A Conspiracy of Ravens (20 page)

“I’m glad to see you, Serafina,” Edward said, but like his wife, his eyes were fixed on the young man with them. “You, too, Mr. Tremayne. Bad weather to be traveling.”

Serafina was studying the two and saw that they were almost beyond words. “This is Mr. Roland Anderson.”

“Famous name,” Sir Edward said. “A highwayman. No relation, I trust?”

“I reckon not,” Roland said. His face paled, and he showed signs of nervousness. “’E died game, ’e did. A rare plucked one ’e was.”

Both Edward and Heather were staring at the young man as Serafina repeated introductions. “Roland, this is Lord Edward Hayden, Earl of Darby, and his wife, Lady Heather.”

A silence fell across the room, and for a moment Heather thought it was like a picture. Nobody was moving, but they were staring at each other. Serafina said, “Perhaps we could sit down and talk.”

“Yes, could I offer you tea?” Heather asked.

“That would be very nice,” Serafina said. “It’s cold out. Hot tea would be just the thing.”

Heather rang a bell, and when one of the parlour maids entered, she said, “Fix some tea, please.”

“It’s already fixed, ma’am. Shall I bring it in?”

“Yes, Rosie. Please do.”

Edward tore his eyes away from the young man who called himself Roland and asked, “Are you engaged in any acting, Mr. Tremayne?”

“Not at the moment, sir.” He smiled and said, “I’m glad to see you’ve recovered from the accident you suffered the last time we were here.”

“Yes, I have.”

As the two men talked, Heather could not tear her gaze away from the younger man’s face. She was a demonstrative woman at times, and it was all she could do to keep the shock from reflecting in her features. Suddenly she realized the young man was staring back at her, and their eyes locked.
His eyes are just like Edward’s
with that light blue colour.
She had no time to think any further because Rosie came in. The next few moments offered some relief as the business of getting the tea poured and served took place.

Serafina sipped her tea and then said at once, “We have told Roland the story you told us about losing your child many years ago, or so you thought. We’ve also told him of Father Xavier’s visit and of the death of Margaret Anderson. And we told him, of course, of her confession that she exchanged her dead baby for your live child. According to Father Xavier, it was her last request that the baby she raised in total ignorance of his real parentage should be returned to his family.”

During this speech everyone was staring at Roland, and it was Heather who broke the awkward silence. “Mr. Anderson, what is your feeling about all this?”

“Why, it’s a bloody good fairy tale I make of it.” He looked at the pair and said pugnaciously, “I ain’t no bloody lord!”

Edward sat up straighter in his chair, ignoring his tea. He began to question him. “Did you have any suspicion at all that Margaret Anderson wasn’t your mother?”

“Not likely. Why should I?”

“Did she ever mention your father?”

“No. She always ’ad a man, but when I asked ’er about me own dad she claimed ’e was a sailor. ’E was going to marry ’er, she told me, except ’e got ’imself killed in a fight at sea. ’E was stationed on the
Victory
. Sometimes she said ’is name was Charlie, sometimes Fred. She was an awful liar, Meg was.”

Edward said, “And you ran away when you were only a boy?”

“No, I didn’t run off. Not by myself. She disappeared. Took up with some man. She left me with a pair named Morgan. They treated me bad so I left ’em and went out on my own.” Roland stared at Edward, and then his eyes went to Heather. “Wot do you want with me? That’s wot I’d like to know.”

“You’re our son.” Heather’s voice spoke up, and there was absolute certainty in her voice. “We want you here with us.”

“Wot makes you so sure?”

Heather got to her feet and said, “Come this way.” She left the room, followed by the young man and Edward, with Serafina and Dylan close behind. She led them down a hallway and paused before a very large portrait. “There. These are all Haydens. Look at this one.”

Roland was staring at it. “Who’s that?”

“It’s me,” Edward said, “when I was nineteen. One year older than you.”

