by Erica Ridley
He’d like to matter to her.
He gave her hand a quick squeeze as they entered the office, then turned to fetch plumes and ink as promised. He offered Mrs. Mayer his chair, but she waved it away.
“Mr. Mayer needs it more than I do. Go on and sit, you old fool. Lord knows your knees aren’t what they used to be. Try not to break a hip getting over there.” Although her words were harsh, her tone had softened. Her husband clearly needed the chair more than she did, and the old woman was ensuring he took it.
Oliver watched as Mr. Mayer sank wearily into Oliver’s leather chair.
These people might be horrid to Grace, were unquestionably not going to win awards for empathy and compassion, but on the other hand… They were here. In the same room. They looked at her. Spoke to her. Wished to meet her intended before giving their permission. Had offered to provide a dowry.
He could not like them, of course. Whether they cared for Grace or not, they had literally burned the lines of communication with her mother, and that was something he could not forgive.
Mrs. Mayer slapped the contract onto his desk.
Oliver took a closer look at the small print. One thousand pounds, to be deposited into his account the same morning as the wedding. Not a penny more, not a moment earlier. Marriage within two months time, or the contract is void.
Fine. He dipped his plume into the ink and signed. Mr. Mayer did the same.
Grace went very pale and very still, as if up until the moment of signing, a small part of her had expected angels to swoop in and brush the compromise away. Oliver’s heart twisted. He was no angel. All he could do was try not to add to her worries.
Her voice wobbled as she asked, “Is there… Is there a dowager suite on the property?”
Mrs. Mayer snorted as if the idea were preposterous. “I will not be returning to this hovel, child. Make no great efforts on my account.”
“I would visit,” Mr. Mayer put in. “With a rifle. I think I saw pheasant behind the property.”
Oliver ignored the interruptions. It was obvious whom Grace had meant. “Your mother?”
She nodded. “Perhaps she could make it. If we send enough money to cover doctors and medicine, and a companion to help her pack her bags—”
“What money?” Mrs. Mayer pursed her wrinkled lips. “You were caught with this paragon of society in the Seville family library during a soirée. You don’t get prize money. You’re fortunate you even get banns instead of a trip to the anvil.”
Grace’s mouth fell open. “Fortunate! You have to allow Mama time to get well enough to attend the wedding. She’s my mother. And she’s dreadfully ill. I don’t even know—”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Mrs. Mayer said coldly. “I have chosen to donate one thousand pounds of my own money to the gentleman you chose to give liberties to. With what money are you going to send for your mother, child? You haven’t a farthing, and Carlisle here has even less. This is it. The contract is signed. What’ll it be, girl? A swift wedding, or a life of spinsterhood at home with your beloved grandparents? Don’t you think you’ve already caused us enough trouble?”
Fury shone in Grace’s pale green eyes, despite the blur of unshed tears. “It’s no wonder my mother left home and never looked back. You’re hateful.”
“Left home?” Her grandmother snorted. “Tossed her out, is what we did. Much like you, she was too free with her favors. Why do you think you were born seven months after the wedding? I’m half surprised there was a wedding. I presume even in America, they know how to count.”
Grace gripped the sides of her skirt, her knuckles white with anger. “You’re saying…My father…”
“Was someone you never met. Not that it matters. You shan’t repeat all of your mother’s mistakes. I presume you’re smart enough to avoid a seven-month baby, but just in case—you won’t be leaving the house until the day of the wedding.”
“But grandmother, I didn’t— Lord Carlisle and I never—”
“That’s what she said, too. Load of rubbish, wasn’t it? That’s why I’ve already reserved the church for your wedding. The date is set.”
“I’m not my mother! You can’t punish me for something she may or may not have done twenty-two years ago. She forgave you. Why can’t you forgive her?”
“She never asked me to,” her grandmother replied bitterly. “I’m her mother. That’s all it would have taken.”
“Liar.” Grace’s voice was cold. “Forgiveness is something that happens in your heart. An organ I doubt you possess.”
Oliver pulled her into his arms, holding her from behind. Her shoulders remained stiff and unyielding.
“Don’t be nice to me,” she muttered, twisting free from his arms. “Don’t you dare be sweet and sympathetic or I won’t be able to keep the tears from falling. She doesn’t deserve to see me cry.”
He let her go.
She was right. Her grandparents didn’t deserve her tears, or her smiles, or any part of her. They didn’t deserve Grace at all. He was glad her mother had run off to America. Her father sounded like a wonderful, kindhearted man, no matter the biology of their relationship. And her mother was a saint. Imagine, growing up under the same roof as this dour-faced dragon, and still managing to raise a daughter as extraordinary as Grace.
“See you at the wedding?” he asked softly. He would wait years, if she wanted. Dowry be damned.
When she glanced up at him, her eyes had dried but her voice was hollow. “I’ll be the girl in the veil.”
He nodded. “I’ll bring the flowers.”
Her crooked smile broke his heart.
When she walked out the door, she took a piece of his soul with her.
In dismay, he realized that the fate worse than marrying someone he didn’t like might be marrying someone he did.
