Chapter 3

“O h, your poor things!” cried Ophelia, dropping alongside her sister to search for the scattered items. The other lady gasped and moved to help Angelica, but a gentleman appeared at her elbow and stopped her, handing over the small child in his arms before moving quickly to their aid.

Proving just how much fate enjoyed toying with her, Angelica found the paper ruined. All the ink and quills together cost as much as a single sheet, and though the portfolio had done its job admirably and protected the bulk of the paper from damage, the corners and edges inside were damp and wrinkling, eating away at the precious item.

“I am so very sorry,” said the lady, her lovely features crumpling. “I was entirely oblivious to where I was walking, and now I have ruined your purchases.”

“I do hope you accept our apologies,” added the gentleman, straightening once the basket was set to rights.

Though Angelica appreciated the sorrow, she appreciated it more when he pressed several coins into her palm—especially as it was several pence more than she required to replace it, and it wasn’t as though her paper was entirely unusable.

“It is of no consequence,” said Angelica with a wave of her hand. “Accidents happen.”

“Though it would help matters if my husband hadn’t distracted me,” said the lady, shifting the child on her hip.

“Ah, so I am to blame, Charity?” he asked with an arched brow.

“You know I will always lay the blame at your feet if possible,” she replied.

Ophelia laughed, and though Angelica agreed with the sentiment, it was time for them to be on their way; if she got the ruined paper home quickly, she might be able to salvage more of it. But just as they turned to take their leave, the gentleman stopped them.

“Pardon me, but could you direct us to Stoneleigh Cottage?” he asked. “I fear it’s been so long since I’ve visited Haydon that I cannot recall precisely where it is.”

Spinning around, Angelica stared at the gentleman. The question alone told her his identity, but her eyes darted about his features, attempting to see the child she’d known—and though she knew she ought to speak, no words came to her lips.

Ophelia was not so sanguine. With a clap of her hands, she bounced on her toes. “Thomas? Yes, it must be you! We didn’t know when to expect you, other than you would be delayed for some weeks, and we feared you wouldn’t come at all, else I would’ve known it was you on the spot. You look so very like Papa that it is a wonder we didn’t know you were our brother the moment we laid eyes on you. Do you not think so, Angelica?”

The girl’s gaze darted between her two siblings before landing on the lady at his side and their child. “And you must be my newest sister and niece!”

Immediately, the babe was swept into her aunt’s arms, and Ophelia bounced the child on her hip. Biddie’s dark eyes widened at first but immediately warmed as her aunt babbled at her, drawing forth a dimpled smile that matched her papa’s.

“I hardly recognized you,” said Thomas, with a raise of his hat at Angelica.

“You didn’t recognize me,” she corrected.

With a hesitant chuckle and a shift of his feet, her elder brother nodded. “I suppose that is bound to happen when we haven’t laid eyes on each other in over two decades.”

Angelica nodded but knew not what to say to her long-lost brother.

Thomas’s smile broadened, his eyes sparkling with a laugh as he said, “I see that I’ve grown into such a handsome man that I have shocked you into silence.”

What did one say to that? Then again, what did one say to a sibling who had been absent the majority of one’s life?

His smile faltered a touch when she didn’t respond, though it didn’t dim completely as he added, “I halfway expected to find you in braids with your skirts smudged with dirt.”

Turning her eyes to her sister, Angelica nodded at the girl. “I don’t believe you’ve met Ophelia.”

At that, their sister straightened, her nose wrinkling as she laughed at herself before bobbing a curtsy that jostled her niece and set the babe laughing. “Mama read me your letters.”

Clearing her throat, Angelica nodded down the road. “We’d best show you home. The family will be pleased that you’ve arrived.”

“You needn’t curtail your shopping excursion,” said Charity, glancing between the sisters.

Ophelia waved her free hand and turned down the road. “Nonsense. We can send Maggie to fetch anything we’ve forgotten. Everyone is eager to see you.”

