Epilogue
Five years later
“Samuel!” Nicholas bellowed through the hall. “Samuel, get down here this instant!” His aggressive five-year-old proceeded to run down the stairs at lightning speed, missing the last one with all the grace that a young child could posses and promptly fell on his bottom.
Mischievous blue eyes looked up at Nicholas, melting his heart instantly. What had he been so upset about again? Oh right, Samuel had single-handedly cut all the hair off his sisters’ dolls and then fed it to the chickens.
Nicholas’s temper returned. The poor girls were only two and a half, and they cried for hours!
“Samuel, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Samuel bit his lip perplexed at such a question or so it seemed. “They had ugly hair,” he stated dryly. Leave it to Sara to give birth to a son that had more wit and dry sarcasm than the two of them combined. Nicholas pinched his nose and rolled his eyes. “Son, listen to me.”
Samuel nodded his head and crossed his arms, in the exact same fashion Nicholas habitually did when he was concentrating. “One day you’re going to want girls to like you and girls like to be treated like princesses. If you treat your sisters cruelly, then you won’t learn how to treat girls nicely. Then no one will want to marry you. You don’t want that, do you?”
Samuel grinned. “Dad, did you have that problem?”
“Samuel, I—“
“Because Mum said that lots of girls liked you even though you—“
“Enough.” Nicholas didn’t even want to know what Samuel had to say next. “Go find your sisters and apologize.”
Samuel nodded his head and trotted back up the stairs, rather cheerfully to Nicholas’s mind. It was as if he was staring at himself as a young boy. When Samuel reached the age to court, he was locking him in the upstairs attic. He had too much charm to do him any good at that age, especially with women.
He walked over to his study and smiled. Sara had redecorated it when she was pregnant with the twins. Her nervous energy came in swift bounds during those months, making it nearly impossible for even Nicholas to sit still around her.
“What are you smiling about?” Sara’s voice whispered behind his ear.
He jumped slightly then turned and pulled her into his arms. “Oh just about you, and the girls, and Samuel’s upstairs apologizing, by the way.”
“I still can’t believe he fed the doll hair to the chickens. You do know that the gardener is still pulling it out of the coop, right?”
Nicholas tried not to laugh. “Yes, and on behalf of men everywhere, I apologize. I don’t know what gets into him.”
“Oh I do!” She said without taking time to think. “He’s his father’s son, that’s what, plus Duncan isn’t the best influence when it comes to pranks. Did you know that just last week he brought a frog to church?” Sara’s eyes closed in absolute horror. “It was awful, especially when he handed it to Mother and asked her to hold it during the sermon.”
Nicholas laughed. Lady Fenton was the picture of elegance and grace, to envision her holding her grandson’s frog was the most amusing thing he had heard in ages. “What did she do?”
“What could she do?” Sara exclaimed. “You weren’t there to rescue her since you were gone on business all week, and I was still feeling ill! The poor dear sat there for an hour, Nicholas; an entire hour with the slimy thing in her lap. Oddly enough, it didn’t move.”
“Probably fell asleep,” he muttered under his breath.
Sara swatted him. “Be nice!”
“That was me being nice,” he grumbled. “That old vicar needs to be replaced and you know it.”
Sara huffed. “Well, yes, but I don’t see any volunteers, plus we’ll be leaving for London soon. We won’t have time to aid in the search.”
He nodded, then a thought popped into his head. “How about we stay for a while?”
Sara looked at him through thick lashes. “Whatever for?”
“Well, wildflowers for one thing,” he said, kissing her cheek.
“Hmm I guess.” She wiggled against him.
“And I did promise you ducks,” he whispered huskily into her ear.
She pushed him away. “That was so long ago, how do you remember?”
“I remember everything about you, my little duckling.” He kissed her nose. “My beautiful, beautiful, perfect little duckling.”
She answered him by kissing him on the mouth. He looked down and caressed her swollen belly. “It’s a boy you know.”
“Well you have been right about every other one.”
He smiled. “I know, so what do you say?”
She winked at him then turned away. “I say we stay for the ducks.”
“Perfect,” he whispered as he watched his wife saunter outside.
He was left alone in his study to contemplate how utterly blessed he had been when a dark figure approached the door.
“Yes what is it?” he asked. A small maid had entered the room. Her face was red and splotchy, her hair a mess.
“You have someone wanting to see you, my lord.”
“Who?” He asked looking back at his desk.
“Well my lord, it’s, it’s…” The color on her face seemed to heighten with each word.
“Oh, I’ll introduce myself, thank you….” A deep voice came from the hall.
It couldn’t be.
Impossible. He had been in France for two years.
Before his thoughts could get any further he looked up at the doorway.
“Sebastian St. James, Duke of Tempest, at your service.” His old friend gave a low bow before continuing with, “I need your help.”
To be continued…
Also by Rachel Van Dyken
Oh no. This is not happening, not happening!
I wipe my hands over my pleated skirt, a nervous habit. Sweaty hands aren’t attractive, or so Brad Macintosh said when he held them during couple’s skate my seventh grade year.
It’s my first choir solo ever. Why couldn’t it be our fall concert instead of our Spring Spectacular? I feel ridiculous standing in front of the entire school with my mouth gaping open trying to find a middle C. Not to mention the fact that my mother, who is standing up in the front of the audience waving with video camera in hand, forced me to wear a pleated skirt. Thus the outfit is now screaming “uncool” on my lanky body.
