Love Finds You in Prince Edward Island Read online

  As Peter rummaged through the top dresser drawer to take care of the need, the earl paced the carpet. “You’ll stay at hand while I meet with them, won’t you?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Was the earl thinking that the Orland men might attack him as Anson had his father? Surely enough communication had passed between them that he was not frightened of the old man, and David was all but incapacitated. “I’ll stand just outside the door if you wish, where I can hear you.”

  “Inside the room, please.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Peter found the nail scissors and file and quickly tended the offending finger. They left the room together and walked down the grand staircase, only three minutes late.

  Washburn paused on the bottom step. “I haven’t asked your opinion of this matter. What do you think of the Orlands? You’ve seen them.”

  “They’re a bit rough-and-tumble, but I like them,” Peter said.

  “Do you?”

  He smiled. “Yes, my lord, I do.”

  “I suppose that’s good.” Washburn resumed his pace.

  David and Anson Orland were seated in the small parlor, but Anson jumped up as Peter opened the door and David rose slowly, levering himself out of his chair with his canes. Both wore what Peter supposed was their Sunday best—black coats and trousers of plain material, with white linen shirts.

  “Good afternoon,” Washburn said.

  Both the Orlands ducked their heads, but when Anson raised his chin, he looked the earl in the eye.

  “Good day, sir. I’m guessing we all know why we’re here.”

  “Not really.” The earl sat down on a plush green sofa.

  Peter took up his position against the wall just inside the door. What game was Anson playing with the earl? Obviously he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—bring himself to call Washburn “my lord.” But the earl was cagey too. Of course he knew why the meeting had been arranged.

  “What exactly is it that you want from me, gentlemen?” Washburn asked.

  David cleared his throat, but before he could speak, his father jumped in again.

  “Why, to exonerate me, of course.”

  “Sit down,” Washburn said.

  Peter wondered if they would obey the curt order. His master might do better to be more courteous to them. However, the two tall farmers resumed their seats without quibbling.

  Once they were seated, Washburn inhaled deeply and addressed Anson. “I realize that you’ve suffered for my father’s wrongdoing, Orland, but you may be forgetting that I witnessed the incident. I may have been young, but that perhaps caused the image to be even more deeply etched in my mind. I can never forget that you savagely beat my father, or that you might have killed him had not his retainers been quick to stop you.”

  David leaned forward and said with cold precision, “My father, here, is brother to a woman who bore your father’s child.”

  Washburn’s face went scarlet. “You want to be blunt, do you? Your father could have been hung for what he did. Instead, he was sent over here and allowed to own land and build up a farm that could support his family. He is a free man. I say my father was generous to allow that.”

  Peter’s heart hammered as the two faced off. It was all he could do to keep from springing forward and restraining the men.

  “You want to talk about generosity?” David’s voice rose. “I’d say Da was generous not to go at your father with a weapon. He seduced my aunt when she was only a girl.”

  Peter took a step toward them, but Anson’s hand reached out and grabbed David’s wrist.

  “Now then, lad, let’s be calm. We didn’t come to accuse this man of anything. As he’s pointed out, he was barely more than a babe back then. And he’s right that I went about it wrong. But I knew the law wouldn’t aid my sister.” His blue eyes held a glint of steel as he gazed at the earl. “Fifteen, she was. Full of promise. And she didn’t know she could refuse such a man as your father. A so-called gentleman, one who was responsible for his tenants’ well-being. She thought she had to give the lord what he asked. What he took from our family can never be replaced.”

  Washburn sank back on the sofa, the high color draining from his face. “I am so sorry. Believe me, if I could do anything to make things right…”

  “Lift the stain from my father’s name,” David said. “You have influence. My father has been forbidden for forty-five years to ever return to England. So have I and my children, though we weren’t born when this happened. That isn’t right, sir. The sins of the fathers should not be laid on their children’s backs. Give us the right to visit our homeland with our heads high if we wish to go there, and to see the faces of loved ones we’ve never gazed upon.”