Bouncing the child on her hip, Ophelia cooed over Biddie as she led the party down the street. Charity kept stride with her child, leaving Thomas and Angelica staring at one another for a drawn-out moment before they followed.

“It has been too long,” said Thomas. “It is so good to be home.”

Angelica’s brows rose at that, though she fought to keep her expression impassive. What balderdash! And she had half a mind to tell him so, but it was best not to stir up a fuss at the beginning of their visit. With any luck, Thomas would return to the life he’d built far away from her, and it would be another twenty years until he visited again.

Quickening her pace, Angelica swept up next to her sister and held out her hands for Biddie. “You cannot steal all her attention, Ophelia.”

***

Modern travel was a marvel. Even in the span of Julian’s six and thirty years, the world had made great strides in that area. With better roads, carriages managed distances in half the time it had taken in his school days, and their springs were so well designed that the jarring jerks of the past transformed into a sway. Yet despite all the improvements, traveling across a county left one worn to the bone.

Lying on the bed, Julian stared at the dark timber beams above and allowed himself a moment to revel in being stationary. Perhaps he ought to have remained in Fellburn another day to recuperate, but thoughts of his final destination had pushed him to complete the journey in its entirety.

And now, he was here. Under Ernest Callaghan’s very roof.

Forcing himself upright, Julian stretched his limbs and back, groaning with delight at the pull of his muscles. Rising, he brushed a hand down his front and frowned at the loose button on his waistcoat. The thing was holding on by a literal thread. Flipping open his portmanteau, Julian dug inside for his penknife. Better to remove the button now than lose it—

The bedchamber door burst open, and a horde of children poured into the room. Spying Julian, the pack froze in place, gaping wide-eyed at him as he stared back.

“What are you doing in Aunt Angelica’s bedchamber?” asked the eldest, a lad well into his second decade, though nowhere near old enough to be sprouting whiskers.

“This is the guest chamber, and I am a guest of…Mr. Callaghan.” Julian chose the name rather than a title, for he couldn’t say whether these were the gentleman’s children, grandchildren, or a feral pack.

“No, it’s Aunt Angelica’s,” said the youngest girl, who couldn’t be more than five or six.

Another child, older than her by a year or two, scurried over to the wardrobe in the corner and opened a drawer. “See, she always keeps sweets here.”

That snapped the others out of their stupor, and they descended upon the hidden treasure, snatching up several pomfret cakes. If Julian hadn’t recognized the sweets from their black coin-like appearance, the heavy scent of licorice that filled the room would have confirmed their identity. His stomach turned; he didn’t understand the popularity of the flavor, but if the manner in which the children gobbled them up were any indication, the Callaghans adored it.

The elder girl (who looked closer in age to the eldest than the younger pair) paused, an internal battle waging in her thoughts before she extended a hand with a tone that said she hoped he would refuse, “Would you like one?”

“Thank you for your generosity, but no.” But that sparked another thought. “Does your aunt know you are pilfering her candy?”

The four thieves watched Julian, each with varying states of guilt and shock, though not one of them stopped chewing. Finally, the eldest boy sighed and put the paper bag back (though not before they took a handful apiece). Turning to face the stranger, the lad tucked his hands behind him with that all-important stance that so many boys learned from their schoolmasters, surveying the world with a lordly air.

“I suppose you are Grandfather’s friend,” he said as the younger pair inched towards Julian’s portmanteau to peer inside it. The youngest reached forward, but the elder lad snapped, “Don’t touch.”

“Yes, I am Mr. Julian Knight,” he said, though the statement held more than a hint of question to it as the little ones began scrambling about the room, climbing over and under the bed.

“I’m Carl,” he said. He pointed at the others, naming them in order of their ages. “And these are my siblings, Bella, Gael, and Alegría.”

Julian forced himself not to frown at the odd mixture of names, for the first was firmly Germanic and the others bore a Spanish flare.

