Page 65 of My One and Only Duke
Quinn hated the damned thing, hated its sheer size and durability.
“York is a cathedral town, with Roman fortifications, much like London and St. Paul’s, though York Minster is older than the present version of St. Paul’s by centuries. Why the Vikings didn’t knock the damned walls down and use the lot to build a mead hall, I’ve no idea.”
Ned continued to gawk as they crossed the New Road. Stretches of open fields ran between groups of houses, and the great bustling institution of the Angel Inn held pride of place on the corner.
The empty feeling in Quinn’s belly grew worse. Perhaps he could send Jane a letter or two, though what could he say? Don’t forget your ginger biscuits in the morning. Trust no one except family.
“You’d have the barbarians tear down God’s house?” Ned asked.
“You see the Minster as God’s house. I see it as a place I wasn’t allowed to set foot on even the coldest winter nights, when I was no older than you. I see it as a fantastic monument to man’s conceit, upon which many a coin has been spent while children starved in its shadow.”
In every regard, the thought of York during daylight left Quinn feeling hemmed in, cramped, and uncomfortable. At night, the town expanded. All the winding streets, narrow alleys, and crumbling walls became so much darkness, where possibilities multiplied, most of them lucrative and dangerous, and some of them even legal.
“Stick close to me on this journey, Ned.” Quinn pushed the hair away from the boy’s eyes. “Don’t wander off, don’t explore, don’t investigate.”
“Right,” Ned said, wiggling out of fussing range. “Not my town, not my turf. Best watch meself.”
“Watch me,” Quinn said, as the coach picked up speed. “Don’t let me out of your sight if we go abroad. If John Coachman summons you to the livery, you stick to him like a cocklebur.”
“Ned Cocklebur. I like it.”
The boy would likely vanish a dozen times in the course of the journey. Jane would kill Quinn if anything happened to Ned, assuming Quinn lived long enough to return to her side.
* * *
When Jane rejoined her father, Kristoff was at attention by the sideboard, and no carving knife protruded from the breakfast table. Very little of the bacon had survived Papa’s appetite, which suggested a significant portion was secreted in a table napkin somewhere on his person.
“What has you out and about so early today, Papa?” Jane asked, as Kristoff held her chair. Why did Papa never observe that courtesy?
“The Lord’s work, of course. We can’t all slumber the morning away, Jane Hester. Your husband lacks couth.”
“If Quinn’s manner was less than genteel, he was doubtless sorely provoked.”
Papa chewed with the focus of a squirrel, gesturing with his toast to hold the floor. Mama had scolded him for that very mannerism many times. Jane sent up a prayer for patience.
“A man who will hurl knives at family members is no fit influence on my grandchild, Jane Hester.” The same knife now lay innocently beside the ham, and Kristoff’s expression was professionally blank. “I cannot dissuade you from giving credence to this farce of a marriage, but I intend to be a conscientious guardian of your offspring’s morals. Make no mistake about that.”
Papa had also appointed himself guardian of the butter. Jane took what remained in the butter dish and dabbed it on her toast.
“You will always be welcome to visit, Papa.” She forced herself to recite that invitation, though the habit of deference was growing harder to maintain. He means well, and he has suffered much. One…two…
“To visit? Jane, do you forget the terms of your late husband’s will?”
“You claimed I was too overset by grief to make sense of it, so of course I’m not familiar with every detail. I inherited what few possessions Gordie had, and those promptly disappeared to the pawnshop.” Without her permission, not that Gordie had had much. Still, his regimental sword might have meant something to his only child.
Or to his grieving, overset widow.
“One doesn’t provide a soldier a proper Christian burial without paying for the service. Will you leave me any butter?”
Kristoff set a fresh pat by Papa’s elbow.
“Thank you, Kristoff,” Jane said. “If Gordie intended to direct the details of this child’s upbringing, he should have had the decency to remain alive and be a father.”
Papa set down his toast and bowed his head. Jane took a sip of her tea rather than ask what troubled him. A frustrated thespian inclination troubled him, certainly, and, considering how much food he’d consumed, his belly might also be protesting.
“Jane, I will overlook your disrespectful tone because your condition is delicate and you are newly widowed. Trust me when I assure you that Gordie MacGowan expected me to serve as guardian of his child, should the Almighty grant the infant life. Reconcile yourself to respecting your late husband’s wishes in at least this regard, and know that you too will always be welcome under my roof.”
He aimed a gentle smile at her, and Jane nearly pitched the honeypot at him.
