Seven

When Benjamin rose the next morning, after a restless night, he discovered that someone had slipped a scrap of paper under his bedchamber door. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar handwriting:

Kitten found.

The terse message made him smile, and then frown. She’d really been there—in the library—last night. With her unruly hair and clinging dressing gown and haunted eyes. He might have thought it a dream, but here was proof. And so she’d also heard him say things he never said to anyone. She’d struck a sympathetic chord, at that late hour, in those shifting shadows, and he’d succumbed. Of course he regretted it now, as one did a reckless indulgence. Miss Saunders would look at him differently today. She’d imagine she understood him, and perhaps pity him. Benjamin gritted his teeth. He dressed quickly and headed out to get some air.

A soft mist drifted over the lawns of Furness Hall and, with it, a hush. He could hear the soft drip of dew from leaf and branch. The damp air brushed his cheek as he walked through the gardens, where daffodils poked from the earth. The sky would clear later, he judged, and the day would be warm. The lure of a good gallop drew him around to the back of the house. Physical exertion always improved his mood.

Benjamin strode into the stables and was about to call for a groom when he heard a high, light voice say, “We’ll go everywhere.” There was no one in sight, but he knew the voice. It was Geoffrey, in conversation with someone. “To the stream,” the boy continued. “And the woods. Tom says there’s a fox den on the other side of the hills.”

Geoffrey was in the loose box with his pony, Benjamin realized. The other new arrival, Molly, looked on from the next stall.

“He wouldn’t take me to see it, because he didn’t have permission.”

Geoffrey said the final word as if it was a curse.

“We’ll find it. And watch the kits play. I won’t let them hurt you!”

Benjamin smiled at the picture.

“When I’m bigger, we’ll go to the gorge. Ourselves. And stay as long as we want. I’ll show you the caves.”

The boy’s tone implied that he was intimately familiar with these caverns.

“You can’t go inside though,” Geoffrey continued. “Because you might get lost and fall into a…a pit. There’s lots of pits.”

He’d been told exactly this on their picnic, Benjamin remembered. He could tell Geoffrey had no idea what a mine pit was really like.

“I wouldn’t let you though. You don’t have to worry. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”

On the echoes of that fierce little voice, it came to Benjamin that Geoffrey possessed a personality all his own. Startlingly intelligent for his age and defiant, he wasn’t the least like Alice. His looks were a distraction, in a way a deception. He was…developing into himself.

“I’ll be like the lord,” his son continued. “He can go riding whenever he wants. Wherever he wants.”

Moving without thought, Benjamin stepped forward. “Don’t call me the lord,” he said.

Geoffrey had been tucked into the back corner of the stall on a pile of dry straw. He jumped up.

“You should call me Papa,” Benjamin added.

His son eyed him with Alice’s blue eyes but his own stubborn jaw. His expression was an odd mixture of shyness and doubt. Benjamin had the uncomfortable feeling that his appearance had spoiled the boy’s fun. Only then did it occur to him that someone ought to be watching him. “Where is Lily?” he asked.

It was precisely the wrong thing to say. Geoffrey scowled. “Asleep. I can go down to the kitchen and ask for breakfast if I wake up at the crack of dawn.” A sideways flick of his gaze seemed to acknowledge that this was not the kitchen. Going on the offensive, he added, “Fergus is my pony. Isn’t he?”

A long tug-of-war over what was and was not permitted unfolded in Benjamin’s mind. Yet in the face of his son’s vibrating longing, he had to say, “Yes, he is.”

There was that grin again, blazing on Geoffrey’s small face. The air of the stables seemed to lighten with it. Benjamin’s heart stirred. And again, he made a misstep. “But Lily, or someone, should always know where you are,” he said.

Geoffrey scowled again. “When I’m grown up, I’ll do what I want!”

“You won’t, actually,” replied Benjamin. “It may look that way to you now, but life isn’t like that.” Why had he said that? He’d sounded like his own gruff father, with his discouraging philosophizing. Benjamin tried to make amends. “Have you had your breakfast?”