Never am I this mean. But when I get nervous, I tend to snap at people. All week I’ve been at odds with my mom for taking pictures of me. She was literally documenting every day of my life up until the big solo or as she puts it, “my discovery!” Leave it to my mom to turn a junior high solo into the performance of a lifetime, which will not only get her daughter discovered, but will make her a best selling artist all before her eighteenth birthday. Somehow I don’t think MTV is going to be knocking on our door anytime soon for the professional footage my mom shot in order to do a “diary” on my life before I was famous.
Nervous and sweating, I begin my solo, praying I remember the words. When I finish, I felt like I’d run the fifty-yard dash the way my heart is hammering, but then I realize everyone is clapping. They’re all clapping for me. I did well!
In fact, people are beginning to stand up and clap. I actually feel famous, like I’m a pop star giving my first concert and people love me. THEY LOVE ME!
I bow and do a little curtsy just so they know I’m still humble then wave like Miss America all the way back to my seat with the rest of the choir. Blushing, I try to avoid eye contact with the rest of the choir as they whisper, “good job”. I look humble, but I’m actually soaring because of how proud I am. I actually did it! Now if only my mom would turn off that dang camera and sit down. My dad gives me a thumbs up, and oh yes, my mom is wiping a stray tear from her eye. Looking at them you’d assume I’ve never done anything exciting in my entire life.
***
Our choir director grabs the microphone and clears his throat. The entire audience falls silent like he’s the president of the United States about to make his State of the union address.
Our town is small. Just because our choir director used to be a somewhat famous Christian artist doesn’t mean he should be elected mayor or given the key to the town; however, few agree with my practical assessment. After all, he did give me my starring solo, so I should probably act a little more thankful. So I, like everyone else, put the stars in my eyes and listen intently for what he is about to say.
“Now, I know we normally end after the starring solo.” He turns and winks at me while I feel my face turn hot as people start chanting my name. “But,” he says, holding up his hand, “we have a little treat for all of you today. Preston, why don’t you come down here?”
Preston? Weird, I didn’t know he was in choir. Poor boy. He’d be more attractive if he traded in the Star Wars t-shirts for some button-ups. He’s the only member of the local Star Wars fan club; he refuses to acknowledge that George Lucas did, in fact, make more films. He says it’s blasphemy to even speak of it, thus why he’s the only member of the club.
Rather than his usual uniform sporting R2D2 or Luke Skywalker, he’s wearing an over large sweater vest and pants way too short for his height. As I’m assessing his wardrobe, my eyes land on Austin Macintosh, a pretty boy.
Good looks and talent on the basketball court don’t hurt his popularity with the ladies either. Hopefully, he’ll ask me to prom. I mean, it’s only natural for the starting point guard to ask out the soloist of the year, right? Deciding to be bold, I wink at him and notice a faint blush stain his cheeks and his eyes shift downward in nervousness. When he looks up he lifts his hand in a friendly wave and winks. Yes!
“Amanda Lewis!”
I hear my name. Why do I hear my name? Turning, I see Preston staring at me, and the entire audience seems to be waiting in suspense.
“What?” I ask in hushed tones.
The girl next to me tells me Preston had asked me to approach the front. Strange, but maybe I won an award? Without further hesitation, I walk up and smile brightly as people clap. The temptation to wave again is overwhelming, and I succumb, beaming as I receive another round of applause. Wow, I could get use to this kind of attention. Finally I reach Preston, but there’s no trophy. Bummer.
He grabs for my hand, and before I can pull it away, it’s already stuck in his grasp. He’s rubbing my thumb. This is awkward. “Will you go to prom with me?”
He’s kidding. I’m getting pranked. This can’t be real. Is this Candid Camera? Looking around, I notice that everyone in the audience is dead silent. Even my friends in the choir are sitting there with their mouths gaping open. This is social suicide.
As I take the microphone out of his hands, I feel the collective hush of people holding their breath. Somehow I manage to press on as gracefully as possible. “Wow, that’s so sweet to offer,” I say cheerfully. I see my mom has turned the video camera back on. We’ll have words later.
“But,” I say unsure, “I already promised I’d go with my cousin. Maybe if you had asked sooner…” This is my peace offering, a pathetic one.
“Prom’s in two months,” Preston replies, defeated.
“I know,” I say quickly. “But I wanted to get an early start. So sorry, Preston.”
He grabs the microphone and tries to smile. “It’s okay. You’re right. I should have asked sooner. Hey, let’s give another round of applause to the soloist of the night!” He backs up and claps for me, but I can see tears in his eyes. Humiliation, and it’s all my fault.
All I want right now is for the floor to swallow me alive. That isn’t an option, however, so I wave with little enthusiasm and find my seat.
A girl next to me nudges my knee. “That was close, huh?” Her eyes are laughing, like she’s making a joke, but I just want to cry. How cruel can a person be? People around me are muttering words like, ouch, harsh, bummer, and I fight the tears threatening to stream down my face. My throat constricts with a sudden onslaught of emotion as I watch Preston slowly move back to his seat and hang his head in his hands. I silently pray for him to lift his head and look in my direction. Instead all I see a single tear slide down his cheek then nausea overwhelms me. I just shot Bambi, and the worst part is, I can’t seem to find the strength to get up, walk over to his seat, and apologize.