Page 8 of The Forgotten Boy

She shook her head, for her voice had deserted her. So this was Edward of York. He seemed much older than eleven.

Duchess Cecily came down the steps and turned her gaze from her son to her new ward. “Forgive my son, Lady Ismay. His carelessness is exceeded only by his impudence.” But there was more affection than criticism in her voice.

“I am all right,” Ismay said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You’ve had a long journey. My husband is away for several days. Until his return I have put you in a private room. I know you are unused to other children.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I’ll show her, Mama,” said Edward.

The offer terrified Ismay. She would never be able to think of anything to say to him that wasn’t childish or stupid.

But the duchess shook her head. “You were expected with the clerk fifteen minutes ago. You have business to attend to.”

Edward grinned and kissed his mother’s hand before taking the stairs two at a time.

The duchess studied her as though she were a perplexing household problem. She was as terrifying as her oldest son but in an entirely different way. Ismay’s mother had been all laughter and music. Cecily of York looked as if laughter would be beneath her.

In the flow of people that had continued in and out of the hall, one caught Lady York’s eye and she motioned. “Will you show Lady Ismay to her room? It’s in the same corridor as mine.”

It was another boy, younger than Edward, a slightly paler copy, but clearly related. “She’s not to be with the girls?” he asked.

“Not just yet. Your father will decide.” The duchess turned her cool regard on Ismay once more. “I will have a maid bring up water to bathe. You may dine in your room tonight. In the morning I will send for you.”

It might have sounded as though Ismay was being accorded great favor as an honored guest, but for all that Duchess Cecily called her Lady Ismay, she knew that she was being kept apart from the York children until such time as the duke decided whether she was good enough to remain in their household. Just because they wanted the wealth of her wardship didn’t mean they needed to keep her. She could just as easily be sent to a convent.

She thought a convent might be very nice. Quiet, at least. And no superior duchesses or beautiful boys who could talk rings around their mothers.

She felt a tentative touch on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

It was the other boy asking, in a much kinder way than his brother had. As though he truly cared.

Ismay nodded, then found that her voice had returned. “It’s a long way from Havencross.”

“And you came by yourself?” He managed to ask without sounding judgmental or pitying.

She lifted her chin, feigning bravery. “I had no one to come with me.”

I have no one, she repeated in her head. I am alone in the world.

“Well, you have us now. If you want us.” His smile was not as breathtaking as Edward’s. “I’m Edmund,” he said. “Welcome to the family.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

DIANA

SEPTEMBER 1918

The second Saturday after term began, Diana took advantage of her first free afternoon to put off her nurse’s uniform and put on her leather boots and goggles. She pushed her beloved motorbike out of the old stables, where it was stored with several automobiles belonging to the school. And, to the admiring looks of the boys playing cricket on the front lawn, she rode out of the courtyard with a little more flair than was strictly necessary.

Her father had bought her the Douglas after sixteen-year-old Diana had tried to ride her older brother’s Enfield. There was no better training ground for riding through traffic, making quick turns and stops, than London, and within weeks of war being declared she was a messenger for the War Office. In December 1914, an army medical officer had spotted Diana, by now twenty-one, as she’d made a hairpin turn on her motorbike, tracked her down, and asked if she wanted to be an ambulance driver in France.

Almost four years ago, but it seemed much longer when she thought of herself back then, cheerful and innocent and eager to dash toward adventure and embrace danger. That girl had died in France, somewhere between ambulance driving, nurse training, and the forward medical post she’d helped set up in 1916 just a hundred yards from the front.

Only on her Douglas did Diana feel that maybe not all light and joy had died in the war. And to ride out here—beneath enormous skies, across rivers, up and down hills—was what she imagined flying must be like. There was only air and light surrounding her, until she reached Steel Rigg and caught her first sight of Hadrian’s Wall.

She parked the bike and took off her goggles and gloves, tucking them into one of her panniers. She didn’t know exactly where she was, but it didn’t appear to be private land—it certainly wasn’t farmed or foraged—and this was England; nobody here would shoot her for walking in the wrong field, and the Romans hadn’t left landmines behind.

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