But Geoffrey took this as a dismissal. Scowl deepening, his son pushed off the side of the stall, scrambled over the rail, and stomped out of the stables.

Benjamin watched him go with a mixture of perplexity and regret. When the sound of Geoffrey’s footsteps had died away, Benjamin turned toward the box where his own horse was kept and discovered Miss Saunders, standing by the open door at the other end of the stable aisle. Their eyes met. Benjamin felt his cheeks warm. How much of that conversation had she heard?

She should have moved on earlier, Jean thought. But she’d been transfixed by the scene. When Lord Furness told Geoffrey to call him Papa, and the boy wouldn’t, she’d felt so mournful. And now, facing this tall, masterful figure, she was shaken. He had the looks and bearing of an autocratic nobleman, yet his commands meant nothing to a stubborn little boy.

She’d come here to save Geoffrey from neglect, Jean thought, and she wasn’t sorry, no matter what anyone thought. But she’d been wrong about the method. Man and boy should be brought together, not separated.

The idea bloomed in her mind like a rose opening, revealing petal after petal. She imagined Geoffrey truly finding a father. She saw Lord Furness joyful over his son, instead of always melancholy. Yes. It only remained to see how she could bring this about. She had no notion, but she was filled with the determination to try.

The silence had stretched into awkwardness. “I came out for a walk,” she said, very aware that she’d just thrown on a cloak. She hadn’t even bothered with a bonnet.

“What?”

She’d spoken too softly. “I was out for a walk,” she repeated. “And I heard voices.”

He moved toward her. “I did the same. Geoffrey was talking to his pony.”

“Yes.” Jean glanced at Fergus and Molly, who gazed out from their stalls with ears swiveled toward them. “And he seemed to listen.”

Lord Furness turned to follow her eyes. “I hadn’t noticed. They appear attentive, don’t they?”

“Well, horses must know how to listen. Or else no one could train them.”

“They merely react to gestures and a firm tone of voice.”

He stopped beside her. She kept forgetting how large he was, Jean thought. Until he stood right next to her and practically…oozed attraction. “You don’t think they care for their riders?”

“Care?” he replied in a distracted tone.

“Horses. Even love them and want to please them?”

“Ascribing such feelings to an animal is sheer sentimentality.”

“But you told Geoffrey to make friends with Fergus,” Jean pointed out. “You said the pony would do whatever he asked once he trusted him.”

“Have you never heard, Miss Saunders, that it is annoying to quote a man’s words back to him?”

“Not from people who stand by what they say.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, from amusement, or perhaps irritation. “I was teaching Geoffrey caution. I said what was necessary.”

“So you don’t believe that true bonds are based in trust?”

Lord Furness looked down at her. “The damp causes your hair to curl even more, doesn’t it? What must it look like, free of all those pins?”

“A mare’s nest,” replied Jean, well aware that this was a distraction. Which was working.

“Harsh,” he said. Gazing at her head, he walked around her.

Jean could feel his eyes on her back. She resisted an impulse to tuck back wayward tendrils of hair. Her hair did expand in wet weather, making it even harder to control. There weren’t enough hairpins in the world.

“You had it in a braid last night. Partly. It does keep coming loose, doesn’t it?” He came around her other side and faced her again. His blue-gray eyes were definitely amused now. In another moment he would reach out and flick a wayward curl.

He was trying to make her self-conscious. And succeeding. Jean started walking back toward the house.

Lord Furness fell into step beside her. “I’m glad your kitten was found. Where was he?”

She’d scurried like a thief to slip a note under his door this morning, Jean remembered. “He was in my room when I got back. Apparently, he was there all the time. Though I looked everywhere.”

“There are those who say cats can walk through walls.”

She glanced at him. He smiled. Purposefully. Meltingly. With a clear intent to charm. Jean had no doubt he wanted to fluster her, to render her speechless. Because he didn’t want to answer her question about trust? Or couldn’t? There was an interesting thought. She also noted that he and Geoffrey had this trait in common. Their smiles transformed their faces, and they knew it. “I’ll keep an eye on Tab,” she said. “And learn how he does it.”

Jean was gratified to see that her tone seemed to startle him considerably.

