Dearest Josephine

Welby might forgive the affair. She deserved his compliance, for she’d accepted his adultery with the utmost grace. No other wife—especially one pronounced barren—would permit a bastard to roam the house in broad daylight.
“What will you call him?” Lady Welby glanced up from her needlework. She refused to meet her husband’s gaze and instead stared at the portrait of her father, which hung above the fireplace. Were all men subject to immoral acts? Of course she would never ask, for etiquette and common decency considered it best to remain unaware of man’s folly.
And to accept love in polite doses.
“My son may live with the servants until his eighth birthday. Then he will go to Eton for his education.” Lord Welby stood from his chair and moved to a window overlooking the south yard. Near the rosebushes lounged the mother of his child—a young maid with the darkest curls he’d ever seen. Yes, he had violated his marriage vows and by doing so faced judgement, but the shame was his to bear. He would neither inflict further embarrassment on Lady Welby nor deny his son a proper upbringing.
The boy would one day inherit the Welby fortune.
“His name?” Lady Welby sighed. She drummed her fingertips on the settee’s armrest, more so out of impatience than aggravation. Her sister planned to visit for dinner, which meant additional preparations. Already the clock’s hands pointed at late afternoon.
Ever since news of the affair reached her family home in Sussex, Lady Welby’s parents regarded her with amusement and traces of pity. She couldn’t let her sister report another mishap. How else would she regain her respectability if not from a well-planned meal?
Lord Welby turned from the window. “Elias,” he said. “We named him Elias.”
Windermere Hall belonged to an establishment of exceptional homes. It drew persons from across the country, all of whom desired to view the estate’s gardens and galleries, Italian frescos, and modern furnishings. No house in West Yorkshire possessed the same grandeur—a fact in which Lord and Lady Welby took great pride. They enjoyed their resources, more so the privileges that came with deep pockets. They hosted dances and dinners to show off their good fortune, for society forgave all scandal in exchange for engraved invitations.
A bastard generated little interest compared to Windermere’s silk wallpaper.
Elias, now a young man, hurried down the servants’ stairwell. He made a sharp right, dodging a maid as she hauled bedsheets to the laundry. Upstairs belonged to the lord and lady, but downstairs a world of its own teemed with activity. Servants arranged flowers and polished shoes. The butler took stock of the pantry while footmen played cards in the dining room.
Lord Welby recommended Elias keep his distance from the household staff, but the servants’ quarters radiated warmth, a sensation Elias had craved during his time at Eton College. He’d longed for the chambers while seated in draughty classrooms. He’d thought about the herbs drying from mantels, the clatter of pots, and the low thrum of conversations.
Downstairs was the closest thing he had to a home.
Elias rushed into the main kitchen, where oil lamps burned steadily and steam billowed from pots, running off the chill. He savoured the aroma of bread—rosemary sourdough, by the smell of it.
“Sorry I’m late. Father asked me to go riding with him.”
Mrs. Capers, the cook, glanced up from her work and motioned to the tea spread. “Food’s on the table. I made those biscuits you fancy.” She tucked a strand of grey hair into her cap. “One of these days you’ll eat us out of house and home.”
“Won’t that be an accomplishment?” Elias sat at the kitchen table across from Anne, the cook’s daughter. He reached for a teapot and poured its dark refreshment into a cup.
“Better not let the mistress hear about your tea-time visits,” Mrs. Capers said while flitting about the kitchen. She stoked the cast iron stove, then moved to a countertop strewn with poultry and herbs. Dinner would begin in a few hours, barely enough time to stuff the goose with apples and prunes, roast it golden brown, and send it to the decker’s room.
“Lady Welby doesn’t take kindly to intermingling,” Anne said. She hunched over a wicker basket at the table’s head, her arms wrist-deep in green beans.
“Intermingling? I was born in the servants’ quarters. You’re more my kin than anyone upstairs.” Elias dropped a sugar cube into his tea and dissolved it with a few stirs of his spoon. He propped his elbows on the worn tabletop. A breach of etiquette. An ungentlemanly act. Indeed, the headmaster at Eton College would birch his knuckles for such behaviour.
Elias had become well acquainted with discipline over the years.
“Nonsense. You’ve grown into a fine lord.” Mrs. Capers brought a tray of biscuits to the table. She placed the shortbreads in front of Elias, then pinched his cheek with her forefinger and thumb. “It’s time you learned your place, Mr. Welby.”
Her words caused a pang to ripple through Elias’s chest. He didn’t want to feel it, for all feelings stirred up emotions he’d waited years to settle. He sucked a breath to dull the sensation. He clenched and unclenched his fists. But the pain was a stone rolling into an avalanche.
It swept him away.
“Aye, you got much ahead of you, dear boy,” Mrs. Capers whispered. “Your mum would be right proud.” She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her apron, then waddled back to the stove.
Elias cleared his throat and looked down at the table. He blinked to keep his eyes from watering. Grown men didn’t cry. The headmaster had drilled this lesson into Elias during his education.
“You think too highly of me,” Elias said to lighten the mood. No, he didn’t belong with Anne and Mrs. Capers. Neither did he belong with Lord and Lady Welby. He’d spent eight years of his life in the servants’ quarters, then ten at Eton. Besides occasional visits to Windermere Hall for holidays, he had lived apart from all relations.
A gentleman’s bastard