand, Alexander was still more proficient than any stable boy she’d ever employed. He had a way with the animals that defied the laws of nature. It was as if they understood each other’s needs on the most basic level.
He cared for them.
“You are much more than your disability, Alexander.” She took the hand that hung lifeless at his side and massaged the damaged skin. “You are intelligent, caring, compassionate, hardworking . . .”
Alexander lowered his gaze, as if embarrassed by her praise.
She continued, hoping to drive her point home. “You are so much more! And you will have so much more as you grow older and use the skills the good Lord gave you. One day, I promise, you will have a home and a family of your own. And, if you work hard now, a means to support them. You will never have to be alone.”
He lifted his sorrow-filled eyes to meet her. “I do be appreciating all you have done for me.”
“That was almost perfect, but it is not ‘do be appreciating.’ Try, ‘I do appreciate,’” she corrected, lightening the mood. “Now, Pope’s Essay on Man.”
Alexander nodded and his deep voice filled the empty stables with the words of his namesake, Alexander Pope:
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan
The proper study of Mankind is Man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A Being darkly wise, and rudely great
She let the words drift over her. They settled like a heavy cloak, coating her in memories of her past and the harshness of mankind. Not just society, but her harshness as well. Society had only punished her as she’d deserved.
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
She’d been weak, still was. She only hoped that one day she would gain the knowledge and strength to right her wrongs. Could she humble herself to mankind to renew her body and soul? Seek forgiveness for what her youthful naiveté had caused? Cody and Winston had not been born only to die. And neither had she.
She’d preyed on those two young men, egged them on, and ultimately caused their deaths. If she were to be judged today, would she be found wanting? Had she corrected any of her errors?
Had she any hope of correcting her past? Perhaps she should not push Alexander to persevere when, in truth, she’d been the one to give up. She had yet to face her sins and make amends; instead she cowered in the country resigned to her fate.
The thought of soaring again, of not being afraid to admit her mistakes and gain her pardon from any and all who would give it, breathed wind into her sails. But she knew only one person who could grant her the forgiveness she sought.
Brock Spencer, Lord Haversham, held her future salvation in his hands, though he did not realize it. She hoped the day would come when she could ask for that salvation.
Alexander continued solidly, pushing to finish when he paused. Clearly, searching his mind for the correct pronunciation of a word.
“The word is ‘absolution,’” Vi cut in. Even as she said the word, a heavy weight settled upon her shoulders.
She was a fool. A fool to think anyone would forgive her and remove the cloak of shame she’d worn since fleeing all she had known in London. Truly, a fool to think she ever deserved the right to ask for Brock’s absolution.
Brock surveyed the progress they’d made over the last several days. He’d been hesitant to undertake the repairs on the estate himself, but was glad he had. There was something comforting about being busy again. This was the type of life he was used to and craved—one that showed his worth. He did not look fondly on the idle hands of his English countrymen who were born to privilege.
“What next, Brock?” Harold asked, similarly studying their handiwork.
He ran his hand through his hair in the hopes the sweat he’d worked up would keep it out of his eyes. “Why don’t we tend to the tack room? It will be important that the saddles, horse blankets, and leather are kept dry from the elements.”
“Fine. You still haven’t told me why you are in such a hurry. You haven’t properly mourned the loss of your father, and you’ve rushed into rebuilding the estate—the very estate you couldn’t get far enough away from when we were younger.”
Harold was an inquisitive and intellectual man, and Brock had known it was only a matter of time before his friend would question his haste to move forward.
“I seek to prepare my home for a family, to once again fill the halls with laughter. If I can’t achieve that in the near future, at least I’ll be occupied with the horses. Training and the like.” He feared he’d shared too much, opened himself to the jests of a hurried marriage and the rumors of financial destitution, which could not be farther from the truth.
“I see,” was Harold’s only reply as he started toward the tack room.
“What in the blazes do you mean by that?” Brock followed closely on his heels.
“Not a thing. Do you not plan to hire someone to run the stables for you, to train the new foals?” Harold inquired as he entered the tack room.
“Whatever for? I am completely capable of the job, am I not?” Did his truest friend think him weak? Lacking, in some sense?
“Why yes, some would say overly capable. But with that responsibility weighing on your shoulders, however do you plan to meet, woo, and marry a chit in London?”
The man had a good point, one Brock hadn’t pondered as yet. Images of Lady Posey invaded his mind: her dark hair—would it hang down her back if released from the severe knot she kept it in? Her blue eyes, as clear as the seas along the French coast… But most of all, her presence itself. While they’d only met on two brief occasions, he was positive she would light any room she entered. “I will manage.”
“I have no doubt you will.”
Brock lifted the stack of new wood and carried it into the room, dropping it at Harold’s feet against the far rotting wall. “Enough talk. We sound like two old dowagers chatting over afternoon tea.” He grabbed a hammer and knelt by the section of the wall in the most disrepair.
Before Harold could respond, Brock heard footsteps behind him.
“Well, well, well. So nice of you to improve my inheritance, cousin.”
Brock’s head came up and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. “If it is not my well-connected cousin, Mr. Rodney Swiftenberg.” He added extra emphasis to the ‘mister’ before his third cousin’s name. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I’ve merely come to check on my forthcoming asset,” Rodney replied. “I do hope you are not emptying my coffers to repair this shell of a stable.”
“I would never dream of squandering your life blood, cousin. You remember Mr. Harold Jakeston, do you not?” Setting down his hammer, Brock stood to face his cousin.
“Ah, yes, your childhood shadow. How could I forget the meek and meager vicar-to-be?” Rodney responded in his usual condescending manner, nodding in Harold’s direction.
Brock didn’t venture a look at his lifelong friend, but a distinct heat came from Harold’s direction. It was tempting to react in a violent way—to grab his cousin by the throat and slam him against the rotting wall of the tack room, or use the man’s creatively tied cravat to wring his scrawny neck.
Instead, he smiled.
Rodney sought a reaction at every turn when they were growing up, and that hadn’t changed.
