“If I may suggest, my lord, that you simply take it one day at a time. Everything will fall into a rhythm of familiarity soon enough.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ellsworth. As always, your counsel is wise.”
“It is my honor, Lord Ashford.”
*
The fire hadburned low in the grate when Digby knocked once on the bedchamber door. “Your bath is ready, my lord.” Digby bowed slightly while his free hand automatically straightened a candlestick on the side table. “If it pleases you.”
James blinked from where he sat in his shirtsleeves, thumbing through estate papers. “You’ve prepared a bath? Is this something I should expect every night?”
“Yes, my lord.” Digby moved to the mantel, straightening another candle before lighting a fresh taper. “I notice how stiff you are in the morning and a bath will do you good.”
“War injuries,” James said. “They’ve made me less limber than I should be.”
“I understand, my lord, having served myself. Tomorrow will bring rain and the dampness will settle in your bones. A warm bath tonight will help.”
James glanced toward the window but it was too dark to see the nature of the weather. However, this time of year in England was almost always chilly and damp. “Can you sense the rain?”
“The air has that particular weight to it,” Digby said. “Your body knows it too, I’d wager. Old injuries often do.”
“Very well. You’ve convinced me.” James followed Digby into the adjoining chamber, where a hip bath had been positioned before the fire. Steam rose from the water’s surface like incense, and towels rested in neat arrangements. Mrs. Ellsworth had recently purchased new linens and towels for the household. Memories of living in his cramped apartment above the tavern were beginning to fade with each decadent day.
Digby withdrew a small vial from his waistcoat, adding several drops to the water with the reverence of a man mixing medicine.
“Lavender?” James asked, catching the familiar scent from his childhood bath. A memory surfaced of a time not long before they took his father away. His father had visited the nursery after traveling for a few days on business. Sebastian had already bathed and was in his pajamas, but James was still in the water, getting a thorough scrubbing from the governess, who complained about the dirt under his fingernails and behind his ears.
Papa had dismissed the governess, saying he would finish getting his boys ready for bed and she could retire early. James understood now, as an adult, how unusual it was for a man with the title of duke to spend such intimate time with his children. But perhaps he’d sensed how the loss of their mother had left a void that only he could fill.
James could not remember what they talked about, if anything, but the scent of lavender oil had remained fresh in his memory. From then on, he’d associated that smell with the gentle love of his father. His gut twisted with grief. If only he could see him one more time. Ask him questions about himself. Stories he could keep and pull out when he was especially missing him.
“Lavender reminds me of my childhood,” James said to Digby. “But I smell something else too. What is it?”
Digby corked the vial, looking pleased with himself. “Aye. This ismy own blend. Lavender for the nerves, bergamot for clarity, and mint to sharpen the senses. I was taught to blend oils by a housekeeper in my first household. She said a man’s bath should restore more than just his body.”
James studied him, curious about Digby’s past. “How old were you then?”
“Eleven, my lord.” Digby began working the buttons of James’s waistcoat, his fingers sure despite their calloused tips. “Boot boy, initially. Then scullery. I learned that staying useful meant staying fed. My mother depended on my wages. Like yours, my father passed away when I was young, leaving just me to care for my mother.” His voice carried the quiet matter-of-factness of someone who’d never had the luxury of childhood.
“Is she still alive?” James asked.
“Yes, my lord. She lives in the village with her sister. They are my only family.”
James’s stomach clenched as those careful hands moved to his shirt. His fists closed automatically, an old defense. He did not want anyone to see his back, the scars that told part of the story of his life. “I can manage the rest.”
Digby paused, meeting his eyes. “Of course, my lord. Though I should mention—I’ve seen much in my years of service. Nothing troubles me.”
James forced his hands to unclench and slowed his breathing. Digby would not judge him. He understood how it was to grow up hard. And anyway, a gentleman was expected to use his valet in this way, even though it felt odd to James. “Very well. Continue.”
The shirt came away with gentle efficiency. He waited for a reaction from his new valet but none came, even though the scars across his back were impossible to hide.
“Courtesy of my cousin’s husband.” James kept his voice carefully light. “He didn’t much care for me or my brother.”
Digby’s hands stilled as he folded the shirt—always in thirds, James had noticed, a habit that spoke of order imposed on chaos. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. “It pains me to see what was done to a child. To any child.”
“He was a man who found pleasure in power over the powerless.” James stepped into the tub then, the hot water a shock at first but he quickly acclimated. He had to admit, it felt good to sink low into the water and let it soothe his tired muscles. Despite his new title, he had worked as hard as any of the men they’d hired to restore his home. Just today, he’d helped to clear a pile of bricks from one of the upstairs rooms.
Digby knelt beside the bath, adding another drop of oil. The mint sharpened the air, clearing James’s head as he relaxed further. “Digby, I could grow accustomed to this.”
