“I didn’t know you weren’t devout,” Duncan said, staring at her with a frown.
“It’s nothing like that, only I’ve not had the opportunity to attend church regularly. It would not have been the thing to drag my maid to the village church every Sunday, after all.” She said this with a laugh, not seeing cause for concern. “I enjoyed today. I wonder what the church is like near Sidwell Hall.”
Colonel Sean Starrett clapped his hands. “There’s a trip we must make, my boy. Say the word, and we’ll make ready.”
“Soon,” Duncan said, his voice soft.
They fell silent for the remaining drive. It had been an emotional Sunday for Duncan, no doubt. She need not examine his countenance for clues to his mood, for though he wore a dour expression, she knew not his mind.
Waving to Bernard, whose head popped out of the receding carriage window, Mary stood in the drive of Lyonn Manor. She watched them navigate the circle drive and onward, loath to part with the sight of the vehicle, wishing she could carry on to Cois Greta Park with them rather than be returned to her own home. Her hand lowered only when the dot disappeared around a corner.
Ready to relieve her of coat, bonnet, and gloves, Mr. Hunter waited at the door. As did her mother.
Schooling her features not to give away her alarm, Mary stepped into the foyer. The butler busied himself with her items. If he hurried, maybe she could make a dash for the stairs before her mother spoke.
“Your absence from chapel was noted.”
Blast.
The butler scuttled off with her belongings one moment too late.
“I hadn’t thought you would notice,” Mary said, her chin raising in defense, or arguably, in defiance.
“Into the parlor. Now.” Without awaiting a response, Catherine tapped her cane into the Grey Parlor.
Mary sighed. It had been an unusual morning, and she would have preferred to retire to her bedchamber for a brief respite and an opportunity to mull things over. Following on her mother’s heels, her shoulders back and spine straight, she clasped her hands at her waist and waited. When the door clicked closed by the unseen hand of a footman, Catherine turned to face her daughter, her eyes narrowed, her lips set.
“Why were you not in chapel?”
“I went to the village church instead, as guests of the Starretts.”
Nostrils flared. “We do not attend the village church. I forbid you to go again.”
Mary laced her fingers then unlaced them, steepling her fingertips and looking to heaven. “Soon, Mother, I’ll be a married woman. You cannot forbid me to do anything.”
“You’re not married yet. I’ll not have your head filled with nonsense. Country vicars are all the same. They’ll have you under God’s thumb in a fortnight, all with teachings that a man controls you, using religion to justify his actions.”
Mary gave a hollow laugh. “What are you talking about? No one is trying to control me except you. What actions?”
“Men use religion to control women, to make submissive, sniveling servants of them. I can be thankful, at least, that boy is not Catholic, but you must not be swayed by the church’s manipulations.”
One look at her mother’s expression revealed her distress. Mary could not imagine what would have her mother in such a state or speaking such nonsense. The woman’s face was pale, the hand on her cane trembling. Never had Catherine been a religious woman, as far as Mary knew, but she could not say why. The monthly sermons were short, obligatory, and guided by the dowager duchess’ requests, as they had been for as long as Mary could remember.
“No one is trying to control me,” Mary said. “The Reverend Quinn Starrett is a God-loving man who spoke today of miracles and faith. I hardly call that manipulation.”
“God-loving, you say? God is not loving. God is a puppeteer, an orchestrator of sorrow. I was raised by the right hand of God and taught to fear Him. And fear I did. Where was this loving God when my feet bled from a caning? Where was God’s love when my fingers were battered and bruised? Where was God when I had to crawl up flights of stairs with a broken leg? I can count more brutality than you have days in your life, all done in the name of God, all brought on my head through righteous condemnation of my misdeeds—spine not straight enough, tempo not steady enough, plate not clean enough. You know nothing of this world or the evils of men.”
