My Lady Jane(11)

A sharp knock sounded on the stable door.

“My lord?” Billingsly called from the other side.

“Yes,” G said, trying to shake the whinny out of his voice like someone else would clear his throat in the morning.

“Your trousers.”

The stable door opened just wide enough for an arm covered in the blue of the steward uniform to extend through, holding a pair of trousers.

“Thank you, Billingsly.” G took the pants and stepped into them as Billingsly set the rest of his clothes on a wooden table so the hay wouldn’t besmirch the young lord’s ensemble.

“And, my lord, your father would like a word with you when you are appropriately attired.”

“My father?” G said, alarmed. “He’s returned to the castle?”

“Yes, my lord,” Billingsly said.

G fastened the buttons on the front of his jacket and pulled on his tall leather boots. “Please tell my father I am otherwise occupied. I have . . . plans.”

Billingsly cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, my lord, your father was rather insistent. You’ll have to reschedule your . . . um . . . po—”

“Billingsly!” G cut off his servant as the heat rose in his cheeks. “I thought we had an agreement that we would never mention the . . . thing . . . outside of . . . the place.”

“I’m sorry, my lord. But I couldn’t recall your requested code word for it.”

G closed his eyes and sighed. Billingsly had only recently discovered the true nature of G’s secret night outings and had been convinced (cough, bribed) not to tell G’s parents. “Dalliances, Billingsly. My dalliances.”

“Right, my lord. Your dalliances will have to wait, because your mother requests your company as well. She is with your father in the drawing room.”

His father and his mother both here at the estate, in the same room, and summoning him? This sounded rather serious. Yes, his father occasionally requested G’s company to discuss his future, his equestrian curse, his inheritance (or lack thereof, considering he was the second son), his desire for more comfortable hoof-wear and a blacksmith who could keep his mouth shut. But his mother rarely participated in these discussions. She was more at ease in a nurturing role, like giving him sartorial advice or fixing his hair (or mane, depending on the position of the sun in the sky).

G looked at Billingsly. “It’s not Christmas, is it?”

“It’s May, my lord.”

“Somebody’s birthday?”

“No, my lord.”

“Somebody died?” For a moment, he let himself believe it might have been his perfect older brother, Stan, who had died, leaving behind his perfect wife and their perfect son, but then he realized Stan never made mistakes, and leaving behind a family due to an untimely death would most certainly be considered bad form. In addition, then G would be responsible for marrying and heiring. He shuddered at the thought.

“Not that I am aware of, my lord,” answered Billingsly.

G pressed his noble lips together and blew, a sound that was all horse.

“Shall I translate that to mean you are in compliance?”

G closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Very good, my lord.”

What G wouldn’t give at this moment to be able to change into a horse at will. Then he could put fifty miles between himself and his father’s nose. (He would probably need forty-nine of those miles just to get out from under the sniffer.)

Twilight transformed into deep dusk as G made the trek up from the stables to the side door of the apartments. His mind was galloping at breakneck speed wondering what his parents wanted to speak to him about.

From the time he was old enough to sit at the supper table, he’d been aware of his inferior position in the family. Stan always got served before G—the main course and all the side dishes. When their father introduced the two of them, it was always, “This is Stan, the next Duke of Northumberland, heir to the Dudley fortune.” Long pause. “Oh, and this is my other son, Stan’s brother.”

Here, your narrators will point out two facts that may have contributed to the Duke of Northumberland’s embarrassment surrounding his second son. One: the E?ian power was widely considered to be hereditary, and neither the duke nor his supposedly devoted wife had the magic. Two: the duke had an epic nose, the proportions of which were legendary; Gifford’s nose was the perfect size, and the shape could’ve been the inspiration of sonnets.

The combination of these two details made the duke often glance sideways toward his wife, and repeatedly treat Gifford as if he wasn’t there.

That was why at the age of thirteen, Gifford had requested his name be reduced to just G, since nobody seemed to care what his name was anyway.

Billingsly led G from the side entrance down the third main hall, where G caught a glimpse of himself in a hanging mirror and paused to fish a stray piece of hay out of his chestnut-colored hair. His mother had strict rules of civility inside the castle, the most important of which was, “All signs of equestrian escapades are to be left in the stable, where they belong.”

His mother had always approached his curse as if G wanted to spend his days as a quadruped. As if it were just another way for a privileged teenage boy to rebel. She often forgot that he didn’t ask for this curse, and that if he could find a way to control it, he would give Billingsly’s right arm for that information.