Kindred Hearts

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Kindred Hearts

Copyright © 2011 by Rowan Speedwell

Cover Art by Reese Dante  http://www.reesedante.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61581-898-3

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

May 2011

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-899-0

For my beloved brothers and the sisters they gave me, and for the next generation in whom our hopes reside. And for Bunnie, who keeps us all in line.

Because I’m lucky to have kindred hearts, and it
is
all about family.

Ah! Sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,

Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear

To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam,

And seek abroad, the love denied at home.

—George Gordon, Lord Byron

1790

The
hand resting on his shoulder felt heavy as a stone. His thin legs, still wobbly from the weeks he’d been ill, trembled from the strain of holding up his head, his body, that heavy hand.

In front of him, the ground was still raw and black and grassless; a fading bouquet of flowers rested at the foot of the headstone, the markings on it also raw. “Alice, Lady Ware,” it read, and some dates. Below that was another name, “Emily Northwood, 1790.” Mama. And Baby Emmy.

“You weren’t well enough for the funeral,” Papa said above him, his voice growly and as physical as the hand on his shoulder.

The words washed over him, meaningless. The only thing he saw was the headstone and the fading flowers. Mama was dead. The last time he’d seen her, she was bending over him, wiping his forehead and telling him to go to sleep, to rest, that she would be there when he woke up. But she wasn’t. And crying for her didn’t help, didn’t bring her the way it always had.

Instead, it had brought Papa, who’d stood at the foot of the bed, frowning at him. Papa always frowned; it had frightened Tris into silence, as it usually did. He was afraid of Papa, but never more so than when he’d come into his room instead of Mama. He didn’t remember Papa ever coming into his room. “Where’s Mama?” Tristan had asked bravely, his voice sounding strange, thin and thready. His throat hurt.

Papa had looked even angrier, but his voice was quiet as he spoke. It scared Tris even more. “She’s gone.”

“Bring her back,” Tris said. He was trying not to cry, but tears were leaking. “Bring her home, please.”

“I can’t. She’s dead. She and the baby died from the fever. It’s just us now.”

Then his father did something horrible. He smiled. Tris had never seen Papa smile. It terrified him, and he screamed and screamed. Nurse came in and tried to calm him down, and sometime during his screaming, Papa went away and didn’t come back until this morning, when Tris was finally well enough to get dressed and go outside.

He looked over the raw headstone toward the vicarage. A large van was parked outside, and Mrs. Vicar was standing directing the men moving furniture into it. “Why are they taking Vicar’s furniture?” he asked his father.

“Mrs. Redding is going back to her people,” Papa said.

“Why? Who will take care of Vicar and Rob and Will and Cressy?” Rob and Will were his best friends. Cressy was only four, and a tagalong, but she was all right for a baby and a girl.

“Vicar Redding and the children died of the fever also,” Papa said. “They were buried near their home parish, not here, though.”

Tris looked up at Papa in consternation. “But—who will teach me? Who will I play with now?”

“You’re going to Westminster in a few months, as soon as you are fully well again. That’s school. I’m sure your mama talked to you about school. You’ll make new friends there.” Papa was quiet a moment, then said, “Pretty soon the grass will grow here, and it will be a lovely place for you to come and visit your mama and Emmy.”

“Why would I visit them?” Tris asked. “They’re
dead
.” He ducked away from Papa’s hand and ran down the hill to the carriage. When he got there he was too out of breath to climb in, so he stood beside it, crying, until Papa came and lifted him up into the gig and took the reins. They drove back to the house in silence.

Nurse met them in the hall and led Tristan upstairs, where she put him back into his nightshirt and tucked him back into bed. “You’re still not ready to be outside,” she said gently, “but soon you’ll be all healthy and can go out and play again.”

Tristan said nothing, but rolled over and pretended to sleep. He was still pretending when Papa came into the nursery. He stood for a long time at the foot of the bed, and Tris thought he knew that Tris was only pretending, but he didn’t move or say anything, and so neither did Papa. Finally Papa went away and Tris really did go to sleep.

Oh, Alice
,
James thought, looking down at the tiny, wasted little figure huddled in the bed.
What am I to do with him? I don’t know the first thing about children.
He sighed, then left the room and went down to his library. In the big family Bible, he wrote the dates of Alice’s and Emily’s deaths, beneath the entry dated less than a year ago for Emily’s birth. Alice had been so delighted with Emily, already teasing him about her future beaus and the awkward Seasons she’d have, flirting and parading her conquests before her doting papa. That future was gone now, erased as completely as snow in spring. His own future was equally gone, with no Alice to share it with.

Theirs had been a love match: he, a second son, happy in his studies at Trinity, vying for one of the hotly contested lecturer positions in mathematics, had had no intention of marrying but had rather planned for a bachelor academic career. Alice, the only child of a wealthy importer, had been introduced to him by a friend of his elder brother, and he had, to his own great shock, fallen desperately in love with her. His courtship had been cut off by her father, who was uninterested in acquiring a mere second son, no matter how ancient the family name. Alice, for her part, had steadfastly refused to marry any of the other suitors her father had dangled in front of her, stating calmly that if she could not marry James Northwood, she would marry no one. For a year, they’d spoken only through letters, hers written and smuggled from the house by a faithful maid; his scribbled in the dark of his scholar’s carrel.

Then Albert had died of a winter fever and suddenly James
was
the heir. Alice’s papa’s reservations vanished, James was torn from his beloved scholarship, and before he knew it, he was married.

He smiled despite himself and ran his finger lightly over the notation of his marriage ten years earlier, and the birth of his beautiful son Tristan two years later. He’d missed Cambridge, but he wouldn’t have wished it any other way. Only now….

Above the fireplace hung the portrait he’d had painted right after Emily’s birth: Alice, her silvery eyes bright beneath the fringe of dark curls, Emily in her christening gown cradled in her arms, and Tristan, standing at Alice’s knee, looking up at her. The painter, an up-and-comer named Thomas Lawrence, had caught the expression in Tristan’s face exactly: a soft, adoring look that perfectly echoed James’s own feelings about her.

God, how would he live without Alice? He knew nothing about children; all his expertise was in finance. The children had always been in Alice’s purview. He supposed he should consult with Nurse about what to do with Tristan; he had a vague idea that children needed supervision and management, and supposed it should just be approached as any of his other business interests, with common sense and logic. But not today. It was the first time he had visited the graves since the funeral, and he was too exhausted.

Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. He sat at his desk and made a note of it in his memorandum book, then looked at all the other things he had to do, and sighed. Perhaps the day after….