As Catherine railed, her voice shaking, Mary sank into a chair, unable to hold herself upright under the weight of the words. They had never spoken like this, not as mother and daughter, not as friends, not as loved ones. They certainly never spoke of Catherine’s childhood or beliefs. Mary’s mother was a mystery to her. And here, unraveling before her, was a woman with a terrifying past, revealed for Mary’s horror by the simple act of attending church with her betrothed.
Mary was unsure how to feel as her mother continued to besmirch religion, blaming it for the abuse she had all too clearly suffered. Did Mary feel sympathy? Did the past humanize Catherine? Did it explain why she did not love her children as she ought? Mary was overcome with emotion—but she did not know what emotion—a maelstrom of confusion, pain, heartache, and yes, sympathy. Her heart bled for the girl her mother once was.
But why say all this now? Because Mary had attended church?
The sudden silence shook Mary.
A hand to her heart, she looked back to her mother. “I didn’t know.”
Catherine scoffed but said nothing, leaning heavily against her cane.
“It was not God’s hand that did that, Mother, but the devil’s. If you wish, you could come with me next Sunday and listen to the vicar’s words for yourself. He speaks of love, not vengeance. I enjoyed the sermon today. I intend to return. I think you should come.”
That was the last thing Mary wanted, but what more could she say? Her mother was a stranger to her, a stranger with a haunted past she knew nothing about. There were no words of comfort Mary could offer, no questions she wanted answers to.
“You’re a defiant and willful gel,” Catherine said. “You have no respect for me, but it is of my own making. I never should have left you to your own devices. I should have taught you how to think.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Do what you will. You’re already betrothed to the boy despite my warnings. Pray to your loving God he never resents your superiority in station, for then he’ll aim to dominate you. And what will you do then, when God abandons you to the hand of man?”
Mary stared at her lap, lips pursed. How easily her mother made it to go from one emotion to the opposite.
“On that account, you can rest assured. He’s not like that.”
“Don’t be naïve. He is accustomed to commanding men and being obeyed. What makes a woman different?”
The question was rhetorical. With a sigh, Mary stood.
“The Reverend Starrett will be conducting the marriage ceremony. We’ll wed in the village church. I hope you’ll attend, but I don’t expect it. You may not be happy with my choices, but they are mine to make.”
Her mother sank into a chair, covering her eyes with a hand. Uncertain what to do, Mary took a step forward towards her mother.
“Leave me,” her mother said in response.
And so Mary left.
Mary lay awake, eyes focused on the curtained window, her mind whirling with her mother’s words. Nothing her mother said about Duncan surprised her. No one would be good enough for a duke’s daughter except a duke, it would seem. The whirlpool of thoughts centered on her mother’s words of abuse, all in the name of religion.
The image of a beaten girl contrasted with the woman Mary knew, for Catherine was an impenetrable force; no weak or submissive woman resided in that figure. Mary wanted desperately to feel sorry for her mother, but how difficult that was when the mother she knew was cold and unloving, critical of all Mary did, and dissatisfied by everything.
Both h
er cousin Lilith and her cousin Sebastian’s wife got along well with Catherine. Even Charlotte favored her now, though their relationship had been rocky in the first few months. What did they all see in Catherine that Mary did not? The dowager duchess must treat them differently; but why? What was wrong with Mary that Catherine hated her so? After being so abused, it seemed unusual that Catherine would not dote on her children to make up for her own childhood.
All Mary had ever wanted was her mother’s love. It was too late now, but some acknowledgment would be appreciated, some nod of pride or affection or acceptance. Something. Anything.
Chapter 17
The guests arrived the following week. Not wedding guests, but rather the Duke and Duchess of Annick’s house guests for the annual foxhunt and shooting party. For a week, guests took advantage of the hospitality, lavish dinners, and land, all in pursuit of pleasure. A musical soiree was planned, rather than a grand ball, to end the house party.
