To Mend a Broken Wing, page 1
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
To Mend a Broken Wing
ISBN: 978-1-64890-612-1
© 2023 Fearne Hill
Cover Art © 2023 Natasha Snow
Edited by Elizabetta McKay
Published in January 2023 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-613-8
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions of anti-Francophone language. The POV character lives with complications from a birth defect (phocomelia).
To Mend a Broken Wing
Rossingley, Book Four
Fearne Hill
Table of Contents
Cast of Characters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Cast of Characters
Dr Lucien Duchamps-Avery, sixteenth earl of Rossingley. A reluctant heir to the Rossingley estate. Likes: nightdresses, pearls, his husband’s soft hoodies, and using the word ‘gosh’ unironically. Has a flirtatious alter-ego: Lady Louisa.
Dr Jay Sorrentino. Hunky doctor and devoted husband to Lucien. Likes: DIY, grey sweatpants, and keeping Lucien happy.
Marcel Giresse. Senior French civil servant and Lucien’s nerdy, oldest friend. Never very far from his asthma inhalers. Likes: hot chocolate and completing the crossword puzzle before Lucien.
Guillaume Guilbaud. Married to Marcel. Ex-professional footballer and ex-prisoner. Does not suffer fools. Likes: Marcel.
Freddie Duchamps-Avery. Lucien’s favourite cousin. Drop-dead gorgeous catwalk model and all-round cinnamon roll. Likes: everyone.
Reuben Costaud. French head gardener at the Rossingley estate and ex-prisoner. Married to Freddie. Likes: mixing his metaphors and his cat, Obélix.
Gandalf. Mysterious pot-loving gardener and bohemian paramour of Uncle Charlie.
Uncle Charlie. Retired politician and father of Freddie Duchamps-Avery. Now a redeemed ex-pompous fool.
Joe and Lee. Gardeners on the Rossingley estate.
Chapter One
Toby
“DARLING, WHICH DO you prefer, Moonlit Navy or Magenta Surge?”
The job description had outlined caring for three children, all under the age of five. The wording had been economical with the truth. By my calculations, there were four. Number four had recently celebrated a milestone birthday and was a smidge sensitive about it.
“The navy’s good,” I hedged, examining the nail polish on both of the earl’s elegant index fingers, pressed side by side. “It complements your…er…outfit.”
He sighed in consternation. “Moonlit Navy is my go-to normally, darling, but I’m concerned it’s beginning to complement not only this divine outfit but my knobbly blue veins too. Don’t you think?”
During my three years of study at childcare college, none of the modules had offered handy tips on how best to sensitively reassure a gay earl dressed in a sky-blue satin nightdress that he could paint his fingernails navy, magenta, or pink with yellow spots, and no one would notice. For the simple reason that the trillion-carat diamond adorning his ring finger, not to mention the other sparkly rock in his ear, and the string of boulder-like pearls around his neck, kind of drew the eye. And did I mention the nightdress?
“Magenta,” came a masterful deep growl, accompanied by two strong arms wrapping themselves loosely around the earl’s shoulders from behind. “I like you wearing magenta.”
Leaning back into his husband’s wonderfully secure hold, my boss tipped his face up to meet Dr Sorrentino’s and accepted a tenderly loving kiss on the end of his patrician nose. Thank God. The cavalry had arrived. I averted my eyes as they shared a swoony moment.
“Magenta Surge it is, then,” the earl declared. His voice took on a throaty, sultry tone.
Never taking his eyes off his husband, he addressed me. “Toby, my darling. I do believe Jay and I will sojourn to the west wing for a while. The light is so much better up there for nail painting, wouldn’t you agree?”
As sex euphemisms went, this was typically delicate.
“Absolutely.” As if I’d ever dare disagree with my boss on such matters. “I’ll listen out for the children.”
“Thank you,” the earl replied graciously. “You are an absolute treasure.”
Tell me something I didn’t know. Pushing himself back from the table in a single fluid movement, the earl stood and took Dr Sorrentino’s waiting muscular arm. Another swoony kiss; anyone would think they’d been married six minutes, not six years.
“I don’t know how we’d cope without you, Toby,” he added, giving his husband’s arm a squeeze.
You’d have a hell of a lot less sex with the delicious Dr Sorrentino, probably. I pushed that thought aside. I did not envy my boss. I did not envy my boss.
I watched them dreamily wander out of the kitchen, already oblivious to my presence. The earl’s satin nightdress trailed soundlessly along the floor behind him, and I shook my head, smiling to myself as I cleared away the forgotten pots of nail polish.
My phone pinged—a daily text from my mother, checking all was well in my world. And, as usual, it was, as long as I ignored the teeny fact that my knight in shining armour had missed his cue to take centre stage. Despite that, I shouldn’t and wouldn’t envy the earl. He might have the delectable Dr Sorrentino carting him off to bed at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, but how could I ever be envious of a man with his grim family history?
