Oppressed & Empowered: The Viscount's Capable Wife (Love's Second Chance Book 11)

by Bree Wolf

  A wistful smile came to the young footman’s face, and yet, a hint of sadness rested in his eyes. “I pray for such a world, Miss Procten, and I can only hope that one day it will be no longer the dream it is now.”

  Evelyn nodded, seeing the longing in his gaze as it left her face and fixed on something in the distance. Clearing her throat, Evelyn quickly bid him farewell, knowing that it was not right of her to distract Mr. Adams from his tasks. After all, his livelihood depended on him fulfilling them to the family’s satisfaction.

  Hurrying on to her father’s chamber, Evelyn knocked and then slid inside. To her satisfaction, she found her father still abed. However, the look on his face spoke volumes of his displeasure with the situation he currently found himself in. “There you are,” he exclaimed, irritation strong in his voice, not quite unlike her own. “I’ve spent this past week in bed. Surely, even you must admit that I’ve done my duty and ought to once more be allowed to venture around freely.”

  Evelyn did not miss the teasing challenge in his tone, and an easy smile came to her face. “Certainly, Father. If you promise to go about slowly.”

  “Don’t I always?” he asked, a childish gleam in his eyes as he sat up straighter. “Have you ever known me to act irresponsibly?”

  Evelyn frowned. “Not where another’s welfare is concerned, no. However, your own is a different matter.” Inhaling a deep breath, Evelyn closed her eyes, willing her anger to subside and not transfer into other areas of her life. She would be dammed if she granted Lord Ashwood that power over her!

  “Is something wrong, my dear?” her father asked, all humour gone from his voice. “You seem upset?”

  Evelyn inhaled a slow breath. Ought she to confide in her father? Still, whether or not it was wise to do so ceased to matter in the next moment when Evelyn realised she would certainly explode if she did not allow her anger and irritation with Lord Ashwood to spill forth.

  “He’s insufferable!” The words flew from her lips like lava erupting from a long-dormant volcano. “He does not listen. He does not see what is right in front of him. He has the audacity to–” Evelyn stopped, noting the rather amused look on her father’s face as he leaned back leisurely, his sharp eyes watching her carefully. “I’m glad you find this amusing, Father,” Evelyn huffed, and her arms rose to cross in front of her chest.

  Her father chuckled, “I assume you’re speaking of Lord Ashwood.”

  Evelyn scoffed, knowing that if she were to open her mouth, she would say more than she ought to. Better to remain quiet…as hard as it was.

  When it became clear that he would not receive a direct answer, her father shook his head at her, a rather indulgent smile on his face as though she were still five years old. “I’ve never seen you speak so passionately, my dear,” he observed. “At least not when it did not concern a patient of yours.”

  “But it does,” Evelyn objected, afraid that her father could somehow see the underlying reason for her anger towards Lord Ashwood. “It concerns Miss Davenport.”

  Her father shrugged. “Are you certain? For I cannot remember you mentioning her name once.” His watchful eyes swept over her face. “Why does he infuriate you so…if not for the very simple reason that you have come to care for him?”

  Evelyn’s jaw dropped, and her eyes strained to fall from their sockets.

  Again, her father chuckled, “Don’t look so shocked, my dear. I admit you hide your feelings well. However, I’ve had the privilege of knowing you since the day you were born, and you cannot deny that that has granted me a deeper inside into your heart.”

  Evelyn swallowed. “You’re mistaken.”

  “Am I?” His gaze narrowed. “The look in your eyes suggests otherwise, my dear. Why do you deny it? Are you so afraid to relinquish control?”

  Staring at her father, Evelyn did not know what to say, confused about what was true and what she was only trying to convince herself of. Did she truly care for Lord Ashwood? Beyond a momentary infatuation? Or was that what her father was referring to? However, then why did he look so pleased?

  Sighing, her father patted a spot beside him, and reluctantly, Evelyn sat down on the side of his bed. Gently, he pulled her hands into his, his eyes kind as they met hers. “Listen, child, I know that you’re determined to follow the path you’ve chosen for yourself so long ago. However, you cannot ignore your heart’s wishes. It will only lead to your unhappiness.”

