The Prodigal Daughter

by Allison Lane

  “Why was Mrs. Morrison not invited?” demanded Major Humphries, his voice carrying as if he were still on a battlefield. Several people turned their eyes toward him, including a glowering Thorne, an icy Lady Emily, and Lady Thorne, whose eyes unexpectedly twinkled.

  “She was,” Mrs. Reeves assured him. “I would never dream of excluding her. I am so very grateful that she condescended to help Elizabeth and my other girls improve their pianoforte skills. But she declined, claiming a prior engagement.”

  “Fustian!” exploded the major. “Who would demand she bypass a gathering like this?”

  “She did not say, but you must know that one cannot constrain her to do something she does not want to do..” The words were lightly barbed and accompanied by a swift glance toward the group that included Bradford, Craven, and Thorne.

  What was that all about? wondered Norwood as he concluded his discussion with Lord Quinn and moved on to talk to Sir Timothy and his son, James Taylor. His impression of Mrs. Morrison had placed her in the ranks of the merchant class, though now that he thought about it, her accent was genteel. But she was the wife of a soldier and had followed the drum, if his memory was correct. She still involved herself with nursing – an activity no one of quality would approve – being at home with the most gruesome sights. Why would Mrs. Reeves feel obligated to invite her to dine with a marquess and a duke? And why would she decline such an honor? The one comment that he understood was the last one. He recalled all too well how impossible it was to force Mrs. Morrison into diverging from her chosen course.

  Dinner was delicious – Squire Reeves having employed an excellent cook – but the duke spent the meal trying to repress memories of the Blue Boar. They kept intruding at the oddest moments – the flame-filled hallway resurrected when a candle suddenly flared; Fitch’s surgery recalled as the squire carved into an underdone beef joint; the scent of well-larded mutton dredging up a picture of Mrs. Morrison spreading lard on his burns. He was thankful when the meal finally concluded, and they could commence dancing.

  The servants had taken up the carpets in both the drawing room and the adjacent morning room, moving all furniture against the walls to allow space for sets to form. The vicar’s wife took the first turn at providing music.

  Norwood was in a strange mood. Perhaps it was due to his upcoming declaration. He had never enjoyed coercion. And he could feel the pressure building. Everyone gathered at Thornridge Court knew why he was there. Lady Emily was working hard to bring him up to scratch, flirting with the highest-ranking young men in attendance. Thorne seemed piqued that Norwood had yet made no overtures. But some buried remnant of the youthful Nicholas Blaire had deliberately refrained from doing so. He harbored a stubborn streak nearly as strong as that of Mrs. Morrison.

  Not that he was having second thoughts. It was a deliberate ploy to set the tone for their marriage. He would be firmly in charge, for he had no intention of living under the cat’s paw. The Duchess of Norwood must adjust without protest to his way of living.

  And so he waited. In response to her flirting, he ignored her. She was not the sort to develop deep feelings for anyone, so he cared not that she pretended interest in other men. She would quickly learn that such actions would not further her cause. In the meantime, he set himself to be pleasant to the various young ladies present. That made Lady Emily even more flirtatious, but he refused to give in. She could not control him. Duty did not require devotion, only execution. He would show her all the attention her position as his wife required. But no more.

  Mrs. Morrison might have declined to attend in person, reflected Norwood two hours later, but she was present anyway. Her name had often cropped up in overheard conversations, and here it was again. He had been on his way to join Thorne and several other gentlemen in the billiard room, but instead he paused to listen.

  “I knew her quite well on the Peninsula,” Major Humphries was booming at James Taylor. “As did my wife, of course. Amazing woman, Mrs. Morrison. Never saw her snappish in six years. She was caring and compassionate, yet tough as old boots. Stayed with the regiment even on campaign – crossing waterless plains in heat and dust, slogging through mud and across snowy mountains, enduring hunger when the quartermaster got lost and stranded us for three days without food. But never a complaint. She mothered us all, though not annoyingly, tending sores, illnesses, and battle wounds, and listening to our problems.”

  “I can believe that,” murmured Mr. Taylor, his own voice almost lost in the background chatter. “She’s a witch the way she can prod people into talking. I stopped to chat a moment when we met down by the mill the other day and found myself unloading all my complaints onto her shoulders. Not only that, but she offered advice that was more sensible than anything my father ever said.”

  “She’s always been known for her common sense,” agreed Major Humphries. “Many’s the lad who entered battle with a clear head because she had talked away his fears. I don’t doubt she saved scores of lives over the years from that alone.”

