Mr. Brewster ran a leathery hand through his thinning, silver hair, his knuckles swollen and red with rheumatism that did not seem to bother him. “I don’t do much talking, Your Grace, that’s all.”
“Not unless it is to the flowers?” she teased a little, wanting to put him at ease.
To her relief, he smiled at that. “Oh aye, they like being talked to, as much as they like being looked at.” He appeared to relax slightly, leaning back in the chair. “Also, it’s a matter of knowing where to start. See, I’ve been here longer than His Grace has been living. I’ve been here longer than anyone—since I was old enough to stumble about after my father, who was head gardener before me, God rest him.”
“How old are you, if it is not an impertinent question?”
The gardener moved his fingers, as if counting the years. “I’ll be four-and-sixty next month.”
She was about to interject with a compliment that he did not look at all his age, when he suddenly continued, holding her silent. “I must’ve been six-and-thirty when His Grace was born, andhisfather was no more than a few years younger than me. I know ‘cause we played as boys here, ‘tilhisfather decided he didn’t like his son and heir playing with the gardener’s boy. Funny thing is, Cyrus’ father never actually got to be the Duke of Darnley.”
“No?” Teresa could barely breathe, leaning forward in her chair, hanging on every word.
“I know it ain’t right to use Christian names, but so you’ll better understand, I’ll use ‘em, else it might become confusing,” the gardener said. “His Grace’s father was Ignatius Deverell, and His Grace’s grandfather was Horatio Deverell. Neither of ‘em good men—Lord preserve me for saying so, but it’s the truth. Rotten, the both of ‘em.
“Horatio was one of these gentlemen who survives on raw spite, and he wasn’t about to let his son have the title willingly. We all used to say that Horatio would outlive us all, and he seemed determined to do so—certainly, he was determined to outlive his son,” Mr. Brewster continued, a line appearing between his eyebrows. “It wasn’t a happy place, this castle… until Ignatius brought an angel home.”
“Cyrus’ mother?” Teresa whispered, her heart beating erratically in her chest as her imagination took over, absorbing the gardener’s words and turning them into vivid scenes in her mind.
Mr. Brewster nodded. “Lady Josephine. A duke’s daughter, if memory serves. We were all speechless when she came into the castle after the wedding; she was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen, and the sweetest. She spoke to us all in turn, asked our names, and never forgot a one of ‘em.” He beamed with a long-ago pride, his rheumy eyes sparkling. “She was like you, in a way, wanting to make the castle cheerier. And she did, too. For five years, the castle was happier than it had ever been. Her presenceeven seemed to make Horatio nicer, and there were such balls and garden parties and gatherings, the likes of which we haven’t seen since.”
But she is not here anymore. There does not appear to be any family at all.Teresa held her tongue, not wanting to jump ahead in the story. It was a bad habit she had trained out of herself years ago, and she would not begin it again now.
“She became with-child and, for those months, the castle was… oh, Your Grace, it was like a paradise,” the gardener continued, misty-eyed. “All giddy to meet the littlun. But then…” His voice cracked, and he coughed to cover it. “Apologies, Your Grace. It has been a long while since I’ve spoken about this.”
Teresa reached out, patting him gently on the arm. “Not at all. Take your time.”
“Well… she died, Your Grace. There was some difficulty with the birth, and a decision had to be made between saving her or saving the child.” The gardener shook his head, chewing his lip. “She never even got to hold him, and I’m convinced that, from that moment on, Ignatius decided to hate his son. I don’t think it was his decision to save the child; I think it was Horatio who gave that order.”
Through the glass of the greenhouse, Teresa’s gaze drifted back to the castle, her mind seeking out Cyrus in a room somewhere. Her heart ached for him, unable to fathom a life without a mother, unable to fathom a life growing up in a place like that with no one to hold him.
“His Grace’s grandfather was a strict, severe, unpleasant man,” Mr. Brewster said, bringing Teresa’s attention back. “He became worse after the death, thinking it some weakness in the boy that had made his birth so difficult. And Ignatius took his father’s lead, seizing any opportunity to punish the boy, so cruel to him it’d turn your stomach. His Grace was raised with no affection, no warmth to speak of.”
Not wanting to interrupt, but unable to swallow down the rising burst of dreadful curiosity, Teresa asked, “Is… the scar because of a punishment?”
“What?” Mr. Brewster frowned, shaking his head. “Oh no, Your Grace. He got that scar in the accident that killed his father and grandfather. He’d have been… three-and-ten, or thereabouts.”
Just a boy, finding himself in charge of a dukedom.
Teresa stared blankly at the letters on the table, struggling to take in everything she had just heard; so much loss and tragedy and cruelty, all thrown at Cyrus before he was even a man. Her heart broke, imagining the scared, isolated boy he must have been, and the mother who might have spared him from that if she had only lived.
It went some way toward explaining why he was so withdrawn, why he had chosen to be a recluse, and why he wanted nothing to do with her, for if someone had never known affection, how would they know how to give or receive it?
He waslikely just shocked that I came to knock on his door that night.She doubted anyone had sought him out in his entire life for any reason, and if they had, it would not have been for anything pleasant.
Glancing at the gardener, Teresa hoped the old man might continue, offering more information, but it seemed the tale had come to an end.
“Anyway, that’s why he is how he is,” Mr. Brewster said with a shrug. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
Teresa smiled. “You have given me everything I need, thank you.” She rose to her feet. “I have taken up enough of your time.”
The gardener rose with her, bowing his head. “You won’t tell His Grace I said anything, will you?”
“Your secret, and his, are safe with me,” she promised, realizing she would have to be careful the next time she encountered her husband.
After all she had heard, it would be hard to do anything but throw her arms around him and make up for all the affection he had never had. Indeed, if her demeanor changed at all, he might become suspicious that she had an informant.
Or you will not have to worry about that, because you will never cross paths again…
