Kate Hoffmann - The Legacy

“Stop,” Grace begged, trying to pull the two of them apart. “Please, Edward, stop. You can make me another rabbit.”

“No,” Edward growled. “Not until he apologizes.” Edward twisted Malcolm’s arm again and his older brother cried out in pain.

“All right,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I broke your bloody bunny. Now let me go.”

Edward released his hold and rocked back on his heels. Malcolm scrambled to his feet, then gave his younger brother a shove, sending him back into the grass. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again,” he threatened.

“Then stay away from Grace, and stay away from me.”

Malcolm brushed the grass off his trousers, then strode back toward the house. Grace bent down beside Edward and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Why does he have to be so mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. Before Charlotte’s death, Malcolm had been so different. They’d all cared about each other, protected each other. But now, he had an anger inside of him that grew stronger every day. And he seemed to delight in taking it out on the nearest vulnerable target. Usually that was their mother, often it was Edward. But now, he preferred Grace as his object of torment.

“If he bothers you, you have to tell me,” Edward said. She was so much weaker, unable to defend herself against a bully who was seven years older. As he’d done for his mother, Edward would now try to protect Grace.

“Don’t tell your mother,” she whispered. “She might want to send me away.”

“No,” Edward said, taking her hand. “She’d never do that. She loves you.” He smiled. “I love you, too, Grace.”

She returned the smile. “And I love you, Edward.”

“What is going on out here?” Rose approached, her skirts rustling as she walked toward them. “I heard shouting. And Malcolm has a bloody nose.”

“Nothing,” Edward said. “Malcolm fell out of the tree.”

She held out her hand to Grace, then pulled her to her feet. “Come along, Mary Grace. I need you to help me with the ironing. You mustn’t bother Master Edward.”

“She’s not bothering me,” Edward said. “Grace is my friend.”

Rose hitched her hands on her hips. “No,” she said. “Mary Grace is a servant in this house. She works here along with me. There will be no friendship. You are not equals.”

With that, Rose turned and pulled Grace along behind her. Edward watched them leave, puzzled by her statement. Though he understood Rose’s position in the household, he’d never thought of Grace as a servant. His mother treated her like a daughter, dressing her in Charlotte’s old clothes and making gifts of Charlotte’s books and toys.

But perhaps that was Grace’s job in the household, to keep his mother happy, to stave off the dark moods that always accompanied Geneva’s grief over Charlotte’s death. Though he was only ten years old, Edward understood the difference between servants and their masters. He’d seen his father turn out kitchen maids and gardeners without a second thought as to how they might survive without a job.

He gathered up the tools and Grace’s animal collection, then walked back to the coach house. Though it was a simple fact, Edward still couldn’t think of Grace in that way. It wasn’t proper to love a servant, not the same way he loved his sister. But his feelings were his own, and as much as Malcolm hated Grace, Edward loved her even more.

The door to the coach house opened and Grace emerged with a small wicker laundry basket filled with linen napkins. She struggled to get it out the door and Edward jumped up and grabbed it from her.

“Don’t,” she said.

“I’ll help you.”

Grace shook her head. “Mama says we shouldn’t be friends. She says it’s not right.”

“No,” Edward said. “She’s wrong. My father is the master and she’s the servant. That’s nothing to do with us.”

“She says someday I’ll work for you. That I mustn’t love you like my brother. I must respect you like my master.”

Edward wrested the basket from her arms, the napkins tumbling onto the grass. “No! I won’t have it. If I’m your master, then I order you to be my friend.”

She fell to the ground and began to pick up the table linens, carefully refolding them and putting them back into the basket. “I—I want to be your friend, Edward. But we’ll have to be secret friends.”

“Yes,” he said. “We can do that. We will swear an oath. Where shall we meet?”

“In the stable,” Grace said. “In the afternoon, while Mama takes her nap and Lady Porter writes her letters. No one will find us there.”

Edward nodded, then picked up the basket and placed it in her hands. He set the animals on top, wrapping them up in a napkin. “We will meet tomorrow.”

Grace nodded, then hurried along to the kitchens. Edward sighed softly. Grace had been his from the moment he’d first found her at the church. She was the only person in the world who loved him for who he was, the only person who mattered to him. There were times when he believed what his mother believed, that Charlotte had come back in Grace’s body. He saw it in her delicate features, in her sweet nature and her unbending loyalty, in her sparkling blue eyes and raven black hair.

They were best friends, though he knew better than to admit it out loud. Boys his own age, from proper Dublin families, ought to be his best friends. That’s what his father had said. But he and Grace shared a special bond, one that would never be broken. And if that was wrong, then Edward didn’t care. For in his heart, it felt right.

“BONJOUR, MONSIEUR PROFESSEUR. Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?”

“Trés bien, merci, Mademoiselle Grace. I see you are anxious to begin your lesson for today.”

Grace smiled at her tutor. Professor was so simple to please. Though he’d been a bit chilly to her at first, she managed to charm him after only a few weeks of lessons. She’d suspected he’d felt it beneath his station to tutor an Irish Catholic girl, considering his proper British breeding. But Geneva had stepped in after only a few lessons and made certain that he was giving his full attention to their work together.

“I’ve studied my verbs,” she said. “Would you like to hear them?”

“Very well. The future indicative of ‘to have.’”

“J’aurai, tu auras, il aura, nous aurons, vous aurez, ils auront.”

“Très bien, mademoiselle. We have worked together for how long now?”

“Since I was six,” Grace said. “Four years now, Professor.”

“I will tell you, you have far surpassed Master Malcolm in your studies.” He leaned closer, as if to impart a very interesting secret. “I helped him study for his entrance exams to university and he is a rather unremarkable student. His Latin is atrocious, his penmanship is illegible and he can barely cipher. Master Edward, however, is the opposite. Since I’ve been teaching him, he has embraced his education. He will always excel, I am sure of it.”

“Grace!” Edward burst into the room, his color high, his dark hair tousled. He was growing into a very handsome young man, Grace mused. Nearly fourteen years old. If she didn’t consider him a brother, she might actually fancy him— when she got a bit older. “You have to come. Right now.”

“Miss Grace is having her French lesson,” Professor said. “And when she’s done, you and I have a rendezvous with your mathematics book.”

“This is much more important.” Edward crossed the room and grabbed Grace’s hand, then dragged her to her feet. “We have to go now. Lesson over.”

They ran out of the room, Grace’s hand clutched in Edward’s. He led her out the back door, then across the courtyard toward the stables. The old stone building was a fair distance from the house and by the time they reached it, Grace was out of breath. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees, gasping. “What is it?”