One
THORNTON HALL, KENT - FEBRUARY 27, 1803
HUGH
The rhythmic rockingof the carriage lulled me to the first rest I found in three days; the three cold, miserable days since I learned of my father’s death.
It was a stilted respite, interrupted by frequent fits and starts. Each time I startled awake with agonizing hope only to be met with crushing despair when memory set in.
Father was gone. It was not a nightmare; it was my life.
Never again would he and I race across the fields of Kent. Never again would he correct my form with a foil. He would never see me grow to become the man he was raising. Never would he hold any grandchildren. And that knowledge was an ache too deep and too crushing to bear.
Michael’s letter reached me at school. It was cold, with scant details, written in his usual reserved tone. My father’s ward was typically aloof and frigid, at least toward the family. Apparently, informing me of my father’s passing warranted no change in tone.
If I had been there, I could have saved my father. Michael wouldn’t have put forth the effort, I was certain of it. If I could not have prevented his death, at least I would have given comfort and assurances. Or, I could have received them.
Michael always haunted the estate, lurking around corners—rarely seen or heard. Surely, he would have been as distant at my father’s end as he was in the man’s life. The bile and choked back tears warred for purchase in my throat. Images of my father’s last gasps met with Michael’s ungrateful apathy, refusing to leave me to sleep.
A peek behind the carriage curtain indicated that we were approaching Thornton Hall. It was time to abandon my hopes of further rest in favor of righting my appearance. It would not do to worry Mother. She would be distraught enough; and she had my brother, Tom, to comfort.
I brushed the tears that had escaped with the back of my hand and checked my pockets for a handkerchief to see to the rest. Though I could have sworn I had it when we set off, a thorough search produced nothing, and I was forced to use the back of my sleeve.
The carriage jolted to a halt outside the familiar hall. A footman opened the door and all I could see was Mother, with little Tom clinging to her skirts. Not for any force on earth could I have stopped myself from running to her arms, and burying my face in her shoulder. My tears returned in a flood, sobs ripping through me. Tom wriggled himself between us, joining in my sobs. Only Mother retained composure.
When I was finally able to bear pulling free, it was to the sight of Michael, standing unaffected off to the side. My anger at him pricked beneath the surface but the exhaustion of the past few days and release of the last few moments kept it pressed down.
The redheaded maid and the tall gangly servant he always had hanging about were lurking a few feet behind him, trying and failing to look occupied. With an uncomfortable cough Michael nodded. “Welcome home, Hugh. When you’ve rested, perhaps tomorrow, you and I can go over a few things.”
I could not imagine what I could possibly have to discuss with him but nodded rather than argue the point. Mother ushered Tom and me inside to the drawing room where tea and biscuits waited. At home, in her presence, I finally felt the hunger that had been missing for the last few days. Mrs. Hudson’s raspberry biscuits proved to be a comfort even in the darkest of all times.
* * *
“I’ve madethe funeral arrangements. I’d like you to look over them to see if they meet with your approval. I’ve consulted your mother on certain matters, but I would like your input as well.”
Michael had made himself comfortable in father’s study. The desk was strewn with pages and half the china cabinet’s worth of tepid cups of tea and coffee. More disheveled than I had ever seen him, Michael’s eyes were heavy with dark circles and his clothing was wrinkled beyond measure. His hair, too, stuck up in every direction as though he spent more time with his hands in it than without.
I took the proffered pages warily, reviewing them without truly seeing. If Mother had considered the arrangements, I was certain they were satisfactory. All that besides, what did I know about funerals? I had never seen a dead body before. Now my father lay at rest in his bedroom. Last night and this morning, I stared at the closed door, unable to force myself to enter.
While I was pretending to read the documents, the redheaded maid returned with yet more tea, this time a cup for me as well. “Here you are, my lord, cream and two sugars.”
For one blissful second, I actually forgot. At those two words, “my lord,”my head shot up, eyes darting around for Father’s imposing presence. For all the joy that blissful second brought me, the realization afterward was more devastating for it.
She meant me. I was“my lord.”No longer “sir,” I was now Lord Grayson.
The sick feeling that had finally dissipated in my mother’s calming presence returned in full force. Michael handed me a bin while the maid made a quick escape. I brushed him aside, just managing to hold back last night’s biscuits.
My entire life, I had been raised with the understanding that someday I would be the Right Honorable Viscount Grayson. It was an abstract, flimsy idea, imbuing me with a sense of pride and a vague, amorphous purpose. Somehow, I never connected the idea to Father’s death. It was a concrete understanding now.
For the first time, I wished my title away. I would forsake it, give anything, without a second’s hesitation, for my father’s strong arms wrapped around me.
I shoved the pages back to Michael haphazardly. “They’re fine.”
He merely nodded, clearly not convinced that I read them.
“Hugh, there are a great deal more documents to review. Accounts need to be transferred over. Settlements must be arranged. Would you like to wait for another day? Would you prefer I get your mother?”
The thought was already exhausting. “How long do you suppose it will take?”
