Behind her, the sound of excited voices rose. Joan pushed the glass into his hand and ducked back in, the door swinging shut behind her.
Thaddeus looked down at the glass, dumbfounded.
“I’ll take you to Eversley’s bedchamber,” the duke said. “I won’t enter with you because I don’t want to strangle a man on his own deathbed.”
“I don’t give a damn about saying goodbye,” Thaddeus stated.
“Better do it anyway,” His Grace advised. “When my sister recommends something, she’s usually right. If that drink will soothe your father on his way, then it would be well that he drank it.”
They walked through several corridors and over to another wing of the castle. The duke paused outside a door. “Your father had delusions of grandeur, so we put him in a chamber that once housed King Henry VIII. Will you remember how to make your way back?”
“I believe I shall retire for the night.”
His Grace looked surprised. “The family will all wait up for the baby. The men are in the billiard room, if you’d like to join them there.”
Thaddeus absorbed his words: He was part of a family now.
“Except for Devin,” the duke continued, “who insisted on staying by his wife’s bedside. It’s by way of a family tradition.”
Thaddeus flinched, and the duke guffawed. “No need to follow suit! I will say, though, that the memories of seeing my last three be brought into the world are among my most treasured.”
“Right,” Thaddeus said.
“No need to consider it now. Death first, then life.”
Thaddeus took a breath and pushed open the door.
Henry VIII’s bedchamber was papered in strawberry-colored silk. Squarely in the middle of the room was a large bed, topped with a cupola, not unlike that of the monopteron on the island, except that was shaped from marble and this was gilt, decorated with spiky turrets. Fringed strawberry-colored silk cascaded from the cupola, easily twice the amount of fabric that surrounded his own bed.
His father lay facing the door on a pile of white pillows, the wine-stained ermine throw covering his feet.
A footman in Lindow livery sat in the corner; as Thaddeus entered he rose, nodded, and quietly left the room.
“Who’s there?” his father called in a scratchy voice.
“It is I, Father,” Thaddeus said, coming to stand at his right side.
The room was blazing with lit candelabra, but his father squinted. “I can’t see well.” He pointed a shaking hand. “Is that the syrup I’m supposed to drink?”
“Yes,” Thaddeus said. “A soothing tonic, I understand.”
“That poker of a woman said it would ease the way. I’m dying, blast take it,” his father growled. “Might as well go out drunk.”
Thaddeus held the glass steady at his father’s mouth.
“Off with you,” the duke growled after he finished. “I’ll not have you stealing my letter if I close my eyes. I’ve left instructions with my valet. I can’t breathe with you standing over me like a vulture waiting to pick clean my corpse.”
“I would never steal your letter,” Thaddeus told him. He laid his hand over his father’s thin, veined one. “I respect the fact that you traveled here, in your last days, in an effort to ensure the well-being of your family.”
His father began coughing, the hacking noises softer than earlier in the evening. He was losing strength.
“I will take care of my siblings,” Thaddeus said. “I swear it. The boy will go to Eton.”
“They don’t take ba-bastards,” his father panted. His eyes were closed. “I can’t breathe with you here, with all your rectitude and honor.”
Thaddeus nodded, even though the duke couldn’t see it, and removed his hand. “Eton will accept my half brother, no matter his parentage. Goodbye, Father.”
The duke opened his eyes and cast such a look of flickering dislike that Thaddeus almost recoiled. “You never understood, did you?”
“No,” Thaddeus said. “No, I never did.”
“You’re so bloody perfect,” he growled. “A shining example of English honor, that’s what they all tell me. The best man—pah! You never faced a true challenge. You never failed, so how hard could it have been for you to succeed?”
The room fell into silence, with only the man’s belabored breathing to be heard.
“You were my greatest challenge so far,” Thaddeus said, finally. “And I failed. From my childhood, you made it clear that I had failed.”
The duke didn’t open his eyes, so after another moment or two, Thaddeus left.
He was surprised to find the Duke of Lindow waiting for him, leaning against the wall.
“Said your last words?” His Grace asked.
Thaddeus nodded. He wasn’t able to speak; his father’s last, bitter speech was stuck to him like a cobweb one blunders into in the dark.
Lindow scowled at him. “A contemptible bastard to the end, was he?”
“I gather he resented my accomplishments, such as they are,” Thaddeus said. “Which I attained in order to please him.”
“You are true gold,” Lindow said. “A man, an honorable man, and he wasn’t. Never was, even when he was a boy. I remember him as a peevish lad who could scarcely ride a horse and never showed interest in anyone other than himself.”
“I see,” Thaddeus said.
The duke’s shoulder bumped against his and an arm curved around his shoulders. “Hate to say it about a man’s father, but you’re better off without him. For one thing, your mother can marry Murgatroyd, who is a good man.”
“I agree.”
“Couldn’t do better,” His Grace confirmed. “Neither could you, with my Joan.” There was just the faintest emphasis in his voice.
Thaddeus met his eyes. “I know that.”
Chapter Twenty-two
So far this year, Joan had witnessed the birth of two babies, since Aunt Knowe served as midwife for all those living in and around the castle. In neither case did she feel more than desperate sympathy for the mother and a slight aversion to the ugly little human who caused all the pain and mess.
Viola’s baby was the exception.
Birth was very different when you loved every person in the room, and the birthing mother was your dearest sister. She grew misty-eyed watching Devin embrace his wife, tears standing unashamedly in his eyes. She hugged her stepmother, who was sobbing with happiness. When Aunt Knowe brought back little Otis, washed and sleepy, Viola beckoned to her, and Joan crawled onto the bed to admire him.
“He’s lovely, Joan,” Viola whispered. “Just look at how perfect his toes are!”
“Oh, Viola, he looks just like you,” Joan said. “That’s your bottom lip.”
Devin bent over and kissed his son’s forehead. “Otis,” he said softly, running a finger down his cheek. “Hello, my boy.”
“Named after my Ophelia?” Joan asked. “Lucky Otis!” She rolled off the bed and nudged her brother-in-law to take her place.
Viola nodded. “Your Otis talked Devin into courting me, you know.”
“I didn’t need convincing,” Devin said, a hint of a growl in his voice. “But Otis is a brother to me.”