Roland Anderson stared at the portrait, and the others watched his face for some expression. Heather said, “Look at the eyes. The same colour as yours. Your hair is the same auburn, and look at this.” She pointed at the chin on the portrait of Edward and said, “All the Hayden men have this cleft in their chin—just like you do. You’re a Hayden. There’s no other answer.”

Roland could not speak, and Serafina saw his problem. “I know this is a great shock for you, but I think you should stay here. I believe you are Trevor Hayden. All the evidence points to it.”

“Yes,” Dylan added quickly. “Get to know Lord Darby and his good wife. I think God is setting a door open before you. Don’t close it.”

They all saw indecision moving across the young man’s face. “Trevor Hayden,” he whispered. “That sure don’t ’ave a good sound to it.”

“It’s your real name, I think, my boy. Will you stay?” Edward asked, and there was a pleading note in his voice.

For a moment as Heather watched the young man, she felt fear. She was totally convinced that this was the child she never got to rear, who she had thought was in a grave with a small stone marking it. She watched his face almost fiercely, and finally he spoke. “Well, I guess . . . for a while. But I still don’t believe none o’ this!”

Heather and Edward were both weak with relief. “I’m glad you’re staying. We’ll get to know each other better. Let me take you up to the room you’ll be staying in.”

“All right.”

Edward watched as they left the room. He heaved a deep sigh of relief and pulled open a drawer. He took some bills out, and moving back over to where the two stood, he handed the banknotes to Dylan.

“That’s far too much, sir!”

“No, it’s not enough.”

Serafina knew that Dylan was short of money, that he was still staying with Matthew Grant for this very reason, and she was glad that it turned out this way. She said, however, “You must be careful, Lord Darby. That young man is living in a world he knows nothing about. He’s had a hard life.”

“Yes, like me.” Dylan’s face was sober as he added, “When I was his age I didn’t know anything but hardship. If I had been brought into a house like this, I think I would have turned and fled.”

Edward shook his head, and doubt was etched across his face.

“But I believe God’s in this, Lord Darby. Just be patient with the young man.”

“We’ll leave now, but call on us anytime,” Serafina said.

“I can’t thank you enough, both of you.”

The two said their good-byes to Heather when she came down the stairs, and then they left. The rain was still pouring down, and as soon as the carriage started up, Dylan said, “Here’s half the money.”

“No, that’s yours, Dylan.”

“That doesn’t seem right.”

Ignoring this comment, Serafina’s mind went back to the scene that she had just watched play out before her eyes. “Do you think this will all work out?”

“Yes, I do.”

The carriage creaked, and the mud holes caught at the wheels, throwing the two of them from one side to the other. “Most things don’t work out,” Serafina said.

“Sometimes they don’t. Men and women make mistakes, lady. They go off ways God never intends, but God never fails.”

Serafina turned, and in the darkness of the late afternoon, his face seemed to show an inner strength that always fascinated her. “I wish I believed that.”

Dylan Tremayne reached over and picked up her hand, something he had never done. She felt the strength flowing through him as he said, “There’s a line in
Hamlet
. The prince says, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ I’m convinced that God is at work restoring this young man from a bad life to a pair of loving parents. I think it’s going to be wonderful.”

Serafina could not take her eyes away from his face. His faith was so strong, and his dark eyes glowed, and once again, as she had in times past, she found herself wishing that she had the kind of faith that this man beside her had in abundance.

THIRTEEN

T
he carriage moved slowly toward Trentwood House in the driving rain, shifting its passengers almost violently as the wheels dropped into holes in the road made by the rainstorm. Looking out the window, Dylan strained his eyes and muttered, “It’s almost like moving underwater. I never saw rain come down any harder than this.”

Serafina was wearing a fur jacket that blocked some of the cold of the winter storm, but she still shivered almost violently as she leaned forward to look out the window. It was after seven o’clock now, she knew, and the darkness seemed almost palpable. The cold wind whipped through crevices in the carriage, and she glanced up involuntarily. “I feel sorry for Albert. He must be freezing up there in this cold rain.”