  Anson cleared his throat. “My sister Mary is dead now, God rest her soul. A distant relative informed me of that. But there are others we would wish to know. She had a child that I’ve never seen. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl, but the child would now be grown.”

  Peter felt tears burn his eyes. His shallow breath seared his lungs. Surreptitiously he took out his handkerchief. Turning his head aside, he wiped his eyes.

  “Why can we not even write letters to our close kin?” David asked, a hard edge to his voice. “Why was my father forbidden to communicate directly with his mother and sister and brothers? He was not just exiled, he was made anathema. Twenty years passed before a letter reached him from a cousin who dared to address it to him here in the colony, and after that, two more years went by before his letter in response was answered. By then, Mary, for whom my father gave up all that was dear to him, was dead.”

  “Yes,” Washburn said softly. “She has been gone many years now.”

  Anson eyed him keenly. “You knew her, sir?”

  “Nay, I never met her.”

  Anson grunted.

  “We were told,” David said carefully, “that she was married within a month of the incident. Married to a shopkeeper.”

  The earl sighed. “I believe that is correct. I also believe that she had other children later on, and that she was not unhappy. She was taken care of.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Anson seized on the phrase and glared at Washburn as though he would pierce him with his gaze if he could. “How was she taken care of? You mean that her husband provided for her?”

  “I’m sure that he did.” Washburn harrumphed. “My family also provided. My father made certain the family wanted nothing—that the child was not in need. He…sent a gift to Mary and her husband each Christmas.”

  “Oh, that was very kind of him,” David said bitterly.

  Washburn raised his head and gazed at Anson. “I have often wondered about you. And I confess, I have conjectured what I would have done in your place.”

  Anson said nothing but sat blinking, his chin high.

  “The issue,” David said, “is what you can do now.”

  “I shall look into it.”

  David leaned forward, belligerence showing again in his snapping blue eyes. “That is not enough. When my aunt Mary confessed to her family that she was with child, it fell to my father to confront the Earl of Washburn. You see, their own father was dead, and Mary had no one else to protect her, to speak up for her, but her elder brother. And what did His Lordship do? I’ll tell you. He denied the child was his.”

  “Surely you’re mistaken.”

  “Oh, no,” Anson said. “There is no mistaking what he said when I confronted him.”

  Washburn slumped lower on the sofa. “But I was there…. Of course, I was still in the carriage, and my mother had restrained me, trying to keep me from peering out the window. There may have been words exchanged that I did not hear.”

  “Oh, there were words, all right,” Anson said. “I knew he was lying. Our Mary wouldn’t make up something like that, and besides—she’d not had any sweethearts.” He shook his head. “I was so angry, I took a swing at His Lordship. He swung back, and the next thing you knew, we were into it and I was getting the best of h
im.”

  Washburn’s pained expression deepened. “Yes. That I saw. My father’s servants pulled you off him and had you arrested.”

  “So they did,” Anson said, “and Lord Washburn refused to listen to my pleas for leniency.”

  “Can you blame him?” the present earl asked. “I mean—really, sir? Can you? You broke his nose and his jaw and scarred his face for life.”

  Anson clenched his teeth together and lowered his chin. “Do not forget, sir, what our Mary lost. She was scarred for life as well.”

  Peter felt his lungs would burst if he had to listen to much more of this. He inhaled slowly and deeply, forcing himself to unclench his fists.

  “So he was deported to Prince Edward Island and forbidden to ever set foot on Great Britain again,” David said briskly, “or to contact his family.”

  The earl took out a folded handkerchief and blotted his brow. “I understand that, Mr. Orland. And had your father come peacefully to my father and talked to him civilly, perhaps things would have turned out differently.”

  “Oh? How?” David tapped the floor sharply with one of his canes. “He would have given the Orlands a farm perhaps, in exchange for their silence? That sort of compensation?”

