CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CLAREHAVEN, HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND – MID-MAY, 1814
Grace frowned at the words on the page. They wouldn’t come together, not the way she wanted them to, not with the apparent ease of Miss Jane Austen’s writing. It didn’t help that thoughts of last night continually distracted her. But to write of those intimacies was surely not appropriate for any sort of novel.
With a frustrated sigh, she set down her pen.
“Is everything all right?”
Grace jumped in her seat at Eliza’s voice. When had she come in? How long had she been there? “Yes. Though I fret I shall never be as good a writer as Miss Jane.”
Eliza laughed, a good hearty laugh. “My dear, I don’t think most authors will ever rival the talents of Jane Austen. I have a feeling her influence and works will last for generations to come.”
“Truly? Then perhaps I shouldn’t even bother.”
Eliza shook her head with vigor. “If all of us stopped doing what we loved because there existed someone in the world who did it better, civilization would have ceased a long time ago, don’t you think?”
The American smoothed her hair, tucking loose strands inside her bonnet. “If you have a novel in you, then you must write it. No one else can. It shouldn’t matter whether it earns you regard or brings you wealth. If you have a story that must be told, you must be the one to tell it.”
Grace’s shoulders rose at her sister-in-law’s words. She lifted the pen again. “I suppose you are right.” She scribbled rapidly across the page. “I have a story in me, the story of a man who conquered his demons.”
She stopped for a moment, exchanging an understanding glance with Eliza. “As we all must do, whether they are visible or not.”
Eliza nodded her approval. “Exactly.”
AS THE TWO women seated themselves in the carriage, Deveric rushed over from the stables. “Is there room for two more?”
“Sure.” Eliza patted the cushion next to her. “Tired of talking about dung already?”
“We decided we’d rather spend the day with you lovely ladies,” Deveric said. “This one—” he pointed at Damon, who’d followed behind him, “—has been daydreaming over his betrothed too much to concentrate on anything I said.”
“I’d like to deny that,” Damon responded, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “It does not make me sound particularly manly. However, His Grace speaks the truth.”
He settled himself in next to Grace and reached for her hand. How wonderful to be near her, to be able to show his feelings for her so openly. Why had he ever fought them?
The few short miles to Chawton flew by as the group chatted, a comfortable, companionable conversation that pleased Damon immensely. Not only Grace, but the whole Mattersley family seemed to have accepted him. Except the dowager duchess, perhaps.
He grimaced at the thought of Grace’s mother, who, like his own, had remained behind in London. His next encounter with her was not likely to be pleasant, given it was his relative who’d taken her daughter, and this after the dowager had made it clear Damon was not a suitable match. We’ll cross that bridge—er, dowager—when we come to it. To her.
While Grace and Eliza stopped for tea with Miss Jane Austen, Damon and Dev talked horseflesh as a group of boys kicked a ball around a nearby field. One smaller boy in particular caught Damon’s attention. The boy hung back, mostly out of the action, as the larger children tumbled by. Every once in a while, the boy moved in a strange way. A familiar way.
Damon went still, his focus rigid on the child.
An older lad shoved the boy. “Idiot. You missed the ball. Shaking yer head again?”
The young boy blinked rapidly. The words had a hard time coming out of his mouth. “I-I’m sorry. I d-don’t mean ta d-do it.” His nose twitched several times and his shoulder shrugged up to his ear repeatedly.
“Sure,” sneered the older boy. “Go away. We don’t wan’ yer kind here.” A number of the other boys hurrahed in agreement.
The young boy didn’t protest. His shoulders sagged and he shuffled off, head still twitching. No doubt that wasn’t the first time the child had been cast out.
Damon’s heart beat faster.
“Damon?”
He couldn’t respond. A cold sweat broke out on his brow.
“What are you—” Deveric started to say, then stopped as he followed Deveric’s gaze.
The young boy entered a rather dilapidated house a short way down the street. Mere moments later, he emerged again, sobbing and clutching his ear. A large, burly man with a mane of untamed hair followed him, shoving him between the shoulder blades.
