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“Can we be with her?” he asked.
The doctor nodded.
With great reluctance, Donovan and Sam entered the bedchamber. The maid sat beside the bed, weeping.
“Go,” Sam said softly. “We will be with her.”
The servant left, leaving them alone.
“Why would he do this?” Donovan asked, his eyes flooding with tears.
“Because he’s a vile man,” Sam replied. “He never loved her. He doesn’t love anyone.”
They sat with her for several hours. The fever grew worse. Mama grew delirious as her body heated like a furnace. The maid returned, bringing bowls with cloths. He and Sam dipped them in the water, bathing Mama’s face and limbs, trying to calm the raging inferno within her.
The pain returned and she began howling, a guttural noise that stripped him until he was raw. The leg continued to bleed, soaking the bedclothes. Donovan thought if the high fever didn’t kill her, the great loss of blood would.
“I will go get Father,” Sam finally said as night fell and the room began to grow dark.
“Why?”
“I think she hasn’t long to live.”
“He should have been here, comforting her,” Donovan hissed. “He’s probably eating dinner and sipping port.”
Sam didn’t reply. His brother slipped from the room.
Donovan took Mama’s hand again. “I love you,” he croaked as her eyes opened.
“I love . . . you,” she gasped and then her jaw went slack. Her eyes stared at the ceiling. Her breathing ceased.
He wailed, punching the mattress with his fists. Then he calmed and brushed his hands over her eyes to close them.
Minutes later, his father entered with Sam.
“She’s dead,” Donovan told them dully, a vast emptiness inside him.
Tears coursed down Sam’s cheeks. The duke remained stalwart. Donovan couldn’t help but compare the two as they stood next to one another, both short and thin, blond-haired and fair complexions.
“She always favored you,” Haverhill finally said. “Said you were her little miracle. You look just like her, you know.”
He glanced at the still body on the bed and knew his father spoke the truth. Donovan had his mother’s thick, black hair and piercing, blue eyes. She had told him he was built like the men on her side of the family. Tall, sturdy, and muscular. A fresh wave of tears poured from his eyes, like a dam bursting.
“Quit your crying,” the duke barked. “She coddled you far too much. I don’t need a spoiled, pampered boy for a son.”
“I won’t quit crying!” Donovan shouted. “I loved her.”
“Well, if you’d loved her, you wouldn’t have taken her walking in the woods and gotten her killed.”
Guilt rose within him. Rationally, he knew it wasn’t his fault but his father’s words lingered in the air.
“You’ve cost me a wife,” the duke said plainly. “She never had a thing to do with me once you came. You look like her. Sound like her. Walk and talk like her. If she hadn’t humored you, she would still be alive.”
Shaking his head, Haverhill continued. “I can’t stand the sight of you. You will be a constant reminder of her and I certainly don’t need that in my life. Get out,” he ordered.
“Where am I supposed to go?” Donovan asked, feeling as if he’d been punched hard in his gut. He wanted his mother. He wanted Sam to comfort him.
The duke wrinkled his nose as if Donovan stank. “I’ll send you to my cousin for now. Then you’ll be off to school.” He pursed his lips, a sure sign of his displeasure. “You can stay there. I have an heir in your brother. I don’t ever want to lay eyes upon you again.”
Chapter Two
Turner Academy—September 1796
Donovan entered the ballroom with his four companions, boys he had just met minutes ago. Emotionally, he felt as if he had been forced through a washerwoman’s ringer and hung out to dry. He blinked several times, hoping the tears that kept filling his eyes would go away and not embarrass him as he attended his first school assembly at a place unfamiliar to him. He missed his old school and friends. He missed Hillside and Sam.
Most of all, he wanted his mother.
He had been delivered to Turner Academy less than half an hour ago by his father’s cousin, whom he had lived with after his father exiled him from Hillside. Donovan was led by a talkative servant to a room with four boys inside it. They were to be the ones he shared his living quarters with for the next school year.
One had sat mute on his bed as the other three introduced themselves. One by one, they told him why their families had enrolled them at Turner Academy. Donovan had been told the school was a place for naughty, depraved boys. He knew he didn’t belong here. He had told himself over and over again that it wasn’t his fault Mama stepped in the trap. That it was the poacher who had encroached upon their lands and set it who was to blame.
Donovan had yet to forgive himself, however.
As the boys, all new to the academy as he was, briefly told their tales, he was struck by the fact that they seemed innocent of any wrongdoing. Three of them were sons of powerful dukes, just as he was. The fathers all had their heirs and found these sons dispensable, treating them as rubbish to be tossed away. Miles had lost his younger brother in a shooting accident his older brother refused to take responsibility for, claiming Miles had pulled the trigger. Wyatt’s older brother had burned down the family’s stables and all their horses inside had perished—but he accused Wyatt of setting the fire. Hart’s brother had shoved the youngest brother into the water and the boy had broken his neck and drowned before Hart could reach him. Hart was blamed for the death.
At first, Donovan hadn’t wanted to say why he had been sent to a school full of troublemakers. As each of these boys spoke up and candidly explained their presence at the academy, though, Donovan decided he must do the same. He was no longer welcome at home. This school would be his entire world. If he were to make friends and have a chance at any bit of happiness, he needed to be honest.
