Castaway Dreams (43 page)

* * * *

Alexander watched as his world moved away from him, the center of his universe leaving him for the stately home across the park. He watched as the door opened and the footman gave a shout of surprise followed a moment later by a crowd of servants rushing to the door and hustling their mistress into the warmth and light within.

He pulled up the collar of his coat and continued watching. He watched as a footman went running out of the house and soon, gratifyingly soon, a carriage pulled up and an older man jumped out and dashed up the front stairs, stumbling in his haste.

Even from where he stood across the park Alexander heard Mr. Farnham joyfully shout, "Daphne!" when the door opened. He could not see the reunion of father and daughter, but Mr. Farnham was obviously excited and eager for a glimpse of his only child.

Daphne would be welcomed back into the bosom of her comfortable, wealthy family. They would cosset her and care for her and dress her in silks and satins, just as she deserved. It was good. It was the right thing for her. She would find a young man, and forget about him.

Alexander doubled over gasping for breath. Pain wrenched through him and he wondered if everything he knew about medicine was wrong. Maybe one
could
die of a broken heart.

When he could breathe again he picked up his valise and his surgeon's chest and started walking through streets that became narrower and darker and grimier as he left Mayfair behind and made his way down toward the wharves. He found himself standing in front of a familiar address. Like the house in Mayfair this one, too, had lamps that shone welcoming warmth through the windows, but the window frames could use a coat of paint and there were cracks in the steps leading up to the worn door. The steps were swept clean though and the knocker on the door gleamed. A middle-aged woman opened the door, putting her hand to her throat in shock at his appearance.

"Mr. Murray! Come in at once, and warm yourself in the parlor! We'd heard you shipwrecked and drowned, Mr. Murray, but you're not the first sailor the sea's tossed back ashore."

Mrs. Hayworth, herself a sailor's widow, bustled about him in the parlor, exhaustion weighing him down as he stared into the small fire in the grate.

"Do you still have a room for me?" he asked the landlady without looking at her.

"Aye, your regular room, Mr. Murray. Your gear is in storage for you."

That was good, he thought hazily. He would not need to buy clothes after all. Mrs. Hayworth's remark about him surviving reminded Alexander of his original purpose a lifetime ago in making this trip to London. When she excused herself to build up the fire in his room, he went to the writing desk where the landlady kept paper and pens for her boarders and scratched out a note, sealing it and setting it aside. Mrs. Hayworth returned carrying a tray.

"You stay here, and eat your stew and have a good cup of tea while I fetch the bedding for your room, Mr. Murray."

He nodded without speaking, and she said nothing as she arranged his supper. That was one of the reasons he liked to stay at Mrs. Hayworth's. She was a woman who appreciated that sometimes a man did not want to talk about bonnets or butterflies or what bows would be decorating pelisses this winter.

He set aside the untasted stew when she returned and, digging a few coins out of his pocket, gave her the letter to be carried by a messenger in the morning.

"Mrs. Hayworth, is there a bottle of brandy here?"

"I have better than that for you, Mr. Murray."

She fetched a dusty bottle from the back of the house.

"It is yours, Mr. Murray, all the way from Scotland. You left it on your last visit and I kept it in case you returned."

She fetched him a tumbler and left him there. He rolled the bottle back and forth in his hands. It sloshed heavily. He'd barely made a dent in its contents, for the whisky, while excellent, fogged his mind.

He filled the tumbler until it overflowed onto the table.

* * * *

Alexander opened his eyes, or tried to. They'd been fastened shut with some kind of adhesive while he slept. He tried again, and the gummy eyelids finally worked, but it turned out to be a poor decision as the light in the room stabbed directly into his brain, setting up a pounding akin to someone using his skull as an anvil.

No, the pounding was external. On the door of his room. He dragged himself from bedding reeking of an excess of liquor and sweat, and clinging to the wall for support made his way to the door.