“Get out. Out. Yer no son of mine.” The man cuffed the boy on the head. “You ain’t natural.”
He narrowed his eyes and spit on the boy’s threadbare shoes.
The boy whimpered.
“I’ll have no devil livin’ in my house, jerking and twitching and shoutin’ out words. Get on.”
The man kicked, landing a hard blow to the middle of the child’s back. The boy fell in the street, sobbing.
Fury surged through Damon, the man’s image conflating with that of his father. His hands balled into fists and before he could stop himself, he charged across the street. The first blow caught the large man unaware, a sharp jab to the chin that snapped his head back.
“He is but a child,” Damon roared, his other hand coming out to crack a blow to the man’s ribs. “He is no monster. He is a boy. A child.”
The man growled and struck out at Damon, managing to land a punch on his cheekbone as Damon tried to help the boy up. He swiveled and kicked the man in the midsection, knocking him back onto the dirt road. Damon fell on top of him and landed another blow, this one on the man’s head.
“Can’t you see? He can’t help it. HE CAN’T HELP IT!” He hit the man again, then again.
Suddenly, strong arms were pulling him off. “Malford, stop,” Deveric commanded. “You must stop. You are killing him. Stop.”
Damon stood, his chest heaving, his arms still tensed for battle. He stared down at the bloody man, then swung a crazed glance back to Deveric. Grace stood behind her brother, her arm around the young boy, her face white.
Oh my God. What have I done? He looked back at the man on the ground, who by now was moaning and trying to crawl away.
“Grace, I…” His voice cracked, ragged and hoarse, as he lifted his eyes to her once more.
She smoothed the boy’s hair, then, giving a glance to Deveric, left the child with her brother and walked to Damon, who was still gasping in large lungfuls of air. A small crowd had gathered to watch the scene.
“I know,” she said when she reached him. She carefully put her hands to his face, her finger smoothing over the welt already rising beneath his eye. “I understand.” She held his face until his breathing eased and his hands no longer shook.
“I’m so sorry, Grace. I—I let the beast out again. I will understand if you wish to be released from me.”
She went up on her toes and kissed him, right there in the street. “Never. I wanted to beat the man myself. But I admit, I am glad you stopped. I would not wish you to carry the sin of murder on your shoulders.”
She gestured to the man, who still lay on the ground, holding his ribs and making incoherent noises. “A demon such as that is not worth it, anyway.”
She looked back at Damon. “For it is men like that who are the true demons, Damon,” she whispered. “Not you. Never you.”
He shook with emotion, his eyes filling with tears. One ran down his cheek. He didn’t care, though they were in the middle of the street, onlookers observing their every move. “You are my own angel, God’s own Grace delivered to me after all these years. I do not deserve you.”
“I rather feel the same about you, Damon Blackbourne,” she said. “But for now, there is a frightened child needing tending.”
He nodded, looking over at the boy, who peeped at him from behind one of Deveric’s legs. His eyes grew round as saucers as Damon approached, and he grabbed Deveric’s thigh as if to use it as a shield. Had the situation been different, Damon might have laughed at the comical expression on the Duke of Claremont’s face as he fought to keep his balance.
Damon bent down and addressed the boy directly. “I won’t hurt you, lad.”
He was met with stony silence, but he wasn’t surprised; the boy had just witnessed him beat up his father. The child wouldn’t know whom to trust, if indeed he could trust anybody.
“I have had the same struggles as you.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed even as his neck twitched.
Damon let his own head snap in return, again and again. The adrenaline from the scuffle was receding, but his body still pushed to move. Normally, he’d fight to control it in such a public setting, but he wanted the boy to see, to know, they shared the same affliction.
Grace bent down, as well. “Would you like to come with us? We could take care of you.”
The boy looked uncertainly toward his father.
“Does he often beat you?” Damon asked.
The boy nodded. “But it’s my fault, sir, I mean, my lord. He tells me ter stop, but I…”
“You can’t.” Damon said it as a statement, not a question.
