He saw no reason to evade the facts. “I have lied to you, Patience, and in fact to all the world,” he admitted when they faced each other. Her expression was neutral and he knew she hid her thoughts. “My name is not Arthur Beckham, though I have pretended to be him for over twenty years.”
She surveyed the chamber with a frown, as if the answer to her obvious questions might be lurking there, then met his gaze again. “But how can that be?”
“It is a long story,” he said.
“Then start at the beginning,” she instructed, her practicality making him smile a little.
Indeed.
“Once upon a time,” he began softly. “There was a boy who lived with his parents in a small village in England. They were not rich but neither were they poor, for as the mother said, they had each other and that was sufficient for anyone’s happiness. It was sufficient for the three of them, until the day the mother died.”
Patience let out a breath, as soft as a sigh. To Arthur’s surprise, she reached out and took his hand in hers. She gave his fingers a squeeze, as if to encourage him, and to his astonishment, it did.
“Both father and son were bereft without the lady, who had been not just wife and mother but the very focus of their lives together. She had been the one to know when one of them was ill, she was the one who knew what to do in any situation, she was the one who cooked the meals they loved and tended to their garments. She was a sweet and generous woman, much inclined to kindness but not averse to a stern word when one was needed.”
“She sounds lovely,” Patience said and he nodded agreement. He felt his throat work, but he continued. “Without her, their lives spun into disarray. The man began to spend what few coins he possessed at the public house, and often he missed days of labor, which meant their resources steadily diminished. Bills were left unpaid and the larder was often empty. The boy sold what he could. He took to doing tasks for others for coin or to begging, though there was little opportunity for either in their small village. He was hungry and dirty, his clothes ill-fitting since there was no one to patch or replace them, when he saw the fancy coaches on the road.”
“That explains the pennies then,” she said quietly and he looked at her in momentary confusion. “The ones you give to children.”
He winced. “That coin might provide their first meal in days. I know how much it can matter, but for Arthur Beckham, giving away a hundred pennies a day makes no difference at all.”
She tightened her grip on his hand and looked to be blinking back tears. He could not bear that he might have made her cry, so he frowned into the embers of the fire.
“The coaches came each year at regular intervals for the school terms, though the boy had never paid much heed to them in the past. They were from another world, one more affluent and privileged than his own. As he watched them this time, he recalled his mother saying that each coach carried a wealthy boy to school in Shrewsbury. She had said the boys came when they were at least ten years of age and he realized, with some surprise, that he was that age himself. It was early October and they arrived for Michaelmas term. On impulse, he followed the carriages, drawn to them by a fascination he could not explain. When one stopped at the tavern in the next village, he persuaded the coachman to let him ride along with a tale of his ailing aunt in Shrewsbury. He had never been more than a quarter mile from the house where he had been born, but there was so little for him there that he did not even look back.
“Shrewsbury was enormous and busy to him, confusing and thrilling. His efforts to fulfill a task for a penny or two were more successful here than in his home village, for it seemed not only that there were many minor tasks to be done but that people had much more coin in their pockets. He found himself lingering near the school, fascinated by the lives of these boys born to advantage. They had wealth and clothing, horses of their own even, and lessons. What would it be like to live thus? To never be hungry? To know that your future was assured, and would be one of comfort and indulgence?”
He shook his head at the very thought.
“The boy found favor in the kitchens of the school and worked long days, hauling supplies, shovelling manure, doing whatever had to be done. The cook let him sleep by the hearth, purportedly to ensure that he was always available, but she was a more kindly woman than she wished others to know. He eavesdropped on lessons whenever he could and watched the students with fascination, marvelling that Fortune could make lives so different for no apparent reason. A coachman taught him to play draughts, then cards, showing him how to anticipate the play. He was fascinated by the suggestion that chance could be foretold.”
Patience’s grip remained steadfast, though he knew at some point she would be troubled by his tale.
“There was a group of new boys seemingly determined to find trouble. One day, they schemed that they would escape in the night, and the boy heard of this plan. They chose to challenge each other to a feat of bravery. The wind was up, a sign that a storm brewed, but they were accustomed to having their way and paid no heed to the weather. The boy watched them creep out of the dormitory at midnight and considered whether he should tell anyone. Instead, he followed them.
“They all had insisted they could swim, but several could not. The boy could swim, though, and when he heard their cries of distress, he did not pause but jumped into the river himself. Two made the shore alone. One he saved. The fourth, name of Arthur Beckham, he reached too late.”
Patience inhaled sharply.
“The cook had noticed her missing charge and had him followed by a groom. In a school of boys, she doubtless had learned to smell mischief in the making. By the time the boy brought the third boy to the shore, there were half a dozen men from the school there, bundling up the survivors and carrying them off to the infirmary. In the chaos and the darkness, only the boy and the headmaster knew Arthur’s fate and the boy was sworn to silence. The headmaster took custody of Arthur and the boy was returned to the kitchens, where the cook fussed over him. He returned to his customary tasks and held his tongue.
“The boys were severely punished for their breaking of the rules and kept isolated from each other, as well as the other students. The dead boy’s father, Viscount Meadstone, was summoned at once. The sound of his arrival echoed through the halls and his roar of fury left more than one shaking in fear of repercussions. I was terrified when summoned to him.”
Arthur fell silent, realizing belatedly what he had confessed.
Patience bent to kiss his hand. “You were the orphaned boy,” she said, smiling up at him so his throat tightened.
“I was.” He exhaled, his vow finally broken after so many years of silence. He felt he had put down a burden, one that had become more weighty with every passing year, one he had never desired to pick up in the first place. He nodded once more, conviction growing in his voice. “I was.”
CHAPTER14
Patience was honored that Arthur shared his story with her. An earlier promise had kept him from surrendering it sooner, and doubtless, Lady Beckham had some influence in that choice as well. She was surprised to realize how little she cared what his true name was or what his origins had been. The man before her had claimed her heart completely. His nature was the reason she loved him, not his name. “Tell me about Viscount Meadstone,” she invited, because he seemed to be lost in his memories.
He stirred and took a breath, his gaze fixed on the coals of the fire again. “I expected him to chastise me for failing to raise the alarm sooner, thinking that might have saved Arthur.”
“You did not expect a reward?”
The quick flicker of surprise was the clearest answer she could have been given.