Gazing out the window of the breakfast room, Arthur watched his nephew and Miss Saunders approach the house—side by side, together and yet clearly not. What had taken them out so early? They were coming from the direction of the stables, but there was no sign they’d gone riding.

Friction makes heat, he thought. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing depended on circumstances. It seemed to him that these two might do very well together, but that wasn’t for him to say. As both of these young people had pointed out.

Miss Saunders said something that made his nephew laugh, and Arthur smiled in sympathy. And with just a trace of envy, remembering the joys of companionship. He’d filled the decade since his wife died with familial responsibilities, needed and appreciated by nieces and nephews and cousins of all sorts. But the generation below him was grown up now. He was welcome in their homes; affectionate bonds remained. Their main attention had turned elsewhere, however. Arthur was no longer required. Except perhaps by Benjamin and others like him. He thought of the other young men who’d attended his London dinner. They deserved to laugh again as well.

He turned from the window and addressed his meal. Arthur was a student, almost a connoisseur, of grief. He’d grappled long and hard with loss—the sudden absence of a beloved partner. He’d faced down the void that opened when the person who’d shared a dozen daily anecdotes, and listened to his similar stories, was gone. He’d felt existence constrict around him like a narrowing tunnel, and he’d come out the other side intact. Contented even. He wanted the same for Benjamin. Even more perhaps, as his nephew was young, with most of life before him. So although Arthur had a lively circle of friends and an active social round, which he missed, he was glad he’d come to Furness Hall.

He sipped his cooling coffee. There was also Geoffrey. Arthur was ashamed that his great-nephew hadn’t figured in his plans until he met him and discovered a bright, troubled spirit. He ought to have considered what grief had done to the boy; Jean Saunders had shown him that. He wanted to see Geoffrey carefree and laughing, too.

“I cannot agree,” said Miss Saunders as she entered the breakfast room. She stopped in the doorway. “Oh, good morning, Lord Macklin.”

“Miss Saunders,” Arthur replied. “You’re out early this morning.” She’d taken off her cloak. Her cheeks glowed from the outdoors, and her hair had reacted to the floating mist. It wasn’t appropriate to compare the result to Medusa. For many reasons. Yet the dark strands did seem to have a life of their own.

“I felt like a walk,” she replied. She moved forward, and Benjamin came in behind her.

An atmosphere entered with them. It was interesting, Arthur thought, how an almost visible connection could vibrate between two people even when their conversation was perfectly ordinary. And others—married couples too—gave no such impression even when they embraced.

A hairpin fell from Miss Saunders’s rebellious locks to the floor. The ping as it landed seemed disproportionately loud. Benjamin bent, picked it up, and offered it to her like a bouquet. Miss Saunders flushed, took the pin, and shoved it back into her hair.

“Do you often lose pins?” Benjamin asked with a clear intent to provoke. “You must have a great many.”

Miss Saunders gave him a flashing look. She proceeded with dignity to get her breakfast. “I was thinking,” she said when seated. “We should ask Tom about Geoffrey. He’s been watching over him for a while and must have a good notion what he’s like. His character, I mean. How we might best approach him. Beyond the pony, which Geoffrey obviously adores.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Arthur. He’d been impressed by Tom’s common sense.

“I don’t know,” said Benjamin. “Tom’s little more than a boy himself.”

Arthur wondered if his nephew liked to argue, or just couldn’t resist teasing Miss Saunders. Catching the glint in Benjamin’s eyes, he suspected the latter.

“A youth,” said Miss Saunders, refusing the bait, “whose life has made him older than his years.”

“Let’s talk to him,” said Arthur. He was interested in what Tom might have to say, regardless of its practical uses.

Tom was sent for and offered a chair in the library, to which the group had adjourned. He appeared in the same clothes as before, with the same cheerful air. They ought to see about finding him another coat, Arthur thought. And a shirt or two. The lad was rapidly outgrowing the ones he had. His own clothes would be too large, as would Benjamin’s, but surely the household could come up with something suitable.

“We wanted to talk to you about Geoffrey,” Miss Saunders said.

