by Bree Wolf
“I cannot say, my lady,” Miss Sharp replied, her eyes shifting to Diana, a touch of unease resting in them. “I apologise, Mrs. Reignold. I hope he did not disturb your dinner party.”
Gritting her teeth against the agonising cries, Diana kept her eyes fixed on her son’s nurse. “Of course, he did. Can you not keep him quiet?”
“I’ve changed him. I’ve fed him,” the nurse began to stammer, rocking the child with more speed as though hoping that sheer willpower would calm him.
“May I?” Rose asked, stepping toward Miss Sharp, her arms held forward to receive the child.
With a glance at Diana, Miss Sharp relinquished the boy.
“Hush, hush, little darling,” Rose whispered, her voice soft and gentle. Then she began to hum as her arms shifted Benedict into a more comfortable position, rocking him slightly as she began to walk around the room.
“You may leave us,” Diana said to Miss Sharp, who almost fled the room. Taking a deep breath, Diana watched her cousin as she continued to rock the small child. A deep smile shone on Rose’s lips as she gazed down at his tiny face.
Slowly, his wails grew quieter and his eyelids began to droop. A large yawn opened his mouth before he snuggled into the crook of Rose’s arm, his little hands curled into the fabric of her dress as though afraid she would leave him.
Swallowing, Diana tore her gaze away and stepped up to the window, allowing her eyes to drift over the dark street below. Breath by breath, her heart calmed down until she heard a soft rustling behind her.
Glancing over her shoulder, she found Rose gently laying Benedict down in his crib. “He is such a sweet little boy,” she beamed, then stepped up to the window the moment Diana returned her gaze to the street. “You must be very proud.”
Diana remained quiet. Was she proud? She couldn’t say that she was. Why would she be?
Beside her, Rose drew in a deep breath, then she whispered into the dark. “I’m with child.”
As though a fist had struck her in the stomach, Diana groaned, pain shooting up and down her body as she almost fell forward, catching herself against the cool window pane.
“Are you all right?” Rose asked, her voice full of concern, as she placed a gentle hand on Diana’s shoulder. “Do you need to lie down?”
Diana couldn’t answer. Didn’t know how to. How could she explain that Rose was living the life Diana had always dreamed of? With the man she loved? The man she had loved since she’d first laid eyes on him?
And now, Rose would have a child. His child! A child she could love!
Closing her eyes, Diana shook her head.
There were no words.
***
After a hearty breakfast, eggs with bacon and a slice of toast as was his routine, Arthur Abbott, Earl of Stanhope, retreated to his study as he was accustomed to do that time in the morning. There, he spent an hour on his correspondence as every day before his steward Mr. Hill arrived to discuss matters of Stanhope Grove as he always did on the first Monday of each month during the Season.
“Splendid,” Arthur replied after listening to Mr. Hill’s account of the latest developments. “I do believe my mother wishes to make certain improvements with regard to the lower floor as she has her heart set on holding a New Year’s Ball at Stanhope Grove this year.”
“I understand,” Mr. Hill said, nodding his head. “I shall await your orders.”
Although New Year’s was still months away, Arthur knew that once his mother had set her mind to something, she would not rest until it was accomplished. He might as well warn his steward and hope that his mother’s ideas for a most legendary ball would not be too extravagant.
Despite the fact that his mother had a tendency to display their wealth and remind society in general of their impeccable reputation and considerable influence, Arthur had to admit that he was surprised she held on to the idea of such a ball after what had happened at Lord Hampton’s Christmas Ball this past year.
Despite their mother’s objections, Arthur’s younger sister Eleanor had kissed a man of doubtful repute under the mistletoe, sending their mother into a hysterical fit. Arthur would remember that night for as long as he lived.
A knock on his door drew his thoughts back to the here and now. “Enter.”
“Arthur, we need to talk,” his mother stated as she rushed into the room, startling Mr. Hill, who quickly jumped to his feet, then bowed.
