“Yes, yes, of course. I know he was expecting you, sir, but he told me he had no idea why you were coming.
“Ah, you’re home. How handsome you are, Lord Graham—you are the image of your parents, ah, and your precious mother’s glorious blue eyes, your father’s stubborn jawline and your hair as dark as his. Oh yes, follow me, please.”
Heart pounding, so afraid he might puke, Alex forced himself to step into a magnificent long narrow room, a large chandelier hanging down from three stories above his head. A waiting room with high ceilings painted with classical scenes and so many portraits covering its dark green walls. Chairs and sofas sat in groupings around the room.
Lord Graham? It sounded ridiculous, not him at all. Lord?
Blakeney didn’t pause. Alex was aware of Ryder beside him, a rock, there for him, supporting him, he knew, as he’d always had. They walked from the receiving room down a long hallway covered with massive black and white tiles, more portraits hung on a single deep green painted wall. Hepburn ancestors? He looked at the magnificent stairs flowing upward, admired it, but his mind was in chaos, thoughts bouncing off one another, without form or meaning and beneath it all was blank fear, of who he was or who he wasn’t. All he was doing was walking, walking, following this Blakeney who’d put him on his first pony and watched him play with the sheep.
Blakeney stopped, searched their faces. “Mr. Sherbrooke, Lord Graham, should you prefer to see his lordship alone?”
Ryder said, “Yes, Blakeney, I think that is an excellent idea.”
Blakeney nodded, led them down a wide hallway and opened a rich mahogany door into a large library, three wallscovered with books, a gallery overhead, a ladder to the gallery, warm and dark—and the smell—for an instant Alex remembered the scent of leather and tobacco, mixed together for years on end, soothing, pleasant, then it was gone. Gas lamps burned bright, lighting even the corners of the vast room.
Blakeney gave a searching look at Alex. “Please wait here, I’ll fetch his lordship. I shan’t tell him you’re here.”
CHAPTER 25
Alex stood motionless. He hadn’t wanted to walk into that room, walk into that unknown. He felt apart from the man who wasn’t really him, couldn’t be him, could it? There was no spit in his mouth. Then he felt Ryder’s hand lightly squeeze his shoulder. He said quietly, “I know you feel like you’ve been knocked sideways, but it will be all right. You are Graham Hepburn, you’re finally home and that’s a wonderful thing, a miracle really. Don’t question yourself, don’t doubt—don’t question this miracle. Now, take a deep breath and look around at this splendid library. I do believe it rivals your uncle Douglas’s library at Northcliffe, and that means your father—yes, your father—loves books just as you do. Take another deep breath, that’s it, and look around.”
Alex nodded numbly and stared around at the walls of books. Ryder was right. This magnificent library did indeed rival Uncle Douglas’s. He walked to one of the bookshelves and stood looking at the books at eye level. He didn’t see Cicero or Plutarch, but rather Brunton’sA Compendium of Mechanics, Lardner’sThe Steam Engine, and there were well-worn copies ofPractical Farming and Grazingand Stephens’sBook of the Farm.And then, to his immensepleasure, he saw Kater’sA Treatise on Mechanics. Alex felt some of his gut-wrenching anxiety fall away as he continued to read the titles. So many more treatises on agriculture, mathematics, even building a kitchen … Higher on the shelf he saw Shakespeare, John Milton, John Locke, Adam Smith, so many more, pages cut showing they’d all been read, probably many times.
My father is a modern man, a man of many interests. Alex reached for a treatise on modern mechanical designs for farm equipment but left it where it was. He grinned hugely, grabbed up a black leather-bound book and turned to Ryder standing beside a large mahogany desk, watching him. “Sir, here are Grayson’s novels, this one’s really terrifying—The Demon in the Wall.Here are all of them I believe.”
“Obviously he’s a man of excellent taste,” Ryder said, grateful for the momentary distraction.
Alex heard voices outside the door and quickly pushed Grayson’s novel back with its brothers. A man’s deep voice and Blakeney’s, low and smooth, a touch of excitement. He felt frozen to the spot.
The door slowly opened. Alex watched a tall man stride into the room, Blakeney at his heels. Alex’s first thought was,He looks powerful, he looks like a man who knows who and what he is.
He wore fashionable black trousers, a white waistcoat, white neck tie and a white shirt. His thick dark hair was threaded with silver and brushed back from a high forehead, but unlike Alex’s, his eyes were a pale gray. He looked fit, strong, formidable in body and spirit, this man who was his father. He recognized the stubborn chin, his own chin, the dark complexion, the high cheekbones.