Mrs. Hayworth stood there, arms crossed over her ample chest. She sniffed, then said, "It is time you were up, Mr. Murray! A message arrived for you."

He blinked at her blearily. She no longer pounded on the door, but there was still a pounding in his head, and something had built a nest of dust and twigs in his mouth while he slept. He reached up a shaking hand and felt bristles and dried drool on his face.

"Wh--" He swallowed and tried again. "What time is it?" he rasped.

"It is past noon. On Thursday."

He gripped the door harder.

"Thursday? That is not possible."

"It is entirely possible when one drinks a bottle of that Scottish poison, Mr. Murray!" She sniffed again. Then her demeanor softened and she shook her head, sending gray wisps of hair bobbing from under her cap.

"You seamen are all the same. Come ashore and it's wine, women and wildness, isn't it? I knew that when my Samuel was home, but I have what will fix you and put you back on your feet. After you put some clothing on--fresh clothing--come down to the kitchen."

She turned to stomp away but paused and reached into a faded apron tied about her waist.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. Here is your message."

Daphne!
His heart sang out, but the missive was in an unknown hand with a strong, masculine slant. He opened it carelessly.

"Bad news?" Mrs. Hayworth said, hovering with interest. She loved a bit of gossip, did Mrs. Hayworth. Not in a bad way, but simply because news of other peoples' lives seemed so much more interesting than her own.

"Not bad news," he said, frowning down at the paper. He tapped the letter on his hand and looked at her.

"I will need a bath, Mrs. Hayworth, and some coffee, and your excellent remedy for men who consort foolishly with alcohol. Your other tenants spoke well of it in the past."

"A bath will be coming right up as soon as the water's heated, Mr. Murray. In the meantime, you come down and eat and drink something--something good for you. It will help you feel more yourself."

"What if I am not pleased with who I am?" he murmured, but she was already walking away from him.

Alexander felt more like himself when his visitor was ushered into the parlor later that afternoon. Mrs. Hayworth closed the door behind the man and Alexander rose to his feet. Stephen Childes bent over a silver-knobbed cane, his back twisted by age. He resembled a cricket, skinny and hunched, eyebrows bristling like antennae, but the eyes behind his spectacles were sharp and studied Alexander in a fashion that made him slightly uncomfortable.

"Please, Mr. Childes, have a seat," Alexander said.

The older man sat, carefully, and rested his hands on his cane. He declined the refreshments Mrs. Hayworth set out.

"I was stunned to hear you were alive, Mr. Murray. The last I heard you were dead in the wreck of the
Magpie.
"

"It was a near thing," Alexander acknowledged. "I was able to make it to land and recently returned to England. I was traveling home because of the letter you sent me, Mr. Childes."

"So many months ago," Childes said, and a shadow passed over his face, then was gone. "Do you know why I contacted you?"

"You mentioned a bequest, but you did not offer more information."

"Indeed, Mr. Murray. I could not share more information with you until I met you and saw you with my own eyes."

He cleared his throat, and took some papers from a leather portfolio, looked at them, then adjusted his spectacles.

"What is your name?"

"Alexander Murray."

"Your full name, please."

"Alexander Archibald Murray."

"What is your mother's name?"

All of Alexander's senses sharpened. When the solicitor mentioned a bequest in his letter, Alexander thought it might have had something to do with his naval service, not his life in Scotland.

"Why do you ask?"

"Please, Mr. Murray, just answer my questions, then I will explain all to you."

"My mother was Janet Murray."

Childes continued with his questions, asking Alexander about specific points of the village where he'd been raised, his schooling, his naval service. Then he separated a sheet of paper from the others and held it out, covering the bottom half.

"Do you recognize this letter, Mr. Murray?"

"Yes, that is the letter I sent you saying I would return to England."

"One final item, and then I tell you why I contacted you. Would you fetch the pen and ink I see on that desk and bring it here? Good. Now, please sign this piece of paper with your signature."

