Barbara Metzger - Truly Yours

"Like my horse?"

"Yes. Just as you must care for the mare and never mistreat her, you must also show respect for this other gift."

"I do not know if I want this one, Papa."

"I am afraid you have no choice. Men in the Royce family have had the truth-seeing back through the ages. Now, it seems, you do, too."

Rex considered that for a moment. "And no one else does?"

"No, and you must never tell anyone of this gift, for they will think you… odd." Just how odd, the earl did not want to tell his son; how the talent for truth-seeing was frightening to some, horrifying to others-including Lord Royce's own wife, Rex's mother. But he had to make the boy understand. "One of our ancestors, Sir Royston, was hanged as a wizard."

Rex's dark blue eyes grew round as he thought of Merlin and magic and all the creatures in his fairy stories. "You mean I can change Timmy Burdock into a toad?"

"No. I mean Sir Royston's ability to recognize the truth was so uncanny, so different from what other people knew, that they thought he was sent by the Devil. He was not, of course. Such a gift"-if a gift it was, and the earl was never sure-"could only come from heaven. His son, and all of the Royce sons who came after, were more careful. They became magistrates and ambassadors and advisors to the Crown, all positions where knowing the truth was valuable, but they never let on about the talent." They'd become wealthy through knowledgeable investments, well titled for service to the country, and well respected for their sense of honor. "People admired them as wise men."

"Like you, Papa. Daniel's mother says you are the bestest, fairest judge in all of England."

The earl laughed. "Daniel's mother is my own sister. You must not put credit in her boasting."

Rex shook his head. "No, it's true. I can tell, remember."

"And if I say you are the best son in the entire world, would you believe me?"

With a gap-toothed grin the boy replied, "Of course, it is true-blue," which earned him another hug.

"Soon you must learn to be a bit more discriminating between truth-saying," the earl said, "and when someone believes what they say; when it is true to them. Of course your aunt Cora believes I am wise beyond measure. That does not necessarily make it true."

"It is true," Rex insisted.

"Thank you, my lad. But other judges' families must also consider their relative the wisest, just as every patriot believes his country the finest, and every believer feels his religion is the only path to heaven. The truth is not always black and white, you see."

"Of course not. It is blue."

"Pardon? The truth is blue?"

Now the boy looked uncertain. "That's what I said. Don't you know it, Papa? Can you not see it?"

"Do you mean the truth is… a color to you?"

"Of course. When someone lies, that's red. When they think they are telling the truth, like you just said, then it's yellow. Vicar Anselm talks yellow a lot. Except when he tells Mrs. Anselm's mother she is welcome to come visit. That's a big fat red lie. And sometimes people say things that are like rainbows, because they don't know, but hope so, I guess. And sometimes their words are all mud-colored-when they are confused, I think. Don't you see the colors when people talk?"

"No, I don't. I hear the truth in their words, like the purest note. A lie jangles, like when the pianoforte is out of tune, or when a church bell is cracked. My father said he always got a headache when a lie was told, and his father could smell the truth. One of our ancestors grew hot or cold, and another felt a buzzing in his ear. You see, the gift appears to everyone differently. No Royce ever saw colors, not that I ever heard of, so your gift is special, lucky boy."

The earl was not sure his son was so lucky after all, and now that he knew the boy could sense his uncertainty, he explained: "Sometimes even the most wonderful of gifts has disadvantages. What if Midnight bolts at thunderstorms or gnaws on the paddock gates? What if your old pony grows sad when you ride Midnight instead? Just so, knowing the truth is not always comfortable."

"Like?"

"Like when I say I will punish you for stealing Widow Flood's apples if Mr. Anselm does not. You know it is true, but you might wish it otherwise. Or when your friends tell fibs rather than hurt your feelings. White lies, they are called."

"Like when Nanny says I look handsome, even with my tooth missing? I know she is telling a Banbury tale."

"Or when we went into the village yesterday, and the apothecary told Mrs. Aldershot what a pretty baby she had, and told Lady Crowley her bonnet was charming. Such sour notes I heard! But just think if they knew he was lying. Their feelings would be hurt."

Rex giggled. "Not as much as if he said the baby looked like a monkey and the hat looked like a coal scuttle."

The earl ruffled his son's curls. "Those are polite lies, and you will have to get used to them if you want to go out in the world."

"Will I have to tell them?"

"Of course not. You can be polite without speaking a falsehood. You can tell Mrs. Aldershot how amazingly small her infant's hands are, and tell Lady Crowley that her new hat suits her. Or you can say nothing at all. Just tip your hat and smile."

