Chapter Seven
Graham was late going down to dinner. While the events of the afternoon certainly provided ample excuse, in truth, it was his own reluctance to face off against Edmund again with his hands tied, metaphorically speaking. In another time in his life, he’d have simply knocked the arrogant prig on his arse and been done with it. Or put a pistol ball in him and walk away. He’d not be the first man you killed.
Graham pushed that thought away just as he’d fought the urge to confront Edmund and demand an accounting. It would serve no purpose and get him no closer to the truth, but it would upset Lady Agatha and that was too much after the shock she’d already endured earlier in the day. Bad enough that Beatrice, whom she adored, had nearly drowned. Thinking it was a terribly accident had sent her into a faint, finding out that a man she trusted might well be a murderer might actually kill her.
The urge was still riding him strong as he entered the drawing room. He might have wondered at his ability to resist it except for the impossibly pale woman perched on a settee near the fire. Whether it was memory or simply his own imagination, a vision of her appeared in his mind. In it, her hair was as dark as his own. The wind had tugged it until it escaped its pins. A dark blue cloak billowed around her, but there was no joy in her. She was, in that vision, as enveloped in melancholy then as now.
Shaking off the vision, he approached her. She started to rise, but abruptly took her seat again and placed one hand to her heart as if it pained her. Therein lay the crux of it. She was fragile. Emotionally, no—he could see the strength in her there. But physically, her body was failing her and he could not fathom why.
Was it the stress of living under a cloud of uncertainty and grief for nearly two decades? That could account for it reasonably and, yet, he felt that was not the case. Beatrice had not said as much, but he felt that perhaps Lady Agatha’s turn in health was a recent event. She was not so very old yet and, at her age, should still have been a strong and vital woman.
“You have no proof!” Edmund shouted, continuing their conversation as if he had not even entered the room. “The man is an imposter and a scoundrel! Yet you’re perfectly willing to turn over the running of the entire estate to him when he has not proven his identity much less his capability! Even if, and that is a grand if, Madam, he is, in fact, Lord Blakemore, what does a man who has spent his life at sea know of running an estate?”
“He will learn,” Lady Agatha said softly. Her voice was feeble and her pallor growing increasingly wan.
“At what cost to us? We will all be paupers!” Edmund threw up his hands and whirled away from her, his gaze settling immediately upon Graham. “And I suppose this was your suggestion? That you assume your rightful place on the throne, so to speak?”
“Not at all,” Graham replied easily, striving for a civil tone. “I think it would be unwise to put the estate in my hands at this juncture… not because my identity is in question. It is not—not by those whose opinion matters, at any rate. But because I do not understand what is required to run an estate of this size.”
Edmund, deflated by Graham’s agreement, simply stood there. Finally, gathering his composure, he added, “Well, there it is. Wisdom from an unlikely source.”
Lady Agatha turned to him then. “How is Beatrice? Has she recovered?”
“Not entirely,” Graham answered honestly. “Exposure to cold of that nature, submerged as she was in water for so long, can have long-lasting consequences.”
“But not permanent?” Edmund queried.
Graham studied him, trying to determine the other man’s motive in asking. Was it genuine concern for her well-being or was he disappointed that his attempt had failed? “No, I do not believe so. There was very minor frostbite, I think, and rewarming the body after such an ordeal can be very painful. But I anticipate a full recovery.”
Christopher sneered then. “Are you a doctor now, as well?”
“No. But I have been a sailor for many years… exposure to cold and submersion in icy waters is something that I have had experience with, both personally and as an observer,” Graham answered. “You may both sneer all you wish, but I certainly didn’t see either of you rushing out to look for her!” He faced Edmund again. “Though, no doubt, any offer of assistance from you would be suspect. That’s a nasty injury you’ve sustained. What did happen to your fingers, sir?”
“I was attacked by a worthless animal,” Edmund shot back.
“Enough!” Lady Agatha called out. “I am exhausted from this verbal sparring! All of you are baiting one another like dogs about to fight and I’ll not have it!”
Graham took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lady Agatha. You are right. We should attempt to be civil, at least.”
“What would a mangy sea dog know of civility?” Christopher demanded, rising up from his chair. “Edmund carries on as if he’s the one losing the estate… but it’s not him, is it? It’s me. Now that you’ve risen from the dead, I’ve no chance to inherit. With no wish to join the army or the clergy, my prospects are effectively nil!”
“There is a time and a place to discuss these things, Christopher, and we will. I have no wish to turn you out penniless or see you tossed from your home,” Graham insisted. “But for the moment, let us shelve such topics and enjoy our evening meal. Tomorrow, we will sit down, the three of us, and have a civil discussion about the current situation of the estate and how it might provide ample income for all of us.”
“Ever the diplomat!” Edmund sneered. “You are a dirty usurper. You’ve no right to claim what I’ve worked to maintain!”
“If we are that close to poverty, you apparently have done a poor job of it!” Graham snapped.
Edmund blustered for a moment before spitting out, “How dare you! What, precisely, are you accusing me of?”
Graham clenched his fists at his sides. “I have many questions about your motives and your actions. My first question is where is your wife? I have little enough trust of her, either.”
Edmund sputtered ineffectually. “I would call you out for that if I thought you gentleman enough to know how to handle a sword!”
“Oh, I can handle a sword. And a pistol,” Graham countered. “I’ll be happy to demonstrate!”
Lady Agatha rose, clearly intending to call a halt to the argument before it escalated further. As she stood, she swayed alarmingly on her feet. Graham turned to offer his assistance and saw her gaze go blank, her eyes glassed over and then she began to sink to the floor.
