PROLOGUE
“For there may no man do more than his heart will suffer him.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
MARCH 13, 1794, TRENWITH ABBEY
The wheels crunched to a halt on the gravel drive, and Gabriel pressed his small face to the window, watching as servants in livery emerged from the imposing stone façade of Trenwith Abbey. The house loomed before him like a fortress, all gray stone and sharp angles beneath a pewter sky that promised rain. He clutched his traveling case, a battered leather thing that had belonged to Papa, and tried to swallow the knot in his throat that had been there since the fever took them both.
Five-year-old Gabriel Strathmore stepped down from the carriage on unsteady legs, his black mourning coat too large for his thin frame, the sleeves hanging past his wrists. The March wind cut through the wool, and he shivered as he was led up the wide stone steps by a footman who did not speak to him.
The entrance hall was vast and cold, with marble floors that echoed his small footsteps and portraits of stern-faced ancestors staring down from gilt frames. Gabriel had never been to Grandfather’s house before. Papa had said the old man did not care for children, and now Gabriel understood why. Everything here was hard and silent and unwelcoming.
“His lordship will see the boy in the library,” announced the butler, a thin man with disapproving eyes.
Gabriel was led through corridors that stretched on forever, past closed doors and shadowy alcoves, until they reached a room lined floor to ceiling with books. A fire crackled in the grate, but it gave no warmth to the chamber. Behind a massive mahogany desk sat an elderly man with steel-gray hair and cold blue eyes. Beside the fireplace stood another man, younger though no less forbidding, with fair hair and the same sharp features. This must be Uncle James, Papa’s older brother.
“So,” said the viscount without preamble, not rising from his chair, “you are Charles’s boy.”
Gabriel nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He wished to speak, to say how he would be good and quiet and cause no trouble, but the words would not come.
“What am I to do with you?” Grandfather continued, his voice as cutting as the wintry wind outside. “Your father never possessed an ounce of sense, marrying your mother against my wishes. And now they are both dead, leaving me to clean up their muddle.”
The words struck Gabriel like physical blows. Papa had been the kindest, gentlest man in the world, and Mama had sung tohim every night before bed. They were not a muddle. They were everything good and warm and safe, and now they were gone forever.
“Well?” The old man’s voice sharpened. “Have you nothing to say for yourself? What am I to do with you now?”
Gabriel tried to be brave, tried to stand straight as Papa had taught him, but his lower lip began to tremble despite his best efforts. “I-I could be good, sir,” he whispered. “I could be very good and quiet, and I would not be any trouble, I promise.”
But even as he spoke, hot tears began to spill down his cheeks, and he could not stop them. They came in a rush, carrying with them all the grief and terror and loneliness of the past fortnight. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to muffle the sobs that shook his small frame.
“Good God,” Uncle James said with disgust, turning away from the fireplace. “Look at the state of him. Carrying on like a girl.”
Grandfather’s expression hardened further. “Cease this display immediately,” he commanded. “You are a Strathmore, boy, and Strathmores do not weep and wail like common peasants.”
But Gabriel could not stop. The tears came harder now, great gulping sobs that echoed in the vast room. He wanted his mama to hold him and sing away the sadness. He wanted Papa to lift him onto his shoulders and tell him stories about brave knights. He wanted to go home to the little house with its warm kitchen and soft cushions and the smell of Mama’s lavender water.
“This is intolerable,” Uncle James said, his voice clipped with distaste. “The boy is clearly unfit for civilized company.”
“Indeed.” Grandfather rose from behind his desk, walking over to tower over Gabriel like a stern monument. “I will not have such unseemly behavior in my house. You will learn to govern yourself, or you will be sent away.”
Gabriel tried to speak, tried to apologize, but he could only hiccup and sob, his small chest heaving with the force of his grief.
The viscount’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “Hartwell,” he called to the butler, who appeared in the doorway as if he had been waiting. “Fetch Mr. Dutton from the carriage. Tell him there has been a change of plans.”
Gabriel’s legs felt weak. Mr. Dutton was Grandfather’s man of business. The stern, silent man who had collected him from the house where his parents had died.
“Very good, my lord.”
“The boy will be taken to Oxford immediately,” Grandfather commented to his oldest son, his voice devoid of warmth. “I shall tell Dutton to find a suitable tutor. Someone who can teach proper conduct and rid the child of this unseemly weakness. I will provide funds for room, board, and instruction, but I will not have such disgraceful behavior under my roof.”
Gabriel felt the floor tilt beneath his feet. They were sending him away? But he had only just arrived. “Please,” he managed between sobs, “I can be better. I can be quiet. Please do not send me away.”
“You should have thought of that before making such a spectacle,” Uncle James said coldly. “Perhaps a few years with a proper tutor will beat some sense into you.”
Minutes later, Mr. Dutton appeared, nodding curtly at the viscount’s instructions. He placed a firm hand on Gabriel’s shoulder without speaking.
As Gabriel was led away, still crying, he heard his grandfather’s voice drift from the library. “Five years old and already displaying such weakness. Thank God Charles did not live to see what manner of son he raised.”
