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Bruised and resentful, Jack had nearly boarded a ship and returned to Boston right after that meeting. But he hadn’t quite. He’d set off north instead. Only when he’d been walking for a full day did his anger cool enough to acknowledge he was hurt as well as outraged. The truth was, he’d been drawn here by an idea of family, a homely thing he’d never had. He’d read stories about domestic tranquility and seen glimpses of it among his friends, but his childhood had been fragmented and contentious. His parents couldn’t seem to agree on anything except their tempestuous reconciliations after a shouted dispute. Jack had been audience or afterthought, often left to fend for himself.
When the summons to England came, he’d actually imagined a welcome by a circle of kin, a place where he belonged. He’d found disdain instead, rejection without any chance to show his worth. It was painful to be the unwanted earl, the bane of his father’s kin. The inner bruise had been expanding rather than fading as time and distance separated him from London.
“Are you a dreamer?” said a voice near his knee.
“What?” Jack looked down to find a girl of perhaps six or seven trudging along beside him. Tiny, dark-haired, and bright-eyed, she peered up at him.
“You didn’t hear what I said three times. That’s a dreamer.”
“I beg your pardon. I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“My great-grandmother.”
“Do you miss her?” asked the little girl.
“No, she thinks I’m a disgrace.”
“What did you do?”
That was the point. He’d done nothing but be born into Lady Wilton’s precious bloodline. Half into it. His mother’s lineage was not to be mentioned. Jack hadn’taskedto come here or be an earl. “Not a thing.”
The little girl took this in solemnly. She seemed to decide to believe him. “You’re too old to be scolded.”
“A man might think so.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“I’m nearly eight. My name’s Samia.”
Jack stopped walking, doffed his hat, and gave her the sort of elegant bow he’d learned from his wayward father. He had absorbed a good deal from the man, whatever his great-grandmother might think. “Jack…” He hesitated. His last name might be better concealed. Lady Wilton was no doubt furious at his disobedience and perfectly capable of organizing pursuit. “At your service, Miss Samia,” he added. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She giggled, then looked around to see if any of her friends had noticed his bow. They had. Samia preened as they walked on, and she assumed a proprietary air as other children joined them and Jack told them tales of another continent.
When the group stopped for the night in a clearing well off the road, Jack helped gather wood for the fires and carry water. Borrowing some lengths of cord, he set snares that might yield a rabbit or two by morning. He was given terse thanks and a tattered blanket to augment his meager belongings.
Later there was shared stew and music around the central fire. When he rolled up in the blanket and pillowed his head on his arm, Jack felt the first stirrings of contentment. He went to sleep in the pleasure of companionship, wondering only how he might best contribute to the group and earn his meals. His snares gave a partial answer to that question in the morning, yielding several rabbits for the pot. He vowed to discover more.
Jack fell easily into the Travelers’ erratic schedule. Some days the caravans moved; others they stayed in a place to sell objects the Travelers crafted or offer repairs to the people of a village or farmstead. The old lady sometimes read fortunes for those who came to inquire. Jack didn’t mind the slow pace. There was no particular hurry to see his ancestral acres, and he enjoyed the rhythm of the road. He did have wandering feet. He began to make—not friends, for this was a closed group, but cordial acquaintances. Some exhaustive conversations had established that his mother was not directly related to any of these Travelers, so he couldn’t claim kin right. But similarity of spirit created bonds. He enjoyed them, along with the certainty that his continuing absence must be infuriating his noble great-grandmother. That was a solid satisfaction. He would see what others he could find as time passed.
***
“Not that you would know anything about that,” declared the fat, choleric-looking man taking up the entire front-facing seat in the traveling carriage.
“No, Papa,” said Harriet Finch’s mother meekly.
Harriet gritted her teeth to keep back a sharp retort. She’d had years of practice swallowing slights and insults, so she wouldn’t let anything slip. But hours in a coach with her grandfather had tried her to the limit. From the less comfortable rear-facing seat, she looked at her mother’s father, Horace Winstead. Winstead the nabob. Winstead the all-knowing, according to him. She’d never spent so much time with him before. They hadn’t been thrown together like this during the months of the London season. Now that she’d endured a large dose of his company, she was afraid their new living arrangements were a mistake. How long would she be able to hold her tongue?
She hadn’t met her grandfather until this year because he had so disapproved of her parents’ marriage that he disowned his daughter. More than disowned. He’d vengefully pursued the young couple, ruining her new husband’s prospects by saying despicable things about him. Horace Winstead had consigned Harriet’s family to genteel poverty for her entire life. And then, suddenly, after the death of a cousin she’d never met, he’d turned about and declared he would leave his immense fortune to Harriet, now his only grandchild.
The reversal had been dizzying. New clothes, a lavish house in London for the season, a changed position in society. Young ladies who’d spurned Harriet at school when she paid her way with tutoring pretended to be bosom friends. Young men suddenly found her fascinating. A thin smile curved Harriet’s lips. They found her prospective income fascinating. Some hardly bothered to disguise their greed.
Harriet was expected to receive this largesse with humble gratitude. She couldn’t count the number of people who’d told her how lucky she was. She was not to mind her grandfather’s “abrupt” manners or ever lose her temper in his presence. He was to be catered to like a veritable monarch lest he change his mind and eject them. It was nearly insupportable. And one of the hardest parts of all was her mother had felt redeemed.
Harriet glanced at her sole remaining parent and received an anxious look in response. Mama knew she was annoyed, and her eyes begged Harriet not to let it show. Years of worry had carved creases around Mama’s mouth and added an emotional tremor to her manners. She continually expected disaster, and she’d often been quite right to do so. Brought back into the fold of her youth, she’d been so happy. Had she really thought Grandfather had changed? He still treated her with something close to contempt, even though she agreed with everything he said.
