The wind gusted across the road as Lewis rode back to White Oaks. The gelding tossed his head and tried to sidestep the debris swirling around his fetlocks, crisp brown leaves and wisps of straw and dirt. Lewis tightened his grip on the reins. “Whoa there. We’ll be home soon.”
He chuckled, remembering the vicar’s words. What an absurd notion, that he’d given more than he received in return. Dozens of people in Wrackwater Bridge could have provided the same services, with the possible exception of Davy’s fencing lessons.
True, Lewis had received no payment. Yet the compensations had been more than generous. He’d first approached Mr. Redfern about an essay in Cicero. That initial conversation brought him access to the vicar’s library and unstinting help with readings Lewis questioned because of his inadequate knowledge of Latin or philosophy. All he’d ever learned came in bits and pieces from Jack’s various tutors and his own efforts. By no definition could it be called an education.
The warmth of the family had been a bonus. What an epiphany the children had brought him! By his own choice, he’d had little contact with children. He’d seen only drool and snotty noses, dirty hands and faces, and tears he couldn’t fix, imagining them torn between childish pleasure and torment as he had been. He’d survived the experience, but he had nothing to give others suffering the same.
His initial contacts with the Redfern children had been fumbling, half-hearted affairs. During his first session with Toby, the tot had sneezed all over the book they were perusing. Thankfully, it was only a cheap alphabet primer bought from an itinerant chapman. Lewis could not be angry, but he could be—and was—disgusted. He used his own handkerchief to clean up the mess as well as he could and hid the offensive square of muslin in the Redferns’ rubbish heap rather than return it to his pocket.
A few days later, Kate had come to him with a splinter in her finger. He’d suggested she would get better treatment from her mother, but Kate gave him a quivering smile of misplaced confidence. “All right, I’ll take a peek.”
Fortunately, it had been a large splinter, easily grasped. Kate now came to him with all sorts of troubles he was not competent to fix.
He’d worked with each of the children according to their ages and abilities. For Toby, colors and letters and the idea of words. For Barbara, Kate, and Davy, arithmetic and reading. Kirby, the older boy, worked mainly with his father, but Lewis had presented a lesson in artistic perspective.
His portraits that the vicar had made so much of, Lewis counted as nothing. He was merely practicing a long-neglected hobby, away from the sneers of his family. Since returning to Wrackwater Bridge he’d drawn everything and everyone he could see. Still, if he weren’t careful, any portrait of a female somehow transformed into Anna. And if he drew a landscape, she was walking through it.
The sun that had shone all morning disappeared behind a cloud. A better match for the somber mood that never left him for long, lingering near the surface like the sour flesh beneath the pretty green skin of an early apple.
At least he bore no guilt where Anna was concerned. Jack was another matter entirely. Any services he’d rendered the Wedburys during his twenty-two years hardly amounted to a dung heap. He had failed them when it mattered most. None of them could have known it at the time, but that did little to lighten Lewis’s burden.
He could have persuaded Jack that hiking in Scotland or Cornwall would be more exciting than London. Doing an old-fashioned Grand Tour of Europe. Sailing to America and back. Those adventures carried risks too, but of a different sort, more straightforward than this dreadful malady Jack had found in London. Even death from a fall or drowning at sea might be preferable.
Jack would not think so, however, and neither would his family. But if Lewis were so afflicted, and if he were aware of it as Jack seemed not to be, he would choose anything rather than insanity, and the financial and emotional burdens that would place on his loved ones.
Easy to say, since he was not the one so afflicted.
Would my family do what the Wedburys do for Jack? Spare no expense for my care? Ha! The only thing of value his parents had ever given him was his name.
His jaw set as he took the corner into the drive that wound uphill through the grounds to the handsome Jacobean brick house. Likely, he’d find himself in Leeds alongside the amputees from the war who lurked in dark doorways, huddled in threadbare blankets against the cold, speaking gibberish and begging ha’pennies for their meager sustenance. If he did not, it would be because the Wedburys took him in, bearing the burdens his own family refused. He’d rather be shot, like a horse with a broken leg.
The stable yard was quiet. One of the grooms came to the horse’s head. Lewis unclenched his teeth sufficiently to ask, “Nothing yet from Sir John?”
“Messenger came. Said they won’t be here until late. They be hitchin’ up to our own team in Otley fer the last leg. ‘Bout now, likely, if they ’spect to be home afore dark.”
Lewis hesitated as the horse sidled beneath him. Then he reached around to unhook the foils and rucksack.
