Page 7 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
“Temporarily, I have forgotten who my own mother is, but even when that happened, Leander, I still knew Her Grace cared very much for me and deserved my loyalty and trust.” To be embarrassingly honest, when I’d been stripped of my prejudices and preconceptions, I had been better able to see Her Grace’s regard for me than when I’d been in full possession of my entrenched biases.
Leander flopped back against the seat cushions and stared at a spot above my head. “I forget Mama sometimes. I don’t forget her in my prayers, but I forget she’s gone. I forget her .”
“That is to be expected. You are growing up and filling your little head with all manner of facts and new abilities. Memories have to sometimes step aside to make room for freshly acquired information, but as long as you recall your mother in your prayers, you have nothing to fret about.”
I wanted nothing so much as to haul the boy into my lap and hug the stuffing out of him.
He was on reconnaissance in unfamiliar territory.
His lifelong ally had deserted him, and in her place was this rackety Uncle Julian fellow, who frequently disappeared for days on end and who from time to time had the memory of a halfwit.
“Does Mama recall me in her prayers?” he asked, glancing at Miss Hunter. “Miss says yes, but Miss isn’t a mother.”
“My dear boy, I have it from an unassailable authority that Her Grace implores the Almighty every night to look after not only you, but also me and your late father and your uncle Arthur.”
“My papa is dead.”
“And yet, his mother still prays for him, though he’s doubtless larking about from cloud to cloud, teasing all the pretty angels and playing Garden of Eden when he’s feeling particularly frisky.”
Leander smiled. A wan effort, but better than the solemn gaze of a melancholy boy. “Mama said Papa was jolly.”
A bit too jolly for his own good, frequently.
“He was jolly, handsome, charming, and a very good brother.” Most of the time.
“You can be sure that he’s putting in a good word for you with the celestial authorities when the occasion permits and that your mother never, ever forgets to include you in her prayers. ”
“Will we reach London soon, Uncle Julian?”
Miss Hunter discreetly scratched her nose, though her eyes remained closed.
“We have reached London, or the outskirts thereof. The tolls come closer together, the traffic becomes ridiculous, but the middle of the day is a good time to make an inbound assault. The only better time is the middle of the night, which is why a lot of the mail coaches leave from and arrive to London after dark.”
Leander was a very different boy from Atticus. He’d not once asked to ride up with John Coachman. He hadn’t wheedled for food from the hamper, and he wasn’t prone to fidgeting, though he was younger than Atticus.
During the years Atticus had spent learning to avoid a cuff on the head for a dropped tray, Leander had enjoyed a mother’s guiding influence.
Leander already read well and did simple sums. Atticus struggled with vocabulary and spelling and had little patience for history unless the topic was some sanguinary battle.
And I knew not what to do with either one of them.
“It smells different here,” Leander said. “Like coal. The Hall doesn’t smell like coal.”
“What does the Hall smell like?”
“Grass when the groundsmen are scything, manure when the loafing sheds are cleaned out, lavender when I’m in my bed. Bread when Mrs. Gwinnett is baking. All sorts of smells, but not coal.”
I hoped those mundane aromas would become the scents of home to him, the scents of safety and family and security.
The coach lurched through the streets of Knightsbridge, then around Hyde Park to the duke’s Mayfair residence. I’d sent word ahead of our arrival, and the property was known to Leander from his first encounters with his Caldicott relations.
When the vehicle rocked to a halt in the mews, he leaped down, tore across the alley, and bolted into the back garden like a child liberated from catechism on a fine summer day. I handed Miss Hunter down, and she paused before pursuing her charge.
“You handled his questions well, my lord. I am not a mother, nor even an auntie, the boy is right about that. Leander pays attention to what you say, and your words were both honest and comforting. A letter to his mother might be in order.”
She bustled on her way, a small, quiet, sweet woman with more patience than I could claim on my most saintly day.
I had much to do in London. I would inquire of our solicitors regarding Miss Stadler and inquire of the parish authorities regarding Atticus’s brother. But my first errand, the one that had sealed my determination to come to London, was a call on my intended.
I had no sooner ordered a tray and a bath—one did not call upon one’s prospective bride wearing the dust of the road—than I was informed that I had a caller awaiting me in the family parlor.
An odd choice in the ducal abode, which boasted an informal and a formal parlor, as well as His Grace’s public sitting room and personal sitting room, to which few save family were admitted.
All I could think was that my godmother, Lady Ophelia Oliphant, had got wind of my appearance in Town.
Her Grace might have sent word, or Godmama’s spies here at Caldicott House might have alerted her.
When I arrived at the family parlor, I found not my godmother, but Hyperia West, looking cool, tidy, and lovely.
The scent of roses enveloped me as I made my bow, and then, without conscious thought, my arms were around her, my nose was buried against her hair, and I was so thankful to have her in my embrace that my composure was imperiled.