The guests consisted mostly of Drake’s friends and their wives, along with a few friends of Charlotte’s and their husbands. For the unattached, there were an equal number of ladies to gentlemen, the former hoping to land the latter before the end of the week. Duncan was not among the guests. Drake did invite him for the shooting party and the soiree, though he had asked Mary in advance if he ought, for he had been concerned with Duncan’s ability to walk during the hunt. Well, of course, he should be invited, Mary had insisted. It would be up to Duncan to decide if he felt comfortable attending.
Through the week, Mary arranged rides with the women since none of them wanted to join the hunt. A pity since Mary enjoyed riding to hounds. She suspected the women cried off because they were not skilled with the ribbons. It took a fine horsewoman to join the hunt, after all. And so she played nanny to the tittering and sniveling ladies, never mind that most of them were older than her. On sedate rides they went, and in archery tournaments, they competed. Most of the ladies only wanted to participate if the men could watch, but they agreed, after persuasion, to practice while the gentlemen were distracted by the hunt.
More than once per day, Mary thought about her future and how it would look. She could not imagine foxhunts or shooting parties at Sidwell Hall. Every year, she looked forward to this, and yet this year seemed lackluster without Duncan by her side to share it. Perhaps they could find their own annual tradition that would be equally as enjoyable. They could, of course, attend the house party at Lyonn Manor every year, but the crowd was not Duncan’s type.
Was that disloyal to say? Aside from a few heirs and a handful of second sons, those in attendance were titled. Duncan had little in common with these people. On the contrary, they had always been her people, but she would not be sorry to see the back of them, for none of them cared one whit about her or her interests. The feeling was mutual.
Nevertheless, the days leading up to seeing her betrothed were exhausting, but fun. Most of the guests were the same each year, and so she knew them, for better or worse. Among the numbers was her brother’s childhood friend, Mr. Winston Everleigh, eldest son of Viscount Rutherford. His presence made for a happy occasion as she adored him, despite his age, gambling, and rakish reputation.
His mood was somber this year, and she could not help but recall Charlotte’s on dit about him having been left at the altar. All the same, she wondered how many bedchambers he visited over the course of the week. Oh, that was terribly unladylike for her to wonder, but she still did. She was not as naïve as most young girls. With an older brother who had been a rake in his youth, not to mention having older beaux when she was a budding girl, she knew a thing or two about the lives of men and the behaviors of rogues at house parties.
The one guest she was not thrilled to see was the Earl of Altonwey. He was one of the attending bachelors, quite the matrimonial prize. Newly inherited, he had not too long ago served, having sold his commission on news of his father’s death. It was all awkward, really, for Lord Altonwey’s father had been one of her suitors, as arranged by her mother.
It was rare that she had met the children of her suitors, but as it happened, she met this one. The former earl had danced attention on her, by her mother’s invitation, at a house party not unlike this one. She had been perhaps seventeen at the time. The earl brought both his sons to the party, thinking they would enjoy the hunt. And so both sons knew of the earl’s addresses to Mary, making the situation wholly awkward since the sons were older than she, the earl being distastefully aged—not that such a fact was unusual with the men her mother chose. Given their past, she was not keen on seeing the son, especially since he waggled his eyebrows at her far too often. He gave her the shivers.
Nevertheless, she was sorry to hear that the earl had passed. As much as she disliked the man for his flirtation in her youth, she would not have wished him ill.
What a curious thought, though—had she married him, she would now be a widowed countess. She would have married and been widowed all in the time it took Duncan to go to war and return. Such a curious thought. In the back of her mind, she wondered if that had been her mother’s design all along, for all the men she arranged for Mary to meet were aged. But no, she would not rationalize her mother’s actions. Nothing her mother did was in her best interest.
On the whole, the week was one part enjoyable and one part tedious. She would far prefer to be with Duncan, riding neck or nothing, but as sister to the host and hostess, she was duty bound to entertain. She did not see Duncan until the day of the shooting party, and even then, she did not have a chance to speak with him until the soiree.