“We shall continue this later,” Arthur told his steward, who immediately left the room. Rising from the leather chair behind his desk, Arthur turned to his mother, wondering what was amiss now. “How can I help you?”
“It is that man!” His mother snarled, her nostrils flaring as though she smelled something rotten. “He had the audacity to send a letter to her.” Lifting the item in question, she waved it in front of Arthur’s face. “You must speak to him and put an end to this.”
“I assume you’re speaking of Henry Waltham.”
“Of course, I am,” his mother hissed, a frown coming to her face as she shook her head at him. “Did you not see the way he almost…compromised poor Eleanor at the Christmas Ball? Have you not seen him around, there wherever we go? And now, this letter!”
Arthur drew in a deep breath, knowing that indulging his mother was the best way to avoid the hysterical fit that always seemed to lurk on the horizon whenever she was displeased with something. Unfortunately, she was displeased quite frequently.
“Do you truly believe his attention is unwelcome?” he asked, carefully broaching the subject. After all, from what he had observed the night of the Christmas Ball, it seemed that his attentions were indeed most welcome.
At least to Eleanor.
“Of course, it is,” his mother insisted. “More than once I instructed Eleanor to keep her distance, and because she knows her place, she has done so without fail. Naturally, she cannot be rude. After all, he is still the son of a peer. However, enough is enough. This has gone much too far. I want this man removed from our circle. If he comes near her one more time, I do not know what I might do.”
Arthur sighed. “What do you want me to do, Mother?”
Gesticulating wildly, his mother shook her head, red blotches creeping up her neck and into her cheeks as she failed to remain calm. “I do not care what you do, but I want that man to stay away from my daughter. Call him out if you must!”
Arthur’s brows rose in surprise. “Do you truly wish for me to do that?”
His mother sighed, then drew in a deep breath, meeting his gaze for a moment before shaking her head. “I simply want Eleanor to be save from that man.”
“May I enquire,” Arthur began, his voice placating as he sought to avoid yet another hysterical fit, “what exactly has given you such a bad impression of young Henry Waltham? As far as I know his father, Baron Caulfield, is well respected.”
“Well-respected?” his mother snorted, her eyes narrowing into slits as she fixed him with a calm stare. “That was long ago.” Again, she shook her head, her gaze now calculating as she observed him. “Maybe you were too young to remember when it changed.”
“I am four-and-thirty, Mother,” Arthur reminded her, feeling slightly annoyed that whenever she could not support her claims with reasonable arguments she would insinuate that he was simply not yet seasoned enough to comprehend the ramifications of the issue in question. Deep down, Arthur had to admit that it riled him.
“Then why do you asked?” his mother snapped, the calm that had so suddenly befallen her gone as though it had never been. “Despite their parents’ reputation, that family is not of our standing, and Henry Waltham is not a suitable match for your sister.” Her eyes narrowed as she stepped forward, her hands on her hips. “Do you not agree?”
Arthur took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come. And yet, he felt compelled to speak honestly as he always did. “Neither do I agree or disagree for I have barely spoken a word to that young man, have you?”
“There’s no need,”
his mother hissed, waving his concerns away. “The misdeeds of his elder brothers speak for themselves.”
“Has he committed any misdeeds himself?” Arthur tried, wondering why he was suddenly defending a man he barely knew.
For a moment, his mother’s lips thinned into a grotesque sneer as her gaze hardened, determination and an unwillingness to yield plainly visible in her grey eyes. “It is only a matter of time until he finds a victim.” Her voice trembled with the effort to contain her emotions. “As his brothers before him, he will gain the trust of an innocent young girl and ruin her in the worst possible way.” Her shoulders drew back, and she raised her chin. “I will not allow that to happen to Eleanor.”
Arthur frowned, wondering at his mother’s reaction. “Neither do I, Mother, I assure you. I never meant to suggest we allow anything untoward to happen to Eleanor. I merely sought to question whether young Henry Waltham truly deserves our distrust.” Taking a step closer, he met his mother’s gaze. “He is not his brothers. It would not be fair to condemn him for something he didn’t do, something he had no control over.”