He rushed forward, catching her before she struck the floor. “We need a doctor!”
“She has a doctor. He says it’s her heart… weakened from years of stress,” Christopher said. His tone was cold, completely without concern for his own mother who was clearly unwell.
“And did he offer any treatment beyond uttering such a proclamation?” Graham demanded.
“There is no treatment for a weakened heart,” Edmund snapped. “But for my part in this, I will attempt to hold my tongue in her presence. I would not see her so overset again.”
Graham rose, lifting her pale and painfully thin form into his arms. Edmund’s words rang hollow—nothing but lip service to propriety with little sincerity behind them. He’d allowed the bastard to goad him and it rankled that he was just as much at fault for Lady Agatha’s current state as the man he was coming to despise. “I’ll get her to her chamber and then I am sending for a physician… an actual physician and not some country quack. There are treatments—herbs and remedies that can provide relief.”
“It’s a waste of money,” Edmund fired back.
“And it is my money to waste,” Graham fired back. It was time to take command whether anyone else approved or not. “Whatever you think, whatever you believe, is of no import. I am Graham, Lord Blakemore of Castle Black, and whether you like it or not, my word, within these walls, is law.”
Without another word or a backward glance, Graham strode from the room, Lady Agatha’s limp form in his arms. He took her directly to her room and her maid, a fiercely unattractive woman named Crenshaw, met him at the door.
“Bring her in, my lord, and place her on the bed.”
Graham did as she instructed and watched cautiously as the maid retrieved smelling salts, wafting them under Lady Agatha’s nose until she stirred.
“You’ve had another spell, ladyship,” Crenshaw explained gently. “I’ll get your draught.”
Graham watched the maid scurry out and then went to stand beside the bed. Rather than loom over his mother’s pale figure, he stooped down until they were nearly on eye level. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She smiled sadly. “You sound just like you did as a boy when you’d misbehaved! I know Edmund can be difficult… he’s certainly tried my patience over the years, but give it time, Graham. Please? I don’t want to see any of you driven from our home.”
“I will do my very best to avoid such interactions in the future… but you must know, Edmund has been very forward with Beatrice. Very forward. If that happens again, I will not be swayed and he will be removed from this house.”
Her expression was speculative as she reached for his hand. “You’ve grown very fond of her in a very short time, haven’t you?”
“She has been very kind… beyond that, she is a woman who lives under the protection of this household. That protection wards against both internal and external threats.” His answer was a non-answer, but he was not prepared to discuss his very primal feelings for Beatrice with his mother.
“I told her that all of your pranks as a child were simply because you wanted her attention,” Lady Agatha offered with a sad smile. “Some things even time cannot alter.”
“It is not that way,” he denied. “You are reading into things when you should not… and whatever my relationship with Beatrice is, you should not be thinking of it now. You must rest. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, going into York to fetch a man that traveled on one of the ships I served on—a skilled and very effective physician. We will discover what is weakening you so.”
“Dr. Shepherd has been our family physician for years… he is a country doctor, yes, but he has always treated our ailments very effectively. This is simply a part of growing older, Graham. Physically, my life has been blessed with luxury and plenty, but the mental strain has taken its toll. That is all.”
“Then it will not hurt to hear that from another source,” he insisted.
She patted his hand as Crenshaw returned bearing a tray with a steaming pot of tea on it. “Very well, my son. Go and I will rest.”
Graham rose and, almost as an afterthought, stooped and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “I am very glad to be home… to have found my family again.”
“Are your memories coming back at all?”
He shook his head. “No… but they will. Soon enough, I’m sure. Goodnight, Lady Agatha.”
“Will you not call me mother, then?”
“Not until we are certain.”
“Some of us,” she said, “already are.”
“Very well, then. When I am certain. Goodnight.”
Graham left Lady Agatha’s room. It wasn’t intentional that his path took him near the corridor that housed Beatrice’s room. He leaned against the corner there, considering his options. From beneath her door, he could see light. Was it simply from the fire in the hearth, or was she awake, candles blazing?
While he was paused there, debating whether or not to seek her out, something else caught his eye. Beyond her chamber, at the other end of the hall, Christopher emerged from a hidden door. Graham, still concealed by the corner where he lurked, watched as the boy headed down the hall that branched off that corridor.
Curious and even suspicious, Graham hurried after him, keeping his booted feet on the carpet that ran down the center of the corridor to muffle his steps. As he rounded the last corner, he saw Christopher disappear behind a heavy, oaken door at the end of that short hall. It was the tower, or one of them. Inside the castle, he’d lost track of west and east to know which one. The building, in and of itself, was a maze, a rabbit warren of cobbled together additions from the past four centuries.
Graham stopped short. Where had that information come from? Where had that innate knowledge of the history of Castle Black been hiding in the recesses of his mind? Before he had time to examine that fully, the oaken door began to open again.
Perhaps it was instinct or perhaps it was the urge not to give away his own hand, but Graham hid. Ducking into a recessed doorway, he entered the darkened room there and waited for Christopher to pass. Where had he gone? What was he hiding up there?
When the coast was clear, Graham emerged from his hiding spot. Immediately, he tried that heavy, oaken door and found it locked. His indecision over seeking out Beatrice was at an end. Turning back, he retraced his steps to her chamber door, but found himself thwarted. The light was no longer seeping beneath it. She had sought her bed and he would not wake her. Cursing under his breath, he headed for his own chamber and another sleepless night.