The Honorable Choice (Victorian Love Book 2)

by M. A. Nichols

  Mary laughed and leaned forward to grasp Ruby’s knee. “Then you were destined to become an Ashbrook. Strong work ethic is steeped in the bloodline and might as well be written on the family crest.”

  The warmth in Ruby’s expression faded into a frosty chill. If not for the manner in which her shoulders drooped, Mary might’ve believed the young lady was offended, but the sadness in Ruby’s gaze made it clear it wasn’t anger that afflicted her. Mary’s words had been spoken in jest, but it felt as though they’d summoned Lucas’s apparition, breaking the fragile bond that had been forming.

  Mary wished to speak, to say something that might heal the heartbreak in Ruby’s gaze, but the right words hovered just beyond reach. If she could simply lay hold of them, Mary knew she would right the situation, but the wrong ones would cause more damage.

  “There is a proper writing desk in the library you could use,” said Mary. Inwardly cringing at that subject, she wished for something better, but it was the first one that formed in her thoughts. Pointing at the table Ruby had been using, she clarified, “It cannot be comfortable to use such a small table, and I believe there is a better one in the library—though it has been some years since I have been in there, so it may have been moved.”

  “It is still there, but I prefer sitting in the parlor.” Ruby’s voice was quiet, but it was a reply, so Mary released the breath she’d been holding.

  “Though I have always enjoyed a good library, I fear the one here is a bit too dark and oppressive for my tastes, so I understand your preference,” said Mary. As she glanced around the parlor, time turned on its end, filling her thoughts with a flood of memories. Though Oak Hall was her home in every sense of the word, she and Ambrose had spent several happy years in Newland Place.

  “I do apologize for the shabby state of the house. When Ambrose and I moved to Oak Hall, we took much of the furniture and decorations with us. I fear Conrad has done little to improve it in the years he’s lived here on his own.” Mary gave the room a nod. “The only solution is to move the writing desk in here. And with a bit of assistance from the servants, we can rearrange things to your liking. If you have a few other wall hangings finished, we could hang those as well. Bring a little color to the room.”

  Ruby’s posture tightened. “Conrad has not given me permission to decorate the house.”

  It was not just her reticence that had Mary’s spine straightening and the skin along her neck and arms prickling—it was the manner in which Ruby expressed herself. The tone was innocuous enough, but the words she’d chosen were worrying.

  “This is your home, Ruby. You are free to do with it as you please.”

  But those words were met with a wary glint in Ruby’s eyes as she straightened her needlepoint and replaced the embroidery hoop. Her brows furrowed together, and her movements were tight and exact as she tidied her impeccable sewing box.

  Turning so as to face her better, Mary took Ruby’s fidgety hands in hers. The young lady stared at that touch before her eyes finally rose to meet her mother-in-law’s.

  “This is your home,” repeated Mary.

  Ruby’s expression did not alter, but a shift in her eyes brought to the surface a timid hope. Mary’s heart constricted in her chest at the sight of it, for it was an emotion she was all too familiar with. It had been a constant companion in her younger years. A deep-seated longing tainted by a fear that keeps one from accepting the possibility; dressed up in the false trappings of “reality,” it taught its victims that hope was a painful thing. It ate away at their security and happiness until worry was all that remained. If not for Ambrose’s stalwart heart, it would have kept them apart and sentenced Mary to a life without him, her children, and all the countless blessings that had flowed from their marriage.

  Where before, the words had felt wrong and out of place, Mary felt their rightness now. “Whatever the circumstances that brought you into our family, you are part of it now. This is your home, and you deserve to be happy here.”

  But that was not enough. There was so much to say and so few words to properly convey it. Taking a breath, Mary sorted through her thoughts.

  “Lucas has a good heart, though he often forgets to use it. He behaved poorly, but…”

  Ruby stiffened, and Mary cursed her feckless tongue. Ambrose had such a way with words, and though they’d spent more of their lives together than they had apart, Mary had never mastered the skill.