Vereker Hepburn looked at Ryder. “You are Mr. Sherbrooke? Welcome to my home. I had expected Blakeney to show you into the drawing room when you arrived.”
“Thank you, my lord. You must wonder why I am here.”
Vereker Hepburn didn’t answer. He was looking beyond Ryder to stare at a young man standing in front of the bookshelf. There was something, something—
Blakeney couldn’t hold it in, he said, trembling, his voice nearly breaking with emotion and excitement, “My lord, it is Lord Graham. He is home again.”
Vereker didn’t move. “Wh-what?”
“Your son is returned to us, Lord Graham is home. Please come forward, my boy, come forward.”
Vereker stood stock-still, unable to believe what Blakeney had said, unable to accept what he saw, unable to take in the magnificent young man who now stood not six feet from him, his hair mahogany dark, his lean face slashed with high cheekbones—no, no, it couldn’t be possible—and then he stared at the vibrant blue eyes, vivid, startling, his precious Madeline’s eyes. He was tall and fit and so very beautiful, so very perfect—no, how could it be possible? No, it simply couldn’t be. Vereker swallowed, swallowed again, words beyond him. Eleven years spooled through his mind, eleven long years and no word of Graham or Simon. And he’d given up finally. His life had continued, but the hole in his heart remained jagged and deep, filled with distant grief. He stared at the young man, into those amazing blue eyes, wild eyes, and said, his voice hoarse, “Graham?”
He couldn’t help himself, Vereker walked swiftly to him, grabbed his shoulders in big hands. He closed his eyes trying to take it in. Then he whooped loud and pulled him close, just as Blakeney had. Vereker pushed back, but only a bit, never looked away from his face and whispered over and over, “Is it really you, my son? Really you, Graham? I cannot believe it—so many men I sent out to find you and your brother, Simon, so many prayers and finally I knew you were gone forever. I gave up—eleven years!” Still Vereker was afraid to believe it even though he saw the stamp of hisfeatures and Madeline’s on this young man’s face, more refined than his or his mother’s, so very perfect, pure, beautiful. Vereker was swamped with feelings deep and wild—and gratitude, heaps of sheer gratitude, and such happiness—he clasped this precious young man in his arms—his son—and wept.
Alex had had no more doubts this man crying and hugging him hard was his father. But Alex didn’t recognize him, not even a glimmer of a memory—but wait, the smell of vanilla, a light scent teased his memory, only to disappear into the warm air. He felt his father’s strength and that strength felt somehow familiar. Slowly, Vereker raised his face, tears sheening his eyes, and stared into his son’s face. He realized they were of a size. “Graham,” he said softly, so much love and pleasure in his deep voice. Slowly, Alex—no, Graham—felt the power of him, his strength, and felt this amazing man shudder and the realization of who and what he was slammed into him and he accepted it completely and utterly.I am no longer Alex Ivanov, I’m Graham Hepburn and this man is my father. My father.
Vereker couldn’t look away from his son. He thought yet again,You and I are both stamped on his face, Madeline.He wondered at fate, remembered the pain, the grief, a part of him—but now, right this moment, everything was perfect, his son was with him once again. Graham, his son.
He whispered, “I knew you would have my height. Such long legs you had as a boy—” Vereker raised his hand and lightly touched his son’s face and words burst from his mouth. “When I last saw you, you were no taller than my shoulder, but you were as brave and eager and wild as my stallion Brutus, always in trouble, always ready to fight and laugh and you loved anything mechanical. You were always fixing farming equipment, Mrs. Sample’s store that gushed smoke, fixing the leaks in the bathing room—it didn’t matter. The tenants loved you because you always spotted somethingwrong before they did and alerted me or fixed the problem on the spot, you, a young boy. You wanted to know how everything worked from your earliest years.”
While Ryder looked on, beyond pleased, Vereker’s words continued to flow, no rhyme nor reason, “I remember you and I together read and discussed Lagrange’sReflections on the Algebraic Solution of Equations. And I watched you struggle to understand and when you did there was such joy and excitement on your face.
“You loved Gyllenborg’sA Natural and Chemical Treatise on Agriculture.And I remember how you wanted Odel, our chief lad in the stables, to teach you to shoe your own pony. And you did it well. Odel was so impressed with you.” Vereker stopped talking, swallowed. He ran his fingers over his son’s face. “You are just as I imagined you would be as a man. No, you’re more, you’re much more. You’re a miracle.”
