Gilroy looked at the address and scratched behind his ear. He drew breath to speak, let it out without making a sound, and briefly squeezed his eyes shut. He released another deep breath. “If you can do this, my lord, I can do it.”
David squeezed his shoulder. “Good man. We’ll get through this together.”
Less than an hour later, Gilroy having returned with a positive response, David and Gilroy exited from his carriage in front of a townhouse. A groom sprang to take the horse’s head collar, and the butler opened the door before David had even reached the bottom step.
“Welcome home, Lord Ravencroft.”
* * *
Parker and Deirdre were delighted to host him for a meal while Gilroy went upstairs.
“You don’t mind? Be honest,” David said as the dishes were cleared by footmen wearing livery with the Ravencroft crest.
“Honestly?” Parker squeezed Deirdre’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “We’ve been hoping you would change your mind and join us.”
“Great-Aunt Connie will be delighted as well,” Deirdre added.
“I’m not doing this for Aunt Connie,” David muttered.
“Do you want to go up by yourself?” Parker offered. “We’ll wait down here in the music room.” Still holding hands, Parker and Deirdre followed David out of the dining room and kept going past the staircase.
David put one foot on the first riser, his hand on the balustrade, and stared up the grand staircase. Memories assailed him. The keening wail of mourners, from servants in the attic as well as visitors in the front parlour, come to pay respects. The deathly silence in his parents’ bedchambers. Gilroy quietly sobbing in a chair beside Philip’s empty bed.
Numb with shock, David had let the butler and housekeeper make most of the funeral arrangements. They had already hung a black wreath on the front door before he arrived. His father’s solicitor took care of all the details in the transfer of title, the reading of the wills, and carrying out final wishes.
Liam had been there, too, wrapping David in a bone-crushing hug whenever it all got to be too much. He didn’t utter a single teasing remark about David dampening his shirt when he could no longer hold back the tears, and welcomed David to his home when David couldn’t bear to stay in the townhouse a moment longer.
That was over two years ago.
It was time. David climbed the stairs.
His bedchamber was exactly as he had left it, kept clean and dusted, ready for his return at any moment. Not a Holland cover in sight.
Parker and Deirdre clearly occupied the room two doors down. Surprising, given that it was one of the smaller guest bedchambers.
At the end of the hall were the adjoining suites his parents had occupied. The rooms were exactly as he remembered them, also kept as though their occupants would return at any moment.
The last room David entered had belonged to his older brother Philip. Gilroy sat in the same chair beside the bed.
“Can we do this?” David quietly said.
Gilroy stood, surreptitiously wiping tears from his cheeks. “Yes, my lord.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the empty bed. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.” He stood a little taller, his shoulders back.
David nodded. Two years ago he hadn’t been sure if hiring his brother’s longtime valet was a kindness or cruelty—to himself or Gilroy—but he’d made the offer, Gilroy accepted, and together they’d navigated the aftermath of the influenza that had swept through London and claimed David’s parents, brother, and three of the staff.
“Then let’s go choose bedchambers.”
* * *
An hour later, David felt thoroughly disgusted with himself. He and Gilroy had poked around every bedchamber that was not already occupied, including those in the attic. The only bedchamber he could picture himself sleeping in had a dressing room with a ruffled pink dress hanging in it.
Gilroy opened the door to what had been the previous Earl of Ravencroft’s suite. “Pardon my impertinence, but this should be your room.”
“Technically, yes.” David forced himself to walk farther into the room. His father’s shaving gear, brush, comb, and half-full bottle of hair tonic still sat on the dressing table. Ignoring the bed, David sat at the writing desk by the window. A quill lay in the tray, sharp and ready to write, though the ink in the pot had dried long ago. Bars of sealing wax nestled in the top drawer along with more quills and a penknife. Reluctantly, David had taken the Ravencroft seal with him.
Idly he opened the middle drawer and shuffled through the papers he found inside. Letters from Ogden, from school headmasters. From committee members in the House of Lords.
And sheet music. David thought all the sheet music was stored in the music room downstairs. He held the papers up to the light from the window.
