“Me?” Lord John said indignantly. “I didn’t do anything to the little beast. Here, madam, take him.”
She did, and little Trevor at once thrust his face into her bosom, making bestial rooting noises. The young woman caught a glimpse of William’s face and glared at him.
“And who the devil are you?” she demanded.
He blinked. “My name is William Ransom, madam,” he said, rather stiffly. “Your servant.”
“This is your cousin Willie, Amaranthus,” Lord John said, coming forward and patting the top of Cinnamon’s head in an apologetic fashion as he pushed past him. “William, may I present Amaranthus, Viscountess Grey, your cousin Benjamin’s … widow.” It was almost not there, that pause, but William heard it and glanced sharply from the young woman to his father, but Lord John’s face was composed and amiable. He didn’t meet William’s eye.
So … either they’ve found Ben’s body—or they haven’t, but they’re letting his wife believe he’s dead.
“My sympathies, Lady Grey,” he said, bowing.
“Thank you,” she said. “Ow! Trevor, you beastly little Myotis!” She had stifled Trevor by stuffing him under a hastily pulled-forward wing of her banyan, evidently pulling down her shift in the same movement, for the child had battened onto her breast and was now making embarrassingly loud sucking noises.
“Er … Myotis?” It sounded vaguely Greek, but wasn’t a word William was familiar with.
“A vesper bat,” she replied, shifting her hold to adjust the child more comfortably. “They have very sharp teeth. I beg your pardon, my lord.” And with that, she turned on her bare heel and vanished.
“Ahem,” said Cinnamon, who, ignored, had quietly risen to his feet. “My lord … I hope you pardon my coming here without warning. I didn’t know where to find you, until my friend”—nodding at William—“found out your house just now. I should maybe have waited, though. I … can come back …?” he added, with a hesitant movement toward the door.
“No, no.” Relieved of the presence of Amaranthus and Trevor, Lord John had regained his usual equanimity. “Please—sit down, will you? I’ll send—Oh. Actually, there’s no one to send, I’m afraid. The manservant’s joined the army and my cook is quite drunk. I’ll get—”
William took him by the sleeve as he made to exit toward the kitchen.
“We don’t need anything,” he said, quite gently. Paradoxically, the chaos of the last few minutes had settled his own sense of agitation. He put a hand on his father’s shoulder, feeling the hard bones and warmth of his body, wondering whether he would ever call him “Papa” again, and turned him toward John Cinnamon.
The Indian had gone as pale as it was possible for someone of his complexion to go, and looked as though he was about to be sick.
“I came to say thank you,” he blurted, and clamped his lips shut, as though fearing to say more.
Lord John’s face lightened, softening as he looked the tall young man up and down. William’s heart squeezed a little.
“Not at all,” he said, and stopped to clear his throat. “Not at all,” he said again, more strongly. “I’m so happy to meet you again, Mr. Cinnamon. Thank you for coming to find me.”
William found that there was a lump in his own throat, and turned away toward the window, with an obscure feeling that he should give them a moment’s privacy.
“It was Manoke who told me,” Cinnamon said, his voice husky, too. “That it was you, I mean.”
“He told you … well, yes, now that I recall, he was there in Quebec when I took you to the mission—after your mother died, I mean. You saw Manoke—recently?” Lord John’s voice held an odd note, and William glanced back at him. “Where?”
“At Mount Josiah,” William answered, turning round. “I … er … went there. And found Mr. Cinnamon visiting Manoke. He—Manoke, I mean—said to give you his regards, and tell you to come fishing with him again.”
A very odd look flickered in Lord John’s eyes, but then was gone as he focused anew on John Cinnamon. William could see that the Indian was still nervous, but no longer panic-stricken.
“It’s kind of you to—to receive me, sir,” he said, with an awkward nod toward Lord John. “I wanted to—I mean, I don’t want to—to impose upon you, or—or cause any trouble. I would never do that.”
“Oh—of course,” Lord John said, puzzlement clear in his voice and face.
“I don’t expect acknowledgment,” Cinnamon continued bravely. “Or anything else. I don’t ask anything. I just—I just … had to see you.” His voice broke suddenly on the last words and he turned hastily away. William saw tears trembling on his lashes.
“Acknowledgment.” Lord John was staring at John Cinnamon, his face gone quite blank, and suddenly William couldn’t bear it anymore.
“As your son,” he said roughly. “Take him; he’s better than the one you have.” And reaching the door in two strides, he yanked it open and went out, leaving it ajar behind him.
WILLIAM WALKED PURPOSEFULLY to the gate, and stopped. He wanted to be gone, go away and leave Lord John and his son to make what accommodations they might. The less he knew of their conversation, the better. But he hesitated, hand on the latch.
He couldn’t bring himself to abandon Cinnamon, not knowing what the outcome of that conversation might be. If things went awry … he had a vision of Cinnamon, rejected and distraught, blundering out of the house and away, God knew where, alone.
“Don’t be a fool,” he muttered to himself. “You know Papa wouldn’t …” “Papa” stuck like a thorn in his throat and he swallowed.
Still, he took his hand off the latch and turned back. He’d wait for a quarter of an hour, he decided. If anything terrible was going to happen, it would likely be quick. He couldn’t linger in the tiny front garden, though, let alone skulk about beneath the windows. He skirted the yard and went down the side of the house, toward the back.
The back garden was sizable, with a vegetable patch, dug over for the next planting, but still sporting a fringe of cabbages. A small cook shed stood at the end of the garden, and a grape arbor at one side, with a bench inside it. The bench was occupied by Amaranthus, who held little Trevor against her shoulder, patting his back in a business-like way.
“Oh, hullo,” she said, spotting William. “Where’s your friend?”
“Inside,” he said. “Talking to Lord John. I thought I’d just wait for him—but I don’t wish to disturb you.” He made to turn away, but she stopped him, raising her hand for a moment before resuming her patting.
“Sit down,” she said, eyeing him with interest. “So you’re the famous William. Or ought I to call you Ellesmere?”
“Indeed. And no, you oughtn’t.” He sat down cautiously beside her. “How’s the little fellow?”
“Extremely full,” she said, with a small grimace. “Any minute—whoops, there he goes.” Trevor had emitted a loud belch, this accompanied by a spew of watery milk that ran over his mother’s shoulder. Apparently such explosions were common; William saw that she had placed a napkin over her banyan to receive it, though the cloth seemed inadequate to the volume of Trevor’s production.