Tears leaked out of the boy’s eyes, flooding his face. “I c-can’t,” he repeated.
“Where is your mother?” Grace asked, her voice soft, soothing.
“She d-died. ‘Cause of me, when she borned me.” He cast a glance toward his father again. “He h-hates me fer that, and fer—” A hiccup of a sob stopped the boy’s words.
“We won’t make you come, lad,” Deveric broke in as he pried himself loose from the child’s grasp. “It is your choice. But if you do, you will have meals and a bed and be well cared for. I promise you that.”
“And who be you?”
Damon had to admire the child’s spunk, especially in the midst of all of this.
“I am Deveric Mattersley, Duke of Claremont. This is my Duchess, Eliza.” He slung an arm around Eliza, who’d joined them from the cottage while Grace had been speaking to the boy. “And this is my sister, Lady Grace. The man who saved you from your father, that is Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford.”
The boy’s mouth fell open. “Two dukes?”
Eliza grinned. “Yup. Two dukes,” she said, reaching for the boy’s hand. “But on the inside, they’re really just kids, regular people like you and me.” She laughed at his incredulous expression. “I promise.”
Grace and Damon rose at the same time, and Grace took the boy’s other hand. “What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Geoffrey,” he answered. “Geoffrey Miller.”
“Well, Geoffrey, there is a little boy at our home who is about your age,” Eliza said. “His name is Frederick, and I think he would be most delighted to make your acquaintance. He is rather tired of being saddled with two sisters for companions.”
“That is, if you should like to come,” Damon added. “As Claremont said, it is your decision.”
Geoffrey worried his lower lip.
Such a heavy choice for a child—to stay with the familiar, but awful, or take a chance on the unknown—and yet Damon knew the boy needed to make it for himself. And Damon needed to accept the answer, whatever it may be. At length, the boy nodded.
The man on the street stirred, sitting up with a groan. He held a hand to his head, but then bellowed in anger when he spied the group of them standing a few feet away.
Deveric walked calmly to the man. “Mr. Miller,” he said. “We should like to take your boy into our care. Are you in agreement?”
The man spat, a wad of blood and phlegm striking the ground near the duke’s boot. “Take me boy? Why should I agree? ‘Specially with that nob near to killin’ me?”
“Because we will give you a thousand pounds,” broke in Damon, his tone solid ice. “No doubt more money than you have ever seen in your lifetime. On the condition you never seek the child out, nor breathe a word of what happened here. Should you do so, we will find you again. And I might just finish the job.”
The boy’s father flinched, his eyes not meeting Damon’s. He remained quiet for a few minutes before nodding. “He’s a nuisance, anyway. You’ll see. Not right, is that boy.”
Fury reared its head again, and it took all the restraint Damon possessed not to strike the man again. “He is no longer your nuisance. And that is all that matters.”
Deveric fished out a few pounds from his coin purse, dropping them at the man’s feet. “The rest shall be delivered from Clarehaven within two days’ time.”
“Clarehaven?” The man’s face slackened. “The … Duke?”
“Indeed.” Damon’s grin was wolfish. “Be proud. Your son has now risen to great heights.”
“Goodbye, da,” Geoffrey said, his lip trembling.
Mr. Miller said nothing, refusing to acknowledge the boy in any way.
Without another word, the foursome, plus their new, young companion, headed back to Chawton Cottage, where their carriage was stationed.
“When Miss Jane writes of future heroes,” Eliza whispered to Grace, “I should not be surprised if they bear some resemblance to our men.” She gestured toward the window, where the author peeked out. The curtain dropped.
“Perhaps,” Grace said as she helped Geoffrey into the carriage. “I cannot think of better hero material.”
THE BOY WAS silent most of the journey, his attention jumping between the outside scenery and his companions in the carriage. Grace smiled at him in encouragement a number of times, but he looked away whenever their eyes met, his head jerking in a manner similar to Damon’s.