Tom nodded. His round face and prominent front teeth gave him the look of a friendly squirrel. His expression was sharply intelligent, however. And he didn’t look the least bit anxious. That was remarkable in itself, Arthur thought, for a youngster in his position.

“What would you say about his character?” Miss Saunders asked.

“He’s hardly old enough to have one,” objected Benjamin.

“I’da said he was older than he is,” Tom replied. “If it weren’t for his size and all. He’s that quick. If he hears a word once, he knows it. Better than me, half the time.” He grinned, unconcerned by the comparison.

“Very intelligent,” said Arthur. He’d marked it himself.

“He’s got a cartload of opinions too,” added Tom. “More than you’d credit. Mrs. McGinnis said he’s like one of them—what was it?—barristers. The ones who stand up in court. Geoffrey don’t easily change his mind.”

“That is to say, stubborn,” said Benjamin. “I’ve noticed.”

Tom nodded. “Though he will listen, if a thing is laid out for him in a way he can understand.”

“I would have said he was too young to be swayed by reason,” Benjamin replied.

“He can see a fact when it’s in his face. Little as he may like it.”

There was a short silence as the adults contemplated the facts that had governed Geoffrey’s life so far. At least, Arthur did. And he thought the others did as well.

“He’s curious as a cat, but he don’t always stick with things,” Tom went on. “See now, he’s finished with the red Indians since that he got the pony. I’d think the two would go together. Don’t those Indians ride about marauding?”

“Do not suggest it to him,” Benjamin said.

Tom grinned again. “No, my lord. Anyhow, the cook thinks Geoffrey’s a sneak, ’cause he nicks the odd muffin, but she’s wrong.”

“You sound quite certain of that,” said Arthur. Tom was an interesting character.

“I am, my lord. Geoffrey’s always on the lookout for ways to get what he wants. Well, who of us ain’t? He don’t lie or cheat for ’em though. He does tell stories—and a pure wonder some of ’em are. But he knows the difference between a tale and an untruth.”

“Which is?” asked Miss Saunders curiously.

Tom blinked, considered the question. “A story’s fun, yeh? You might learn summat or have a laugh, but no more than that. A lie gets you something that mebbe you have no right to, or covers up your sins, like.”

“Where did you learn such wisdom?” Arthur wondered.

“Wisdom?” Tom looked abashed. “I don’t claim nothing like that. I’ve been watching people all my life, that’s all. On the streets, you have to figure who’s all right and who’s dangerous.”

“My son has not been a homeless wanderer,” said Benjamin, his voice harsh with reproach. Was it directed at Tom or himself, Arthur wondered?

Miss Saunders looked distressed. “He didn’t mean—”

“’Course he hasn’t,” said Tom. “Beg pardon if I offended, my lord.”

“No, no. I understand you didn’t mean that.” Benjamin’s expression remained stiff.

Tom nodded. “Anyhow, Geoffrey’s merry as a grig now you’ve gotten him the pony. You should hear him tell Lily and the others all about Fergus. Seems that animal was on a whole raft of adventures before he came here.” Tom laughed. He had the secret of joy, Arthur thought. Somehow, despite his rough life, he’d discovered or retained it.

“That could be useful,” Benjamin said. “We might ration access to the pony to make sure Geoffrey does as he’s told.”

A look of horror crossed Miss Saunders’s face. There was no other word for it, Arthur thought. She jumped up. “You cannot threaten to take his pony!”

“I didn’t say ‘take,’” Benjamin began.

“That would cruel, inhuman. Do you want to make him bitter?”

“I did not say—” Benjamin tried again.

Miss Saunders wouldn’t let him speak. “He already loves Fergus. Anyone can see that. And he expects that the things he loves will be taken away from him. You can’t have missed seeing that.”

“If you will allow me to—”

“Punishment is never the answer! A child learns nothing being shut away and ignored. Nothing but fear. And despair.”

Benjamin rose, holding out a hand. “Miss Saunders, please. You’re twisting my words all out of recognition.”

She stood for a moment as if frozen, then burst into tears and ran from the room. The three males remained behind, variously bewildered, uncomfortable, and appalled.