She nodded vigorously, and then the handkerchief was out again. “So sorry! So very sorry.”
This time, Jamie did not hesitate in fetching the brandy and two glasses. “My infallible remedy for all ills,” he murmured, placing the glass in front of her.
“Do you have many ills, Mr Hammond?”
“Very few, but there are times…” He stopped, removed his spectacles with a sigh, then pulled out his own more practical square of linen and began to polish them. “Sometimes, I see the future stretching before me, as I grow old and stooped like my father, and here I shall still be, plying my pen at the duke’s behest. My mother is long dead, and one day my father will go to join her, and I shall be alone, Mrs Hastings.”
“Not entirely alone, surely,” she said, cradling the brandy glass in her hands. Thoughtfully she took a sip, and he was pleased to see that she did not so much as pull a face at the strong taste. “You have good company here, and a roof over your head, not to mention as much food as you can manage… and drink!” she added, raising the glass.
“And I am grateful for all those things, but it is not the same as family — one’s own family is an incomparable blessing, for no one else cares so much for one. Even friends are not quitethe same, and I cannot honestly say I have friends here. My peers are Mr Godley and Mr Pyott, but they are not people I can confide in, and the duke’s family is far above my touch. But you understand better than anyone, I dare say. At the risk of increasing your melancholia, it seems to me that you understand all too well the difference between being part of an affectionate family and being alone in the world.”
She lowered her head, and for a moment he feared he had gone too far, but then she said, “I think — Ihope— that you would consider me as your friend, Mr Hammond. I certainly think of you in that way.”
Sudden warmth flooded him, an emotion he could not quite name. Was it happiness, perhaps? He remembered nothing quite like it, not since the day of his eighth birthday, when he had been given a puppy of his own. It was the runt of the latest litter, and not thought likely to make a game dog, so it had come to him. He had given it no name other than Dog but he had loved that creature passionately until, a few days after his mother had died, Dog had lain down and died, too. It had seemed like fate, and just as he could not replace his mother, he had never attempted to replace Dog, either.
Now he could do nothing but stammer his thanks, and polish his spectacles again, even more vigorously, before refilling both their glasses with brandy.
***
“That went rather well, I thought,” Lance said, as he and Denny retreated to his room after the fencing bout.
“You scored more hits, for once, but your parries were sloppy, particularly theseconde.”
“I know, I know. I am not used to such an audience when I spar with you. It is expected at Angelo’s but we are normallyable to be unobserved. But the duke is to allow us to have the attics for our sparring in future, which should be a shade more private.”
“The old boy knows a thing or two,” Denny said, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt and pouring water into the basin on the wash stand.
“Theold boyis His Grace the Duke of Brinshire to you,” Lance said sharply. “Show a little respect, for heaven’s sake. Certainly he knows a thing or two about fencing — he is a legend at Angelo’s, you must understand.”
Denny looked up, face dripping water, and mischief writ large on his countenance. “Oh well, if the idle customers at Angelo’s think him a legend, then—”
“It was Angelo himself who thought him so,” Lance said. “The duke is one of the very few to have bested him.” Denny’s eyes widened. “Yes, exactly. He is reputed to have fought three duels before he was twenty, and none after — no one dared. So even if you cannot respect his rank, at least respect his ability with a sword. I imagine he could still give either of us a whipping if he wanted, even at his age.”
“If he defeatedAngelo… well! That does deserve some respect, I grant you, even if all this wealth and grandeur simply dropped into his lap undeservedly. Which coat do you want to wear?”
“I wondered when you were going to remember that you are supposed to be my valet.”
Denny only grinned at him. “Iamyour valet, my superior friend, and you have no idea how much status that gives me below stairs. I dine in state with the butler and the other two valets, who are the only servants above me, waited on by the kitchen boy, who also cleans my boots and sees to my room, which I do not even have to share. Your Lady Patience’s family were much stingier.”
Lance shifted uneasily at this implied criticism of his beloved, but refrained from rising to Denny’s bait. “That reminds me, I must write to Patience.”
“Do you want me to whip up some suitable phrases for you? Or shall you just quote Shakespeare’s sonnets at her? That usually works with females.”
“Oh, go away, you obnoxious man. You will have to develop some manners once I am married, because if you offend my wife, I shall be obliged to turn you off.”
“You never will! Who else will you spar with?”
Which was true, as Lance acknowledged to Denny’s retreating back. A proper valet would be no fun at all. When he had washed and put on clean clothes, he sat down at the desk provided in his room, drew paper, pens and ink from a drawer and started to write.
‘To the Lady Patience Torbuck, Holtwell Abbey, Wiltshire.’
There he stopped, pondering. How to address his betrothed?‘Dear Patience’sounded too dreary for words, but‘My darling Patience’was too forward. In the end, he settled for something in between.
‘My dear Patience, I trust your journey was not too tedious and that you find your sister and nephew well.’
There did not seem to be anything else to say about the newly arrived ducal heir. He was the duke’s great-grandson, so he had the rank of viscount from the moment of his birth, and would slowly step up the ladder to earl, then marquess and eventually duke as his antecedents departed the mortal realm. What a burden to place on a tiny baby!
‘I am presently at Staineybank, the principal seat of the Duke of Brinshire, and will be here for some time, as he has commissioned me to paint his heir’s wife. If you wish to write to me, you may direct your letters here.’
