Algenon willed his mind to understand what his father was saying. Then he remembered the bet, Lord Falcross’s and Lord Rupert’s sudden attention to their family, and his father telling him he wouldn’t understand.
“Falcross?” he asked.
His father lifted his hand and closed it once. “Hurry.”
That one word raised the hair on the back of his neck. Fear hung in his father’s eyes. In all his life, he’d never seen his fatherso frightened. He was firm and immovable, a man who showed little emotion and never fear.
“I will, Father.”
Algenon rushed home, eager to clean up, collect the book, and present himself at Harris House, but when he entered his father’s room he stumbled to a stop. Only a bed, a side table, a bureau, and an armoire filled the space. Where were the chairs for sitting in front of the fire, or perhaps a bookcase to store personal volumes?
He made his way to the armoire. The ornate carvings of vines, flowers, and hummingbirds made the piece stand out from the plain lines and even edges of the rest of the furniture. Flinging the doors open, he pushed the evenly spaced clothes aside to look at the bottom. Nothing. Not even dust.
The table was bare of any boxes that might hold books. The bureau, too, had nothing of interest. Algenon dropped to his belly and peered under the bed. A sigh of relief escaped him. There were three small crates filled with books. Unfortunately, each one contained at least one green book.
He removed the first and flipped through the pages, noting the date. This one had been written when he was twelve. His name flashed on a page and he stopped, curious about what his father had written about him. An accounting of a fishing trip during a break from Harrow followed. He read several lines, disappointment soon ebbing his curiosity. Nothing but the facts were recorded. He should have expected as much, but a part of him wished for more. What had his father thought of him? Did he enjoy the trip?
Algenon glanced at the other books. Would there be any personal thoughts about him in their pages? The urge to readthem battled with his need to hurry. A black book with worn edges caught his attention, and he slipped it free. It was older than the other volumes, the writing inside less fine.
The date on the top read July 1, 1780.
“My brother continues to be a trial to our parents. Upon his return from London, we received word of another young lady needing to remove herself from Society. When will Solomon learn to be circumspect? One of these days, he will bring our family to ruin with his recklessness.”
Algenon swiftly shut the book, his heart stuttering. Reckless was exactly how his father had described him. Did he somehow remind him of his brother? Was that why he had been so hard on him?
He returned the book to its place and took out all the green volumes, six in total. He could only hope he’d gotten the correct one. He slid the first two crates back without issue, but when he pushed the last one under the bed, it bumped into something.
In its way there was a beautifully carved mahogany box. Etched in the top was his mother’s name. An ache filled his chest.
This was his mother’s. She had held it in her hands and perhaps filled it with her dreams. Heedless of how his father might feel about him snooping, he flipped the clasp and opened the lid.
Inside, he found three stacks of letters tied with ribbons. One was obviously addressed to his father; the others were from acquaintances. Under them he found a few locks of hair, a rabbit’s foot, and two wrapped packages. The names scrawled on the brown paper of each made him pause.
One was to him. The other, to Lady Upton.
He slid the packages free, a new wave of frustration building. Not only had his father not told him of his mother, but he’d actively kept a gift from him. One she’d personally left.
Slipping his fingers under the string that bound it, he opened the paper. Fabric, yellowed from age, filled it. He patted what looked like an old cravat and found several lumps in the folds. Carefully he peeled back the layers, exposing a letter, a timepiece and chain, and a pair of cufflinks.
He opened the note, and his heart sank. A single sentence graced the sheet of paper.
To Algenon from your father.
He’d hoped for more things of hers, like the small opal ring on his pinky, not more of his father’s effects. If he’d wanted those, he could have simply asked.
Picking up the watch, he rubbed at the tarnished silver. It would need to be cleaned and wound before use, so he set it aside to give to his valet. His hand hovered over the packet labeled to Lady Upton. Why had it not been delivered to her immediately upon his mother’s death? Did he dare deliver it against his father’s wishes?
He slowly closed his hand into a fist. The urge to not disappoint his father further, to not be reckless as he’d accused, warred with the need to right a wrong. Javenia’s beautiful smile flashed across his mind. If she’d found the package she’d not hesitate to make sure it made it into the right hands.
The size and shape was reminiscent of the books in the crates. Algenon pulled it free of the box. It was heavy and firm as he’d expected. He tipped it from side to side looking at the edges, but the brown paper kept the contents firmly hidden.
Algenon set it to the side and returned most of the items to the box, however, two letters caught his attention. One was addressed to his mother in a loopy hand that appeared eerily like Javenia’s. The other was to Mr. Solomon Roberts. He could only assume that his mother had written it. The postage mark showed it had been delivered, so why was it in his mother’s possession?
He slipped the two letters from the stack, tightening the ribbon to hold the others together without the missing papers. After returning the box to its place and pushing the remaining crate under the bed, Algenon gathered Lady Upton’s package, the letters, and the six green journals.
The stack in his hands weighed on him like a bag of rocks, each representing a responsibility he had to attend to before seeing to his own happiness. In the hall, a footman offered to transfer the stack to another crate. Algenon gladly agreed.
In the carriage with the crate at his feet, he watched the streets of London pass by. Smoke hung low over the city, and the unusual warm spell had come to an end. Women in drab dresses with baskets of laundry on their hips scurried through side streets as chimney sweeps and errand boys bustled along the sides of the road. The dreary scene brought a feeling of foreboding that Algenon had tried to ignore since his father’s collapse.
