Page 18 of The Forgotten Boy

“Not many girls immerse themselves in questions of land and tenants,” he told her. “You have a good steward, after all, and an excellent guardian.”

“No matter my steward or guardian, Havencross is mine. My father made sure I understood that as early as I was able.”

“You were fortunate in the estate your father left you.”

“I would rather have my father than the estate.”

Edmund, who stood close enough to hear without making himself part of the conversation, flashed her a look of sympathy and approval. John flushed, and almost Ismay apologized for making him uncomfortable. But she was saved the dilemma when a servant wearing the white rose of York appeared in front of their small group and announced that the Lord Protector requested Ismay’s presence. Alone.

Since she’d had exactly one private interview with the Duke of York since arriving in his household, Ismay bit her lip and queried Edmund with her eyes. Across the ten feet that separated them, he gave a small shrug of ignorance, but also a smile calculated to raise her spirits.

The Duke of York was in a small, square room down one of Westminster’s innumerable corridors. The black walnut paneling swallowed up light so that the elaborate candelabras appeared like islands in the midst of a dark sea. York looked the same as he always had: thin-faced, dark-haired, with severe lines, and hooded, searching eyes. He sat behind a desk, reading from a stack of papers and making notes. Standing next to him, younger and taller and far more dashing, was his wife’s nephew Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick.

“My lords.” Ismay executed a painstakingly practiced curtsey.

While the Lord Protector continued reading, the Earl of Warwick ran his eyes up and down Ismay as though assessing a horse he wished to buy. Or not buy, if his expression was any indication.

“How old are you?” Warwick demanded.

“Twelve.”

He snorted. “I’ve seen ten-year-olds better developed.”

Ismay flushed, and was suddenly grateful for the shadowy room. Then the Duke of York addressed Warwick: “My wife tells me the girl has been bleeding for six months now. She’s thin but no longer a child.”

Ismay nearly burst into flames. Keeping her eyes fixed on the toes of her shoes, just peeping out from beneath the heavy blue silk skirt, she tried to pretend she was elsewhere.

“Look at me, girl,” commanded Warwick.

She lifted her head and set her face into the chilly, neutral lines she’d learned from Duchess Cecily. That seemed to amuse him. “A little spirit. That’s good. Johnny would soon tire of a bloodless bride.”

Ismay froze, her eyes locked on Warwick’s. Bride? Johnny?

Johnny. All at once, she understood why John Neville had gone out of his way to speak to her tonight. Not about herself or the things she liked, but about Havencross—her manor house and estate that ran across a good part of Northumberland. Of course Ismay had understood that there would be men who wanted Havencross. But understanding was a completely different thing than thinking of that restless, impatient, twenty-three-year-old she’d just left wanting to marry her. Ismay didn’t want to marry Johnny. She didn’t want to marry anyone yet. She knew what the onset of her monthly bleeding meant, she understood—as did all who lived around animals—the nature of what happened in the marriage bed. But the thought of being left alone with a grown-up man who expected her to do … that?

Ismay must have looked as appalled as she felt, for Warwick growled, “It’s not as though I intend to drag you to the altar tonight. But it’s just as well that plans are made. And it would be a fine match.”

For Johnny, she thought spitefully. A younger son in a family of twelve without any land of his own.

The Duke of York had a knack for reading the undercurrents of any situation and speaking to the point when necessary. “You may think Johnny too old, but I assure you, Ismay, there are men a great deal older who have approached me. Do you really wish to marry a man with children older than you are? There need be no announcement at once, but I wish you to seriously consider the matter.”

The words I wish coming from the senior duke in England, the Lord Protector of the Realm, and her legal guardian meant “I command.” Ismay could only be grateful he had confined his “wishes” to her considering the matter rather than requiring her immediate assent. Maybe she could make herself so disagreeable to John Neville that even Havencross wouldn’t tempt him.

Maybe she would ask Edmund to help.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

JULIET

2018

After depositing the three boxes from White Rose Farm on the long table of the enormous dining room, Juliet went straight for the neatly bound pages of Information and Instructions that she’d so far ignored. She conceded that Nell Somersby-Sims was every bit as efficient as her image: the pages covered everything from how to restart the boiler to where to find candles and flashlights in case of a power outage. That gave Juliet pause—it was one thing to blithely anticipate that a winter storm might knock out the lights from the safety of home, but another thing entirely when inside the belly of the beast, as it were. Nevertheless, she went ahead and gathered two flashlights, ten candles, and three boxes of matches to take upstairs to her bedroom.

But what Juliet really wanted she found on the last page, under the Pertinent Telephone Numbers heading. Noah Bennett, Newcastle Surveyors, Ltd. Call in case of structural issues.

So he was on her list. Not that she’d thought he was making it up. But the pages didn’t say anything about weekly checks. She thought of the way he’d leaned against her car, looking at her … No, not looking—seeing her. Duncan had appeared to look at her all the time. But he’d never really seen her.

Juliet shook her head as though trying to escape a circling fly. There was no point in her thoughts wandering down that path. Or any path that involved a man. Her divorce was barely final, and it’s not like she had any intention of crossing paths with Duncan ever again. Any love between them had died a long time ago. It was Juliet’s own fault that she hadn’t seen it until forced by humiliation at the very moment she’d been drowning in grief. She was finished with Duncan Whittier. That didn’t mean she had any intention of starting anything with someone else. Maybe ever.

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