  Deep in her heart, Mary knew there was some explanation for Lucas’s behavior. Something more than the pathetic one he’d offered up. Something that made his inexplicable behavior comprehensible. Sitting in the room where Lucas had taken his first steps, Mary’s mind played through his childhood, calling up every golden memory. Her little boy. He could not have changed so wholly from the child she’d brought into this world.

  Mary was no fool nor was she blind to Lucas’s faults, but she could not reconcile the babe she’d raised with the man he had become. There had to be some reason behind the shift, and in turn, some way to change Lucas back once more.

  But saying those things to Ruby would only cause more pain.

  It felt as though her mouth was filled with sand, her tongue cementing to the roof of her mouth, and a lump took hold of her throat. Mary’s heart felt so heavy that she struggled to forge on, but there were words that needed speaking.

  “I apologize for everything you have suffered, Ruby. I do not hold you responsible for it. You and the baby are our family now. Do not doubt that.”

  Mary knew too well that a few words would not heal all the damage done, but her heart lightened at the sight of the fear fading in Ruby’s eyes, that glimmer of hope growing. It was far from acceptance, but Mary would not discount the importance of this first step.

  “Now, we are going to work together to make this house into the home you wish it to be,” said Mary. When Ruby opened her mouth to protest, Mary gave her hands another squeeze. “Make this your own.”

  Ruby’s posture softened, a tickle of a smile curling the edges of her lips. “Where should we begin?”

  Chapter 8

  A day held only so many hours, and that amount never changed. Yet there were some that felt longer, and this one surpassed anything Conrad had expected. Sitting in the mill office that he and his father shared, he took a quiet moment for himself. The looms and machinery were turned off, leaving the air strangely silent and the ground at rest. To an outsider, the constant thrum radiating from the machines was an odd sensation, but Conrad found it comforting. The noise and vibrations meant the mill was at work.

  Standing from his desk, Conrad struggled to get on his greatcoat and hat. It wasn’t such a difficult endeavor, but after the day he’d had, it took a monumental effort. There’d been no grand mishap to be blamed for his dragging movements; it was merely a series of small moments stacked one atop the other. And it was crowned with the knowledge of what awaited at home after this chaos.

  Days like these usually found him eager to return home to Mrs. Seymour’s delectable cooking before sinking into his favorite armchair with a book in hand, but Conrad knew he would find no such peace now. No more eating before a fire in his shirtsleeves while consuming the words of Dickens, Longfellow, Carlyle, Browning, Trollope, and Dumas.

  His wife would be waiting in the parlor, dressed too fine a gown for a quiet dinner with her sewing on her lap. Regardless of when he arrived home, he always found her seated in that fashion, forever working as though there were nothing else in the world to do.

  Stepping out of the office, Conrad trudged through the mill courtyard, passing through the front gates. The walk to his home was naught but a few steps, yet his energy ebbed, leaving him drained as he pushed open the front door. In truth, he should not feel so thoroughly exhausted. Though the past few days had been a constant stream of busyness, it wasn’t a difficult load to carry. Conrad had done so for years with little trouble.

  Fanny appeared and retrieved his greatcoat and hat, hurrying them away th
e next moment. The scent of roasted beef and vegetables wafted through the house, making his stomach howl. As he was determined not to return home until dinner, he ought to bring luncheon with him, but the thought slipped his mind each morning.

  Conrad walked through the entry and into the narrow hall that led to the parlor. He stood at the threshold and blinked at the room, his mind wondering for a brief moment if he had entered someone else’s home by mistake. But this was Newland Place. This was his townhouse. His mind then concluded he’d taken a wrong turn, though he knew that to be impossible as there was no other turn to be made.

  The parlor’s skeleton remained intact. The rugs at his feet were the same red they’d always been. The fading floral wallpaper had not altered. The sofas and tables were unchanged. But those core elements had been rearranged into an entirely new beast, and he hardly recognized it. What little decoration he’d had was gone, replaced with colorful wall hangings that were no doubt his wife’s handiwork.