“Take these. I’m going up on the moor for a bit.” Which wouldn’t be any surprise to the groom. Hardly a day went by that Lewis didn’t take one horse or another onto the moors. After being away so long, three months of almost-daily rides had not inured him to the rough beauty that adapted itself so easily to melancholy, or rage, or fascination, whatever mood gripped him.
Darkness came early that evening beneath heavy clouds, and there was no sign of a carriage. Lewis spoke with the housekeeper to make certain the fires and lamps were lit in the bedchambers as well as the public rooms and Cook was prepared for a late dinner hour. Naturally, everything was in order; although the butler remained in Bath with the ladies, the house ran smoothly in the care of Horton, the under-butler. The staff knew their business without help from Lewis.
But after sitting in the parlor for half an hour pretending to read, Lewis rang for Horton to discuss when they should act and what measures they should take if the travelers grew uncomfortably tardy. Once the decisions had been made, he prowled round the hall and through all the rooms that fronted the gravel sweep, from one end of the house to the other and back again, checking the time at the end of each lap on the pocket watch the Wedburys had given him when he came of age.
Six o’clock—not so late. Yet his anxiety did not lessen. He threw his greatcoat around his shoulders and went out into the cold to climb the hill that allowed a view over the treetops below, down to the intersection of road and drive. No flicker of distant carriage lanterns, no echo of hooves on the wintry wind that blew across the summit.
Shivering, he returned to the house, where Horton waited for him in the hall. Lewis shook his head. “Nothing. It’s time.” Time to send the grooms off toward Otley, watching for signs of an accident and inquiring at the two tiny inns along the route.
Gravel crunched outside, like the long, raspy chuckle of an old man. Thank God! If he had stayed on that hilltop two minutes longer, he would have seen them.
Lewis threw the doors open and strode out into the portico. As he started down the steps, Jack jumped from the carriage and wrapped him in a fierce embrace.
“Lewis, Lewis! It is good to see you, old chap! We’ve been talking about you all day, about all our games, and our tricks for avoiding Gideon, and…”
Lewis only glimpsed Sir John and a hefty stranger alighting from the carriage before Jack’s arm fastened itself around his shoulders and propelled him into the house. Jack did not acknowledge Horton or the housekeeper waiting in the portico. Nor did he appear to notice the surprising number of servants loitering in the hall, a pack of crows eager for a sight of the mad heir. It sounded like a Gothic novel.
Jack bore him irresistibly up the grand staircase, up again to the bedchambers and down the hall to Jack’s room, jabbering the whole way. Lewis rubbed his shoulder where his friend had gripped it.
“You’re looking well, Jack.” It was true. His color was a little high, his form a bit heavier. Stronger, as Lewis had discovered. But otherwise he appeared the same as always. “That’s a new coat. I like that garnet color.”
Jack grunted. “Maggot insists on dressing me like some dandy.” He grasped his cravat with both hands, and after some tugging and grumbling, managed to untie it. Freed of the noose, Jack surveyed his surroundings.
“I say, the old place looks just the same! Sure beats the inns where we’ve been putting up at night. Stuffy old places. Dinner in a private parlor with nothing but ale to drink—look, Lewis, here’s my old cricket bat!” He picked it up from its place in one corner and started toward the door. “Let’s go take some practice shots.”
“It’ll have to be tomorrow, Jack. It’s dark outside.” Gad, he’s like a four-year-old.
Jack frowned down at the bat as though he’d suddenly forgotten what it was. “Oh, right.” Then he dropped it on the floor by his feet and returned to his tour with its accompanying monologue, harsh now, peevish. “And that maggot stuck to my side, kept me from going anywhere. Shut us up in our quarters after dinner, not even a port or brandy to help the time pass.”
“Maggot?” Lewis enquired.
“They call him my valet,” Jack spat out, “but I know what he is. A damned jailer. Glad I won’t have to share a room with him anymore.”
Uh-oh. Lewis braced himself as Jack approached the doorway to the dressing room. Lewis himself had taken the measurements and drawn the simple, precise design for the renovation that had transformed it into a sleeping space for Jack’s maggot. The stranger Lewis had seen climbing out of the carriage.
Sir John’s letter had described him as a nurse, not a valet, though it must be part of his job. Jailer too, it seemed. The man was larger than Lewis had expected, but that made sense if physical restraint was still needed to control Jack’s impulses.
