Two years later, however, he wasn’t so sanguine.
“Why isn’t he talking?” he boomed.
“I don’t know,” Nurse answered, wringing her hands.
“What have you done to him?”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“If you’d been doing your job correctly, he”—the duke jabbed an angry finger in Simon’s direction—“would be speaking.”
Simon, who was practicing his letters at his miniature desk, watched the exchange with interest.
“He’s four years old, God damn it,” the duke roared. “He should be able to speak.”
“He can write,” Nurse said quickly. “Five children I’ve raised, and not a one of them took to letters the way Master Simon has.”
“A fat lot of good writing is going to do him if he can’t talk.” Hastings turned to Simon, rage burning in his eyes. “Talk to me, damn you!”
Simon shrank back, his lower lip quivering.
“Your grace!” Nurse exclaimed. “You’re scaring the child.”
Hastings whipped around to face her. “Maybe he needs scaring. Maybe what he needs is a good dose of discipline. A good paddling might help him find his voice.”
The duke grabbed the silver-backed brush Nurse used on Simon’s hair and advanced on his son. “I’ll make you talk, you stupid little—”
“No!”
Nurse gasped. The duke dropped the brush. It was the first time they’d ever heard Simon’s voice.
“What did you say?” the duke whispered, tears forming in his eyes.
Simon’s fists balled at his sides, and his little chin jutted out as he said, “Don’t you h-h-h-h-h-h-h—”
The duke’s face turned deathly pale. “What is he saying?”
Simon attempted the sentence again. “D-d-d-d-d-d-d—”
“My God,” the duke breathed, horrified. “He’s a moron.”
“He’s not a moron!” Nurse cried out, throwing her arms around the boy.
“D-d-d-d-d-d-d-don’t you h-h-h-h-h-h-hit”—Simon took a deep breath—“me.”
Hastings sank onto the window seat, his head dropping into his hands. “What have I done to deserve this? What could I have possibly done . . .”
“You should be giving the boy praise!” Nurse Hopkins admonished. “Four years you’ve been waiting for him to speak, and—”
“And he’s an idiot!” Hastings roared. “A goddamned, bloody little idiot!”
Simon began to cry.
“Hastings is going to go to a half-wit,” the duke moaned. “All those years of praying for an heir, and now it’s all for ruin. I should have let the title go to my cousin.” He turned back to his son, who was sniffling and wiping his eyes, trying to appear strong for his father. “I can’t even look at him,” he gasped. “I can’t even bear to look at him.”
And with that, the duke stalked out of the room.
Nurse Hopkins hugged the boy close. “You’re not an idiot,” she whispered fiercely. “You’re the smartest little boy I know. And if anyone can learn to talk properly, I know it’s you.”
Simon turned into her warm embrace and sobbed.
“We’ll show him,” Nurse vowed. “He’ll eat his words if it’s the last thing I do.”
Nurse Hopkins proved true to her word. While the Duke of Hastings removed himself to London and tried to pretend he had no son, she spent every waking minute with Simon, sounding out words and syllables, praising him lavishly when he got something right, and giving him encouraging words when he didn’t.
The progress was slow, but Simon’s speech did improve. By the time he was six, “d-d-d-d-d-d-d-don’t” had turned into “d-d-don’t,” and by the time he was eight, he was managing entire sentences without faltering. He still ran into trouble when he was upset, and Nurse had to remind him often that he needed to remain calm and collected if he wanted to get the words out in one piece.
But Simon was determined, and Simon was smart, and perhaps most importantly, he was damned stubborn. He learned to take breaths before each sentence, and to think about his words before he attempted to say them. He studied the feel of his mouth when he spoke correctly, and tried to analyze what went wrong when he didn’t.
And finally, at the age of eleven, he turned to Nurse Hopkins, paused to collect his thoughts, and said, “I think it is time we went to see my father.”
Nurse looked up sharply. The duke had not laid eyes on the boy in seven years. And he had not answered a single one of the letters Simon had sent him.
Simon had sent nearly a hundred.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
Simon nodded.
“Very well, then. I’ll order the carriage. We’ll leave for London on the morrow.”
The trip took a day and a half, and it was late afternoon by the time their carriage rolled up to Basset House. Simon gazed at the busy London streetscape with wonder as Nurse Hopkins led him up the steps. Neither had ever visited Basset House before, and so Nurse didn’t know what to do when she reached the front door other than knock.
The door swung open within seconds, and they found themselves being looked down upon by a rather imposing butler.
“Deliveries,” he intoned, reaching to close the door, “are made in the rear.”
“Hold there!” Nurse said quickly, jamming her foot in the door. “We are not servants.”
The butler looked disdainfully at her garments.
“Well, I am, but he’s not.” She grabbed Simon’s arm and yanked him forward. “This is Earl Clyvedon, and you’d do well to treat him with respect.”
The butler’s mouth actually dropped open, and he blinked several times before saying, “It is my understanding that Earl Clyvedon is dead.”
“What?” Nurse screeched.
“I most certainly am not!” Simon exclaimed, with all the righteous indignation of an eleven-year-old.
The butler examined Simon, recognized immediately that he had the look of the Bassets, and ushered them in.
“Why did you think I was d-dead?” Simon asked, cursing himself for misspeaking, but not surprised. He was always most likely to stutter when he was angry.
“It is not for me to say,” the butler replied.
“It most certainly is,” Nurse shot back. “You can’t say something like that to a boy of his years and not explain it.”
The butler was silent for a moment, then finally said, “His grace has not mentioned you in years. The last I heard, he said he had no son. He looked quite pained as he said it, so no one pursued the conversation. We—the servants, that is—assumed you’d passed on.”
Simon felt his jaw clench, felt his throat working wildly.
“Wouldn’t he have gone into mourning?” Nurse demanded. “Did you think about that? How could you have assumed the boy was dead if his father was not in mourning?”
The butler shrugged. “His grace frequently wears black. Mourning wouldn’t have altered his costume.”
“This is an outrage,” Nurse Hopkins said. “I demand you summon his grace at once.”