“And he came back safely,” Fleur said.
Mrs. Laycock sighed. “It was a dreadful time,” she said. “He was so happy before he went back to fight again when that monster escaped from Elba. He had just become betrothed to her grace—the Honorable Miss Sybil Desford she was then—and was as happy as the day was long. They had been intended for each other for years before that, but it was only during those months that he really had stars in his eyes for her.”
“But he came back to her,” Fleur said. “All ended happily.”
“We thought he was dead,” Mrs. Laycock said. “News came that he had been killed in battle, and his man came home all broken up—he had been with his grace for years. I don’t like to remember that time, Miss Hamilton. First the old duke and then our boy. Boy!” She chuckled. “Just listen to me. He is past his thirtieth birthday already.”
They sat on a wrought-iron seat beside the path they were strolling along and looked down through trees to a crescent-shaped lake with an island and a domed pavilion in its center.
“Lord Thomas assumed the title,” Mrs. Laycock continued. “His grace’s half-brother, that is. They look alike, but as different they are as chalk is from cheese. There are those who prefer Lord Thomas because of his sunny nature and his smiles. He betrothed himself to her grace—to Miss Desford.”
“All so quickly?” Fleur asked. “But surely the mistake was discovered very soon?”
“It was a whole year,” the housekeeper said with a sigh. “His grace was taken for dead and stripped on the battlefield. Those French, or those Belgians, behaved just like barbarians, Miss Hamilton. But one decent couple discovered that he was still breathing and took him to their cottage to nurse him back to health. He was dreadfully wounded.” She shook her head.
“He was unconscious or in a fever for weeks,” she continued. “And then he could not remember much. He did not know who he was for months, and then apparently he had trouble convincing anyone that he was who he said he was. He was naked, poor gentleman, when he was found.”
“So for a whole year he was thought to be dead?” Fleur asked.
“I’ll never forget the day he came home,” Mrs. Laycock said. “Still limping and sadly disfigured, poor gentleman. I’ll never forget it.”
“What happened to Lord Thomas?” Fleur asked when her companion stared quietly down to the lake.
“He left,” Mrs. Laycock said. “Just disappeared about three months after his grace came home. There are those who said there was not room for the both of them in the one house and that his grace ordered him to leave. And there are those who say other things. I do not know the rights of it. But he has never come back.”
“And the duchess married his grace after all,” Fleur said. “The story has a happily-ever-after ending.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Laycock got to her feet and brushed at the folds of her black dress. “She married him. Though such a wailing she put up when she came here with her papa and discovered that Lord Thomas had gone, that I had a hard time of it to quiet the servants’ talk, Miss Hamilton. And his grace so happy to be home only three months before that and catching her up in his arms and twirling her about when she stepped from her carriage for all the world to see.”
They strolled on, each wrapped in private thought. It was strange that the duke spent so much time from home if he loved it so much, Fleur thought, and if he loved the duchess so much and had such a strong sense of responsibility.
But not all of Fleur’s time was spare time, of course. She did have about two hours each day with her pupil, a small, thin, dark-haired child who might one day grow up to be handsome if her frequently petulant look did not become habitual. She did not resemble her mother in any way at all. She must be all her father.
The child was difficult. She did not want to look at books, she did not want to listen to stories, she did not want to pick up a needle, and when she painted she often did so carelessly, wasting both paper and paint and becoming mulish when Fleur insisted that she clear away the mess she had made.
Fleur tried to be patient. Lady Pamela was, after all, little more than a baby, and she must know, as children usually did, that her mother and her nurse were on her side. Fleur tried to entice the child into wanting to learn.
There was an old harpsichord in the schoolroom. Fleur sat at it and played one afternoon when Lady Pamela had refused to cooperate in any of the planned activities, and she continued to play when she was aware of the child standing still to one side of the stool.