I won’t have a nurserymaid near him. I have sworn an oath to that: No nurserymaids, ever again. It was I who fed him tonight, who bathed him and put him to bed and sat with him until he slept. I stroked his hair once he was asleep, and he didn’t flinch, and then I held his hand. I’m holding it now as I write. I don’t ever want to let it go.
Alexander put down the diary. He crossed to the decanters and poured himself another glass of brandy. He gulped a mouthful, coughed, and swallowed a second more cautious mouthful. And then he went back to the diaries and read into March and April. It didn’t surprise him to learn that he’d been terrified of the dark, terrified of small spaces, that he’d had nightmares every single night, but it did surprise him to learn that he’d been mute for months.
May 10, 1790. Alexander spoke for the first time today. One word only, but that word was “Father.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
May 14, 1790. He spoke a full sentence this morning.
June 1, 1790. Alexander laughed today. And I laughed, too, and then afterwards I cried with relief, because I know he’s going to be all right. If he can laugh, he’s going to be all right.
June 17, 1790. He’s chattering all the time now. I never thought it would give me such joy to hear a child’s voice.
The diary ended in 1791. Alexander picked up the next one. He turned the pages slowly, carefully. This was the father he remembered, the father who’d read him to sleep every night, who’d sat at his bedside when he was sick, who’d always had time for him, who’d never once said, Not now, Alexander. I’m too busy. The father who had loved him. The father he had loved.
He saw himself grow up through his father’s eyes.
April 10, 1792. I can’t bear to send him to Eton yet. He’s still too thin. I’ve decided to take him to Dorsetshire instead. The sea air will do him good.
August 3, 1793. Dorsetshire agrees with us both. Alexander is a sturdy wee fellow now and as brown as a berry. I’ve taken his name off the Eton roll.
March 16, 1798. He’s only thirteen and yet he’s already as tall I am. He quite dwarfs his cousins. I have no doubt that he’ll dwarf me before the year is out.
December 8, 1801. Alexander has grown out of his clothes again. He’s over six foot, now. If his shoulders grow any broader he’ll not fit through a door. I told him that and he laughed. He laughs a lot, my boy.
July 30, 1803. It’s time to think of sending Alexander to Oxford. I hate to let him go, but he’s a man now and he needs to find his feet in the world. I have no doubt that he’ll enjoy university. He has a gift for making friends.
January 25, 1806. Alexander is twenty-one today. Perhaps it’s a father’s partiality, but I truly believe there’s no finer man in England. It’s a comfort to know I can pass the dukedom to him. He’ll bear that burden far better than I have. He’s so level-headed. And despite what happened when he was a child he has a merry heart.
May 11, 1807. A letter from Lucretia’s brother telling me it’s past time that I arranged a marriage for Alexander. Damned impertinence. I refuse to do to Alexander what my parents did to me. He will choose the bride he wants, when he wants.
The next diary covered 1808 to 1812. Alexander skipped over the first two years. He didn’t want to read about Georgiana’s betrothal or Hubert’s disappearance. He thumbed through 1810 and 1811, reading the odd entry, and slowed when he reached 1812. The handwriting grew spidery, shaky. He turned the pages gently, feeling grief well in his chest, remembering his father’s decline, the way he’d spent less time in the study and more in his bed.
August 26, 1812.
A terrible thing happened today. Alexander came to sit with me after my nap and for a moment I didn’t recognize him. “Who are you?” I asked, and he said, “Your son,” and I looked at him and knew that he couldn’t possibly be, not with that face, not with those shoulders. A terrible fear grew in me. What if I had rescued the wrong boy all those years ago?
I asked Alexander to take me to the Long Gallery, and we spent half an hour looking at the portraits together. I couldn’t find anyone who looked like him. Where did he get his height from? Those eyebrows? That chin? They’re not mine, and they’re certainly not Lucretia’s.
Alexander saw I was distressed. He took both my hands in his and asked what was wrong, and I looked into his eyes and knew myself for a foolish old man. Those are my son’s eyes. There can be no doubt.
But now, without those eyes looking at me, the doubt has returned and I can’t sleep for fear that I rescued the wrong child.
Alexander is my son. He has to be. If my boy is still lost out there I couldn’t bear it.
Alexander stared at the entry for a long time, and then turned the page. There was no mention of his shoulders or his eyebrows in the next entry, or the next. The journal advanced a few more days, and then abruptly stopped.
He sat still for a moment, then turned back to August 26. He read what his father had written. I can’t sleep for fear that I rescued the wrong child.
Chapter Two
September 12th, 1814
Dalrymple Court, Dorsetshire
Georgiana’s mother went through the novels in the library with the same energy that she did everything. “Her heroines always faint,” Lady Dalrymple declared, thrusting a book back into place on the shelves. “I can’t abide fainting females.” She pulled out another book, flicked through the pages, thrust it back. “Too virtuous. I don’t wish to be preached at.” Behind her, Viscount Dalrymple leaned against the great library desk, arms crossed, smiling as he watched his wife.
“You’ll like this one, Mama,” Georgie said. “The heroine has a mind of her own.”
“Does she? Then I’ll take it.”
Georgie added the three volumes of Pride and Prejudice to the pile of books her mother was taking on her journey to Derbyshire.
“I make that four novels and three volumes of poetry,” her father said mildly. “Surely you won’t need more than that, Miranda? There will be books in Derbyshire.”
“True.” Lady Dalrymple turned briskly away from the shelves. “I need some of your essays, Francis. So that when I miss you I can read them.”
Georgie watched her parents’ eyes meet—a few seconds only, but the affection in that glance made her throat tighten. Her father straightened away from the desk. “You may take as many of my essays as you wish.”
The viscount’s essays on fossils filled two drawers of the desk. He brought out a sheaf and spread them on the gold-tooled leather top. “Which ones would you like?”
“You choose for me, darling.”
Lord Dalrymple sorted through the essays, laying some aside, talking to his wife while he made his selection. Georgie watched, listening to the murmur of their voices. Lady Dalrymple had a tendency to talk over people—her mind and her tongue moved quickly—but she never talked over her husband.
That’s one of the things that make a good marriage, Georgie thought. Listening to each other. Her thoughts slid to Hubert, and then to Vickery. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Eleven o’clock. Another three hours until her afternoon ride.