  Frowning, Evelyn held her father’s gaze. “What on earth do you mean, Father?”

  He sighed rather exasperatedly. “I’m saying that your heart chooses on its own–and not always wisely, I grant you that. Still, if you ignore it, it will punish you for it.” Gently, he squeezed her hands. “If you care for him, then allow yourself to see him for who he is.”

  “But I–”

  “No, you do not,” her father cut her off. “You see what everybody sees or at least you are determined to see only that. However, judging from the slight flush on your cheeks, I cannot help but think that you are very well aware that there is more to Lord Ashwood than meets the eye.”

  Evelyn averted her gaze. Were her cheeks truly flushed? For everyone to see? Had he seen it?

  “If you hadn’t noticed,” her father continued, “I doubt your heart would be leading you down this path.” Leaning forward, he looked into her eyes. “As much as you want him to see past his own prejudices, is it not right that you grant him the same favour?”

  Evelyn sighed, reluctantly lifting her head and meeting her father’s challenging gaze. “Why would you encourage me thus, Father?”

  “Because he is a good man.” A soft smile came to his face as he leaned back against the pillows, a distant look coming to his eyes. “I knew his father for a long time and knew him well despite our different positions in life. I have no doubt that he raised his boy right. Therefore, I am convinced that the harshness of Lord Ashwood’s character is not something that speaks to who he is at heart.”

  “Still, I don’t understand why you would–”

  A knock sounded on the door, startling them both.

  Rising from her father’s bedside, Evelyn went to open the door and was rather surprised to see Lady Ashwood standing there. “Is everything all right with Miss Davenport?” she asked, suddenly alarmed that the young woman might have taken a turn for the worse after her brother’s rather unfeeling declaration of her imminent departure.

  “Oh, no, my dear, don’t worry,” Lady Ashwood exclaimed, quickly waving Evelyn’s concerns away. “She is as well as she can be under the circumstances.” Her gaze drifted from Evelyn’s face to the bed behind her. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” Evelyn exclaimed, quickly stepping aside to allow the dowager viscountess inside. If this was not about Miss Davenport, what had brought the lady of the house up here to the guests’ quarters?

  Closing the door, Evelyn noticed the way Lady Ashwood stepped forward, her gaze meeting her father’s in a rather intimate way. Like old friends. Confidantes even. What could be the meaning of this?

  Before Evelyn could try to voice a careful inquiry, Lady Ashwood turned back to face her. “May I ask you a rather personal question, my dear?”

  Evelyn swallowed, wondering at the strangeness of that day. “Certainly, my lady,” she all but whispered, praying that Lady Ashwood was not as observant and direct as her father had been only moments before.

  “Are you betrothed to Mr. Bragg?”

  Evelyn’s gaze widened. Indeed, that she had not expected. Why on earth would Lord Ashwood have told his mother that–? She stopped, remembering that Lord Ashwood would have had no reason to inform his mother of her betrothal. After all, when she had left him, he had been very much aware of the fact that she was indeed not betrothed to Mr. Bragg. The only one who believed so was Mr. Bragg himself. Why was the man suddenly walking around spreading such lies?

  “Did Mr. Bragg tell you that?” Evelyn asked, noting a slight frown coming to her father’s face as he observed th
eir conversation.

  Lady Ashwood nodded.

  Evelyn drew in a slow breath, annoyance once more rising to the surface. She would need to speak with Mr. Bragg as soon as possible. “I do not know why Mr. Bragg told you thus,” she finally said to Lady Ashwood. “However, I can tell you that it is not true.”

  The hint of a relieved smile curved up Lady Ashwood’s lips. “I am glad to hear it.”

  Reminded of Lord Ashwood’s reaction, Evelyn frowned, wondering why the fact that she was not betrothed to Mr. Bragg was met with such relief. However, before she could ask, Lady Ashwood addressed her once more. “May I ask you to step outside, my dear? I would like a private word with your father.”