So, he had told them of Mama’s death and how, since he favored her, his father couldn’t abide the sight of him. Instead of judging him, the three boys had openly received him. Relief had filled him—as well as hope. Perhaps he could build a life here, among the misfits.
As the five boys seated themselves, he found Finch on his left. He was the only one who had refused to share his past with the other four. Finch had cursed, shocking Donovan but, at the same time, Finch had said he didn’t care what any of them had done. Together, they had joined hands and Miles had proclaimed them the Turner Terrors.
The thought caused him to smile, the first time he had done so since that last day with Mama.
Donovan glanced around the semi-circle in which he sat. Besides the Turner Terrors, he counted ten other boys, for a total of fifteen. A few of them looked like the troublemakers they had been branded as. One older boy, about fourteen, glared at him and Donovan looked away.
“Don’t do that,” Finch said. “Look back at him. Keep doing so until he turns away.”
“Why—”
“Just do it,” Finch hissed.
He raised his head again and stared at the boy who sat across from him. Though he itched to look away, he didn’t want to be seen as weak in Finch’s eyes. Finally, the other boy gave him a disdainful look and glanced away.
“You did it,” Finch said quietly, his voice laced with praise.
“I did, didn’t I?” asked Donovan, who was pleased with himself.
“He’s a bully. It’s important to stare them down or stand up to them. Never show any sign of weakness with anyone. Here or anywhere else,” his new friend warned. “If you do, they’ll go after you. I might not be around to help you the next time.”
Donovan had never been bullied before. He had liked his school and always made friends easily. Something told him that Finch had been bullied.
Badly.
“Did you ever have to stand up for yourself? With other boys?” he asked.
Finch gazed away, silent. After waiting for a reply, Donovan decided this was something else that Finch would never answer.
It surprised him when Finch finally said, “No. No other boys ever bothered me.” He sat up straighter. “And they won’t here, either. None of the Turner Terrors will ever be seen as weak. We are strong. We are united.”
His vehemence startled Donovan. He wondered if he would ever figure out this boy. At least he seemed to have claimed William Finchley as a friend. Finch seemed fully accepting of the idea that he was a Turner Terror and Donovan was, too.
At the head of the semicircle sat a group of several men. One rose, catching Donovan’s eyes, and he sat taller in his seat.
Conversation came to a halt as the fifteen pupils turned their attention to this tall, thin man who stepped toward them. His bald pate gleamed. Donovan had never seen a pair of eyebrows as black or bushy. The eyebrows seem to have a life of their own.
“Greetings. To those of you who do not know me, I am Nehemiah Turner, co-founder of Turner Academy, along with my brother, Josiah.”
He indicated a man who was also in his mid-forties. While tall and thin like his brother, Josiah Turner’s head was full of white hair and a snowy beard covered the majority of his face. The man stood briefly and nodded before taking his seat again.
“Since there are two Mr. Turners, you will address me as Mr. Nehemiah. I will tutor you in the sciences. My brother will teach you history, philosophy, and art.”
He turned and gestured to a third man. “This is Mr. Whitby. He is in charge of languages. You will study both Greek and Latin, as well as delve into the fine intricacies of English, from grammar to composition to literature.”
Whitby inclined his head. Donovan thought he would be a hard taskmaster from his expression.
“Finally, Mr. Morris will instruct you in mathematics. He will challenge you to stump him with an equation but I have found no student has ever come close to doing so.”
Morris beamed at the boys and Donovan found himself drawn to the tutor.
“I would also like to introduce to our newcomers the two who truly run Turner Academy. Ladies?”
All the boys turned and two women who hovered in the doorway to the ballroom stepped inside.
“On the left is Mrs. Nehemiah, my wife and the academy’s housekeeper. She is the one who keeps all of us in line. The other is Mrs. Josiah, Turner Academy’s cook. I believe you will find the food to your liking.”
The only thing he had disliked at his former school was the food. Everything seemed bland, boiled, or both. Anything would be an improvement in his eyes.
“Several of you know Mr. Smythe,” Mr. Nehemiah said as the servant entered the ballroom and gave a friendly wave. “Mr. Smythe usually becomes your best friend during your time at the academy. Don’t let his geniality fool you. He is a former soldier in His Majesty’s army and has the battle scars to prove it.”
The two women curtseyed and Mr. Smythe bowed before they vacated the room.
“Shall we speak of why you are here? I think it is important to do so. Josiah?”
The other Turner came forward as the first took a seat. He gazed over the small crowd before speaking. When his eyes met Donovan’s, he thought Mr. Josiah saw straight through to his heart.
“Hello,” he began. “You most likely have been told you have been sent to Turner Academy as a punishment. That it is a school for difficult young boys. Ones who are troubled. Annoying. Boys who are vicious or nasty. Bad to the bone.” He paused. “Let me squash that thinking right away.”
“It is true that a handful of you have done something very wrong. Heinous. Even criminal. Others of you merely are victims of family politics. Some of you come from venerable, powerful families and are the sons of dukes. Other students may be sons from wealthy, titled gentlemen. The point is you have all been sent here for a reason that doesn’t matter.”
