Suddenly You(32)

“If I knew what?” she asked. She raised an eyebrow. “Come, Mr. Fretwell, tell me what you find so admirable about Devlin. I assure you, his reputation does him no credit, and while he possesses a certain slippery charm, I have so far detected no signs of character or conscience. I would be intrigued to hear just why you call him a fine man.”

“Well, I will concede that Mr. Devlin is demanding, and he sets a pace that is difficult to follow, but he is always fair, and he gives generous rewards for a job well done. He has a temper, I’ll admit, but he is also quite reasonable. In fact, he is more softhearted than he would want anyone to know. For example, if one of his employees is ill for a prolonged period of time, Mr. Devlin will guarantee that his job is waiting for him when he returns. That is more than most employers will do.”

“You’ve known him for quite some time,” Amanda said with a questioning lilt in her tone.

“Yes, since we were boys at school. At graduation, I and a few of the other fellows followed him to London when he told us that he intended to become a publisher.”

“You all shared the same interest in publishing?” she asked skeptically.

Fretwell shrugged. “It didn’t matter what the profession was. Had Devlin told us he wanted to become a dockmaster, butcher, or fishmonger, we still would have wanted to work for him. If it weren’t for Mr. Devlin, we’d all be leading very different lives. In fact, few of us would be alive today if not for him.”

Amanda tried to conceal her astonishment at these words, but she felt her jaw go slack. “Why do you say that, Mr. Fretwell?” To her fascination, she saw that Fretwell was suddenly uncomfortable, as if he had revealed far more than he should have.

He smiled ruefully. “Mr. Devlin places a great value on his privacy. I should not have said so much. On the other hand…perhaps there are a few things you should understand about Devlin. It is plain that he has taken a great liking to you.”

“It seems to me that he likes everyone,” Amanda said flatly, recalling Devlin’s ease with others at Mr. Talbot’s party, the great number of friends that had eagerly sought his attention. And he certainly got along well enough with the opposite sex. She had not missed the way the female guests at the party had fluttered and giggled in his presence, excited by the smallest attentions from him.

“That’s a facade,” Fretwell assured her. “It suits his purposes to maintain a wide circle of social acquaintances, but he likes very few people, and trusts even fewer. If you knew about his past, you would not be surprised.”

Amanda did not usually attempt to employ charm to obtain information. She had always preferred a more straightforward approach. However, she found herself giving Fretwell the most sweetly appealing smile she was capable of. For some reason, she was very eager to learn whatever he had to tell about Devlin’s past. “Mr. Fretwell,” she said, “won’t you trust me a little? I do know how to keep my mouth closed.”

“Yes, I believe you do. However, it is hardly a subject for parlor conversation.”

“I’m not an impressionable girl, Mr. Fretwell, nor am I some delicate creature given to vapors. I promise that I will not swoon.”

Fretwell smiled slightly, but his tone was grave. “Has Devlin told you anything about the school that he—we—attended?”

“Only that it was a small place in the middle of the moors. He would not divulge the name.”

“It was Knatchford Heath,” he said, pronouncing the name as if it were a foul curse. He waited then, seeming to recall some long-ago nightmare, while Amanda puzzled over the words. The phrase “Knatchford Heath” was not unfamiliar to her—hadn’t there been some ghastly popular rhyme that mentioned it?

“I know nothing about the school,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “Except I have the vaguest impression…didn’t a boy die there once?”

“Many boys died there.” Fretwell smiled grimly. He seemed to distance himself from the subject even as he spoke, his voice compressing to a low monotone. “The place no longer exists, thank God. The scandal grew until no parents dared send their boys for fear of social censure. Had the school not been closed by now, I would personally burn it to the ground.” His expression hardened. “It was a place attended by unwanted or illegitimate boys whose parents wanted to be rid of them. A convenient way to dispose of mistakes. That is what I was—the misbegotten son of a married lady who cuckolded her husband and wished to hide the evidence of her adultery. And Devlin…the son of a nobleman who raped a poor Irish housemaid. When Devlin’s mother died, his father wanted nothing to do with his bastard offspring, and so he sent the boy to Knatchford Heath. Or, as we fondly called the place, Knatchford Hell.” He paused, appearing absorbed in some bitter recollection.

“Go on,” she prodded gently. “Tell me about the school.”

“One or two of the teachers were relatively kind,” he said. “But most were fiendish monsters. It was easy to mistake the headmaster for the devil himself. When a student didn’t learn his lessons well enough, or complained about the moldy bread or the slop they called porridge, or otherwise made some kind of mistake, he was disciplined with severe whippings, starvation, burning, or even worse methods. One of the employees at Devlin’s, Mr. Orpin, is mostly deaf from having his ears boxed too hard. Another boy at Knatchford went blind from lack of nourishment. Sometimes a student would be tied to the gate outside and left all night, exposed to the winter elements. It was a miracle that any of us survived, and yet we did.”