"The way you did, Papa?"

"Precisely. But there is a worse disadvantage to our gift than knowing false compliments for Spanish coin. Sometimes people will fear you. They cannot understand how you know they lie, and so they are afraid you can read their thoughts. Then you lose their trust, or else they are wary of saying anything at all."

"Is that what happened with Mama?"

"No, she-" He could not lie, not to his own son. "Yes. Partly. There were other reasons she left, reasons that had nothing to do with truth or lies."

They were both silent, thinking of the countess so far away in London. They were both wondering what they could have done or said to change her mind and make her stay. They were both missing her. The earl was drinking to dull his pain; the boy was fighting to relieve his anger. They both had tears now in their similar, startling blue eyes.

After a bit, Rex used the bloodied handkerchief to blow his nose. "Do you think she is coming back?"

"What did she tell you?" Lord Royce asked, hope tiptoeing through his heart.

"She said she would."

"And…?"

The boy understood the unspoken question. "And it was all muddy."

And that was why people lied.

1813

Twenty years later, Viscount Rexford was once more in his father's library, once more wounded, confused, and in despair.

Lord Royce wished with all his heart that he could hold the boy, kiss away his hurt, make everything better with the promise of a new horse. But his little boy was a soldier, and war was not something a father could make disappear. Rex's leg might heal, the scar on his cheek might fade, but those wounds to his soul, Lord Royce feared, were something Rex would carry for the rest of his life.

At least he had come home. Too many fathers' sons had not. Timmy Burdock would not bedevil the neighborhood ever again, and Daniel, the earl's nephew, was in London, by all reports drinking himself to death, trying to accomplish what the French had not. The three had joined up, for England and for the adventure, despite their families' anguish. Timmy had gone as a common foot soldier, but the earl had bought colors for his son and nephew when he could not convince them to stay safely in England. For that matter, they had been getting into too much trouble in Town, Rex's hidden talent causing whispers of cheating and bribery and unfair advantages. Where Rex went, Daniel had to follow, as usual.

No one was about to allow the only heir to an earldom to face the enemy, so Lord Royce used his remaining influence-and a shadowy connection at the War Office called the Aide-to have them assigned to a noncombat division. The Aide was one of a handful of people who knew about the family's truth-seeing, and he saw a great need for Rex's gift. With the viscount's unique talent and his cousin Daniel's intimidating size, the two had risen through the ranks, attached to the Intelligence Service. They had become known, and widely feared by both French and British troops, as the Inquisitors, Wellesley's most valued team of interrogators. Their methods were kept blessedly hushed, but they seldom failed to provide necessary, infallibly accurate information from captured prisoners, enabling the generals to plan their strategies and protect their own forces. Lauded by the commanders, the cousins were distrusted by their fellow officers. Spies were already considered less than honorable, and whispers of torture or Dr. Mesmer's new hypnotism or outright sorcery contributed to the stigma of the fact-gathering department. The Inquisitors never had to resort to barbarous tactics, of course, but the commanders found it expeditious to fan the rumors. The other young officers were glad to have the Inquisitors' findings, but they steered clear of the cousins. Captain Lord Rexford's piercing blue gaze saw into a man's very soul, and Lieutenant Daniel Stamfield's huge hands were always clenching, as if itching to choke the life out of his next unfortunate victim.

Then Daniel had to sell out when his father passed away. Rex was grievously wounded shortly afterward, perhaps because he did not have his stalwart companion defending his back. Daniel believed that, anyway, according to his mother, and was submerging his grief and guilt in a sea of Blue Ruin.

Now Rex was home, too, for what that was worth, and for all the earl saw of him. The young man had found his own way to cope with a crippled leg, an empty future, a world of nightmarish memories. Rex could not tramp across the countryside, but he could ride endlessly, and he could sail toward the horizon, not having to speak to anyone, not having to see their pity-or their fear. His only company was an enormous mongrel he'd rescued on his wanderings, an ungainly mastiff bitch who was utterly devoted to him. Rex named her Verity, because she alone among all females never lied to him. When he rode too far or too fast, Verity sprawled across the front door of Royce Hall, waiting. When he took his boat out on days fit for neither man nor beast, the big mastiff lay on the dock, waiting. She never ate while he was gone, never barked, and never let anyone touch her. Sometimes the earl would sit beside the dog, waiting too, worrying that he might still lose his only child-not to war, but to a reckless, nameless grief.