Donovan shifted in his chair and glanced about surreptitiously at the boys seated in the semicircle.
“I speak from experience,” Turner continued. “My brother and I were the sons of a solicitor’s clerk. Father emphasized the importance of a good education. Nehemiah and I studied hard and both of us won scholarships to Oxford. Before our last term, while we were at home, our father was murdered.
“Nehemiah and I were taken into custody and sentenced to death.”
A chill rippled down Donovan’s spine. He wondered how these two men had escaped such a punishment and now stood here as founders of a school.
“We were absolved at the last minute. At university, we had been befriended by the Earl of Marksby’s son and had gone home frequently with him to visit during holidays. Lord Marksby, who was quite fond of us, paid for our legal representation. When we were found guilty, he did not stop but pushed on, hiring men from Bow Street to investigate. They discovered the true murderer, a man Father had worked with. Thanks to Lord Marksby’s intervention, in a rare move, the court overturned the verdict and we were set free, allowed to complete our education.”
Donovan sat mesmerized by the tale.
“Upon our graduation, though cleared of any crime, Nehemiah and I found ourselves unemployable. No employer wanted the taint of scandal attached to us. Though Lord Marksby had passed on by this time, his son—our friend—took a chance and gave us the funds to start a school. This school. We have deliberately kept enrollment small, wanting to give personal attention to every pupil. We take in boys from ages seven to seventeen. Sometimes, for a year. Sometimes, for the remainder of their education.
“If you know your Latin, you are familiar with tabula rasa. Loosely translated into English, it means clean slate. That is what you have here. No one will question you about why you are here. You will be provided with competent instructors and a rigorous curriculum. You will be challenged. Supported. Embraced. All for being you. Take advantage of your time at Turner Academy and every opportunity which arises. You may remain only for this term. You may complete your education here. Either way, you are—each one—important. Valued. Trusted.”
The stirring words bolstered Donovan.
“You will respect our staff and one another. We do not tolerate prejudice, nor do we believe one boy is better than the next. That is why you will all be addressed with the title of Mister, followed by your Christian name. Make wise choices. Study hard. Participate. Be open-minded. Most of all, remember the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
Josiah Turner smiled broadly. “Welcome to Turner Academy.”
The boys broke out in spontaneous applause.
“I know my wife has been cooking for two days straight now.” He raised his hands, palms turned upward. “Please, come and join me and the rest of your instructors in the dining room.”
Wyatt nudged Donovan with an elbow. “What do you think?”
“I think we are lucky to be here,” he said. “We could have been sent to a much different place. I think . . . I will like it here.”
They stood and Miles said, “Those Turners are the original Turner Terrors,” he joked.
“I like them,” Hart declared. “I dreaded coming here and what I would find. Instead, I believe I will be better educated than at my previous school.” He grinned. “And that I will have lifelong friends.”
“They want us to like it here,” Finch said.
“You don’t?” Donovan asked.
“I’ll reserve judgment,” Finch said. “After all, I’m going to be here a very long while.”
Donovan slung an arm around Finch. He felt protective of the boy, who acted tough but seemed to have a streak of vulnerability running through him.
“Come on. Let’s go see if Mrs. Josiah’s food is as good as her husband bragged.”
He marched Finch along and Miles, Hart, and Wyatt followed.
Donovan didn’t care what Finch said. Turner Academy was a good place to be.
And he planned to make the most of his experience here.
Chapter Three
London—August 1811
Lady Wynter Day dismissed her maid and picked up a pencil, jotting down a few ideas before she forgot them. The Season was coming to an end and she couldn’t wait to return to Chesterfield, her country home, where she could dress as she pleased and not have to think of social affairs and those who attended them. Not that she bothered with the opinions of others. Wynter was known for being charming and impulsive, dressing a bit differently from other women of the ton. She also had a reputation for being outspoken and doing exactly what she wanted to do. It attracted a good many single men to her, while most mamas kept their young daughters making their come-outs far away from her.
She didn’t give a fig about that. She thought most every young woman making her come-out insipid. They were boring and unimaginative. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was someone who was dreadfully dull. Women of Polite Society never showed any emotion. They were prim and restrained. They talked about choosing a new bonnet or what needlework they had recently completed.
Boring.
Wynter had always been attracted to men though never in a romantic sense. Men just were more adventurous. More interesting. More physical. Always in motion, going and doing. Sometimes she thought she should have been born a man. She certainly would be a better man than most men. She had witnessed that the older men got, the more sedate they became, like the ladies of Polite Society. That’s why she liked being friendly with single gentlemen in their twenties. They were full of life and fun—especially the rogues.
Thank goodness she had never felt an attraction to any of them. It was only because she hadn’t and made it perfectly clear that she would never marry that she had become a darling of the ton, functioning as a little sister to so many of the men in society. They sought her as their card partner because she was astute at card play and downright lucky, a deadly mix. They danced with her because she was good at it and they knew she had no designs on them. They took her for drives in Hyde Park, asking for her advice regarding which horses they should purchase.