  Taken aback, Evelyn stared at Lady Ashwood for a moment too long before her gaze travelled to her father. There was something in the way his gaze met hers and then shifted to his old friend’s widow that spoke of a deeper connection or a shared secret, which made Evelyn all the more aware of the fact that there was something in their past that she did not know about.

  “Certainly,” she mumbled and then stepped from the room, her mind whirling with what these two had to discuss that she was not allowed to hear. After all, if it concerned Miss Davenport’s health, there was no reason to ask her to leave the room, was there? Then what could they have to discuss that she was not allowed to know?

  Indeed, it was a most strange day, and Evelyn felt the beginning of a mild headache thudding beneath her left temple. Perhaps a little fresh air would do her good and help her make sense of the chaos in her head. Never in her life had she felt so at odds with the world around her. Always had she been certain of what she wanted, of the path that was meant for her. Always had she been able to judge people for who they were, aware of their true character.

  But now, everything was different, and Evelyn wondered if she would ever feel at peace again.

  Balanced.

  She could only hope so.

  Chapter Eleven – A Father's Decision

  Looking up from the letter he had been penning, Richard noticed the soft flakes of snow being blown about outside his window. They seemed to dance in the air, wildly and randomly, mirroring his own feeling of being tossed about without a sense of direction. As much as he had always been in control of his life and those in it–perhaps with the exception of his sister– now his world seemed to have turned upside down within a matter of days.

  Nothing seemed certain.

  Nothing made sense.

  It was maddening…and terrifying.

  Rising from his chair, Richard approached the window, his gaze fixed on the tiny flakes as they succumbed to the strong wind blowing them about. Others, however, had made it to the ground, settling on the cold earth or the evergreen trees growing in the gardens below.

  Then movement caught his gaze, and he squinted his eyes, trying to see through the swirl of snowflakes. A midnight blue cloak appeared in his view, its hem lined with white fur.

  Miss Procten!

  Recognising the exquisite cloak his mother had given to the doctor’s daughter for her dedicated care during her illness the previous year, Richard drew in a shuddering breath, his hands reaching out until he felt cold glass beneath his fingertips. As though bewitched, he stared at her, his gaze following the hooded figure down the small path and out into the gardens. Snow swirled around her, landing on her cloak like stars in the night sky.

  Still, she seemed unhindered by the chaos that thrived around her, her feet sure on the ground as she proceeded onward.

  A sudden knock made him flinch, and Richard gritted his teeth, loathing the effect Miss Procten seemed to have on him these days. “Enter,” he called, his voice laced with anger as he forced his feet to turn from the window.

  “Are you all right?” his mother asked as she swept into the room, her footsteps quicker than usual. “You seem upset?”

  “It is nothing.” Annoyed, Richard waved her concern away, belatedly taking note of the letter in her hands. “Is something wrong?”

  Glancing down at the letter, his mother took a deep breath, the look on her face speaking of…

  Oh, if he could only know! If he could only be certain!

  While she seemed rather calm–not agitated enough for some kind of tragedy to have happened–her muscles were tense, and Richard was almost certain that whatever she had come to tell him was of a serious nature. Beyond that, he could not be certain of her reasons for seeking him out.

  “I need to speak to you.” Stepping forward, she glanced down at the letter in her hands, turning it back and forth as though she did not know how to begin.

  “Is it Claudia?” Richard asked, feeling his skin crawl with concern for her. It had been obvious that she had been alarmed by his decision to send her away. Still, he had hoped that his mother and Miss Procten had managed to calm her, make her see reason. After all, he was only doing what was best for her. And if she could not see that right now, then he had no choice but to force her hand in order to spare her the ruination that was surely to follow if her condition became known.

  He did not want that for her.

  Anything, but not that. She deserved better.

  “Don’t worry,” his mother replied, her gaze softening as she studied his face. “She’ll be fine.”

  Nodding, Richard inhaled a relieved breath. “Then what have you come to speak to me about?”

  Mimicking him, his mother inhaled a deep breath as though bracing herself for what was to come.

  Richard felt his skin crawl.