“You are here for the holidays?” asked Bella. “Then you will see our pantomime?”

Alegría popped up from under the bed and beamed. “I am going to be a fairy!”

“No, you are not,” said Gael with a scowl. “We haven’t settled on a story yet.”

“Aunt Angelica said I can,” she said, jutting her lip out.

“Mama is in charge of choosing, so it doesn’t matter what Aunt Angelica says,” replied Gael.

The chaos in the room grew as the two bickered back and forth, and then their elder siblings stepped in to arbitrate, which only made matters worse. Soon there were feet stomping, voices raising, and tears abounding, and Julian stared at the whole thing.

With a niece and nephew back in Newcastle, he was familiar with the noise that children produced, but Johnathan was still in nappies and only just beginning to toddle about the world—hardly able to join in a proper row with baby Cecy. And there were only the two of them. This maelstrom grew exponentially, and though Julian suspected he ought to do something, he hadn’t the slightest notion of what that ought to be. These weren’t his relations to corral or chastise, and even when he attempted to speak, the children paid him no heed.

“What is the meaning of this?” called a voice as a gentleman swept into the room, bringing the argument to an immediate halt as all five pairs of eyes settled on him. The children instantly swarmed the newcomer, demanding that this mighty wrong be settled at once. And even without them calling him “Grandfather,” Julian knew in an instant that this was his host and hero, Ernest Callaghan.

Upon spying Julian, the fellow grinned and strode forward with an outstretched hand. “You must be Mr. Knight. How good to finally meet you.”

The pair shook hands, and Julian struggled to know what to say to the distinguished man. If ever there was a person to typify the idea of a poet, it would be Ernest Callaghan. Gray liberally colored his dark tresses, which looked wind-tousled and were precisely what was expected of a romantic. His tailcoat had been cast aside, displaying the haphazard buttoning on his waistcoat, and his cravat was tied in only the loosest sense of the word; the black linen hung slack around his neck in a manner that allowed his collar to gape, and though he looked in a state of dishabille, it was more carefree than slovenly.

Having exchanged many letters over the past months, Julian didn’t need to repeat his gushing adoration of the gentleman and his skill with a quill, yet the urge rose to the surface, demanding that he speak. Instead, he chose a more mundane greeting.

“It is good to be here, and I do want to thank you again for the invitation,” said Julian.

“I am glad you accepted. This time of year is always a lark. Nothing like sitting before a fire and reciting poetry—”

“Or telling ghost stories!” cried Bella with bloodthirsty glee as the two youngest wrapped themselves around their grandfather’s legs, which he obligingly shifted as best he could with the great weights sitting on them.

“Have you heathens been bothering our guest?” he asked. Then, glancing at Julian, Mr. Callaghan added, “I do apologize if they’ve ransacked your things. I suppose they didn’t expect to find you in their aunt’s bedchamber.” Casting an arched brow down at the thieves on his feet, he asked, “Have you been pilfering Angelica’s pomfret cakes?”

Bella and Carl, both of whom still had a few candies tucked in their pockets, shook their heads while attempting (and failing) to look innocent of the indictments.

“Have I put Miss Angelica out?” asked Julian, casting a glance round about to finally notice the small touches that marked his bedchamber as belonging to another. Though the wardrobe had been emptied, the drawers remained full of little tokens (though far fewer pomfret cakes than before), and there was a well-loved book resting on the mantelpiece.

“Think nothing of it,” replied Mr. Callaghan with a dismissive wave. “Angelica is used to guests coming to stay.” Glancing down at the weights on his feet, he added with all the dramatic flair of a poet, “Be gone, ye wretched shadows. Ye beasts of darkness, cower and depart!”

With a little urging and more than a few giggles, the children fled the space with all the care and grace they’d demonstrated upon entering it, and tossing an arm around Julian’s shoulders, Mr. Callaghan led him to the bedchamber door and down the corridor into the study.