That only earned me a bitter chuckle that had me grinding my teeth. “I’ve been at it for four days, and I haven’t found the bottom of the pile. Why don’t you go check on your mother? I’ll try to condense them further.”
Michael acted as though arranging my father’s estate was a burden. The man who had raised him out of the kindness of his heart was a burden to him. I bit back more indignation and bile, and escaped the study, managing to only shut the door slightly harder than was proper.
* * *
I did not seeMichael again for two more days. He still failed to join the family for mealtimes and greeted few of the visitors who came to mourn such a great man.
Finally, he sent his favorite gangly footman for both Mother and myself when the solicitor arrived. The study was in an even worse state than the last time I had entered. Every cup and plate that we had was strewn about every horizontal surface.
The footman tried to remove a few of the cups and plates but Michael, head still buried in documents, stopped him. “I’m not finished with that.”
The footman plucked one of Mrs. Hudson’s wonderful biscuits off the plate and tapped it against Michael’s forehead with a hollowthunk. “Yes, you are. It has been here for three days. It’s harder than your head.”
Mother’s mouth fell open at the impertinent display—about to reprimand the man—when Michael replied. “Really, Augie? Was that necessary?”
“Obviously,” he answered with a gesture to the rest of the plates and cups.
“Fine, I think those are even older.” Michael gestured to the pile on the bookshelf to his left.
“I don’t care how old they are. They’re all going.”
That comment was followed by a silent argument, full of furrowed brows and pointed glares, before Michael gave way. While “Augie” cleared up the dishes, the redheaded maid returned with a fresh plate of biscuits and tea before helping gather the remaining dirty dishes. It seemed as though the interruption shook Michael from his reading, and he finally made to introduce Father’s solicitor, Mr. Smithson.
Mother, still unrecovered from the shocking display with the staff, merely nodded.
“Lord Grayson, Lady Grayson, words cannot express my sorrow at your loss. Please accept my humblest condolences.” The title was still foreign to my ears. Five days of being addressed as such was hardly enough to render the words familiar. I merely nodded, picking at a biscuit, while Mother accepted his words graciously.
“My lord, have you considered whether you plan to return to school? Or whether you intend to take on your duties full time? You are fortunate that your brother is finished with his schooling and would be able to run the estate in your absence within whatever authority you wish to give him.”
For the second time in a week, the world crashed down around me.
Brother?
He could not possibly be referring to Tom who had not yet left the school room.
Mother’s startled gasp and Michael’s sheepish wince answered the question I had not fully managed to piece together.
The man in question cleared his throat awkwardly, with a glare at the solicitor. “Sorry Hugh, I should have considered how best to tell you. Grayson—your father—I wasn’t just his ward. He was my father too.”
“But?” It was the only word that I could manage, and I gestured toward where Mother was making a choked, angry clucking noise, like a disgruntled chicken.
“Lady Grayson is not my mother. I don’t know my mother,” he spoke clearly, unaffected by the slight against Mother implied in his existence.
“But? Wouldn’t that make you—”
“No, your father never married my mother. You’re still the viscount, Hugh.”
A thousand tiny pieces were falling into a thousand tiny places. For once in my life, a complete picture formed. I felt sick once more. I was beginning to suspect that feeling might never leave me. In fact, I was certain I would spend every day of the rest of my life nauseated, one wrong word away from being sick on my own shoes.
“Apologies, my lord,” the solicitor said. Adding, “I thought you were aware. As it stands, with a few signatures, Mr. Wayland can take over the bulk of the estate management on your behalf until you come of age. That way you could continue your education with relatively little interruption.”
Mother had moved to gaping like a fish. If the afternoon continued in this manner, she might be presented with the opportunity to display an entire barnyard’s worth of impressions. In spite of her performance of shock and outrage, it was plain that she was well aware of the situation.
The realization that I had been lied to my entire life was turning the few biscuit crumbs I had managed to eat, instead of crumble on my plate, to ash. Without a word I took the papers from the solicitor’s hands and signed without reading.
At the moment, I did not particularly care what Michael did with the estate. It should have been his anyway. Apparently, I wasn’t Father’s first born. I wasn’t entirely certain what I was, now. I threw the quill down on the parchment, ink splotching the document. The chair scraped away from the desk with a loud scratch over the mahogany floors when I stood, stomping out, with Mother calling after me down the hall.
Two