The tragic deaths of the fifteenth earl and his oldest son and heir eight years ago had cut deep into the soul of Rossingley. I’d been fifteen years old, and the shroud of grief that settled over families like mine was a testament to the Duchamps-Avery stewardship of the village. Rents in Rossingley for local families were low, and the Duchamps-Averys had never succumbed to the lure of greedy property developers. The current earl’s money kept the village pub alive, provided the school with much needed extras, funded new church bells as required, and repaired holes in the church roof.
The profound impact of the accident on the current earl didn’t bear thinking about. While Rossingley mourned, Lucien Avery vanished, leaving my Uncle Will, the estate manager, to keep the Avery affairs functioning while the reclusive new earl grieved in private.
Stories sprang up about him, of course, almost overnight. The silliest being that he was a vampire. Or a ghost. That he’d died in the helicopter crash along with everyone else. That his continued existence was a fabrication to prevent his wicked uncle getting his hands on the dosh. That he’d been sighted wearing a flowing white dress, dancing in the moonlight down by the still lake. That he swam in the lake at midnight. That he walked on water. That he spent his days wandering the attic rooms calling for his lost brother. That he was crazed and locked in a basement asylum.
Uncle Will debunked all these myths, and more, but people carried on spouting them anyhow. Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?
Like all gossip, two-thirds were total bullshit, but some held a grain of truth. The earl did wander the estate dressed in flowing gowns, albeit with the addition of green wellies. I’d seen him with my own eyes, an almost ethereal, waiflike presence, as I helped Uncle Will refence the north fields during the school holidays. I recall I’d stared and stared at him, fascinated, half expecting him to float away on a strong puff of wind, up to the heavens to join his beloved family. When my uncle noticed my staring, he ordered me to let the poor guy grieve in peace. Joe, who worked in the gardens, reported the new earl spent his days sitting on a bench smoking himself to death. Steve—another gardener, now retired, said he’d been ordered to place fresh flowers on the family graves every single day.
And then, a couple of years later, a ray of light burst through the new earl’s grief, lifting the thick bank of clouds. Once again, bright sunshine beat down on the lush green fields of the Rossingley estate. By then I was eighteen and working with Uncle Will every spare moment I wasn’t in school, saving for college. A mysterious new car appeared in the big house yard, a flashy red Audi, its owner a burly hunk of masculinity, equipped with brawny arms and a mass of black curly hair.
They were spotted together, the st
I busied myself with preparing the children’s supper. Five-year-old twins, Eliza and Arthur, were at their weekly riding lesson with Emily from the village. Orlando, the most scrumptious bundle of fifteen-month-old goodness to ever exist on this planet, would soon be awake from his afternoon nap. Mary, the housekeeper, had finished for the day, and the earl and Dr Sorrentino would be indulging in afternoon delight for at least another hour. Which gave me a rare quiet moment all to myself.
The house phone rang, a number known only by a very few—Dr Sorrentino’s family, the earl’s family, Uncle Will, the children’s school, and the earl’s closest friend, Marcel. All other calls were routed through the estate office. The chance of interrupting Dr Sorrentino in whatever pleasures he was currently providing, in order to answer a phone call was roughly as likely as my Prince Charming galloping through the kitchen on one of the children’s ponies. So I answered it myself.
“Oh, Lucien, you are never going to believe what’s happened. You should probably pour yourself a glass of something orange and vile and sit yourself down.”
The voice sounded breathy, flustered, foreign, and familiar.
“Uh, hello, Marcel. Sorry, it’s Toby. The manny.”
“Oh, my goodness. Toby! So sorry! Is he around? I called his mobile, but he didn’t pick up.”
Right. First rule of Rossingley: you do not talk about Rossingley.
“Um…yes; he’s…um…somewhere, I believe?”
“Thank goodness. I’m having a teeny-tiny, non-asthma-related crisis, and I’d really appreciate his pearls of wisdom right now. Although, obviously, don’t ever tell him I admitted that.”
“Obviously.”
I’d experienced one of Marcel’s non-asthma-related crises the last time he came to stay. It involved a tricky sudoku and the French Minister of the Interior. From his urgent and breathless manner, this one sounded more serious. I checked the time. The earl had been gone less than twenty-five minutes.
“Okay.” I stalled, rapidly assessing the situation. “I’ll…um…shall I…um…ask him to call you as soon as he’s…um…available?”
Second rule of Rossingley: When Dr Sorrentino eye-fucked his husband in that tone of voice, then tugged him purposefully towards the west wing, it was a brave soul who dared interrupt. Or someone who had been best friends with the earl for yonks, like Marcel.
“Toby, my dear?”
