He watched his brother lead Corrie onto the floor, the twins in their grandfather’s arms, waving wildly toward their parents. His cousin Max, Uncle Tysen’s eldest son, gave his hand to a young woman Jason hadn’t seen before. He looked down to see Harvey tugging on his trouser leg. “I wants to dance wit’ the angel.”
“You can’t. The angel is dancing with my cousin Grayson, who’s probably telling her a ghost story. Why don’t you and I show this group how to waltz properly?” Jason lifted Harvey in his arms and began to waltz him around the perimeter of the room in great dipping steps. One of the twins shouted, “Uncle Jason, I want to waltz with you!”
Jason laughed, called back, “Dance with your grandfather.” From the corner of his eye, he saw his father, holding a twin in each arm, swing into the waltz, sweeping around the room, not six feet behind Jason and Harvey. Laughter flowed as freely as champagne. Adults and children waltzed. All in all, it was a fine afternoon, Melissa’s family mixing well with all the Sherbrookes.
An hour later, Jason was seated on a swing in the vicarage gardens, his right foot lazily pushing off every now and again to keep the swing moving in a nice smooth glide. Harvey, stuffed to the gills, exhausted from dancing, was sprawled on his lap, his head against Jason’s chest. A female voice said quietly from behind him, “I don’t expect you to congratulate me, but I suppose since I did have the lead in our competition, I should tell you that you probably ran a fine race. However, truth be told, I don’t know what you did. You could have simply sat in a ditch and given up, for all I know. Also, you didn’t ask me to waltz. I believe every single male at the wedding asked me to waltz. All save you. Surely that doesn’t bespeak a gracious loser, and I had high hopes for you after that smile and little wave at the ceremony.”
Jason, who didn’t want to disturb Harvey, didn’t turn, and said toward the graveyard beyond the far garden wall, “I always run a fine race, Miss Carrick. I usually win except when it is against Jessie Wyndham. I kept encouraging her to eat so she would gain flesh, but it never happened. She laughed at me.”
Hallie laughed herself, walked around the swing and stood there, eyeing the beautiful man holding the boneless little boy who had chocolate smeared on his mouth. She said, “I watched Jessie race for as long as I can remember. She’s a killer, is Jessie.” She paused, frowned down at the sleeping Harvey. “He’s too thin.”
“Yes, a bit. That will change. My uncle Ryder bought him two months ago from a factory owner in Manchester. He was working fourteen hours a day, fixing machines that knotted thread.”
“I heard Melissa’s parents speaking about your uncle Ryder and all the children he’s taken in over the years. They couldn’t quite come to grips with it.”
“And you, Miss Carrick? What do you think of the Beloved Ones?”
“That’s a lovely name for them. Actually, I’ve never seen such magic as your uncle has for the children, except perhaps for you. They want to crawl all over him. It’s amazing. Did you see all of Melissa’s relatives waltzing with the children? I don’t think Mellie’s father has danced in thirty years, yet he was carrying about a little girl no more than seven. So much laughter today. Quite amazing, really. You wouldn’t see that in London, perhaps even in Baltimore. It would be all adults trying to act superior and eyeing each other’s jewelry. How many children has he taken in?”
“I don’t know. You will have to ask him or my aunt Sophie. There are usually fifteen or so children in residence at any given time.”
“I think he is a very good man. He sees and he acts. Not many people do.”
“No, not many do. So, we have another man of which you must approve. The list is growing, Miss Carrick.”
She struggled a moment, kept quiet, and reached out her hand to give the swing a shove. Harvey snorted in his sleep. “Yet again I’ve left you speechless.”
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Mr. Sherbrooke?”
“On supporting your friend to the altar? Harvey here was certainly impressed with you.”
“I nearly dropped the bouquet.” She leaned over, pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket in her gown he couldn’t have found even if he’d been looking for it, and, just like Jessie, spit on the handkerchief, and efficiently wiped Harvey ’s face. She saw him staring at her and said only, “I raised four children, myself. Did you see Melissa grab Leo at the end of the service? I thought Reverend Sherbrooke would laugh out loud.”
The vicarage gardens smelled of honeysuckle and roses in the late afternoon, or maybe it was her unique scent, he wasn’t sure. He said, “I remember when I was a very young boy, Uncle Tysen rarely laughed, especially when he gave a sermon. His life was dedicated to God, a God who evidently was only interested in hearing about endless sins and avoiding transgressions, always impossible. This God of Uncle Tysen’s didn’t believe in laughter or in everyday sorts of pleasures. Then he met Mary Rose. She brought God’s love and forgiveness into his life and into his church. She brought laughter and peace and infinite joy.” He paused a moment, felt his voice thicken as he said, “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed my family until today when they were all around me. And my aunt Melissande, who always patted my face and called me her mirror. She didn’t this time, she hugged me until my uncle Tony finally pulled her away. There were tears in her eyes.” Why had he said any of that to her? After all, he’d beaten her. Shortly she would want to drive a knife between his ribs. Harvey snorted again in his sleep. Jason automatically tightened his hold, rocked him.
“What you said about your uncle Tysen-it was quite eloquent.”
He ignored that, feeling something of a fool for speaking of it to her. “Why should I congratulate you, Miss Carrick?”
She’d forgotten her victory, her absolute triumph, but for only a moment. She grinned down at him. “Because, naturally, I am the new owner of Lyon ’s Gate.”
Jason stopped swinging. He looked up into a face that could have given Helen of Troy a hell of a race. “No,” he said matter-of-factly, wondering what her game was, “I own Lyon ’s Gate. If you would like to see it, to ensure I’m not lying, I can show you the deed. I have it in my pocket.”
That drew her up short. “Why are you saying that? That isn’t possible, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have the deed in my reticule, which is in my bedchamber upstairs. Your joke isn’t funny, sir.”
“No, I don’t make jokes about something as important to me as Lyon ’s Gate is, Miss Carrick. I went to London, I met with Thomas Hoverton’s solicitor, and I bought the property.”
“Ah, that’s cleared up then.” She looked ready to dance and fling about more rose petals, the light of victory back in her eyes. “Not that it was ever in any doubt.”
Her grin grew bigger. Jason frowned at her. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“I knew where Thomas was-he’s staying with his aunt Mildred in Upper Dallenby, only twenty miles from here. I rode over, and he and I came to an agreement. Lyon ’s Gate is mine.”
Now, wasn’t that a kick in the ass, was all Jason could think.
CHAPTER 8
It was after midnight. Leo and Melissa were long gone on their honeymoon, their first night of married bliss to be spent in Eastbourne, then they were off to Calais on the morning tide on Alec Carrick’s packet, HiHo Columbus, named by Dev when he’d been five years old.
The Sherbrookes and Miss Hallie Carrick were seated in the drawing room. Jason knew that every one of them would willingly bash Hallie Carrick on the head, maybe bury her in the garden, so that he, their beloved returned prodigal, would have Lyon ’s Gate. It was close to Northcliffe Hall, which meant he would be near. They would be a family again, as soon as they got rid of this English-American upstart who’d had the nerve to stick her oar and her money in to steal what their beloved son wanted for himself. But they were all polite, solicitous, his mother going so far as to pour milk, not arsenic, into Miss Carrick’s tea, which she doubtless would have preferred.