  “Your father,” she finally began, “and Josiah Procten met in school. As unlikely as it was for them to cross paths, Josiah Procten had been able to find a benefactor who had early on seen his talent for healing and insisted he needed a comprehensive education. Thus, he found himself among peers, ignored by most of them for his simple origin.”

  Frowning, Richard watched his mother. “I’m aware of how they met. Why are you telling me this?”

  His mother sighed, and her soft eyes held his as she reached out and took one of his hands. “Before your father met Josiah Procten, he was quite pretentious, thinking very highly of himself for the mere fact that he was a viscount’s son.” A soft chuckle escaped her as her eyes became distant, filled with memories. “In the beginning, he was one of those who ignored Josiah, tormented him because of his upbringing. Until one day something happened that changed his life.”

  Frowning, Richard shook his head. “Why do I not know of this?”

  “I cannot be certain as your father–not unlike yourself–tended to keep his thoughts to himself,” his mother said gently. “However, I do believe he felt ashamed for the way he treated Josiah and did not wish to be reminded of it, to have his children know the man he once had been. Beyond anything, he wished to be a good example to you, to guide you and ensure that you would become a good man.”

  Richard nodded, wondering what his father had thought of him before he had died. Had he, Richard, become a good man in his father’s eyes? Or had his father found him lacking? “What was it that changed him?”

  “One day, your father was attacked by a wild dog,” his mother said, her fingers clenching around the letter in her hand as though she still feared for his life. “While his friends abandoned him, only looking to their own hides, it was Josiah who risked his life to save another; someone who had treated him without respect until that day.” A soft smile came to her lips. “Your father called it true heroism, and it changed him, changed how he saw Josiah and himself. It was that friendship that turned your father into the man you knew. It made him realise that a person’s character is not defined by the station they were born to. It made him rethink everything he thought he knew.” Sighing, his mother drew him toward the armchairs by the windows, urging him to sit beside her. “If it hadn’t been for Josiah’s influence, your father would probably never have married me as I was a commoner’s daughter myself if you recall. We would probably never even have met.”

  With his eyes fixe
d on his mother, Richard tried to process all he had just learnt, considering the conclusions he could draw from such knowledge. Rationally, he had to admit that not much had changed. He was still his father’s son. His mother was still a commoner’s daughter. His father and Dr. Procten had still been friends since their youth.

  Nevertheless, Richard knew that not everything was rational. As much as he tried to see facts–something tangible, unmistakable, clear–his heart urged him in a different direction, and although he usually tended to resist it, afraid of where it might lead him, the past fortnight had somehow weakened his resolve.

  Unable to shut out the flood of emotions, Richard sank into his chair, a sigh escaping his lips. His father had been a different man once, and although his mother had not said it outright, Richard understood from her words that he himself had more in common with the man his father had been once than with the man Richard had known all his life. However, what did this mean?

  Always had Richard felt like the one who did not belong. Although his sister was exuberant in her ways, pushing the limits no matter what she did, she was undeniably her parents’ daughter. Only he had never quite fit in with his family. All of them possessed a way of relating to one another in an emotional way. How often had he seen them exchange glances and smiles as though they were words containing a deeper meaning? How often had he himself been at a loss when faced with such a silent conversation? How often had he felt as though they did not speak the same language?

  Richard frowned. Had his father been like him once? Had his friendship with Dr. Procten truly changed him? Turned him into a different man?

  Swallowing, Richard met his mother’s gaze. “You find me lacking,” he whispered when realisation dawned. “You disapprove of who I am since I am now as Father once was. Is that not so?”

  His mother’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened in a way that looked alarming. “Oh, no, Richard, you misunderstood.” Placing the letter in her lap, his mother reached out both hands. They settled on his arm as it rested on the side of his chair, applying a gentle pressure that he found soothing. “Everything your father and I have always been concerned with is your happiness, whichever way you might find it.” Her eyes softened, and she cast him a gentle smile before the expression on her face grew serious once more. “Still, from where I sit, I cannot deny that you look far from happy.” Her gaze held his. “Or am I wrong?”