Graham left Ryder discussing hunters with Donner. He got directions from Blakeney for his uncle Tally’s cottage in the eastern forest. He quickly changed into breeches and a simple white linen shirt and boots. He himself saddled the velvet-nosed chestnut Stanley, gave him a carrot from Cook’s garden he’d seen lying in a basket. He rode the short distance to the cliffs overlooking the English Channel. It was a splendid sight, the sun bright overhead, fanciful white clouds scattered over a blue bowl, a perfect day.
As he stood there, Stanley beside him, softly blowing, a stiff wind off the water tangling through his hair, he saw Cam again in his mind’s eye, smiling, no, she was grinning like a bandit at something she’d said—or he’d said. He missed her. He was aware of a hollow feeling deep inside him, muting the very air around him. She should be standing here beside him, making a jest, admiring the bright, choppy water, the glorious view from this vantage point, giving him a look of awareness, and he knew to his soul she would want to be standing beside him as well, the wind blowing her skirts against her long legs. It was an ache, deep and abiding. What was he to do? Well, now Cam’s father couldn’t object to him. He was now a lord—how very odd that felt—Viscount Whitestone. He was a proper gentleman, not a waif saved by RyderSherbrooke, well educated, well dressed, to be sure, but still a nobody of no account at all who didn’t even know who he was. But now he was somebody worthy of her.
Graham knew he was blessed, but he also knew to the deepest part of him that his life had now flown apart and was pushing him into a new direction. He was both afraid and excited. He remembered overhearing Ryder say to his wife, Sophie,He speaks like a young gentleman. Someone didn’t want him to live.
He was now a peer, Viscount Whitestone, and that someone who’d tried to kill him was probably still close.
He turned away from the cliff and rode Stanley back into the eastern forest, looking for the path Alrick, one of the stable lads, had told him about.Aye, ye needn’t worry, yer lordship, me fine boy Stanley knows how to find Master Tallyrand. He knows the trail like the back of ’is hoof. Master Tallyrand don’t want a well-marked trail, likes his privacy, he do.
Oaks and maples crowded in, tall, still winter bare, each tree striving to get the most sun. The forest was silent, only the sound of Stanley’s hooves kicking up the occasional pebbles or a pile of leaves. It took him only ten minutes. Stanley never paused, never sniffed the air, went left then right and left again until they reached a small clearing and in its center stood a stone cottage, a stream of gray smoke coming out its chimney. Graham saw a garden to the side of the cottage, well planted, enclosed with low white-painted fencing. He patted Stanley’s nose and looped his reins over a tethering post. He heard a whinny from a stable off to his left. Stanley answered, tapped his right front hoof. Probably a mare.
Graham paused a moment to admire the well-scythed lawn. He walked along a beautifully set stone walkway leading to a heavy wooden front door painted a whimsical bright red. It was a lovely setting, a lovely property, an exquisite cottage.
The front door opened and a tall man, handsome, cleanshaven, dressed in well-worn black breeches and white shirt, old boots on his feet, walked slowly outside, his eyes never leaving Graham’s face.
Again, Graham saw a flash of white in his mind, a thin sort of veil, then it was gone.
Graham said, “Uncle Tally?”
The man simply continued to stare at Graham, then he said in beautiful English, “Yes. I heard you were back. I’ve often wondered over the years if somehow you and Simon were alive, but of course as the years passed, I had to accept you were dead. So long, so many years. How many? Eleven years? But here you are. I heard there was no sign of your brother, only you. Blakeney told me you were blanked-brained, had no memory of anything at all.” He paused, studied Graham’s face. “You do not remember me?”
Graham said, “No, I don’t remember anyone or anything. I’m sorry.”
Tally cocked his head to the side, grinned, showing white teeth, then a full-bodied laugh. “Ah, then you can’t remember when I called you and your brother insolent whelps, the two of you dirty little monkeys, both of you always into everything, always bothering me with your endless mischief and pranks, your constant demands I tell you all about Waterloo. Simon even wanted to see the scar on my side from the sword thrust. As for you, you always wanted to know how I made my gardening tools, not satisfied until I showed you each step. I even taught you how to shoe a horse.” He grinned. “Well, it was actually the stable lad Odel, but I was there, watching closely.”
Graham couldn’t help it, he smiled back. “Did you show Simon your wounded side?”
Tally shook his head. “A young boy didn’t need to see an ugly puckered scar. So it is true, you have no memory of anything at all? Not even your father? King’s Head?”
Graham shook his head, but there—a blurred image of himself, a horseshoe in his hand, then it was gone.
Tally said, and Graham thought he heard a catch in his voice, “And Simon, he wasn’t with you. Then he’s gone.”
Graham felt a clutch to his heart even though he had no memory of his brother. “It seems so. I myself was thrown, probably unconscious, into the Thames, pulled out by wharfmen who declared me dead. But Mr. Sherbrooke saved me, raised me, became my guardian. Vicar Piercebridge saw me, recognized me. Both Mr. Sherbrooke and I came to King’s Head.”
Tally nodded because naturally, he’d already heard all of this. He said softly, “You have your beautiful mother’s eyes. She was wicked, was Madeline, she was always playing tricks on your father, on everyone, really. I remember how she’d hide from him, leave clues, most of them mathematical, make him search her out. Their laughter, it filled King’s Head. So long ago it was.
“Madeline helped me plant my garden, taught me how best to set the stone walkway given the diameter and thickness of each stone and how deeply it would sink into the soil. But she died.” He sighed. “It was an awful time. Your father, my brother, he was so very proud of her, and her death destroyed him for a time. Well, Graham, come in and I’ll make you a cup of tea. How odd it is—you’re taller than I am.”
He paused a moment, stepped forward and brought Graham against him and squeezed him hard. “A man grown, of my size. I doubt you’re an insolent whelp now, my lord.”
CHAPTER 36
Sherbrooke townhouse
Portman Square
London
“The hackney doesn’t smell, but still, all sorts of people have ridden in this carriage, sat on these seats. What will people think if they see Lady Camilla Rohman riding in a rented hackney?”
Cam was almost too excited and scared to think, but finally, she managed, “You’re a snob, Cilly.”Distract her, distract her.And so she did. “Forget the hackney, think about how we traveled all the way from Bath to London in the magnificent steam train. I only wish we could have ridden in her maiden trip to Bath. Can you imagine? Cilly, can you believe it only took us eight hours to arrive in London and only four stops? And none at all after Reading.”
Cilly said, “I know, I know, and now you’re going to have to repeat to me we had to have the stops, more water and more coal and just look at all the people who want to go to London with us. I didn’t like the hopper.”
Cam laughed at her. “But it was a first-class hopper. All right, so the small compartment with a seat with a hole in the middle open over the tracks was a bit different, but better than stopping by the side of the road on a long carriage ride, don’t you agree? And you could close and lock the door.”
Cilly had to agree.