  Moving quickly to the mantle, Conrad searched for the doll that had rested there since the first day he’d taken residence in Newland Place. It was nowhere to be seen. And neither was his wife.

  With a few hurried steps, he went to the dining room and found Fanny arranging the dishes.

  “Where is Mrs. Ashbrook?” he asked.

  “Changing, sir. She and the other Mrs. Ashbrook lost track of time with all the redecorating they were doing. Your Mrs. Ashbrook should be down directly.”

  Turning on his heel, Conrad moved to the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Where is it?” he asked as he burst into their bedchamber, pausing for only a moment to take in the altered state of the room that bore little resemblance to the bedchamber he’d awoken in this morning.

  Ruby spun with a shriek, her hands flying to cover her corset and petticoats.

  “Where is it?” he repeated.

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she said, her cheeks pinking as she struggled to reach for the dressing gown draped across their bed while maintaining the little cover she had.

  “The doll on the mantle. It is missing.” His conscience pricked at him, warning him that his tone was harsher than intended, but Conrad’s exhausted mind struggled to expend effort in heeding the warning.

  Snatching at her dressing gown, Ruby fumbled to get it around her, her shoulders rounding as her eyes darted to the mantle just to her left. Conrad snatched the doll up, examining it for any damage.

  “I thought…It was out of place. I didn’t think it belonged in the parlor…I assumed…” But Ruby’s sentence drifted off incomplete.

  Turning away, Conrad cradled the doll in his hands and walked to the library. Over the fortnight they’d been married, it was as though some invisible line had been drawn through the house. Ruby never entered the library, and Conrad felt increasingly uncomfortable in the parlor. Her parlor.

  The library door swung open, and Conrad found it in a similar state of disarray. Sighing to himself, he was willing to acknowledge that disarray was not the proper word. Everything was in order and clean, but even this space had been altered. Stepping to his mantle, Conrad laid the doll in the center. The rags that made up its body were worn and soft, making it impossible for the little girl to sit upright, but Conrad attempted to prop her up all the same. He hated the look of the doll lying across the mantle; it mirrored his memories of its owner laid out in a casket made of a few knotty pieces of wood nailed together.

  A wrap of knuckles sounded at the door, and when prompted, Fanny entered with a bob.

  “The missus is feeling poorly, sir, and asks that you dine without her as she is retiring early,” said the maid. Having conveyed her message, she gave another bob and left.

  Hand still resting on the mantle beside the doll, Conrad’s mind supplied a terribly unhelpful thought. He’d longed for an evening alone to dine in his shirtsleeves beside the fire, and that was precisely what he’d received. But in that fantasy, Conrad had been filled with peace and contentment. At present, his appetite fled him as his stomach gave an unhappy turn.

  Glancing at the place where his armchair usually sat, Conrad found the seat had been moved several feet and angled towards the fire in a most awkward manner. Shedding his jacket, he dropped down onto the chair with a scowl, drumming his fingers against the arm. His stomach gave another fractious twist, and an aching pain jabbed at his temple, as though his conscience had abandoned all subtlety and decided on a more direct course to bother him.

  Perhaps he’d reacted more harshly than he ought to have, but what was a man to do when he returned home to find it in such disarray? His things moved to places unknown? Everything upended? How much change did he have to suffer through? Was it not enough that he’d consigned himself to a life bound to a woman he did not care for to save her and her child from a life of scorn? Did he have to surrender every last bit of himself?

  Casting a glance around him, Conrad hunted for the blanket that usually sat folded next to his seat. But it was gone. With a huff, he shook his head at the wall as though it was the cause of all his woes. However, it was then that Conrad realized he did not feel a chill. The library was a fine space, but it had an unfortunate tendency towards drafts, and he could never sit in it long without additional layers.

  Ruby had moved the chair closer to the fire thus protecting him from the cold, but Conrad had placed the seat in the previous position because the light had been perfect for reading. Any other placement and the shadows obscured the letters. As it was, the fire sat directly before him, and he would need to twist in an uncomfortable manner to allow the light to strike the page. The high back of the chair blocked out the minimal natural light at his back, giving him nothing to illuminate the page.