Some of the breathiness left Marcel’s tone, replaced with a touch of steel. “Lucien is in bed, isn’t he? In the middle of the day, with that ravishing hunk of a husband.”
“Um…well, I…possibly?”
“Listen. And this is very important. Go upstairs to the west wing, bang on the bedroom door—loudly—and inform Lucien I need to speak to him. I expect he will decline.”
“Um…yes…I, yes, you may be right.”
Marcel knew my boss exceedingly well.
“When he does, you have my permission to inform him if he doesn’t bring his skinny, oversexed, ridiculous aristocratic self to the telephone at once, Marcel will whisper in Jay’s ear a little story about a porcupine cactus, a Cuban waiter, and a silver teaspoon. During that memorable trip to…aah…Morocco.”
Morocco. Third rule of Rossingley: If ever Marcel dropped the M bomb? Fetch the earl at once.
*
“LUCIEN!” I HAMMERED loudly on the bedroom door. “Bloody hell! Lucien!”
Fourth rule of Rossingley: There were no airs and graces at Rossingley. The sixteenth earl was Lucien, Dr Sorrentino was Jay, and if Marcel threatened the Morocco story, nowhere in the house was off limits.
“Toby! Where’s your sense of decorum, darling? A little more delicacy, please; you’ll put my husband off his stride.”
A low rumbling laugh emanated from behind the thick wooden door, followed by a higher pitched breathy giggle. Lady Louisa had come out to play.
“It’s Marcel. On the phone. He says it’s important.”
Jay let out a heavy groan that I preferred to imagine was in response to my words and not because…
“Is he trying to die again?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
A low growl of contentment from Jay smothered a soft squeal from Lucien. Childcare college never covered this scenario either. I began listing the contents of the fridge under my breath, steering my brain away from images of Jay naked, stretched out over Lucien, the taut muscles of his tanned upper back rippling gloriously as he nailed his pale, slender husband to the mattress, the two perfect tight buns of his arse…
“Then tell him I’ll phone him back. I’m in the middle of something terribly important. These fingernails won’t paint themselves, you know.”
I inhaled deeply. I’d revisit that satisfied growl and Jay’s nakedness later, at my leisure. “Er…Lucien? Marcel sounded quite agitated. He…um…and he mentioned something about a type of prickly plant and a…erm…a north African country?”
A pause, a gasp, and a most unseductive yelp. Then, “Oh gosh, oh gosh. Jay, darling—untie my hands at once. Toby? Pour me a tot of neat Campari. I’ll be there in two seconds.”
Chapter Two
Noah
I HATED THE French. Principally because they all spoke fucking French. And not the lumbering phrasebook French we learned at school, but a sneering, bastardised version of it, at three times the speed. My hatred thickened the farther south through France I travelled; it extended to the woman behind the ticket counter at Montparnasse station, closing her shutter at two minutes to one, forcing me to queue all over again at an adjacent counter. It extended to the portly ticket collector, scrutinising my valid ticket as though I’d handed him a fake fifty quid note, as his train à grande vitesse crawled at a snail’s vitesse through countryside far too pretty to belong to this arrogant, snooty nation. And it most certainly extended to the skinny madame seated opposite me in the carriage between Montparnasse and Poitiers, angrily flicking each page of the latest copy of Vogue as if I was personally responsible for the interdit de fumeur sign above her head.
Discovering I was half-French myself was the fucking icing on the cake. Mind you, for as long as I could remember, anger and hatred of pretty much anything and everything had been my default. I’d recently found out why, which made me angrier than ever.
The whole journey was questionable in the first place. More of a fool’s errand than a knight’s quest. What I labelled a determinedly headstrong personality, teachers had called reckless and disruptive, all traits contributing to why I would see this damned stupid idea through even if it killed me. To call quits now would be to admit I’d made a huge fucking monumental error.
Maybe I had. But what were the alternatives?
Sofa surfing sounded cool until it no longer became a choice, and then it very quickly became exhausting. Permanent impermanence. My daily reality since my mother had kicked me out. No privacy. Nowhere to keep personal stuff. Being asked to move on at any time. A few nights out on the streets.
I couldn’t blame her for showing me the door, not really. Entertaining the fuzz in your front room while neighbours earwigged over the fence soon got old. Nicking twenty quid from her wallet and smacking her husband round the chops hadn’t helped. Mind you, he’d given me a decent smacking back. I still had the bruises on my jaw to prove it.
She’d spat out the name of my real father after so much goading, and I swear if she’d had a knife in her hand, she’d have used it, then wiped the blood off and never looked back. Because I could be a really fucking annoying tosser when I put my mind to it. She’d spelled his foreign name out carefully, almost triumphantly, which should have been my first clue that I’d have been better off not ever knowing. But right now, me and emotional intelligence weren’t on speaking terms. I saw obtaining that name as a huge victory; she saw it as a route to getting me out of her hair for good.
