“Yes, Mia?”
“Send for your children. You shouldn’t be apart so long.”
Chapter Twenty
Hector ambled alongbeside them as they walked arm in arm toward Woodglen’s wood. Sun took the nip out of November’s chill, and Gideon took heart that he and his soon-to-be wife were able to agree on the wedding as smoothly as they had. In the end, they’d decided on a common license and a wedding one week hence. That was soon enough, but it would give Mia some room to come to terms with the arrangement and to think about her gown and fripperies, things that mattered to a bride.
“Tell me about your family,” he said. It seemed as good a place to start as any.
“There isn’t much to tell. My father was Viscount Clavering’s younger son. A bit of a scholar. Impractical and idealistic. He married my mother over his father’s objections and his brother’s stern disapproval. We were frequently out of funds, and Grandfather’s assistance always came with a lecture on foolish young men.”
“Why did they object?” Gideon asked.
“My mother’s family were dissenters. Her father, Amos Hodge, was a chapel preacher, Methodist of the radical sort. Bible and brimstone.” She grinned. “I take my middle name from Grandmother Hodge. They are gone now.”
“Except for the great-aunt.”
“Except for Aunt Hortensia, yes. She sends me regular warnings about the dangers lurking in society and living in a viscount’s house. Woodglen would give her apoplexy.”
Gideon chuckled. “I sometimes feel the same.”
“But you grew up here.” She gazed up at him, confusion and no little compassion in her voice.
Perhaps the best place to introduce his complex heritage was the beginning. “I was born in South Carolina,” he said.
Her eyes flew wide open at that. “You’re an American?”
“I am, at least in part. My father was an officer in the king’s army during the American rebellion. He was a grandson, and his father was a younger son. He didn’t expect to inherit. He met my mother when they captured Charleston. Her name was Mary Jessop.”
“Go on! Don’t stop now.”
“My maternal grandfather owned a small inn, more public house than hotel but respectable. During the occupation, British troops frequented it. He met her there.” The words came slowly. It wasn’t a story Gideon told often.
Her brows drew together, forming a deep line between them. “Did he… Did he take you with him when he left?”
“Hardly. I grew up in Grandfather’s public house. My mother inherited it when he died. I cleaned floors, helped do dishes, and later, waited tables and learned to tally the take. Good business training, that.”
“How old were you when you came here?” she asked.
“Twelve. When my mam died, her brother took the business and hurried me onto a boat with a letter for His Grace,” he said. “I expected to discover my father was a groom at a ducal estate. Imagine my shock.”
“He acknowledged you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Oddly, yes, if cursing the arrival of a son who spoke with a strange accent, had a twisted spine, and questioned authority is acknowledgment, then yes, he did,” he said.
“How horrid for you, and you only a boy. I’ve heard the names. Did they come from him?”
He nodded, giving her time to think.
“Yet he took you in. Guilt because he never married your mother?” Her innocent question churned up other issues he wasn’t sure he was ready to address.
They had reached a path that led up to a ridge just above them. He knew from his time here before there would be a bench at the top. “Shall we take in the view?”
“Can you manage the climb?” she asked.
A brief smile came to his lips. “It isn’t far, and I’m stronger than I appear to be.”
“So I’ve noticed,” she said. Hector barreled up the path ahead of them, stopping periodically to snuffle for rabbits.