“I expect so.” Dylan crunched his shoulders and even as he did, he heard Albert call out in a voice muffled by the falling rain, “Almost there, Lady Trent. I see the lights of the house.”

Eagerly Serafina moved the apron that covered the window, and as the carriage lurched forward, she saw a faint yellow luminescence of lamps one moment that the next was swathed and blinded by the driving rain. Five minutes later the carriage halted, and Dylan opened the door and stepped down. There was no hiding from the deluge.

“Here,” he said. “Put this over your head.” He pulled a blanket out that had been placed in one of the seats to use for warmth and draped it over Serafina’s head. She tried to protest saying, “You’ll get wet.” But he ignored her, and putting his arm around her, he led her to the porch. When they got there, under the shelter of the portico, Serafina moved the blanket away from her head and called out, “Put the horses up, Albert, and come to the kitchen. We’ll all have something hot to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that.”

The wind snatched away most of Givins’s answer, and Serafina looked up at Dylan. “You’re soaked to the skin!” she exclaimed. “Come on inside.”

“I’m too wet. I’ll make a puddle.”

“It doesn’t matter. That can be cleaned up. Come along.” When he still hesitated, she took his arm and pulled at him. He surrendered to her guidance, and the two entered the house. They were met at once by Barden, the butler, whose eyes opened wide at the sorry spectacle they presented. “Why, my lady,” he exclaimed, “I didn’t dream you’d be out in this weather!”

“Barden,” Serafina said, “I want you to go get a set of dry clothes from Grimes.” She glanced at Dylan, measuring him with her eyes. “Clive’s would be far too small for you, but you and Peter are about the same size.”

“Yes, ma’am, at once.”

“Wait, tell the cook to fix something to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And take Mr. Tremayne to Clive’s room. Get a fire started in there. Where is everybody?”

“I think they’ve retired early, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m going to change clothes. Tell Cook we want something hot and nourishing to eat.”

Without another word Serafina turned and marched away, leaving a trail of water on the oak floor. The two men watched her go, and Dylan shook his head. “She’d make a fine officer of the Cold Stream Guards, wouldn’t she, Barden?”

Barden did not smile often, but now he did. “Perhaps a general. She’s always been that way.”

“What was she like when she was a girl?”

Barden thought for a moment then shrugged. “Shorter,” he said. “Come along. I’ll take you to Mr. Clive’s room.”

“I don’t want to put Clive out.”

“He’s away at University. It’ll be fine.”

Nessa Douglas, the cook of Trentwood House, had prepared a filling meal for the three of them. They had sat down to roast goose with savory stuffing, crisp brown roasted potatoes and parsnips, and pots of scalding coffee. Now they were all finishing up the plum pudding that had been fired with brandy, and Dylan looked across at Albert Givins, the coachman. He was a small Cockney with sandy hair and a pair of watchful blue eyes. “Not bad for a late snack, I’d say.”

“Yes, sir. A man could grow fat on a meal like that.” Givins got to his feet and bowed respectfully. “Thank you for the meal, milady. It was fine.”

“You’d better go to bed and get warm,” Serafina said. “I know it was miserable for you up there on that coach.”

“I’ve ’ad worse days.” The small man smiled and turned and walked out.

“Will you be needing anything else?” Cook inquired.

“No, this is fine.”

“You just sit there, drink your coffee, and I’ll clean up.”

“Come along, Dylan. Bring your coffee. We’ll get out of Nessa’s way.”

Serafina rose and picked up a large mug, filling it with coffee from the pot, and Dylan did the same. She led him to the small sitting room where a fire was burning. “Sit down. Let’s thaw out. I don’t think I’ll ever get dry and warm.”

“I’m not sure I will either. It’s a blessing to have warm, dry clothes.”

She sat down on a short couch that she’d had Barden place in front of the fire, and she let herself down with a grateful sigh. “Sit down, Dylan.”