  “Too bad Granny died when she did. She’d have enjoyed seeing her star pupil again.”

  “What’s that?” asked the major in surprise.

  “Surely you knew Mrs. Morrison grew up here,” exclaimed Mr. Taylor.

  “She mentioned it when she moved back.”

  “She used to make the rounds regular-like with old Granny Gossich, learning about remedies and healing. I was only a young lad in those days but I remember her well. She always had a kind word or a helping hand for everyone. Kept it up until she left.”

  “You mean that old lady in the woods who died last spring?”

  “That’s the one. Folks were mighty worried when Granny died. Most can’t afford a doctor, and the ladies of the Court are little help, but the Lord doth provide. Mrs. Morrison came home, having learned even more than Granny in her travels..” He shrugged.

  “Surely the ladies of the Court don’t neglect their duty to their tenants,” protested Norwood, joining their conversation.

  “I never meant to imply that,” returned a shocked Mr. Taylor. “No one connected with Thorne would ever skimp on duty. But medical help is different. Lady Thorne wasn’t much for working in the stillroom, so her daughters know nothing of tonics or nostrums. The old housekeeper was well versed in healing, but she retired eight years ago and the new one is ignorant on the subject, so Granny was all most folk could rely on. And now Mrs. Morrison.”

  “Just like on the Peninsula,” observed the major. “She was always ready to help anyone, and many of the lads willingly turned to her for minor problems that they never would have bothered the surgeons with. It was considered unmanly to complain, even though the ills reduced their effectiveness.”

  The music resumed. Norwood excused himself and led out Mrs. Edwards, losing track of the continued discussion. So Mrs. Morrison had been a healer even before she went to the Peninsula. It made her odd behavior more understandable. One often ran across healers. There had been one in the next village in his own youth. His father had decried the woman, of course, but Nicholas saw no reason to follow suit. If she had been a witch, it would have been different, but she did not practice black arts, as far as he could tell, contenting herself with dispensing healing drafts and advice.

  It was odd how one never thought of such people as being young, but they had all been young at some point. And most had probably started like Mrs. Morrison. He wondered if she would prove to be a witch as well as a healer. She had certainly cast a spell on him at the Blue Boar. There was no other explanation for his behavior that night.

  * * * *

  Emily kept a smile pasted firmly on her face while Norwood waltzed for the second time with the lowly Mrs. Edwards. Why was he bent on embarrassing her so publicly? Her father had been very displeased when he’d called her into his library that afternoon.

  “What have you done to annoy his grace?” he demanded harshly. “He has been here for three days without making his offer. Did you give him a disgus
t of you?”

  “Of course not, Father,” she disclaimed, hiding her uncertainty. In all her seventeen years, Thorne had never spoken so coldly to her. “Give him time. He has only just arrived and was forced to spend yesterday in his room recovering from an injury, as you well know.”

  “You must bring him up to scratch,” he commanded, ignoring her excuse. “He will make a perfect husband for you. His breeding is impeccable, his demeanor faultless, and his wealth unmatched by any other suitor. All of society expects this match. Your credit will be permanently diminished if you let him get away. I expect this situation to be resolved immediately. Otherwise, I shall be forced to confront him myself. This teasing is unworthy of both of you.”

  “Yes, Father,” she replied, unsure just what she could do to hurry the duke. It was doubtful she could pressure him into doing anything he did not want to do.

  Mr. Stevens led her into the waltz, allowing her to relax a little. Oliver was one of her most persistent admirers, though wholly ineligible as they both knew. As the younger son of a baronet, his prospects were limited. He had inherited enough from an uncle to support himself, and he owned a small estate, but he made no pretense to wealth. At his age there was no pressure to acquire a bride, so they had become good friends during the course of the last Season. He was one of the few people that she allowed to question her behavior.

  “You seem dispirited,” he said now, twirling her through a complex series of steps.

  “I hoped it would not show..” She cringed at what her father would say.

  “Of course not,” he replied at once. “I doubt anyone suspects, unless they know you as well as I do. But what is wrong?”

  “Father is pressing, demanding that I bring Norwood up to scratch, but I don’t know how. If only Mother were still alive.”

  “You won’t accomplish anything by flirting with everyone in sight,” he scoffed. “Norwood is too old and too proper to play such games. He is not a frivolous youth like myself.”