Chapter 14
After Ferguson had secured the latch and the sound of carriage wheels faded into nothing, Oliver called all his servants into his office. When his father was alive, no more than a dozen people might’ve wedged themselves in amongst the chairs and cabinets and rolling secretaries. Now it was only Oliver, and a single desk. They could’ve danced the minuet with room to spare, if they’d been of a mind to.
Of course, no one felt like dancing. Oliver was about to do one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life, and his trusting, hardworking staff… Well, who knew where they’d be tomorrow. All he could hope was that they found somewhere better than here.
He rose to his feet. He would hold his head high and meet everyone’s eyes. He would not strip them of their dignity.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His voice was low, but steady.
No one moved. All eyes were fixed on his.
“It has recently come to my attention that my father—God rest his soul—left the earldom in a state of arrears. You no doubt noticed when your wages were no longer forthcoming, and you all helped when I was forced to take action to repay those debts.” He waved a hand toward an empty wall where three perfect rectangles indicated where a triptych of oil paintings had once hung. “The unfortunate consequence is that the maids now have less surface area to dust.”
The smiles were quick, but nervous. No one laughs while awaiting the axe to fall.
He picked up the stack of sealed notes on his desk and began to call out names. “Ferguson…John Coachman…Millie…”
“What is this, my lord?” asked his valet when it was his turn to pick up his document. He held it by the very edge, as if it were poisonous to the touch. “Are you sacking us all?”
Oliver shook his head. “Not exactly. I’m giving you all your freedom. Freedom to do whatever it is that’s right for you. All of you are now in possession of a glowing, personalized letter of recommendation. You are absolved of the need to give notice. You may leave right now, or at any time in the future. It is my hope that with these letters, each of you can easily find employers who deserve you.”
His cook’s round cheeks flus
hed. “We’re no longer welcome here?”
“You are always welcome here,” Oliver said fiercely. “This is your home as much as mine. You are the only family I have ever had. It is because I love you all that I am giving you the means to leave. There are no chairs to sit on and barely enough wood for the fire. I will have a wife in a few weeks’ time and I don’t know how I’ll even feed her, much less find money for your wages. I’m doing my best to invest wisely, to improve efficiency, but it may not bear fruit for another year at least. How can I ask you to stay on, in conditions such as those?”
“You don’t have to ask us,” said Ferguson, his voice gentle. “You said it yourself. We’re a family.”
The cook stared at Oliver in bewilderment. “I could no more leave you to starve than I could starve my own children. I cooked for you and your father before you, and if the Lord grants me enough life to do it, I intend to cook for your sons, too.”
His valet shook his head as if the very idea was preposterous. “Why do you think we stayed on, when it was clear your father couldn’t pay us? It wasn’t for him, my lord. We stayed because of you.”
Oliver’s throat tightened. They’d stayed for him. He now knew exactly what Grace had meant about the danger of kind words when one is desperately trying to hold one’s feelings inside. As he stared at the sea of earnest faces, his head spun in wonder. No matter how many times it had felt that way, he had never been alone.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I…thank all of you.”
Millie the upstairs maid flashed him a saucy grin. “We love you too, my lord.”
Before he could respond, she and the other giggling chambermaids were out the door and gone.
As all of his servants made their bows or dipped their curtseys, Oliver felt each one as though it were an embrace. He’d gone through his entire childhood without once being hugged, or ever feeling like his home was a sanctuary. For the first time in his life, it was.
When the last of his staff had taken their leave, he made his way from his office to the Hall of Portraits. This time when he gazed up at the Black Prince, it was not with hate or with envy, but with a sense of finality. The Prince was family as much as anyone… But he could do the most good by saying good-bye. Oliver had servants to feed. Debts to pay. A bride to cherish.
What was one more empty rectangle on the manor wall?
Chapter 15
Grace balled up her latest letter and hurled it into the fire. What was the point of writing letters? Her grandparents refused to post them and she had no means or money of her own. Even if she did, the wedding was less than a week away. By the time her note arrived, the ceremony would already be over.
She couldn’t even give her correspondence to Lord Carlisle to post anymore. Her grandparents hadn’t let her leave their sight from the moment the contract was signed. Not that she could run into him casually, even if she could leave the house. According to the scandal sheets, he hadn’t been seen in weeks. Grace lowered her forehead to her writing table and sighed.
Was that her fault, too? That he was no longer attending events? Or had he simply run out of money? She could easily imagine him giving up all comforts and diversions in order to save his pennies for once they were married.
Her shoulders sank. At times like these, she missed her mother so sharply and so completely that it felt like her heart was empty and the yearning endless. Her mother would hug her and tell her she loved her, and hold her tight. But Mama wasn’t here. Grace didn’t even know if she was still alive. The first chance she’d get to sail back to America wouldn’t be for another week. Not until the day after the wedding.
She closed her eyes. Oh, Oliver. Her heart ached at what she was about to put him through. She didn’t want to leave him. She could say it was for his own good, that he’d be better off without another mouth to feed or a dependent to look after, but she’d seen the warmth in his eyes when he kissed her forehead in his empty parlor. He might regret having been compromised, but he wasn’t sorry it had been with her.
