“How was it you were separated from your siblings?” Alice asked when they’d gone some way in silence.
“A misunderstanding. The story of record, until recently, is I accidentally branded Nick’s fundament with an H, and the old earl thought I was a danger to his heir.”
“Nick’s famous scar.”
“You’ve seen it?” His eyebrows rose, but his voice dropped with some severe sentiment—censure, or possibly disappointment.
“I most assuredly have not, but not for lack of hearing him offer to show it to the dairymaids, the goose girl, the vicar’s granny, and my own self. He says he was branded like a bullock because he was mistaken for one by a drunken herdsman.”
“He would.” Ethan’s smile held relief. “Our father burned an H for Haddonfield into the harnesses and saddles and anything in the stables that might tend to disappear. Nick and I were fooling with the branding iron, I tripped, and Nick’s nether parts got stuck with the hot iron. I’m told he did not ride for several weeks, but even then, he wasn’t offended.”
“No doubt he enjoyed having the maids tend his wound. But you were sent away for this?”
“Not exactly.”
Alice heard the boys shrieking with glee over by the river, heard the soft, summery sounds of the afternoon: birds singing, a breeze soughing through the oaks, a cow lowing for her calf. She forced herself to let out a breath and waited, because Ethan was not done answering her question.
“The earl came by our bedroom at night to check on his injured son,” Ethan said, pausing on the path but keeping Alice’s hand at his elbow. “He found Nick and me in the same bed, which happened frequently. We were great ones for whispering and plotting and rehashing our days so the younger boys couldn’t hear us. I have no doubt we were sharing the same pillow. The next night his lordship found the same situation, and he concluded I had enticed my younger brother into an unnatural association. He feared for his sons, his legitimate sons, and so he sent me away.”
“He thought you had enticed Nick…?” Alice said slowly, while a feeling like panic, but angrier than panic, took hold in her belly. “And, of course, you had not. Not in any way.”
This explained much, all of it bitter and dreadful. Her instinct was to protect the boy he’d been, the boy who might somewhere still lurk inside him. She shifted, so her arms went silently around his waist and her head came to rest on his chest, hugging him as she would one of her charges. “I am so sorry, Ethan. For you, for Nick, and for your father. Did he ever apologize?”
“For his mistake, yes.” His arms closed around her slowly, slowly. “He never knew all the consequences of his error, and I let him die in ignorance.”
“That was kind of you,” Alice murmured against his chest. “What an awful thing to do to one’s children. You and Nick must have been devastated, and I’m sure your father lived to regret his decision.”
She spoke in the plural, regretting the consequences for him, for his brother and father too, but she kept her arms around the man with her.
“It’s in the past,” Ethan said, and still he didn’t let her go.
“Our entire lives are in the past,” Alice snapped. “Your papa might have been a good man, Ethan. I hope he was, but he was terribly wrong.”
“He was.” Alice felt him take a deep breath. “He was about as wrong as a father can be. I loved Nick. I do love Nick, and I’d never…”
“You wouldn’t,” Alice agreed, stepping back and slipping her arm through his. “You absolutely would not, and neither would Nick. Your father was simply wrong, and we must allow that this happens with human beings, but we don’t have to like it one bit or pretend it wasn’t such an egregious error. I suppose you wanted to bellow at him in righteous anger, and he deserved at least that.”
They paced along the path for a few yards while Alice seethed with upset for the man beside her. Fourteen was not so very old, especially not for a boy raised in the sheltered environs of an earl’s country seat.
Ethan paused beside her and cocked his head. “I hear the boys. Shall we leave them in peace or find out how goes the war?”
“You are a man,” Alice said, allowing the change in topic. “War will fascinate you. I am a female. It will appall me. Why don’t you see to the boys and I will return to the house? I think I’m due for another nap.”
“I should escort you,” he said, hesitating. His scowl was aimed briefly at her hip. “Come.” He started to turn them around, to return to the house.
“Don’t be silly. I am well enough to stroll through the shade back to the library. You’ll tend to the letter to Nick for me?”
“Of course.” He let her slip her hand from his arm. “And to the vanquishing of the Corsican and any chance-met dragons.”
Ethan found a dry, shady spot between the battlefield and the water, and sank to the grass to watch his children. They had such energy in their play, such unstinting commitment to the joy of having fun. And yet, they were mindful of each other. He and Nick had been like that. Ethan knew it; he just could not recall the experience of it. He let the boys frolic and splash and dunk each other for a good half hour in the name of washing off the mud of battle.
“Gentlemen!” Ethan rose to his feet when Joshua’s teeth were chattering. “Time to report to headquarters!”
The splashing stopped, and the boys slogged up the bank, with Joshua walking right up to his father’s leg and leaning on it, panting.
“Water is heavy,” Joshua observed.
“But you are not.” Ethan picked up the cool, slippery weight of his youngest, and swung him toward the pile of clothes. “We’ll use your shirts to dry you off. Come along, Jeremiah. You’re probably going to want to look in on Miss Portman.”
“We are?” Jeremiah looked confused as he scrubbed at himself with his shirt.
“Of course you are. You must report your history lessons to her, just as you did your earlier efforts regarding the fable of the heroic pismire.”
“Pismire!” Joshua exploded into peals of laughter. “You’re a pismire. Jeremiah Pis-a-miah Nicholas Grey!”
“Hush.” Ethan tossed Joshua’s shirt gently at the child’s face.
“Or you’ll thrash him silly,” Jeremiah suggested, not just smiling but grinning.
Ethan nodded gravely. “I’ll thrash him hysterical and change his name to Pismire Nicholas Grey.”
“Oooh.” Jeremiah pointed at his little brother. “Now who’s a pismire?”
“You’re both pismires.” Ethan did not smile, though it was a near thing. “And you make too much noise. Gather up your shoes, and let’s storm the fortress yonder. They’re bound to have some victuals for a couple of weary soldiers like yourselves.”
“I’m thirsty, too,” Joshua said, gathering up two shoes and his shirt. “I forget where my smalls are.”
“Here.” Jeremiah tossed them to him. “But they might have ants in them—pismires for a pismire.”
“Do they?” Joshua looked at his father worriedly, unwilling to touch the offending clothing at his feet.
“Hardly matters.” Ethan snatched up the tiny underclothes. “You aren’t in them. Now can we please move along?”
He shooed the boys into the house through the kitchen, pausing to make sure they got some lemonade and buttered bread, then had them stop off in the laundry for a quick, hot bath. Both boys occupied the same tub, to save time heating water and to encourage them to soak long enough to get some dirt off. By the time Ethan ushered them up the steps to their suite, they were both considerably more subdued than they’d been earlier.