The Heir (22 page)

“My shirts will be pleased,” Dev said. “It’s mighty awkward having to always wear one’s jacket and waistcoat because one’s seams are all in jeopardy.”

“And I found every mud puddle between here and Brighton just to make sure Mr. Stenson was gainfully occupied.”

“I am blessed in my brothers,” Westhaven said, leaving them with a smile.

“So tell me the truth,” Dev said, pushing the decanter at his youngest brother. “You are willing to ride with us because you think it would be good for Westhaven. Just like his housekeeper has been good for him.”

Val smiled and turned his glass around on the linen tablecloth. “It will be good for all of us, being together, living here, even if it’s only for a little while. I find, though, that I’ve sat too long here in the evening breezes.” He got to his feet and quirked an eyebrow at his oldest brother. “Shall we stroll in the moonlight?”

“Brother”—Dev grinned—“I have heard rumors about you.”

“No doubt,” Val said easily as they moved off. “They are nothing compared to what one hears about you.”

“And that gossip is usually true,” Dev said with no modesty whatsoever as they neared the mews. “Now why are we out here stumbling around in the night?”

Val turned and regarded his brother in the moonlight. “So I can remind you not to make disparaging remarks about Mrs. Seaton or her situation with Westhaven where anybody could overhear you. You know what the duke tried to do with the last mistress?”

“I’d heard about Elise. Then you are aware of a situation between Westhaven and Mrs. Seaton?”

“He’s considering marrying her,” Val said. “Or I think he is. They’re certainly interested in each other.”

“They’re a bit more than interested,” Dev said, rubbing his chin. “They were all but working on the succession when I came upon them in the library last night.”

“Ye gods. I came upon them in her sitting room this afternoon, door open, all hands in view, but the way they look at each other… puts one in mind of besotted sheep.”

“His Grace will be in alt,” Dev said on a sigh.

“His Grace,” Val retorted, “had best not get wind of it, unless you want Westhaven to immediately lose all interest.”

“Gayle wouldn’t be that stupid, but he would be that stubborn.” Dev tossed a companionable arm around Val’s shoulders. “This will be entertaining as hell, don’t you think? I’m not sure Westhaven’s wooing is entirely well received, and he has to go about it in stealth, winning the lady without alerting the duke. And we have front-row seats.”

“Lucky us,” Val rejoined. “Doesn’t working on the succession comport with welcoming a man’s suit?”

Dev’s grin became devilish. “That, my boy, is a common misunderstanding among the besotted male sheep of this world. And the female sheep? They like us befuddled, you know…”

“It’s a speaking tube,” Val explained. Morgan quirked an eyebrow at him, and he smiled reassuringly. “A lot of invalids take the sea air in Brighton,” he went on, “so the medical community is much in evidence there. I discussed your loss of hearing with a physician or two, and I’ve brought it up with Fairly, as well. He’d like to examine you, though he isn’t a specialist in the field of deafness.”

Morgan tried to keep her emotions from her eyes, but it was difficult, when her eyes were so used to conveying what words could not. She was more than a little infatuated with this man, with his kindness and generosity of spirit, his acceptance of her disability, his care for his brothers and sisters. He was what a brother should be—decent, selfless, thoughtful, and good-humored.

“Will you let me try it?” he asked, holding up the tube. It was shaped like an old-style drinking horn, conical and twisted. He gently turned her by the shoulders and pushed her hair aside. Morgan felt the small end of the tube being anchored at her ear.

“Hello, Morgan. Can you hear me?”

She whirled on him, jaw gaping.

“I can hear you,” she whispered, incredulous. “I
can hear your words. Say more.” She turned and waited for him to position the speaking tube again.

“Let’s try this with the piano,” Val suggested, and she heard his words, or much more of them than she’d heard before. She couldn’t see his mouth when he used the speaking tube, so she must be hearing him. It felt like a tickling in her ear and like so much more.

“I remember this.”

“You remember how to speak,” Val said into the tube. “I thought you might. But come, let me play for you.”

He grabbed her by the hand, and she followed, Sir Walter Scott forgotten in the hay as they ran to the house. He led her straight to the music room, shut the door, and sat her down on what she’d come to think of as her stool. It was higher, like the stools in the ale houses, and let her lay her head directly on the piano’s closed case. Val took the tube and put it wide end down on the piano. He leaned down as if to put his ear to the narrow end of the tube.

“Try it like that.”

Morgan perched on the stool and carefully positioned the tube at her ear. Val moved to the piano bench and began a soft, lyrical Beethoven slow movement, meeting Morgan’s eyes several measures into the piece.

“Can you hear?”

She nodded, eyes shining.

“Then hear this,” he said, launching into a rollicking, joyous final movement by the same composer. Morgan laughed, a rusty, rough sound of mirth and pleasure
and joy, causing Val to play with greater enthusiasm. She settled in on the stool, horn to her ear, eyes closed, and prepared to be swept away.

She’d been wrong. She wasn’t infatuated with Val Windham; she was in awe of him. He’d brought her music and the all-but-forgotten sensation of a human voice sounding in her ear. All it had taken was a simple metal tube and a kind thought.