Heaven knew it was mutual. How she wished things could have worked out differently! Her nerves sizzled with frustration. Since her grandparents refused to send aid to her mother, she had no choice but to leave immediately after the wedding. It wouldn’t be Oliver’s fault if she didn’t reach her mother before it was too late, but she would still be resentful for the rest of her life. She couldn’t put any of them through that. Her hands twitched as she rocked back in her chair.
She rubbed the back of her neck, squeezing harder than necessary. There was no right answer. She would go home, and if her mother were healthy enough, she would bring her right back. And if Mama was too sick or Grace was too late… Well, the money would be spent either way. She’d spend the last ha’penny on medicine and surgeons if need be. If that didn’t work, there’d be a grave to dig and a stone to buy and a “year” of mourning that would never truly end…
No. She leapt to her feet. She couldn’t think that way. Her hands were tied until after the ceremony, but she’d be on the first boat out the morning after. Until then, she had to keep calm, keep breathing. It was just one more week. Less! Just six interminable days remained. Then she’d have Carlisle for a blissful, whirlwind twenty-four hours. She was determined to savor every moment of her wedding day. Their wedding night.
Because the next morning, she’d be on a boat. The thought filled her with as much regret as it did relief. But what choice did she have? Carlisle would understand the need to rescue her mother. He had to. It would break her heart if he did not.
She washed the ink from her fingers and made her way to the stairs. Below, all was quiet. Her grandparents had made noises about paying a call upon a neighbor. If Grace was lucky, that would give her a few minutes to curl up on one of the plush silk sofas without them breathing over her shoulder. She tiptoed down the stairs. No one crossed her path.
Her grandparents’ mansion was even larger than Carlisle’s, and opulent to the point of ostentatious. Every corner boasted heavy marble busts. Every edge that could be gilded, was.
She wouldn’t miss the gaudy extravagance, but she would miss easy access to the newest fashion plates, and a comfortable chaise longue upon which to enjoy them. Even Carlisle’s estate would seem positively luxurious compared to the claustrophobic shared cabins upon the ocean vessel, where the stink of too many people clogged one’s nose and the relentless pitching of the sea emptied one’s stomach. Her belly turned at the unpleasant memory.
Her jaw set. She would survive the upcoming voyage.
Book in hand, Grace hurried toward her favorite sitting room—and pulled up short inside the doorway.
There, reclining upon the very chaise longue she’d been looking forward to using, was her grandmother. The pelisse about her shoulders and dry boots upon her feet indicated they had not yet made it to the neighbor’s house, but would be leaving shortly. Her grandfather, similarly attired, sat in the wingback chair closer to the fireplace. He looked up first, but did not smile. Nobody in this house smiled.
“Well, here’s Grace.” He stretched his back. “We can let her read this one, can’t we?”
Only then did Grandmother Mayer raise her gray head from the letter she’d been reading. The look she shot her husband could have boiled iron. She shoved the folded parchment in Grace’s direction as if her very presence had soured its contents.
“Read it, then. It’s for you.”
Mama! Grace’s heart leaped. Her entire body was so infused with joy that she couldn’t even bring herself to be angry at her grandparents for breaking the seal and reading it first. They were finally letting her hear from her mother! Nothing else mattered.
The book fell from her fingers as she swooped forward to save the letter before her grandmother changed her mind and tossed it into the fire with the rest of the undelivered correspondence. Hands shaking as much from fear as excitement, Grace unfolded the ivory page and read the first line:
My future countess,
<
br /> Pain ripped through Grace’s heart, followed by an all-encompassing emptiness. Of course it was not from her mother. If there had been a note from her, it was ashes by now. This letter, too, would have shared the same fate, had she not entered the parlor at this precise moment. There would be no word of her mother’s health or lack thereof until Grace stepped onto Pennsylvania soil. Until then, all she had were her hateful grandparents.
And Oliver. She had Oliver. Her savior and her curse.
Swallowing the lump of despair in her throat, she turned back to the letter.
My future countess,
Forgive me that I no longer think of you as Miss Halton, but rather as Lady Carlisle, mistress of both my estate and my heart. I know that you do not love me and would not have chosen our union, and all I can do is everything within my power to be the sort of husband a wife can trust, respect, and perhaps come to care for.
To that end, I am writing to inform you that I have taken the liberty of opening an account in your name at the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street. This is the same branch in which I manage my own finances, and therefore holds the account that will receive your dowry the morning of our wedding. As soon as the funds arrive, they will be debited from my account and deposited into yours. To withdraw any amount of your choosing, you have only to present yourself at the bank and ask for it. This account is not in my name. The money is yours.
As you have no doubt ascertained, I lack sufficient resources to spoil you as extravagantly as I wish. However, I am able to grant the one desire that you wish—for these funds to be used to aid your mother as you see fit.
I do not labor under the misapprehension that this gesture should be construed as a wedding present, nor do I seek gratitude for having undertaken these steps. I cannot gift to anyone what was never mine to begin with. The money has always been yours. I am simply giving it back.