  He wanted nothing more than to return things to where they’d been before, but Conrad was too exhausted to do anything about it at present.

  Another knock sounded at the door, and Conrad felt like growling. He’d never thought of himself as a curmudgeon, but marriage was bringing that out in him.

  When bidden, Fanny entered with a tray of food and set it on a table beside the right arm of the chair. “Mrs. Seymour thought you’d prefer eating here, as your Mrs. Ashbrook won’t be joining you.”

  The scent of the food wafted in, and Conrad gave her a grateful smile. “That is precisely what I would prefer to do, Fanny. Please give Mrs. Seymour my thanks.”

  Fanny reached for a book on his desk and handed it to him, but Conrad waved it away.

  “The light is too poor for reading,” he said, fighting the scowl that longed to contort his expression. Fanny did not deserve the irritation pricking at him.

  But the maid gave him a confused look before reaching to another side table that had been placed behind him and to the left. With a quick strike of a match, she lit the lamp sitting atop it and turned it to a proper glow. It was at an angle to reach around the armchair back and strike the page, and strong enough to fight against the shadows cast by the fire, while giving him a prime seat for warmth.

  Fanny gave another bob and left the way she’d entered, unaware of the grimace twisting Conrad’s expression. There was no mistaking the awful tightness in his chest or that the scent of the food had turned foul.

  Getting to his feet was more difficult than it should’ve been, but Conrad managed it and the steps to their bedchamber. His hand rested on the door handle, but he stopped, choosing to knock instead.

  “Come in.” The response was faint enough that Conrad nearly missed it.

  Wiping his hand on his trousers, he pushed open the door. Curled on her side with her back to him, Ruby lay in bed, the covers pulled up over her shoulder and her dark braid slung over the top of them.

  “Ruby?”

  There was no reply, but Conrad did not miss the tightening of her shoulders. Rather than looking at him, she gave a faint acknowledgment while burrowing deeper into the pillows.

  “I apologize for snapping as I did,” he said. “You have ev
ery right to rearrange the house as you see fit, and it was wrong of me to lose my temper.”

  There was no reply to that, and Conrad shuffled from foot to foot as he watched her back for any sign that she’d accepted it.

  “I’ve had a long day, and it was a shock to find the house changed to such a degree,” he explained, though his words stopped short when it came to the main culprit of his ire. To speak of the doll would lead to a discussion about Susie, and Conrad was in no fit state to discuss her.

  “I do like what you’ve done with the library,” he added. But still, no reply.

  Conrad’s jaw clenched as he stared at Ruby’s unmoving back. Was she truly not willing to even acknowledge him or his words? With a shake of his head, he turned away and shut the door behind him.

  ***

  Eyes snapping open, Ruby sent out a silent prayer. The roiling, churning ache inside her constricted. Her throat tightened, and she took a shaky breath to keep the sickness at bay. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she thought through the possibility that this may be a false start. Only a few months into this ordeal and she wanted to be finished with the nausea that clung to her throat, ticking the back of her mouth.

  Moonlight trickled in through a gap in the curtains, and Ruby tried focusing on the shapes of the shadows. Another deep breath. And another. All the while, she silently pleaded for this to pass.

  But a turn to her stomach had her casting aside the bedcovers. Ruby tried to be quiet as she hurried from the bedchamber, but worries over disturbing Conrad were far less pressing than the worry that she’d make a mess on the bedchamber floor.

  Flying through the hall, Ruby rushed into the adjacent bedchamber, snatching the bucket she’d hidden behind the door. Dropping to her knees, she heaved into it, retching and shuddering even after her stomach was quite empty. Her muscles quivered, her arms and legs struggling to keep her upright. The wispy hair at her temples wetted and clung to her skin. Slipping to the floor, Ruby pressed her cheek against the floorboards, the cool wood feeling heavenly against the flush of her skin.