it," said Fletcher, chuckling as he recalled watching his father trying to wrestle the turkey from the hound but laughing too hard to succeed. Amidst the plentitude on the sideboard the lack of a turkey went unnoticed, and the incident had been a favorite family story to be told and retold at holiday meals for years afterward. James The First had proclaimed himself a legend.
She shifted her position in the chair. "There were many who told Mr. Stedman to shoot that old hound for his behavior, but my husband wouldn't hear of it. The hound was his favorite. Now James The Second was another matter. He was reckless, wild and unruly—" Her face conveyed a wistful memory. "—like someone else I knew." The expression disappeared. "James The Second thought Aunt Bettina was hurting Fletcher—that was my son—when she was only teasing and tickling him. Well, James came right up behind her and took a bite of her—" Adeline put her hand to her mouth, chortling. "—her...derriere, and she set to screaming as loud as I've ever heard." His mother's face grew serious. "It was rare for Samuel to lose his temper, but he beat that hound. To my husband, wild and reckless was fine, but not when it bordered on stupidity, and biting Aunt Bettina was sheer stupidity." His mother giggled again and shook her head. "Especially if you knew Aunt Bettina."
Fletcher sat back in his chair and rested his head on the round back. Yes, he knew Aunt Bettina, all two hundred fifty pounds of her. The poor hound was lucky she didn't fall on him because he would have been crushed to death. Fletcher glanced sideways at his mother. She had crossed her palms over her chest, lowered her head and closed her eyes. Concerned, he immediately sobered. "Mrs. Stedman, are you ill?"
"Oh no," she replied, looking up toward the sound of his voice. "I'm just thinking I shouldn't talk unfavorably of the dead because Aunt Bettina was a dear, dear woman. But I do remember having a terrible time smothering my giggles later when I had to—” She burst into wheezes of merriment, stamping her foot for extra emphasis. “—dress her bruises.”
He laughed with her as he had in another lifetime when the three of them—his mother, his father and he—had sat in these chairs and enjoyed afternoons together. The laughter was familiar and comfortable and by right he should be there. From his perch, he gazed at the sloping lawns of the graceful scene before him. It had all been his, and he'd taken it for granted as he had the air he breathed and the ground under his feet. He was going to fight to have it back.
"Yes. Those were wonderful times, but now the great hall has not the laughter of those days, and Buck is saddled with a blind and helpless old woman," Adeline added.
Fletcher bristled at the remark. "You may be blind, Mrs. Stedman, but I'll wager by no means helpless. Mr. Dawson told many stories of you and your family, all of which convinced me that while you may have let your family think you a fragile female, you ruled your kingdom with love and fairness. He thinks of you quite highly." His mother blossomed under the praise.
He couldn't help himself; he had to ask. "Mr. Dawson also spoke of your son. You said his name was Fletcher?" He saw a shadow cross his mother's face, and her smile faded.
"A mother never recovers from such a loss," she noted. "Fletcher was the most precious gift in my life."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to distress you," Fletcher said with heartfelt sincerity.
Adeline Stedman shook her head. "On the contrary, it comforts me to speak of him. After he was gone, everyone refused to speak his name for fear of upsetting me. It was almost as if he had never existed. They thought I had lost my mind when I lit my candle."
"Candle?"
"Yes. Can you see the lamp in my window?" She pointed toward the house. "It's for him, for Fletcher. It burns day and night so that one day he will find his way home."
Fletcher straightened his back. He wondered if perhaps his mother had indeed lost her mind. "You think he's coming back? You don't think he's dead?"
She shook her head. "I knew my son's mind better than he did. I always knew what he was thinking. If he had died, somehow I would have known. I'll never give up hope." She shifted her position again, and her knitting fell to the ground. Fletcher retrieved her work and handed it to her. As she took it, their hands touched. She ran her fingers over his palm.
"You've worked a great deal," she observed. "This is not the hand of an idle man."
Fletcher felt his face grow hot, and he tried to withdraw his hand. "You should not chafe your tender hands with mine."
"Despite your easy laughter, I feel a great emotional turmoil in you, Mr. Brown. Perhaps sorrow? Perhaps hate? Perhaps a mixture of the two?"
Fletcher emitted an agitated chuckle and lowered his head.
"May I intrude on your privacy and inquire as to how you lost your voice?"
He attempted to parry the question. "I've been speaking to you, Mrs. Stedman. Clearly I have not lost my voice."
She finally released his hand and sat back in her chair. "Do you wish me to believe that harshness is your God-given tone?" She stared toward the sound of his voice with the same dark eyes that years before had rendered him powerless. He had never lied to her.
"I had an...accident many years ago. My voice has remained this way since," he answered, divulging as little as possible.
In the quiet afternoon, Adeline Stedman sat upon her rustic thrown as regal as a dowager duchess, her hands folded as in prayer, her fingertips pressed to her lips.
"Be careful, Mr. Brown. Hate forces love away and allows evil to prosper. If hate eats too much of your heart there will be nothing left, and you will become that which you hate—empty and incapable of giving or receiving love—and you will die. Not physically, of course, but you will die nonetheless. People think I'm a lonely old woman. They don't realize I had splendid years with a wonderful husband, and seventeen years with a precious son." She placed her hand over her heart. "They are here with me—inside. How can I possibly be lonely with such an overabundance of love?" She paused. "Will you indulge an old woman?"
"Anything I can do for you, you need only ask."
"Kneel down and let me see you—see you with my hands."
Fletcher reluctantly knelt. Her hands explored his forehead, eyebrows, eyelids and temples.
"What color are your eyes?" It was fortunate her probing eyes were closed when she asked her question.
He shut his eyes. It hurt to lie to her. One more lie added to the never-ending web. "Brown."
She took several long breaths before answering. "My son's eyes were blue. They were the same color as the sapphire my husband gave me the day Fletcher was born." She touched his hair. With her thumbs, she traced along the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. As he opened his eyes, his mother's hand traced the scar on his right cheek that extended past the line of his beard. "This was a jagged wound. Would you tell me about it?" She regarded him obliquely. "You're trembling."
"This position makes me dizzy when I stay in it overly long," he replied, using the chair for balance.
She immediately released him. "Forgive me. I don't want to cause you discomfort. Not when you have been so kind to me."
Fletcher slid into the chair, lowered his head and blinked hard, trying to clear his head. A movement caught his eye. In the distance, he saw Silas signaling to him; it was time. He rose.
"Mrs.
