“I should bloody well hope so after a display like that,” her father said. He looked as if he was struggling between heartfelt relief that Vickery was alive and an equally heartfelt desire to yell at him for kissing his daughter on a public road. Vickery’s valet, his arms full of his master’s clothes, was discreetly studying the toes of his shoes.
Vickery released her hastily. “Sir—”
“Damn fool boy,” her father said, and strode across and hugged Vickery roughly. “You took ten years off my life. Now put some bloody clothes on. You’re half-naked.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was late afternoon by the time they reached Liskeard. They left the carriages at the posting inn and walked to the house little Charley Prowse had been taken to twenty-five years ago.
“That’s it,” Georgiana said, pointing.
Alexander halted on the flagway and stared across the street, seeing a sizable two-storied house behind an iron fence. Whoever had built it had been wealthy but whoever owned it now wasn’t. The gutters sagged and there were quite a few slates missing from the roof.
The house looked grim, with its gray stone walls and narrow windows and pointed gables. It also looked empty. All the windows except two were tightly shuttered.
“Does anyone live there?”
Georgiana’s eyes unfocused slightly. “There are two people in the parlor.”
Alexander stared at the house, trying—and failing—to recognize it.
No one moved. After a moment he realized that Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple were waiting for him.
Alexander took a deep breath, crossed the road, and opened the gate. The hinges screeched. He walked up the path. Weeds grew between the flagstones. At the door, he hesitated. The emotion that he felt was reluctance, not curiosity. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what had happened to him in this grim, gray house.
Neither Georgiana nor her father said anything. They waited silently for him to make up his mind: knock or turn away.
He was very tempted to turn away.
Alexander blew out his breath, lifted the knocker, and rapped loudly. The sound echoed inside the house. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Thirty. He heard shuffling footsteps. Someone drew the bolts back and opened the door.
It was a man, small and stooped and elderly. Alexander looked at him uncertainly. Was he a servant?
“Yes?” the old man said, peering up at them, the entrance hall dark and cavernous behind him.
“A woman lived here,” Alexander said. “Twenty-five years ago. She had relatives in Lansallos, and when they died she brought their son to live here.” He paused, feeling the reluctance again. “Do you know who she was?”
The old man took a step closer and stared up at Alexander’s eyes.
Alexander stared back. He saw the man’s disbelief, saw his dawning recognition.
“Charley?” the old man said. “Is it you?” He reached out and touched Alexander’s sleeve, as if he didn’t believe he was real.
“I’m Charley,” Alexander said. “Who are you?”
“Dowrey. John Dowrey.” The old man turned and called back into the house, “It’s Charley, Mariah.” He clutched at Alexander’s sleeve, pulling him inside. “Mariah! It’s Charley! He’s come back!”
Mariah was the old man’s wife. She burst into tears when she saw Alexander and embraced him, sobbing into his silk waistcoat. He hugged her back awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
The old couple fussed over them, Mr. Dowrey finding seats for Georgiana and her father in the sparsely furnished parlor, Mrs. Dowrey dabbing at her face with a threadbare handkerchief, apologizing for having no refreshments to offer. Alexander perched on the sofa and looked around. He saw signs of poverty everywhere. The upholstery was frayed and the carpet worn through. There were no ornaments on the mantelpiece, no paintings on the walls. The few candles were tallow, their mutton-smell lingering even though they were unlit.
Mrs. Dowrey sat alongside Alexander on the sofa, clutching his hand, squeezing it repeatedly as if reassuring herself that he was really there.
“Was it you who brought me here?” Alexander asked her.
“That was Eliza Menhennick. This was her house until she passed away.” Mrs. Dowrey clutched his hand more tightly and said, “Where have you been, Charley? We thought you must be dead.”
“I was adopted by a gentleman. He found me in Exeter.”
“Exeter? However did you get there?”
“I don’t know,” Alexander said. “I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t remember this house or Mrs. Menhennick or anything that happened.”
“Miss Menhennick,” the old lady said. “Eliza never married. She lived in this house her whole life. First with her father, and then by herself.”
“Poor Eliza was quite a recluse,” Mr. Dowrey said. “Until she brought you home. I’ve never seen her as happy as she was those months. She loved you as if you were her own son.”
The words made Alexander’s throat tighten. He cleared it. “Was she my great-aunt?”
Dowrey shook his head. “Eliza’s mother and your father’s grandmother were sisters. She was your . . .” He looked to his wife. “Cousin twice removed?”
Mrs. Dowrey nodded.
“And you?” Alexander asked. “Are we related?”
“By marriage,” Dowrey said. “My mother was a Menhennick.”
Alexander digested this information, and then said, “How long was I here? Do you know?”
The Dowreys looked at each other again. “It was spring when she brought you home,” the old man said. “And winter when she died. December fifth, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Dowrey nodded.
Six months. He’d lived here for six months. Alexander ran his gaze around the parlor again, trying to see something he recognized, and failed. He looked back at the Dowreys. “If you don’t know how I got to Exeter, can you please tell me what you do know?”
“Precious little,” Mr. Dowrey said. “We were in Plymouth when Eliza died, and by the time we got here she’d been buried. Her abigail was gone and so were you.”
Alexander lifted his eyebrows. “Her abigail took me?”
“Took everything she could lay her hands on. Although no one knows how much that was. Eliza was quite eccentric, poor thing. She used to say she had a fortune hidden in the walls.”
“A fortune?”
Dowrey shrugged. “Maybe she had one, maybe she didn’t. Old Menhennick was wealthy, no denying that, and everything he owned went to Eliza, but how much that was is anyone’s guess. Eliza was sparing with her money. Never went out, hardly spent a groat. Until you came.” He smiled at Alexander. “You brought her back to life, you did, and we were glad to see it. Did her a world of good to have a child in the house.”
“Such a beautiful little boy you were,” Mrs. Dowrey said, squeezing his hand again. “And look how handsome you are now.”
Alexander felt himself blush faintly. “What do you know about the abigail?”
“Her name was Polglaze,” Dowrey said. “She was new. Only been in Eliza’s service a couple of months.”