A Love Letter to Louisa May Alcott
September 1816 Holbrook Court, seat of the Duke of Holbrook On the outskirts of Silchester
In the afternoon
‘I am happy to announce that the rocking horses have been delivered, Your Grace. I have placed them in the nursery for your inspection. As yet, there is no sign of the children.’
Raphael Jourdain, Duke of Holbrook, turned. He had been poking a fire smouldering in the cavernous fireplace of his study. There was a reserved tone in his butler’s voice that signalled displeasure. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Brinkley’s tone signalled the disgruntlement of the entire household of elderly servants, not one of whom was enchanted by the idea of accommodating themselves to the presence of four small, female children. Well, the hell with that, Rafe thought. It wasn’t as if he’d asked to have a passel of youngsters on the premises.
‘Rocking horses?’ came a drawling voice from a deep chair to the right of the fireplace. ‘Charming, Rafe. Charming. One can’t start too early making the little darlings interested in horseflesh.’ Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne, raised his glass toward his host. His black curls were in exquisite disarray, his comments arrogant to a fault, and his manners barely hid a seething fury. Not that he was furious at Rafe; Mayne had been in a slow burn for the past few months. ‘To Papa and his brood of infant equestriennes,’ he added, tossing back his drink.
‘Stubble it!’ Rafe said, but without much real animosity. Mayne was a damned uncomfortable companion at the moment, what with his poisonous comments and black humour. Still, one had to assume that the foul temper caused by the shock of being rejected by a woman would wear off in a matter of time.
‘Why the plural, as in rocking horses?’ Mayne asked. ‘As I recall, most nurseries contain only one rocking horse.’
Rafe took a gulp of his brandy. ‘I don’t know much about children,’ he said, ‘but I distinctly remember my brother and me fighting over our toys. So I bought four of them.’
There was a second’s silence during which the earl considered whether to acknowledge the fact that Rafe obviously still missed his brother (dead these five years, now). He dismissed the impulse. Manlike, he observed no benefit to maudlin conversation.
‘You’re doing those orphans proud,’ he said instead. ‘Most guardians would stow the children out of sight. It’s not as if they’re your blood.’
‘There’s no amount of dolls in the world that will make up for their situation,’ Rafe said, shrugging. ‘Their father should have thought of his responsibilities before he climbed on a stallion.’
The conversation was getting dangerously close to the sort of emotion to be avoided at all costs, so Mayne sprang from his chair. ‘Let’s have a look at the rocking horses, then. I haven’t seen one in years.’
‘Right,’ Rafe said, putting his glass onto the table with a sharp clink. ‘Brinkley, if the children arrive, bring them upstairs, and I’ll receive them in the nursery.’
A few minutes later the two men stood in the middle of a large room on the third floor, dizzily painted with murals. Little Bo Peep chased after Red Riding Hood, who was surely in danger of being crushed by the giant striding across the wall, his raised foot lowering over a feather bed sporting a huge green pea under the coverlet. The room resembled nothing so much as a Bond Street toy shop. Four dolls with spun gold hair sat primly on a bench. Four doll beds were propped atop each other, next to four doll tables, on which sat four jack-in-the-boxes. In the midst of it all was a group of rocking horses graced with real horsehair and coming almost to a man’s waist.
‘Jesus,’ Mayne said.
Rafe strode into the room and stamped on the rocker of one of the horses, making it clatter back and forth on the wooden floor. A door on the side of the room swung open, and a plump woman in a white apron poked her head out.
‘There you are, Your Grace,’ she said, beaming. ‘We’re just waiting for the children. Would you like to meet the new maids now?’
‘Send them on in, Mrs Beeswick.’
Four young nursemaids crowded into the room after her. ‘Daisy, Gussie, Elsie, and Mary,’ said the nanny. ‘They’re from the village, Your Grace, and pleased to have a position at Holbrook Court. We’re all eager for the little cherubs to arrive.’ The nursemaids lined up to either side of Mrs Beeswick, smiling and curtsying.
‘Jesus,’ Mayne repeated. ‘They won’t even share a maid, Rafe?’
‘Why should they? My brother and I had three nurses between us.’
‘Three?
‘Two for my brother, ever since he became duke at the age of seven, and one for me.’
Mayne snorted. ‘That’s absurd. When’s the last time you met your wards’ father, Lord Brydone?’
‘Not for years,’ Rafe said, picking up a jack-in-the-box and pressing the lever so that it hopped from its box with a loud squeak. ‘The arrangement was just a matter of a note from him and my reply.’
‘You have never met your own wards?’
‘Never. I haven’t been over the border in years, and Brydone only came down for the Ascot, the Silchester, and, sometimes, Newmarket. To be honest, I don’t think he really gave a damn for anything other than his stables. He didn’t even bother to list his children in Debrett’s. Of course, since he had four girls, there was no question of inheritance. The estate went to some distant cousin.’
‘Why on earth -’ Mayne glanced at the five women standing to the side of the room and checked himself.
‘He asked me,’ Rafe said, shrugging. ‘I didn’t think twice of it. Apparently Monkton had been in line, but he cocked up his toes last year. And Brydone asked me to step in. Who would have thought that ill could come to Brydone? It was a freak accident, that horse throwing him. Although he was fool enough to ride a half-broken stallion.’
‘Damned if I thought I’d ever see you a father,’ Mayne said.
‘I had no excuse to say no. I have the substance to raise any number of children. Besides, Brydone gave me Starling in return for acting as a guardian. I told him I’d do the job, as soon as he wrote me, and no bribe was necessary. But he sent Starling down from Scotland, and no one would say nay to adding that horse to their stables.’
‘Starling is out of Standout, isn’t he?’
Rafe nodded. ‘Patchem’s brother. The core of Brydone’s stable is out of Patchem, and those are now the only horses in England in Patchem’s direct line. I’m hopeful that Starling will win the Derby next year, even if he is descended from Standout rather than Patchem himself.’
‘What will happen to Patchem’s