Duncan trained the shotgun at the sky, steadying his breath until his target flew into sight. It felt good to have a weapon in hand again. Although he never used a shotgun in battle and typically wielded a sabre rather than a pistol or rifle, the sounds and smells of the shooting party brought back a wave of nostalgia. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was on the battlefield again.
“Colonel Starrett!” a fellow officer called to him.
Duncan lowered the firearm. “Major.” He gave a curt nod, turning back to the field.
“Of all the people here, I never expected to see you. How the devil have I missed seeing you all week?”
It took slow minutes for him to realize reality. He was not on the battlefield. He was in a field on the duke’s lands, shooting pheasants with Annick’s guests. Brows furrowed, he looked back to Major Brumley. Memory superimposed reality. Shaking his head, he looked again. Brumley was still there, making his way to Duncan.
“Colonel! Capital to see you again.” Brumley approached, smiling, a hand held out, happy to reunite with a friend.
Inch by inch, Duncan’s face broke into a smile of his own. “Charles? Is that really you? I’ve not seen you since Boxtel.”
He took the man’s hand in his, leaning closer to hear what he had to say over the volley of shots.
“I sold out. You didn’t know? Old man went toe up, left me the title and all that. Between the battlefield and an estate, there’s not much contest, is there? Not Brumley anymore. Altonwey, Earl of. I’ll excuse you from kissing my boots seeing as how you were once my superior.” The man guffawed, slapping Duncan’s arm in good humor. “Heard you took a bullet. You look right enough.”
“It’s been a long journey. I had expected to be back in the field by now, but life had other plans. I’m not in your ranks, Charles, but I’ve been granted a baronetcy. Sir Duncan. How do you like that?”
Charles slapped Duncan’s arm again. “Capital, capital.”
Letting the group move ahead of them, they slowed their pace to share memories of old times. The day, which had been good so far, improved by the minute with renewed friendship, reminding Duncan of what he had enjoyed about service. This. This was one of the aspects of the Army he loved and missed, the camaraderie.
Initially, Duncan had been nervous about the shooting party. Excited, cert
ainly, but also anxious his legs were not ready. Over the week, sensation had teased into his hips, but no lower aside from when riding and now when swimming. His gait smoothed with practice. He believed he could fool onlookers into thinking he walked as a normal man rather than as an injured man who used the pressure against his hips to know if his feet met earth.
To his annoyance, through all the practice he did in preparation for the shooting party, he could think of little but Mary enjoying the house party, surrounded by eligible men vying for her attention. Paranoia. Ridiculous paranoia.
He imagined her enjoying the guests so much she would change her mind about marrying him, choose some titled chap who could keep her in the life she was accustomed. The house party was an ill-timed reminder of the life she would leave behind to become his wife. Ridiculous worries, indeed, considering that in all the years he was away, she still preferred him to those of her world. But jealousy rarely saw reason.
Realizing he knew no one in the shooting party except his future brother-in-law did not help ease his discomfort. A friend at his side was just what he needed. He could not wait to introduce Charles to Mary and vice versa. Rather than tell his friend of his betrothal, he decided to wait until the opportune moment he could announce it with the lady present.
If he could steal Charles away for an evening, he would like to invite him to dinner, though dinner at Cois Greta Park might not be on the menu for a newly minted earl. Although he and Duncan had not exactly been friends, they had trusted each other in battle as only soldiers could do. Once upon a time, the major had been a fierce fighter, one of those men who took pleasure in the bloodlust, a frightening foe, but an excellent man to have on one’s side during battle.
For the remainder of the day, they hunted side-by-side as they once had on the battlefield.
The Duke of Annick raised his glass. “It is with great pleasure that I announce Her Grace is expecting our second child! To all you romantics in the room, know my wife is in good company, for her sister and my cousin, the Earl and Countess of Roddam, that is, are expecting their third at the same time.”
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