Prologue
The birth of Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset, Earl Clyvedon, was met with great celebration. Church bells rang for hours, champagne flowed freely through the gargantuan castle that the newborn would call home, and the entire village of Clyvedon quit work to partake of the feast and holiday ordered by the young earl's father.
For Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset would not spend his life as Earl Clyvedon. That was a mere courtesy title. Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset—the baby who possessed more names than any baby could possibly need—was the heir to one of England's oldest and richest dukedoms. And his father, the ninth Duke of Hastings, had waited years for this moment.
As he stood in the hall outside his wife's confinement room, cradling the squalling infant, the duke's heart near burst with pride. Already several years past forty, he had watched his cronies—dukes and earls, all—beget heir after heir. Some had had to suffer through a few daughters before siring a precious son, but in the end, they'd all been assured that their lines would continue, that their blood would pass forward into the next generation of England's elite.
But not the Duke of Hastings. Though his wife had managed to conceive five times in the fifteen years of their marriage, only twice had she carried to full term, and both of those infants had been stillborn. After the fifth pregnancy, which had ended with a bloody miscarriage in the fifth month, surgeons and physicians alike had warned their graces that they absolutely must not make another attempt to have a child. The duchess's very life was in danger. She was too frail, too weak, and perhaps, they said gently, too old. The duke was simply going to have to reconcile himself to the fact that the dukedom would pass out of the Basset family.
But the duchess, God bless her, knew her role in life, and after a six-month recuperative period, she opened the connecting door between their bedrooms, and the duke once again commenced his quest for a son.
Five months later, the duchess informed the duke that she had conceived. The duke's immediate elation was tempered by his grim determination that nothing—absolutely nothing—would cause this pregnancy to go awry. The duchess was confined to her bed the minute it was realized that she'd missed her monthly courses. A physician was brought in to visit her every day, and halfway through the pregnancy, the duke located the most respected doctor in London and paid him a king's ransom to abandon his practice and take up residence at Clyvedon Castle temporarily.
The duke was taking no chances this time. He would have a son, and the dukedom would remain in Basset hands.
The duchess experienced pains a month early, and pillows were tucked under her hips. Gravity might keep the babe inside, Dr. Stubbs explained. The duke thought that a sound argument, and, once the doctor had retired for the evening, placed yet another pillow under his wife, raising her to a twenty-degree angle. She remained that way for a month.
And then finally, the moment of truth arrived. The household prayed for the duke, who so wanted an heir, and a few remembered to pray for the duchess, who had grown thin and frail even as her belly had grown round and wide. They tried not to be too hopeful—after all, the duchess had already delivered and buried two babes. And even if she did manage to safely deliver a child, it could be, well, a girl.
As the duchess's screams grew louder and more frequent, the duke shoved his way into her chamber, ignoring the protests of the doctor, the midwife, and her grace's maid. It was a bloody mess, but the duke was determined to be present when the babe's sex was revealed.
The head appeared, then the shoulders. All leaned forward to watch as the duchess strained and pushed, and then…
And then the duke knew that there was a God, and He still smiled on the Bassets. He allowed the midwife one minute to clean the babe, then took the little boy into his arms and marched into the great hall to show him off.
“I have a son!” he boomed. “A perfect little son!”
And while the servants cheered and wept with relief, the duke looked down upon the tiny little earl, and said, “You are perfect. You are a Basset. You are mine.”
The duke wanted to take the boy outside to prove to everyone that he had finally sired a healthy male child, but there was a slight chill in the early April air, so he allowed the midwife to take the babe back to his mother. The duke mounted one of his prized geldings and rode off to celebrate, shouting his good fortune to all who would listen.
Meanwhile, the duchess, who had been bleeding steadily since the birth, slipped into unconsciousness, and then finally just slipped away.
The duke mourned his wife. He truly did. He hadn't loved her, of course, and she hadn't loved him, but they'd been friends in an oddly distant sort of way. The duke hadn't expected anything more from marriage than a son and an heir, and in that regard, his wife had proven herself an exemplary spouse. He arranged for fresh flowers to be laid at the base of her funereal monument every week, no matter the season, and her portrait was moved from the sitting room to the hall, in a position of great honor over the staircase.
And then the duke got on with the business of raising his son.
There wasn't much he could do in the first year, of course. The babe was too young for lectures on land management and responsibility, so the duke left Simon in the care of his nurse and went to London, where his life continued much as it had before he'd been blessed by parenthood, except that he forced everyone—even the king—to gaze upon the miniature he'd had painted of his son shortly after his birth.
The duke visited Clyvedon from time to time, then returned for good on Simon's second birthday, ready to take the young lad's education in hand. A pony had been purchased, a small gun had been selected for future use at the fox hunt, and tutors were engaged in every subject known to man.
“He's too young for all that!” Nurse Hopkins exclaimed.