The muscles in his mother’s jaw clenched. “I’d rather condemn him unjustly than see Eleanor come to harm.” Turning on her heel, she strode toward the door, but then stopped in the doorway and looked back, meeting his eyes. “Take care of this,” she ordered, then left, the sound of her angry footsteps echoing down the hall.
Arthur sighed, wondering what had given his mother such an atrocious impression of that young man.
Chapter Two - A Chance Encounter
Praying that the mild pain that began to throb under his temples would subside, Arthur took a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the harmonious melody of the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom. Maybe the gentle notes could soothe his frayed nerves.
“There!” His mother snapped, leaning closer to catch his attention. “Do you see him? He is looking at her.”
Taking another deep breath, Arthur turned in the direction his mother indicated. “He is merely glancing in her direction.” From what Arthur could see, young Henry Waltham stood almost all the way across the room from Eleanor, his eyes watching her as a shy smile played on his features. Eleanor, too, seemed rather bashful as she glanced at the man she had kissed under the mistletoe not three months ago, biting her lower lip before averting her gaze.
Never had Arthur seen a more innocent love then theirs. If only he could understand his mother’s objections!
“You must go and stop him!” His mother insisted, her voice slightly hysterical as she attempted to push him in the general direction of Henry Waltham. “Go at once!”
Planting his feet firmly on the ground, Arthur turned and met his mother’s gaze. “He is merely looking at her, Mother,” he said, trying to reason with a woman who barely knew such a sentiment existed, “the same way she is looking at him. There is nothing untoward going on here.”
Pressing her lips into a thin line, his mother glared at him as though he had just refused to protect his sister from a highwayman lying in wait. “She is your sister and−”
“−and she is perfectly safe,” Arthur interrupted, immediately annoyed with himself for stooping so low as to break decorum. It was inexcusable! Gritting his teeth, he forced air into his lungs, ignoring the growing pain behind his template. “I apologise, Mother. It was wrong of me to interrupt you.”
Her features relaxed, and she nodded her head, accepting his apology.
Relieved, Arthur stepped back, his gaze once more turned to the dance floor, hoping that this would be the end of it.
However, luck was not on his side.
“That is Mrs. Reignold,” his mother observed, and her eyes narrowed as she watched her daughter speak to a young woman, whose expression was a far cry from the warm glow on Eleanor’s face.
“I’ve never met her,” Arthur replied, slightly concern at the new pitch that had come to his mother’s voice. “Are you acquainted with her?”
At his words, his mother’s head snapped around and she stared at him with wide eyes. “Good God, of course not. Why would you assume such a thing?”
As his headache pounded against the insides of his skull, Arthur resigned himself to losing the war. “I meant no offence, Mother. I have never met the woman, and I am not familiar with her name.”
“That is almost unfathomable!” his mother exclaimed, eyeing him with suspicion. “After all, her fall from grace has been on everyone’s lips. How can you not know?”
“I do not care for gossip,” Arthur said. “Often it distorts the truth into a grotesque mask that has no resemblance to reality. I am certain that at least half of what you have heard of this woman−or anyone else for that matter−is pure fiction.”
“How can it be fiction if there were witnesses?” his mother objected, her eyes fixed on the young woman, who in that moment received a glass of−presumably−lemonade from Eleanor.
Although he knew his mother was anxiously waiting for him to ask for details, Arthur remained quiet, equally well-aware that his failure to enquire for more information would not stop his mother from sharing it with him.
“It was maybe four years ago when she chased after a known rake, making a fool of herself,” she continued as expected. “Unfortunately, everyone was aware of what was on her mind but her own parents. Otherwise, I would have thought they would have prevented any untoward behaviour on her part.” A disapproving frown came to her face. “Nonetheless, Mrs. Reignold−or Miss Lawson as she was still called then−left Lord Barrett’s ballroom to follow Lord Norwood out into the gardens where she allowed him to compromise her.”
