Page 7 of Lord of the Lost

“Jon! Jon, my man!”

A young red-haired boy poked his head out of the stables’ door. The boy definitely wasn’t old Jon. Green eyes regarded Devlin for a shocked minute, then the boy stepped out, exclaiming.

“Your Grace!”

Devlin near laughed, for this lad was too young to have ever set eyes on him, was likely to have been no more than two years old or so when Devlin had left.

“Where’s Jon?”

Jon was the grizzled old stable-master who had taught Devlin how to properly care for a horse, and who had narrowly missed losing his situation when Father had discovered just how much time Devlin spent with a man of such a low station. He had been forgiven only because of his skills, and the fact that Devlin had learnt well from him – to ride, as well as to care for his mount.

“Jon’s gone to God, Your Grace, two years ago now. My name’s Sam, Your Grace.”

Devlin should have felt a stab in his chest, another layer of grief to add to the rest. But he felt nothing. Just hollow.

“Very well Sam. Take my horse, please. He’s had a hard time on the road, mostly living rough, from Portsmouth, and deserves good feed, grooming and rest.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The boy looked rather awed by his presence, and he wondered, as he turned and walked back to the front of the Castle, if he had, in his time away, become something of a legend. He supposed that his exploits early in the war had been reported, and that some would call him a war hero – those were not words he liked, for he had simply done his job, and tried to keep his men alive. All too often, he had won against the enemy, but lost too many men in the process. That made him, to his own mind, far from a hero.

At the front of the house, he regarded the door with trepidation. Once he stepped through that door, he would no longer own his own life. The title would own him, the needs of the estates, the needs of his mother and sister. But that was his duty, no matter what he might wish.

He lifted his hand, steeling himself for what was to come, and rapped the knocker sharply. He heard, through the door’s thickness, the echoes of the knock, running through the great vaulted entryway. Eventually, the door creaked open. A young footman stood there, obviously shocked that anyone might call at all. The footman’s mouth fell open after a few moments, as he took in the lines of Devlin’s face.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes. I have returned. I am real enough, don’t look so much as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

The footman drew himself up and bowed.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Please call my mother and sister,” Devlin said. “They will want to see me. I’ll be in the parlour.”

The footman moved back, and Devlin stepped into the Castle, then noticed that the footman looked past him with a puzzled expression.

“Your Grace… have you no valet, no carriage, no luggage…?”

Devlin laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. He’d started towards the parlour, aware that his muddy boots left footprints on the immaculately clean floors, but unable to care in that moment. He half turned back and answered the footman.

“You can close the door. No, I’ve none of that. I’ve already delivered my horse to the stables, and left him with Sam. Now, I need to see my mother and sister, and after that, I’d like some food, a bath, and to go to my bed. Please have the fire and lanterns lit, in the parlour, and in my rooms too!”

The footman hesitated, and Devlin regarded him, curious, until the man spoke again, a flush of what seemed embarrassment to his cheeks.

“Your Grace… The Duke’s rooms… the Duchess hasn’t finished cleaning them out, ready for you. If it’s not too impertinent of me to say, I think she finds it too difficult, still, to touch his things, to be reminded…”

“Then my old rooms will do perfectly well for now, thank you. I’ve no need of anything extravagant.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in a cushioned chair, sipping a brandy he had poured himself from the decanter he’d found on the sideboard. The fire had been lit, although the maid was still fussing at getting it to draw properly, and the room was slowly filling with blessed heat.

His sister and mother, he knew, were getting ready – or perhaps they had both fainted from the shock of being told of his arrival. No doubt they had been in his mother’s private parlour, which was smaller, and easier to heat.

Another ten minutes passed and then the door opened slowly – he closed his eyes as it did, suddenly afraid of what he would see, after so long. And of what they would see, when they looked at him – for he was nothing like the man who had left this place, eleven years ago.

But he could not just sit there. He opened his eyes and rose, turning towards the door. His mother looked monstrously older, so much so that it shocked him, although, after eleven years, he could not, reasonably, have expected there to be no change. He had left England with the kisses of a silver-haired, buxom, healthy-limbed woman. Now a thin, grey-haired, stick-limbed woman whose dress hung loosely on her frame greeted him. Devlin hurried to her.