Grey hesitated, with the vivid images of what had happened when William had discovered his true parentage fresh in his mind—but the situations were quite different, he told himself, and in all conscience …
“His name is Malcolm Stubbs,” he said. “You, um, didn’t inherit your stature from him.”
Cinnamon stared at him for a bewildered instant, then, catching the allusion, gave a brief, shocked laugh. He put a hand over his mouth in embarrassment, but seeing that Grey was not discomposed, lowered it.
“You say is, sir. He is … alive, then?” All the hope—and all the fear—with which he had entered the house was back in his eyes.
“He was, the last time I had word of him, though that will be more than a year past. He lives in London, with his wife.”
“London,” Cinnamon whispered, and shook his head, as though London surely could not be a real place.
“As I said, he was wounded when we took Quebec. Badly wounded—he lost a foot and the lower part of his leg to a cannonball; I was amazed that he survived, but he had great resilience. I’m quite sure he managed to pass that trait on to you, Mr. Cinnamon.” He smiled warmly at the young Indian. He hadn’t drunk as much brandy as the young man, but quite enough.
Cinnamon nodded, swallowed, and then, lowering his head, stared at the pattern in the Turkey carpet for some moments. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked up, resolute.
“You say he is married, sir. I do not imagine that his wife—is aware of my existence.”
“A hundred to one against,” Grey assured him. He eyed the young man carefully. Might he actually set out for London? At the moment, upright and stalwart, he looked capable of anything. Grey tried—and failed—to imagine just what Malcolm’s wife would do, should John Cinnamon turn up on her doorstep one fine morning.
“Blame me, I expect,” he murmured under his breath, reaching for the decanter. “Another drop, Mr. Cinnamon? I should advise it, really.”
“I—yes. Please.” He inhaled the brandy and set the glass down with an air of finality. “Be assured, sir, I wish to do nothing that would cause my father or his wife the least discomfort.”
Grey took a cautious sip of his own fresh glass.
“That’s most considerate,” he said. “But also rather prudent. May I ask, had I actually proved to be your father—and let me repeat that I regret the fact that I am not—” He lifted his glass an inch and Cinnamon cast down his eyes, but gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “What did you intend to do? Or ought I to ask what you had hoped for?”
Cinnamon’s mouth opened, but then shut as he considered. Grey was beginning to be impressed by the young man’s manner. Deferential but not shy at all; straightforward but thoughtful.
“In truth, I scarcely know, sir,” Cinnamon said at last. He sat back a little, settling himself. “I did not expect, nor do I seek”—he added, with an inclination of his head—“any recognition or … or material assistance. I suppose it was in good part curiosity. But more, perhaps, a desire for some sense of … not of belonging; it would be foolish to expect that—but some knowledge of connection. Just to know that there is a person who shares my blood,” he ended simply. “And what he is like.
“Oh!” he said then, abashed. “And of course I wished to thank my father for taking thought for my welfare.” He cleared his throat again. “Might I ask, sir—a particular favor of you?”
“Certainly,” Grey replied. His mind had been stimulated by his own question—what might an abandoned child seek from an unknown parent? William certainly wanted nothing from Jamie Fraser, but that was quite a different circumstance; William had known Jamie since he was a child, though knowing him as a man was likely to prove a different kettle of fish …. And then, too, William had a family, a proper family, people who shared not his blood, but his place in the world. Grey tried—and failed completely—to imagine what it must be like to feel oneself totally alone.
“—if I were to write such a letter,” Cinnamon was saying, and Grey returned to the present moment with a jerk.
“Send a letter,” he repeated. “To Malcolm. I—yes, I suppose I could do that. Er … saying what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Just to acknowledge his kindness in providing for my welfare, sir—and to assure him of my service, should he ever find himself in want of it.”
“Oh. His … yes, his kindness …” Cinnamon looked sharply at him, and Grey felt a flush rise in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the brandy. Damn it, he should have realized that Cinnamon thought Malcolm had provided the funds for his support all these years. Whereas, in reality …
“It was you,” Cinnamon said, surprise almost covering the disappointment in his face. “I mean—Mr. Stubbs didn’t …”
“He couldn’t have,” Grey said hurriedly. “As I said—he was badly wounded, very badly. He nearly died, and was sent back to England as soon as possible. Truly, he—he would have been unable …”
Unable to take thought for the son he’d made and left behind. Malcolm had never mentioned the boy to Grey, nor asked after him.
“I see,” Cinnamon said bleakly. He pressed his lips together and focused his gaze on the silver coffeepot sitting on the sideboard. Grey didn’t try to speak further; he could only make matters worse.
Finally, Cinnamon’s eyes cleared and he looked at Grey again, serious. The young man had very beautiful dark eyes, deep-set and slightly slanting. Those had come from his mother—Grey wished that he could tell him so, but this was not the moment for such details.
“Then I thank you, sir,” he said softly, and bowed, deeply, toward Grey. “It was most generous in you, to perform such a service for your friend.”
“I didn’t do it for Malcolm’s sake,” Grey blurted. His glass was empty—how had that happened?—and he set it down carefully on the little drum table.
They sat regarding each other, neither knowing quite what to say next. Grey could hear Moira the cook talking outside; she often talked to the faeries in the garden even when not drunk. The carriage clock on the mantel struck the half hour, and Cinnamon jerked in surprise, turning to look at it. It had musical chimes, and a mechanical butterfly under a glass dome, that raised and lowered its cloisonné wings.
The movement had broken the awkward silence, though, and when Cinnamon turned back, he spoke without hesitation.
“Father Charles said that you gave me a name, when you left me at the mission. You did not know what my mother called me, I suppose?”
“Why, no,” Grey said, disconcerted. “I didn’t.”
“So it was you who called me John?” A slight smile appeared on Cinnamon’s face. “You gave me your own name?”
Grey felt an answering smile on his own face, and lifted one shoulder in a deprecating way.
“Oh, well …” he said. “I liked you.”
33
Spoilt for Choice
WHATEVER PAPA AND JOHN Cinnamon were doing, they were taking the devil of a long time about it. After a few minutes, during which Trevor yowled unceasingly, Amaranthus had made her excuses and withdrawn to the house in search of clean clouts.