“Nonsense,” Hastings replied condescendingly. “Clearly, I don't expect him to master any of this anytime soon, but it is never too early to begin a duke's education.”
“He's not a duke,” Nurse muttered.
“He will be.” Hastings turned his back on her and crouched beside his son, who was building an asymmetrical castle with a set of blocks on the floor. The duke hadn't been down to Clyvedon in several months, and was pleased with Simon's growth. He was a sturdy, healthy young boy, with glossy brown hair and clear blue eyes.
“What are you building there, son?”
Simon smiled and pointed.
Hastings looked up at Nurse Hopkins. “Doesn't he speak?”
She shook her head. “Not yet, your grace.”
The duke frowned. “He's two. Shouldn't he be speaking?”
“Some children take longer than others, your grace. He's clearly a bright young boy.”
“Of course he's bright. He's a Basset.”
Nurse nodded. She always nodded when the duke talked about the superiority of the Basset blood. “Maybe,” she suggested, “he just doesn't have anything he wants to say.”
The duke didn't look convinced, but he handed Simon a toy soldier, patted him on the head, and left the house to go exercise the new mare he'd purchased from Lord Worth.
Two years later, however, he wasn't so sanguine.
“Why isn't he talking?” he boomed.
“I don't know,” Nurse answered, wringing her hands.
“What have you done to him?”
“I haven't done anything!”
“If you'd been doing your job correctly, he”—the duke jabbed an angry finger in Simon's direction—“would be speaking.”
Simon, who was practicing his letters at his miniature desk, watched the exchange with interest.
“He's four years old, God damn it,” the duke roared. “He should be able to speak.”
“He can write,” Nurse said quickly. “Five children I've raised, and not a one of them took to letters the way Master Simon has.”
“A fat lot of good writing is going to do him if he can't talk.” Hastings turned to Simon, rage burning in his eyes. “Talk to me, damn you!”
Simon shrank back, his lower lip quivering.
“Your grace!” Nurse exclaimed. “You're scaring the child.”
Hastings whipped around to face her. “Maybe he needs scaring. Maybe what he needs is a good dose of discipline. A good paddling might help him find his voice.”
The duke grabbed the silver-backed brush Nurse used on Simon's hair and advanced on his son. “I'll make you talk, you stupid little—”
“No!”
Nurse gasped. The duke dropped the brush. It was the first time they'd ever heard Simon's voice.
“What did you say?” the duke whispered, tears forming in his eyes.
Simon's fists balled at his sides, and his little chin jutted out as he said, “Don't you h-h-h-h-h-h-h—”
The duke's face turned deathly pale. “What is he saying?”
Simon attempted the sentence again. “D-d-d-d-d-d-d—”
“My God,” the duke breathed, horrified. “He's a moron.”
“He's not a moron!” Nurse cried out, throwing her arms around the boy.
“D-d-d-d-d-d-d-don't you h-h-h-h-h-h-hit”—Simon took a deep breath—“me.”
Hastings sank onto the window seat, his head dropping into his hands. “What have I done to deserve this? What could I have possibly done…”
“You should be giving the boy praise!” Nurse Hopkins admonished. “Four years you've been waiting for him to speak, and—”
“And he's an idiot!” Hastings roared. “A goddamned, bloody little idiot!”
Simon began to cry.
“Hastings is going to go to a half-wit,” the duke moaned. “All those years of praying for an heir, and now it's all for ruin. I should have let the title go to my cousin.” He turned back to his son, who was sniffling and wiping his eyes, trying to appear strong for his father. “I can't even look at him,” he gasped. “I can't even bear to look at him.”
And with that, the duke stalked out of the room.
Nurse Hopkins hugged the boy close. “You're not an idiot,” she whispered fiercely. “You're the smartest little boy I know. And if anyone can learn to talk properly, I know it's you.”
Simon turned into her warm embrace and sobbed.
“We'll show him,” Nurse vowed. “He'll eat his words if it's the last thing I do.”
Nurse Hopkins proved true to her word. While the Duke of Hastings removed himself to London and tried to pretend he had no son, she spent every waking minute with Simon, sounding out words and syllables, praising him lavishly when he got something right, and giving him encouraging words when he didn't.
The progress was slow, but Simon's speech did improve. By the time he was six, “d-d-d-d-d-d-d-don't” had turned into “d-d-don't” and by the time he was eight, he was managing entire sentences without faltering. He still ran into trouble when he was upset, and Nurse had to remind him often that he needed to remain calm and collected if he wanted to get the words out in one piece.
But Simon was determined, and Simon was smart, and perhaps most importantly, he was damned stubborn. He learned to take breaths before each sentence, and to think about his words before he attempted to say them. He studied the feel of his mouth when he spoke correctly, and tried to analyze what went wrong when he didn't.
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