She noticed Damon couldn’t keep his eyes off the boy, either, but the expression on his face was pained, as though he were reliving his own childhood. Occasionally, he looked to Deveric and Eliza, as if to judge their reactions to the boy and his movements. They, for the most part, chatted quietly together, seeming to sense the other occupants in the carriage needed time to themselves.
Once at Clarehaven, the boy leapt out of the carriage with excitement, only to come to a skidding halt at the massive stone home before him. The boy’s mouth fell open and he turned toward Grace, ducking his head into her skirts.
“It’s all right,” she reassured him, surprised and a little pleased she was the one he’d chosen to latch on to. Likely because she’d been the closest, but still, it touched her.
“Have you ever seen a house like this?” Deveric said, moving over and crouching down by the boy.
“No, Your Grace,” Geoffrey responded. His eyes blinked rapidly.
“Well, it looks huge at first glance, I admit,” Deveric said. “But I promise you’ll determine the best places to play in no time. How about you and I go meet that other boy I told you about, my son Frederick?”
Deveric held out his hand, and Geoffrey released Grace’s skirts to take it. The two walked up the steps to the front door and passed through.
Grace’s heart swelled at her brother’s tender dealings with the overwhelmed child, pleased he’d not bundled Geoffrey off to the servants’ quarters to be tended to there. A boy plucked off the street, from a poor family in terms of both wealth and social status, Geoffrey has an uncertain position in the household. Over time, they’d determine the best course for him, no doubt.
Or perhaps she and Damon would. At Thorne Hill. She peeked at her betrothed. His gaze was still fixed on Geoffrey. Would he welcome the boy into their home?
Eliza approached Grace and Damon. “I have seen a child like him before,” she said. “One of my neighbors back in Virginia.”
“What do you mean, like him?” Damon asked, his tone sharp.
“One who made similar movements with his head and eyes. The boy I knew often made noises, grunts and such, and sometimes echoed the words people said.” She crossed her arms, raising one hand near her face, her thumb supporting her chin while she tapped her cheek with her finger, her lips pursed.
Damon’s posture went rigid, his face locked, the muscle in his cheek flexing. After a moment, he asked, “What happened to him? Did he … did he face ostracism and persecution because of these movements?”
“Sadly, yes. Though mostly from strangers. His family did what they could to ease his life. I wish I knew how he fared. The poor boy. He was the sweetest child, when one looked past the tics.”
“Thank you for being willing to let us take him in, Eliza,” Grace said.
“How could we not? It is not that poor boy’s fault, and it hurts me so much to see people mistreated for things they cannot help or change.” She moved toward the front door. “I should go check on the children.”
After Eliza entered the house, Damon exhaled, a rough outpouring of breath. “It is hard to see such a boy. It is like looking into a mirror from a time long ago.” His shoulders slumped.
Grace slipped her arms around his neck, hugging him closely. It was a tender embrace, one of intimacy, not of passion. He clung to her, pressing her head into his chest with his hand.
“If we can save him …” He broke off.
“We have. We will. He will have a better childhood than you, Damon. Because we can give him love, can we not? We can give him acceptance. And I think you and I should be the ones to do so. He should be ours.”
He leaned back, his eyes soft, watery, as they met her own. “You would do that? Make a boy not of your own blood, not of your own station, part of your family? Love him?”
“Part of our family, and yes. I may not have the same struggles as he does, as you have, but I know what it is like to feel as if one doesn’t belong.”
He drew her close, nuzzling her hair with his lips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, my angel, my own personal Grace, but I will never let you go.”
She moved her head up, fastening her lips to his. The sweet kiss swiftly grew into something more, and his hands laced through her hair, holding her to him. He groaned as she pressed herself against him.
A moment later, he broke off, panting. “As much as I would like to continue this, perhaps the front lawn of Clarehaven is neither the time nor the place.”
She giggled, looking behind her at the house.
“I suppose you are right.” She grabbed his hand. “Come, Your Grace. Let us check on Geoffrey. And then,” she said, “perhaps we could spend some time in the library.”
Her cheeks flushed even as she said the words.
He threw his head back and laughed.