  Washburn put his hand over his eyes for a moment and then lowered it. “Please believe me, I know this was a tragic situation. And I admit that what my father did to that girl was unconscionable. But what would you have had him do afterward? He was married, had children of his own. He couldn’t marry your aunt.” He turned beseechingly to Anson. “I ask your forgiveness, Mr. Orland, on behalf of my family. I cannot undo the past. Your sister was grievously wronged. And I realize you did what you felt you had to do.”

  Anson sighed deeply. “I’ve had forty-five years to mull it over, and in the long run I can see that I’d probably have been better off to go to your father meekly and take his bribes to be silent. Perhaps Mary would have been better off too. I cannot know.”

  “She never lacked for material things, I assure you,” Washburn said. “She didn’t live in opulence, nor did she live in abject poverty. I am told that her husband was fond of her and she of him.”

  “How do you know this?” Anson jumped up. “Who told you?”

  “My steward.”

  Both Orland men eyed him curiously.

  After a long moment of silence, Washburn said, “When my father died, I, of course, inherited his title and estate. The steward came to me and asked if I wished to continue the small stipend he gave annually to a couple living in Stratford. I asked who they were and why my father paid the man. The steward replied that it was the woman who received the compensation. And he told me why. But she was recently deceased, and he thought my father had been inclined to stop making the payments. The child was nearly grown, he said.” Washburn sat in silence for a moment then stirred himself. “But I thought otherwise.”

  “What did you do for them, if I may be so bold?” Anson asked.

  “I had my steward bring the man to me. He owned a tailor shop in the town, and he did all right. He said he had no complaints. I asked about the young girl—the eldest child in the family. Catherine, her name was.”

  “Catherine,” Anson said softly.

  “Yes. Your niece. He said she was a good girl who helped care for her younger brothers and sisters. I—I increased the stipend my father had given Mary, stipulating that it was for the girl now, to be used for her benefit. She could spend it or save it as she wished. I’ve been given to understand that she used some of it for her siblings but saved a good portion of it as a dowry. She later married a tinker, and I’m told they loved one another and were happy.”

  “She’s gone now?” David asked.

  “No. No, she’s still living, but her husband died six years ago.”

  “Are there any children?” Anson asked quickly.

  Washburn hesitated. “Yes. They had a son.”

  “Ah. I should like to know this boy,” the old man said. “It will never happen in my lifetime, but David or one of his children might someday wish to go to England and meet him, were the ban lifted—and perhaps they could meet Catherine too. Their cousin. That is something you could make possible, sir.”

  Washburn stood. “Allow me to think for a moment, gentlemen.” He crossed the room and stood at the window. “Stark, glasses of sherry for all of us, if you please.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Peter hurried into the hall and strode toward the kitchen. At last he was able to escape the taut atmosphere. Was it within the earl’s power to grant Anson Orland’s request? And beyond that, would Washburn reveal any more to these men? He could do anything while Peter was out of the room. Had his master sent him away to lay bare his secret while he was beyond hearing? Peter’s legs shook, and he paused for a moment in the hall to collect himself before entering the busy kitchen.

  He found the butler in the pantry preparing the wines for the state dinner.

  “Please, Mr. Reynold, the earl wishes sherry for three if you are able to provide it. I will take it to him and his guests.”

  “Of course, Mr. Stark.”

  Reynold disappeared, and Peter leaned against the wall with his head bowed, thinking about the three men he’d left in the small parlor. He’d known for some time now about the hasty marriage arranged for Mary Orland forty-five years ago. He also knew that because Anson was not there to work the land, Mrs. Orland—Anson and Mary’s widowed mother—had lost the farm tenancy the family had held. Apparently the previous earl’s largesse had not extended to old Mrs. Orland. She’d gone into service in another house to earn enough to support herself and her three younger children. Did Anson know that his mother had served until her death as a housemaid?

