By the time he reached the church, Stephen had his emotional armor firmly back in place. It was impenetrable—nothing would get through. Of that he was determined.
At the crunch of boots on gravel, he turned. The sight which greeted his gaze instantly melted his iron breastplate.
“Oh no. Oh damn,” he muttered.
A small cart appeared in the courtyard of All Saints. On board were Mister and Mrs. Granville, the latter dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Behind them slowly walked the estate staff and what had to be at least half the residents of the village of Witley. All come to pay their respects to the late Sir Robert.
How am I to deal with this?
He gritted his teeth, praying that no one would come near him and offer their sincere condolences. But when he saw the downcast eyes and sad expressions on their faces, it was clear he was in for a trying time.
Hold your nerve and get through it. That’s all you have to do.
While the rest of the mourners headed to the graveside and gathered around it, Stephen waited for his steward. If he kept the Granvilles close, using them as a shield of sorts, then the locals might not be tempted to come and talk to him.
He could only hope.
The small cart drew to a halt, and Mister Granville stepped down. He helped his wife alight, then turned and helped a third person. Stephen looked closer. He hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the cart.
It was a young boy. From the look of him, Stephen guessed he was about five or six years in age. He could very well be one of the Granville’s grandchildren, but from the masterful cut of his jacket and the quality of his boots, it was obvious whoever his parents were, they had money.
Mister Granville took the boy by the hand and led him over to Stephen.
“I gathered as many people as I could at such short notice. If you wish me to delay the service a little longer, I am sure the parish priest won’t mind.”
“No. Let us have this done with,” replied Stephen.
His words were addressed to his steward, but his gaze remained fixed on the boy.
The young lad was digging up the dirt with the toe of his boot and fidgeting in the way that all small children do when they don’t want to be where they are; when they would much rather be free to run around and play.
“Come now, Master Toby, you promised to be on your best behavior this afternoon. Make your introductions to Sir Stephen,” said Granville.
The boy huffed. He let go of the steward’s hand and placed an arm across his stomach. He bent at the waist and bowed. “Sir Stephen, my name is Toby. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
Stephen was still taking in the pale brown of Toby’s hair when the boy righted himself and met his gaze. Blue eyes the exact same shade as Stephen’s stared back at him.
It was as if someone had punched him hard in the gut, such was the shock of recognition. Of seeing someone who could have easily passed as himself at that same age.
He slowly blinked, doing everything in his power not to look at either Mister or Mrs. Granville.
Who is this boy?
Stephen remained rooted to the spot. He didn’t notice when Granville reached out and took hold of Toby’s hand once more. It was only when Mrs. Granville stepped past and touched her fingers gently on Stephen’s arm, that he finally stirred.
With hands clasped tightly behind his back, jaw set hard, Stephen pivoted on his heel and followed in their wake.
The burial service itself was brief. The local vicar gave a short but eloquent speech about Sir Robert. Of the employment the estate had provided to the local villagers over the years. He made special mention of how well the manor house had been maintained and the church’s gratitude for the recent funds Sir Robert had donated to help repair the roof of the vicarage.
Granville nervously cleared his throat, and Stephen stifled a snort.
I bet the old man had no idea that he had given the church that money. Tight old bastard that he was, he would have refused if Granville had actually asked.
When the vicar made mention of the new lord and master of Moore Manor, Stephen suddenly found his boots to be of great interest. He was sure that his hard-as-stone heart had formed tiny cracks at the edges. He didn’t want to look at the locals, to see their sad and pity-filled faces.
He especially didn’t want to look at the young boy, Toby. To think what his existence might mean.
It was only when the last of the mourners shuffled their way toward the church gate and the tavern across the road that Stephen finally let out the breath he was certain he had been holding for the better part of an hour.
But when he caught sight of Granville standing alongside Toby watching as the dirt was thrown over Sir Robert’s coffin, Stephen finally decided it was time. He moved forward.
“So, Master Toby. Where is it that you live?” he asked.
The boy looked away uncertainly, then straightened his shoulders. Someone had been teaching him how to address his betters when they spoke to him. “Sir Stephen, I live in the big house. Mrs. Granville looks after me,” replied Toby.
“And what about your mama?” he asked.
He was treading carefully, doing his utmost not to spook the boy. If Stephen’s growing suspicions were proven correct, then he and Toby would have a lifelong connection.
“Mama is in the churchyard.” Toby pointed to a headstone a few yards away. He turned his head and buried it in the folds of Mister Granville’s coat.
“And what about your father?”
The boy gave a half shrug.
Oh, bloody hell. His mother is dead, and he doesn’t know who his father is or was.
His father had always claimed to be meticulous when it came to making certain not to leave any by-blows, but the boy standing in front of Stephen was clear evidence that sometime in the not-too-distant past, Sir Robert had slipped up.
I have a brother.