“You were almost a year recovering,” she said. “You must have suffered a great deal.”
“I believe so,” he said. “Mercifully, I seem to have been somewhat out of my head during the worst of it. It was hard, though, to adjust my mind to the knowledge that I would carry around the visible effects of what happened for the rest of my life.”
“The wounds still hurt sometimes?” she said.
“Not often.” He smiled at her again.
“I have seen you limping,” she said.
“When I am tired or under some stress,” he said. “That is when Sidney, my man, plays tyrant and orders me to submit myself to a massage. He has a most impertinent tongue and magic hands.”
She smiled at him. “Why did you go?” she asked. “If you were a duke, it would have been most unusual for you to be a part of the army, especially as an infantry officer. Did you not have a happy childhood?”
“Quite the contrary,” he said. “I was privileged and happy and sheltered. No human being is entitled to enjoy such a lifewithout paying back a little. There were thousands of men fighting for our country who really owed it almost nothing except their birth. And yet to them it was worth fighting for. The least I could do was fight alongside them.”
“Tell me about your childhood,” she said.
He smiled. “That is a large question,” he said. “Do you want to hear about what a good little boy I was or about what a rogue I could be? Unfortunately, I sometimes drove my father to distraction. And the footmen. One poor fellow who lived in terror of ghosts and devils found two in the grand hall. Two named Adam and Thomas, who inhabited the gallery and made strange noises when he was on duty during the evenings. They haunted him for three whole weeks before they were finally caught. I can still feel the walloping I had for that. I believe I had to lie facedown on my bed for at least a couple of hours afterward.”
She laughed.
“It was a wonderful childhood,” he said. “We were Greek gods among the temples and Vikings on the lake and bear hunters by the cascades. Our father used to spend a great deal of time with us, teaching us to fish and to shoot and ride. My stepmother taught me how to play the pianoforte, though I do not have your talent. And she taught us to dance. There was always a great deal of laughter during those lessons. She used to accuse us both of having two left feet.”
“And yet you dance so well now,” Fleur said.
“I wish Pamela’s childhood could be as happy,” he said. “I wish there could have been other children. I always wanted a large family.”
He realized what he had said when she looked inquiringly at him.
“I will devote myself to her happiness when I go home,” he said. “I’ll stay with her. I’ll not leave her again.”
He closed his eyes and braced one booted foot against the seat opposite. It was late afternoon. The drowsy hour.
He had never voiced that dream before—the dream of sons of his own, and daughters too, running free at Willoughby, their shouts and laughter bringing the place alive again. It was not fair to Pamela that she be so alone.
His children and Fleur’s. They would take them riding and picnicking and boating. And fishing too. He would teach Fleur to fish. And she would teach the children to play the pianoforte, and herself play for their entertainment some evenings. And together they would teach their children to dance. They would teach them to waltz.
And he would love her by night. He would sleep with her all night and every night in the large canopied bed that had been his father’s before him and that had never held a woman since his father’s death. And he would fill her with his seed. He would watch her grow with his children. And he would watch those children being born and watch her giving birth to them.
He had paid his dues for a life of incredible privilege and for a childhood of wonderful security. He would be happy again and happy forever. He would open the oyster shell and find the pearl within.
He opened his eyes and became aware of his surroundings when her head touched his shoulder. She was breathing deeply and evenly. He turned his head very slowly so as not to wake her and rested his cheek against her soft curls. And he breathed in the scent of her. Their hands were still clasped together.
He closed his eyes again.
WROXFORD WAS NOT QUITEa town. It was a large village. Darkness had begun to fall when they arrived there, and the churchyard was quite large. It was altogether possible that they had just missed finding the correct tombstone in the half-light, the Duke of Ridgeway reassured her after they hadsearched without success. Or perhaps there was no tombstone yet. They should ask at the vicarage.
But the vicar was from home, at the bedside of a sick parishioner, his wife explained. She had no knowledge of such a grave. There were Hobsons in the churchyard, yes, but the last to be buried there must be old Bessie Hobson, all of seven or eight years before. Certainly there had been none buried there in the past six months. There had been only one funeral in that time, and that had certainly not been a Hobson.
“This man was valet to Lord Brocklehurst of Heron House,” the duke explained. “His father was a butcher here at one time, I understand.”
The vicar’s wife nodded. “That would be Mr. Maurice Hobson, sir,” she said. “He lives on the hill now.” She pointed to the east. “A redbrick house, sir, with roses in the front garden.”
“How strange,” Fleur said as they turned away, the vicar’s wife standing politely on the doorstep to see them on their way. “Mollie was quite sure it was Wroxford, and it seems to be the right place. His father does live here. But he was not buried here? I must speak with Mr. Hobson. It is not too late, is it?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “We will put up at the inn for tonight and I will call on Mr. Hobson in the morning. Alone, Fleur. I don’t think it advisable for you to meet him.”
“But I cannot expect you to do that for me,” she said.