  The butler came back with a bottle of wine and set three glasses on a tray. “I assume you know how to serve wine, Mr. Stark.”

  It was something Peter seldom did, but he’d learned quickly on the previous stops of this tour, so he nodded. “Thank you.” He carried the tray along the hall, half expecting to hear raised voices coming from the parlor, but all was quiet. Dusk was falling, and the room was dim.

  “So you see,” Washburn was saying as he entered, “I’m not certain I can do any more for you. It’s a touching tale, and you, sir”—he nodded at Anson—“did commit a crime.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, I admit as much. Striking an aristocrat. As you said, I could have been hung.”

  Peter set down the tray and poured three glasses of sherry. He was still the invisible servant, and so his secret was still intact.

  “I ask you, sir, is that fair?” David asked.

  “Of course not, but it’s the way things are.” The earl looked at Peter as he offered the tray. “Ah, Stark, thank you very much.” He took a glass and frowned at the others. “Only three?”

  Peter met his gaze, not knowing what to say. He would never think of drinking with his master and guests except at a meal where he was included, and then he would drink water.

  “Ah, of course,” Washburn said.

  Peter tried to keep his hands steady as he served the Orland men.

  Anson took a tentative sip from his glass before setting it on a side table. “Now, you’ll not deny, sir, that you could help restore the Orland name.”

  “Yes, and have the banishment lifted,” David added. He downed his sherry in a gulp. Then his eyes widened.

  Peter used the tray as an excuse to turn away and took his time positioning the bottle on another table.

  David coughed, but the earl ignored him.

  “Well, now,” Washburn said, “so far as I know, there is nothing I can do on that score.”

  Anson said, “But could you speak to someone—I don’t know who—but someone with authority to let me openly contact my kinfolk?”

  As they talked, Peter lit a lamp. The shadows it threw on his master’s face made the earl look haggard.

  “Perhaps a word to the queen’s high steward when I return to London,” he said at last. “It may help. I will do
what I can.”

  “Thank you.” Anson smiled. “That is all I ask, unless there is more you can tell me about Mary’s family.”

  “Only what we’ve discussed.” Washburn gazed at Peter across the room. Peter’s pulse tripped. Was the earl inviting him to speak? All his life he’d hidden the secret of his mother’s birth. Was this the time to end it? These men seemed kindly disposed toward Mary Orland’s progeny and had not used the foul names he’d been called countless times.

  The earl looked away, and Peter knew the moment had passed. He turned and removed the chimney from another lamp, but his hands shook.

  “Mr. Orland, I am willing to forgive what you did to my father, but that is all I can promise.” Washburn stood and extended his hand to Anson.

  The old man took his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  David positioned his canes and heaved himself forward. Peter hurried to his side.

  “Lean on me, sir.”

  “Thank you.” David rose ponderously and gained his balance. He looked at Washburn. “And thank you for seeing us. You’ve been…most civil. We’ve wanted for many years to know more about Mary’s family and what became of her child. What you’ve told us will be somewhat of a comfort to Da, I’m sure.”

  “Yes,” said Anson. “Catherine. And she has a son.”

  “That is correct.”

  Anson nodded. “I wish the lad well.”

  David eyed the earl with a sudden inquisitive air. “I wonder, sir. When you make your…annual contribution to Catherine…”

  “Yes?” Washburn asked.

  “Would it be too much trouble to send us a note—or to have your steward do it—telling us how my cousin and her son are faring?”

  “Mr. Orland, it is my hope that by that time you will have received permission to write to her yourself. If I manage to gain that cachet for you, I will personally send your cousin’s address. Until then…” Washburn held out his hand.

  David took it, and then the earl shook Anson’s hand solemnly.

  Peter walked over to open the door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stark,” Anson said as he passed into the hall.

  “Good evening, sir.” Peter nodded at David as he shuffled past with his canes.