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“I promise a visit soon.”
“Yes, my lord. The repairs on Birchmount Manor should be completed in less than two weeks, my lord. Every room has been restored to its former glory, the furniture refurbished and restored. The silverware replaced. The servants walk with pride in their steps.”
“Thank you, Mr. Powell. That will be all.”
The man departed, and James stared at the box for an inordinate amount of time. He hadn’t hungered for knowledge of his mother for years. Not when it had all seemed so futile. He had several different descriptions of her from the villages, yet it had not been enough for him to paint a picture of her. He knew she was kind. So all the tenants had said. She would attend to them often, brought the poorer villagers food and medicine. And she loved to sing. James sounded like a frog whenever he attempted it, so he knew he did not get that talent from her.
But he loved the pianoforte, and he heard from the housekeeper more than once his mother's skill had been unmatched.
He turned the box almost idly, wondering if he was afraid of opening it. The wild scrawl of her name on the box was in his father’s handwriting. James could almost sense the rage and pain that had been in his father as he wrote the letters.
For the first time in years, and perhaps ever, he felt a pang of sympathy. James suspected he was falling in love with Lady Verity’s charming wit and fierce spirit. How long had he known her? A few weeks? And the knowledge if harm were to befall her it would ravage somewhere deep inside of him sat on his shoulder.
His father had fallen in love with his mother and married her. He'd had her for a little over ten years before he lost her, but he must have loved her with a depth and breadth little would comprehend. James had been in the room when his father had laid dying.
“Georgiana,” James whispered, saying the name his father had cried, right before he had smiled and gone onto his rewards.
He traced the name on the box. Georgiana. With a muttered oath and great annoyance at his prevarication, he wrenched the lid off the box. The first sight that greeted him was a white blanket, with blue trimmings. He took it up, and a pleasant scent of lavender hit his senses and sent him reeling.
Why was a blanket at the top of the box? He flashed it open, and something tugged his attention to the edge. It was an embroidered name: James.
He took a deep breath and glanced into the box. There he spied a small brown book, well five of them, tied with a red ribbon. He untied the strip and took up the first book and opened it. A diary and it was hers. He sat heavily into his chair and started to read.
Dearest Diary,
I met the most wonderful, amiable, and so very handsome young man today. Our meeting was by happenstance. He knocked into me as I exited the library and knocked over my package of books. He apologized so charmingly as he gathered them for me. At least four times. I had to reassure him he did no harm, and I cannot explain how my heart pounded in his presence. Somehow neither of us thought to affect introductions, so caught up we were on staring into each other’s eyes. How gloriously alive I felt. And how happy I had followed mamma and Judith to town for the season. I usually find balls so intolerably dull, but that day my boredom vanished. My dear friend, Theodosia, told me he is the Earl of Maschelly, and he had only recently inherited the earldom, and that he is seeking a wife! Wouldn't it be just wonderful if he considered me?
The joy infused in the words said so much about her character. A wound he thought he had long closed, burst open, and that keen sense of loss, and hope that he would one day know her scythed through his heart. Hours passed in the library as he pored over her journal. He was there on the journey as she attended lavish balls after balls, dancing with his father, their first scandalous kiss. Then their marriage, and her pregnancy.
James’s heart kicked when he saw his name in a passage that had started with her wondering if she would birth a boy or a girl.
I know you to be a boy, my darling. I am so confident about it, and I shall call you James. We cannot wait to meet you. After ten years of wonderful marriage, I am finally fulfilling my duty. I am eager to hold you in my arms and kiss your forehead. Your powerful kicks tell me you will have your father’s size—
Christ. He slammed the diary shut. His father's size. James glanced down at his hand. Had she known to birth him would have taken her life? He glanced back at the diary. Of course not, each word had been filled with hope and love. And he was glad she'd had that rare kind of love in her life. And she had loved him before he had even born.
He reached for the stack of letters, and opened one. James frowned. They were all pleading letters from Mrs. Judith Brimley. After reading several letters, he realized Mrs. Brimley was his mother's sister and his aunt. Shock robbed him of breath for several moments. He had a family he did not know about? The last letter had been sent eleven years ago from an address in Hampshire. Had she sent more letters since? His father had only died seven years past. James gathered from the tone of the letters, which enquired after his health with pleadings for her to visit, she had never received a response.
How cruel his father had been in his grief. Packing away everything into the box, he rose and made his way from the library to his room. There he dismissed his startled valet and lay atop his sheets fully clothed. The emotions in his heart could not be fully understood by James. They were a tangled mess of anger, sadness, and hope. He closed his eyes, and it felt like hours later before he was finally able to fall asleep to the memory of Verity laughing and dancing in his arms.
Early the very next morning, before the dawn had broken, James was on his way to Hampshire in a carriage pulled by his fastest horses. He had sent a cautious note to Lady Verity, canceling their lesson for the upcoming week. James had not provided an explanation, but he had apologized, knowing how much their sessions meant to her. The journey down was uneventful and took him two
days at the pace he traveled. He stayed overnight at inns and was on his way again before the sun rose. After arriving at the return address on the letters, the butler informed him the master of the manor was not at home, and that Mrs. Brimley resided at a cottage about a mile away.
James wasted no time pondering why his aunt had moved and arrived at a modest cottage with the loveliest garden he had ever seen at about two in the afternoon. He dismounted from his carriage and noted no stable lad appeared to offer water or oats for the horses. In fact, he spied no stables. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked along the driveway, up the few front steps, and knocked on the door.
It took a few moments before a rosy-cheeked, rotund woman opened it. She stared at him and then at the well-sprung carriage behind him.
“May I help you, Sir?” she asked a mite nervously.
"I am here to see Mrs. Judith Brimley. I've no appointment, but if you tell her Lord Maschelly has called, I would appreciate it."
Flustered the lady stepped back and beckoned for him to follow her. James was escorted to a small but tastefully furnished parlor—a pianoforte and a harp were positioned near a small chaise; the dark damask sofa matched the red and peach patterned wallpapers and drapes which covered the floor to ceiling windows. It was only upon close inspection one would notice the furniture and carpets had the appearance of shabby gentility.
When Mrs. Judith Brimley entered her small but tasteful parlor, James glanced up. She paused, a hand fluttering to her chest.
”There is no mistake you are the earl,” she said after a minute of staring.
And standing before the fireplace, he was aware of how he would appear to her—a powerfully built man with dark hair, and a swarthy complexion.