“Good God almighty.” Dev glanced across the library at Westhaven. “What’s gotten into the prodigy?”

Westhaven looked up from his correspondence and focused on the chords crashing and thundering through the house.

“He’s happy,” Westhaven said, smiling. “He’s happier than I’ve heard him since Victor died. Maybe happier than I’ve ever heard him… He tends to stay away from Herr Beethoven, but if I’m not mistaken, that’s who it is. My God…”

He put down his letters and just listened. Val could improvise melodies so tender and lilting they brought tears. He could be the consummate chamber musician, his keyboard evoking grace, humor, and elegance. He knew every drinking song and Christmas carol, all the hymns, and folk tunes. This, however, was heady repertoire, full of emotion and substance.

And he plays the hell out of it
, Westhaven thought, amazed. He knew his brother was talented and dedicated, but in those moments, he realized the man was
brilliant
. More gifted than any Windham had ever been at anything, transcendently gifted.

“Jesus Christ, he’s good,” Dev said. “Better than good. My God…”

“If His Grace could hear this,” Westhaven said, “he’d never say another disparaging thing about our youngest brother.”

“Hush.” Dev’s brow knit. “Let’s just listen.”

And they did, as Val played on and on, one piece following another in a recital of exuberant joy. In the kitchen, dinner preparations stopped. In the garden, the weeding took a hiatus. In the stables, grooms paused to lean on their pitchforks and marvel. Gradually, the music shifted to quieter beauty and more tender joy. As the evening sun slanted across the back gardens, the piano at last fell silent, but the whole household had been blasted with Val’s joy.

In the music room, watching Morgan smile up at him, Val had a queer feeling in his chest. He wondered if it was something like what doctors experienced when they could save a life or safely bring one into the world, a joy and a humility so vast they could not be contained in one human body.

“Thank you,” Morgan whispered, smile radiant. “Thank you, thank you.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, and he hugged her back. There were some moments when words were superfluous, and holding her slight frame against him, Val could only thank God for the whim that had made him pick up the tube. He let her go and saw she was holding out the tube to him.

“You keep it,” he said, but she shook her head.

“I cannot,” she said clearly.

“Then let’s leave it in here,” Val suggested. “You can at least use it when we speak or when you want to hear me play.” He put it on top of the piano, puzzled and not a little hurt by her unwillingness to keep the thing. He’d first thought to get her one when he’d seen a pair of old beldames strolling in Brighton, their speaking tubes on chains around their necks like lorgnettes.

Morgan nodded solemnly but put the tube inside the piano bench, out of sight.

“You don’t want anyone to know?” Val guessed.

“Not yet,” she replied, staring at the closed lid of the bench. “I heard once before,” she said, her voice dropping back to a whisper so he had to lean in close to hear her. “We crossed the Penines, and something changed, in here.” She pointed to her left ear. “But the next morning, I woke up, and it had changed back. Can we try the tube again tomorrow?”

“We can.” Val smiled, comprehension dawning. “Your ear opened up because of the altitude. When you descended, it closed up again.”

Morgan looked puzzled and turned her face away.

“Even if I can’t hear tomorrow”—she hunched her shoulders against that terrible possibility—“thank you, Lord Valentine, for today. I will never forget your kindness.”

“It was most assuredly my pleasure.” He beamed at her. “Will you let Lord Fairly take a peek at you?”

“Look only,” she said, her shoulders hunching more tightly still. “No treatments. And you will come with me?”

“I will. Westhaven trusts the man, and that should tell you worlds.”

“It has to be soon,” Morgan said, biting her lip.

“I’ll track him down in the next few days. He’s almost always at home these days, and I run tame around his pianos.”

Morgan nodded and took her leave of him, her joy in the day colored by her recall of Anna’s plans. It had been almost a week since Anna had gotten Grandmama’s letter, and a perfectly pleasant if hot week, too. Morgan knew the earl had something to do with Anna’s lighter moods. Oh, Anna still fretted— Anna was born to fret—but she also occasionally hummed, and she hugged Morgan when no one was about, and she smiled—when she wasn’t staring off into space, looking worried.

Good Lord. Morgan stopped in her tracks. What was she going to tell Anna? When was she going to tell Anna? Not for a day or two, Morgan knew, as improvement could be deceptive. Her hearing sometimes got better during really bad storms, only to disappear when the weather moved. Worse than the loss of hearing, though, was the loss of speech.

She’d never realized how the two were related until she couldn’t hear. She lost her ability to gauge the volume of her voice and found she was whispering—or worse, shouting—when she thought her tone was conversational. Eventually, she’d just given up, until she was afraid to attempt speech again, the patterns not even feeling familiar to her lips, teeth, and tongue anymore.

But that could all change, she thought. If the speaking tube still worked tomorrow, it could all change.

The week had gone so well, Anna thought as she rose from her bed. It was another beautiful—if sweltering—summer day, and she’d enjoyed her efforts to complete the Willow Bend interiors. The earl had chosen surprisingly pretty and comfortable furniture, suited to a country home, and to a country home that wouldn’t be simply a gentleman’s retreat from the city.