Page 1 of The Butterfly
PROLOGUE
Edinburgh, Scotland
1802
weat trickled from the hairline of the stable boy as he walked in his father’s wake, his long legs helping him keep up. At ten years of age, Niall Gibbs stood almost as tall as most men—a fact that made his maw lament that she could never keep him fitted in shoes or trousers. Studying the wide back of his da, he supposed it had come honest. A pair of braces crossed those massive shoulders, work-hardened muscles rippling under his dingy linen shirt. Niall remained ever-aware of the strength contained within the large hands flexing at his father’s sides.
“C’mon, lad,” his da snapped, annoyance sharpening his thick Scottish brogue.
Despite already being upon his heels, Niall picked up the pace, trotting until he walked at the man’s side. The sun stung his eyes as he craned his neck to stare up at his sire’s face. The few times Niall had been able to glimpse himself in a looking glass, he’d seen a similar visage staring back at him—pitch black hair falling over a wide forehead, dark, glittering eyes, full lips.
“Stand up straight,” his da urged, forcing him to halt so he could lick his thumb and use it to smear something off his forehead. “Dinnae look the master in the eye, or speak unless spoken to. Ye ken?”
Niall nodded, deciding to practice his silence now. His hands began to shake, so he mimicked his da and curled them into fists. The sun disappeared as they stepped into the shadow of Dunvar House—a towering structure looming four stories over him. He served its residents day in and day out, but had never stepped foot inside.
As Stablemaster for Lord Rowland Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor, his da practically lived in the stables. From time to time, he might travel with the earl to one of his other estates for some matter related to the care of his horses, but he resided primarily at Dunvar House. The wooden outbuilding attached to the carriage house, fenced-in paddocks, and a tiny, two-room cottage had been the totality of Niall’s existence for the past ten years.
Since he had grown old enough to work mucking out stalls and caring for the master’s impressive stock, he’d had one imperative fact drilled into him. What went on inside Dunvar House was none of his affair. Its occupants were his betters, not his equals, and he was not to think he could ever stand head and shoulders with them. He’d been born for one purpose—to serve the master’s household by caring for their horses; as his da did, and his da’s sire had done.
He was not to interact with the Callahans while he served on the lowest rung of the servant hierarchy. Perhaps once he’d become a groom, he might be good enough to speak to the master while preparing his mount. For now, he was merely a stable boy wearing shit-stained boots.
Which was why he couldn’t fathom the reason his da wanted him by his side while he spoke with the earl on an important matter. All Niall knew was that he had not dared to question it when he’d been told to scrape his boots clean, wash his hands in the barrel outside the stable, and follow his father into the house.
They paused near a servants’ entrance, and his da turned to give him a once-over.
“Keep yer hands in yer pockets. The fancy things in this house are worth more than yer life, boy.”
“Aye, Da,” he murmured before clamping his lips shut, remembering he was supposed to be silent.
The door swung open, and they stepped into a corridor filled with other servants. Indoor staff who wore nice, clean clothing and seemed as much a part of the house as the gleaming sconces and rich wallpaper. Dodging maids carrying linens and footmen toting envelopes, decanters, and stacks of china, they moved deeper into the house, where the corridor turned into one lined with heavy oak doors. Everything around them became decidedly more opulent—thick, patterned rugs, bigger, shinier sconces, mirrors, and paintings clearly delineating this part of the domicile from the section servants came and went from.
Despite his da’s insistence that he keep his eyes down, Niall could not help his wandering gaze. He’d never seen such fine things in his life. Even the wood panels lining this passage seemed as if they’d come straight from Heaven, a far cry from the rough slats comprising the inside of his own home. Oh, his maw did her best with making their little cottage into a home. But her hand-sewn curtains and knitted quilts seemed like horse blankets compared to the rich drapes hanging from the windows here, their furniture crude and primitive against the elegant tables, chairs, and other bits he glimpsed through open doors.
So, this was how his betters lived. He’d had an inkling, often seeing the widowed master and his children coming and going dressed in all their finery. But this … stepping into their home and getting the slightest impression of the way they lived made him realize his father must be right. He didn’t even know what some of these things might be called, let alone how to use them. He bet the people who lived here did. He bet they’d been born knowing.
“Here,” his da declared, pausing before one of the doors and knocking.
Niall glanced down the corridor, seeing that it opened into the front vestibule of the house. A bright, airy space with stained glass windows that allowed in the light of the sun through rainbow prisms. A large, round table stood in the center, upon which stood a vase containing an arrangement of fresh flowers brought in from the gardens.
“Enter,” called a man’s voice from the other side of the door.
His da pushed it open, and Niall followed him inside. Just as in the corridor, he became entranced by his surroundings. The yawning space was blanketed with plush rugs that made him feel as if he walked on clouds. Two floor-to-ceiling windows with their drapes pulled back allowed in plenty of sunlight. Between those big windows sat a massive desk of carved cherry wood, its surface gleaming from a good polish. More of the sumptuous decor filled this space, as well—brass sconces, gilt mirrors, a sideboard matching the desk covered in crystal decanters and tumblers. Their contents ranged in color from dark amber to reddish brown—a far cry from the stinking gin his father swigged each night before he passed out in a drunken stupor.
The imposing man seated behind the desk glanced up from his work, a feather-tipped quill hovering over parchment upon which he’d been writing in immaculate rows. Tall and broad like his da, he wore a fine coat over a waistcoat and perfectly tied cravat. His mode of dress only served to enhance the sharpness of his aristocratic features—a high forehead, straight nose, square jaw. His eyes, a glittering muddle of green, brown, and gold, fell on his da, then shifted to Niall, holding for a few seconds.
It proved too long a time to bear such scrutiny, and Niall began to squirm, dropping his gaze to the rug and shifting foot to foot. The man seemed as if he could see through the layers of Niall’s flesh and bone.
“Conall,” the earl said, his tone brusque and clipped. “Is something amiss?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Master,” his da said. “I dinnae mean t’ disturb ye, but there’s a matter I thought ye needed brought t’ yer attention.”
Niall’s gaze slid to the left, where he observed rows of bookcases stretching from wall-to-wall. The shelves overflowed with books bound in leather. He’d never seen so many books, let alone ones this ornate, some even having golden adornments on the corners. Daring a glance at his father from the corner of his eye, he edged a step toward the cases, then another. He would not touch anything; he simply wanted a closer look.
“There’s some kinda sickness sweepin’ the stables,” his da said, approaching the desk now that the earl had addressed him.
This put Niall behind him, Conall’s attention affixed on the master as he went on describing the illness that had laid three horses low within the past fortnight—heedless to Niall edging closer and closer to the shelves.
“It starts when they willnae eat,” his da went on. “Yer dappled gelding—the one with the black star on its nose—has lost a stone or more of bulk.”