Alexander picked up the pen, dipped it and signed his name on the blank sheet of paper, then passed it back to the solicitor, who compared the two signatures, the one from Alexander's letter and the one on the paper.

Childes removed his spectacles, polished them, put them back on, and cleared his throat.

"I have a bequest for you from your father, Mr. Murray."

It took a moment for the words to register in Alexander's brain. He stood so fast his chair tipped over behind him.

"I do not want it!"

Childes sighed.

"Do not be tiresome, Mr. Murray. Sit down and hear me out. Did your mother never tell you who your father was?"

"My mother barely survived on the pittance sent each quarter by my
father
, Mr. Childes," he said through clenched teeth. "She had expectations I would go to school, to university, and those expectations were quashed by my father's agent, Fieldhouse. No, she did not tell me who my father was, and at this point in my life I do not care."

"Yes, you do care who your father is," Childes said. "Any man has a natural desire to know his origins. Now, I will speak and you will not interrupt me, for I am an old man and could pass on at any moment."

"You look healthy enough to me."

The solicitor inclined his head.

"Thank you for your professional opinion. Nonetheless, it is easier for me to tell this tale in its entirety."

He removed his spectacles again, went through the polishing ritual, then put them back on, adjusting them before he spoke.

"I met your father many years ago when he came into his own inheritance, and over the years, I conducted much of your father's business for him. I was also one of the few people who knew he sired a son on a trip to Scotland.

"Your father, Mr. Murray, was Hugh Blackborne, the Earl of Rycroft. He could not marry your mother, but made what he thought was adequate provision for your upkeep and maintenance. He did not realize until it was too late that his agent, John Fieldhouse, was robbing him, and you. I do not know if it is any comfort to you at this point, but Fieldhouse will spend the rest of his days in New South Wales.

"Rycroft wanted to contact you and tasked me with finding you. I found you, but your father was dying. He at least had the satisfaction of knowing you were coming home to England, but he did not live to meet with you as he desired so strongly."

The solicitor's face showed the weariness of a lifetime of losing too many people to age and disease.

"Before he died, your father wrote you a letter, and as I said, left you a bequest."

He reached into his portfolio and withdrew a folded document.

"Please read the letter first, as your father wished."

Alexander took the letter with an unsteady hand. There was a part of him wanting to throw it directly onto the fire, but Childes was correct. A man longed to know who he was, where he came from, and Alexander was no different from anyone else in that regard. He needed to know. The letter felt heavy in his hand, and there was a seal on the back stamped with a device. He heard the sounds of the traffic outside in the poor neighborhood with its shops and peddlers, its sailors and serving girls, but all of that faded as he broke the seal and began to read.

My dear son,

I hoped to have this conversation with you face to face, but that is not to be. My life is full of regrets, none greater than my failure to take care of you and your mother.

I did not contact you over the years because it would have distressed my wife. At the time, I thought I made the right decision, and had provided sufficiently for your welfare. I learned I was wrong.

Not being able to see my only child grow into a man has been the lasting sorrow of my life. Your mother was very dear to me, and not a day went by I did not think of her. The all too brief time I spent with Janet was the happiest of my life.

I cherished the reports I received of your growth and achievements. By the time I learned the money I spent to further your education was stolen by my agent, it was too late to make amends. Even without my assistance you made much of yourself, and I am proud of you, and proud of your service to King and country.

I hope yet that I will be able to say these things to you in person, but my physicians tell me it is unlikely. I have delegated Childes to share with you my wishes, and I hope you will take this bequest and think well of me, despite everything.

You are the son of my heart.

The weakness of the letter's author was evident in the shaky scrawl at the bottom. The clock in the parlor ticked away the minutes as Alexander looked down at the document in his hands, then carefully folded it and put it in his coat. He did not know exactly what he was feeling at the moment, but regret was part of it. Regret for his mother's shame and suffering, regret he never had that face-to-face meeting, though he did not know what would have transpired. Perhaps it was better this way.