“Jack?” With no specific notion what might happen, or what he would do if it did, Lewis started toward the dressing room. Then came a roar of rage, a crash, and a thud. He covered the last few steps at a run and hesitated in the narrow doorway.
Jack had tipped the wooden bedframe on its side, gouging the wall and spilling the mattress onto the floor. He stood on the mattress now, putting all his strength into tearing the new shelving from the walls. A piece came loose and he threw it over his shoulder, narrowly missing the one small window.
“Jack!” Lewis forged his way in. He wrapped his arms around Jack from behind, grasping his own wrists to lock the hold. “Come on, Jack. It’s all right, come with me.” After a few more meaningless blandishments, Jack stopped fighting and allowed Lewis to haul him through the doorway into the main room.
There they collided with the nurse, hurrying to lend his assistance. The man held his ground, a wall of bone and muscle. Behind him stood Robert, the footman who’d accompanied them on their journey. Lewis stepped on something and lost his hold as he battled to regain his balance. Robert grasped Jack’s unresisting arm and helped him into a chair.
“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!” exclaimed the nurse, his head swiveling between Lewis and Jack. “How clumsy of me. I thought I’d best…” The man plowed through his extended apologies with a series of grimaces that did nothing to improve his looks. Despite his comparative youth—perhaps thirty-five—his square face was marred by old scars, a few missing teeth, and a nose that had surely been broken once or twice. Also a fading bruise below one eye. Did Jack inflict that? “I should have stepped right when I saw you was headed left, but I—”
“All’s well,” Lewis interrupted, straightening his coat sleeves. “Except possibly your foot, Mr.—?”
“Maggs, sir, just Maggs.” He made a little bow, then held out his hand for Lewis to shake as though he, too, was unsure of his status. “I’m thinking you must be Mr. Lewis Aubrey, sir. It’s kind of you to ask, my foot will be fine, though I don’t mind admitting that it hurts at the moment. I’d have come right upstairs, sir, but Sir John wanted to introduce the staff, and he assured me that you and my master would be all right together, so I—”
“Of course we’re all right,” Lewis said, though he was not at all sure of it. “Your chamber, however, will require some attention before you retire.”
Maggs turned his attention to Jack. “Well, Mr. Jack, I’m betting it feels good to be at home after all our travels, and to see your friend again. After all you’ve said about your Mr. Lewis, I think I would’ve known him anywhere.” As he talked, the big man moved lightly about the room, setting out the baggage he and Robert had dropped in their hurried entrance.
He stopped at the dressing table and poured water from the ewer into the basin. “Now, sir, let us get you cleaned up a bit for dinner. It’s to be informal tonight, but we shall need clean hands and a fresh cravat. Oh, ha-ha, I see you’ve lost your cravat entirely!”
Sprawled in a chair by the fire, Jack appeared calm, even stupefied.
Maggs rested a hand on his patient’s shoulder. The fourth and fifth fingers were crooked. “Do come to the dressing table now, sir. We mustn’t keep your father waiting.” His voice was gentle, even fond.
Jack yawned, a jaw-breaking event that made Lewis wince, and rolled his head to one side so he could see his keeper’s face. No one would believe that ten minutes ago Lewis had needed brute force to subdue Jack’s hostility toward that same man.
“Oh, Maggot, I’m so tired. May we not have something sent up?”
Maggs nodded. “Oh yes, I’m sure there will be no objection to that.”
Lewis could just imagine. Cooped up in a carriage for days on end, with Maggs gabbling the whole way and never knowing what mood Jack would be in from one moment to the next? It sounded like a level of hell. Sir John must be desperate for time apart.
After less than an hour in their company, Lewis felt the same, but that would have to wait. “I’ll stay and dine with him, shall I?”
“There’s no call to do that,” said Maggs. “Don’t want to leave Sir John to dine alone.” He moved toward the door, gesturing to indicate Lewis should accompany him. “He’ll likely be asleep before he finishes his dinner. These fits take him that way.”
Lewis glanced over his shoulder at Jack. Fits. One hell of a word. He heard the tremor in his own voice. “I’ll just go bid him goodnight, then.”
But Maggs shook his head. “He’s forgotten you’re here, sir. I’d leave it, if I was you.” He pulled the door open.
Lewis took one more long look at his best friend before escaping into the hush of the corridor. Feeling the long-dead sting of tears, he backed against the wall and pressed his fingers to his eyes until it passed. The crows downstairs would know the truth soon enough, but not because Lewis couldn’t master his own expression. He had not taught Anna artificial smiles for nothing.