“Allowed him?” Arthur asked, remembering the many atrocious tales he had heard about that man before he reminded himself not to lend an ear to gossip. Most of those were probably false or at least wildly exaggerated. After all, had he not been married a year ago? Was the eternal bachelor not off the market now?
“When he refused to marry her−as was to be expected considering his reputation,” his mother continued, her voice eager as she related the information she had obtained, “her father arranged for her to marry Mr. Reignold. However, Miss Lawson seemed rather dissatisfied with the arrangement. I suppose she had her sights set on marrying a viscount and finds that she is displeased with being the wife of the younger son of a baron.” His mother snorted in disgust. “After risking his own reputation and standing in society, Mr. Reignold truly deserves better than an ungrateful wife. After all, no one thought she would ever be married after the way she allowed herself to be ruined. It is quite a shame.”
“Even if what you say is true,” Arthur interjected, unable to overlook the deep sadness that seemed to radiate from the young Mrs. Reignold, “it has been four years. Should we not allow her to move past her earlier mistakes? I am certain she has learnt her lesson.” The miserable look on her face suggested that her lessons were still ongoing.
His mother chuckled as though he had been jesting. “A reputation once ruined is lost forever−I expected that you of all people knew that−which is why it is of the utmost importance that we keep Eleanor away from Henry Waltham. Who knows what might happen? She might end up like Mrs. Reignold.” A shudder shook his mother’s frame.
Arthur couldn't help but think that no one deserved to end up like Mrs. Reignold.
Not even Mrs. Reignold herself.
***
Long ago, the idea of a ball had filled Diana’s heart with excitement. Now, all it did was cringe under the hostile stares of society. And yet, it noticed that those stares were only meant for her alone. Her husband, however, was received with politeness and respect as they made their rounds, greeting friends and acquaintances−her husband’s friends and acquaintances. For apart from her immediate family, Diana had lost all favour in society the moment she had been considered ruined. Now, only very few people remained who would speak to her directly.
One such person was her cousin Rose.
As soon as she caught sight of Diana, her
cousin leaned closer to her husband and whispered something in his ear. He looked up then, and the moment, his eyes caught Diana’s−be it only for a split second−her heartbeat sped up and her palms became moist. How was he still doing this after all those years? Diana marvelled, wondering what pained her more: society’s unwillingness to forget her one mistake in judgement or the sight of undying love between Rose and her husband.
“Oh, I’m so glad you could come,” Rose beamed after walking over on her husband’s arm and greeting them warmly. “It is truly a marvellous night.”
“It is indeed,” Lord Norwood agreed, nodding his head in greeting, his eyes aglow with love as he gazed down at his wife. “I believe we shall spend the entire night on the dance floor.”
Rose laughed, then leaned over to Diana and whispered conspiratorially, “Although I wish I could, at present I do not believe that I have the strength to do so…considering my condition.”
At her cousin’s words, Diana cringed inwardly, but managed to maintain a polite smile. Caught up in the excitement of the night−as well as her life in general−Rose did not see the wistful expression that came to Diana’s eyes as she carefully glanced at Lord Norwood, a new ache coming to her heart as he continued to act as though they barely knew each other.
Whenever Diana looked at him these days and their eyes happened to meet, she never saw a spark of recognition, of remembrance of the night that had so shaped her life. It was as though he had forgotten her.
Soon, Rose and her husband rejoined the many couples occupying the dance floor while Diana’s husband excused himself and ventured toward the gambling room.
Left alone, Diana once again wondered how to fill her evening. Years ago, she would have danced the night away. Now, that was not an option. No one ever asked her to dance any longer. Not even her husband.
As she walked around the room, doing her best to ignore the hushed whispers that followed her, Diana came to stand in front of the garden doors. Beyond them, a green oasis lay in darkness, calling her forth, promising peace and tranquillity.