  “How can you condemn me for flirting when you do it yourself?”

  “I do not condemn. I merely point out that the duke will not succumb to juvenile attempts to arouse his jealousy. As for me, I flirt with you because you enjoy it,” he said, grinning at her discomfort. “It is time to ask yourself what kind of life you want, my lady. If you dutifully drift along a course prescribed by others, you may wake up some fine morning and discover that you are miserable. Norwood is just like your father.”

  “Are you insulting them or me by such an observation?”

  “Neither. But think on this – traits that are tolerable in a parent might not be so in a spouse. You are not the cold, unfeeling daughter Thorne has demanded you play.”

  “Nonsense! Father would never push me into a bad match.”

  “I see I’ve said too much,” he responded stiffly. “Let us talk of something else.”

  “Not yet,” pleaded Emily. “What can I do about Norwood? Father is becoming quite angry at the delay. It was bad enough that the duke cried off visiting last summer, though I understand that his reasons were real enough.”

  “Just be yourself..” He shrugged. “Norwood is not a man you can rush into anything. He is dour, staid, and very independent – the last man to respond to pressure. If you try to force him, he is likely to look for a wife elsewhere.”

  Emily gasped. “But that would tarnish his reputation. Everyone in society expects him to offer for me.”

  “When you are duke, it takes more than terminating a courtship to draw censure..” He grimaced. “Why am I telling you this anyway? I cannot like the idea of you wedding the man. You are too young to settle down. Having been under the thumb of such demanding parents for so long, I wonder if you really know what you want out of life.”

  “Enough, Oliver,” she reprimanded him. “I cannot shirk duty. You know that as well as I. Now speak of something pleasant.”

  He reluctantly complied.

  Chapter Seven

  Amanda strolled alongside the stream that separated the dower house grounds from the rest of Thornridge Court. Her usual good spirits had fled, though she did not really understand why. If only Jack had not died. Her days had little purpose now. Usually she managed to stay busy enough to ignore that continuing emptiness, but when she ran out of activities, loneliness and desolation were always waiting to overwhelm her.

  Dearest Jack. He had been her life for eight years. She suppressed all memory of Waterloo, instead pushing her mind back to the beginning. They had not been in love then, of course, but friendship kept them both content. Though already three-and-twenty with six years of army service under his belt, Jack retained a child-like enthusiasm for life that made him seem the same age as herself. His strength was still middling, but he had recovered from the worst of his injuries and was only waiting word from his regiment before rejoining them.

  Those early months were the most relaxed they had shared, even though Jack was fretting to get back into uniform. They had lived with his great-uncle after their visit to Gretna Green. The old gentleman welcomed them, grateful for their company. She and Jack spent their time wandering the countryside and reading large portions of Uncle George’s extensive library. The three passed evenings in lively discussions of books and ideas. Despite her inadequate education, they expected her to hold her own in debates on any number of subjects, from literature and the nature of the world, to politics and philosophy. She had reveled in new concepts and also in her new freedom.

  Love had evolved from friendship during that period. When word arrived that the Light Bobs would form part of the Peninsular expeditionary force, Jack arranged for her to accompany him. And she was glad. Fear for his safety would have landed her in Bedlam had they been separated.

  But Jack was now gone.

  She wandered into a clearing and sat down on the grass, taking a moment to admire the beginnings of color on the trees as the season changed to autumn, and to note that the afternoon sun slanted beautifully through breaks in the leafy canopy of the forest. It was not the sort of day one expected to spend on dispirited reflection.

  What was she to do with the rest of her life? It was a question she had never asked before. After Jack’s death, she had stayed in Belgium, burying her grief in endless work lest she break down. By the time she returned to England, her mind was numbed, unable to look beyond the next day, or at most the next week. She had pursued activities that kept food on the table and a roof over her head, but she had never considered the future.

  Moving back to Middleford put her in a familiar place among friends, both new and old. She enjoyed teaching, deriving pleasure from her students’ excitement over learning a new fact or mastering a new skill. Her allowance finally put her in a position where she need no longer worry about money. So why was she suddenly restless and unhappy?

  Perhaps it was the security – a paradoxical idea, but one she could not ignore. She and Jack had never had any spare cash. In fact, they often had no cash at all. Pay was perpetually in arrears. It had been worse in Paris and Vienna. Not only were their pockets to let, but the demands of appearing in polite society led them well into the River Tick. And so a growing amount of her time had gone into worry. Now that she was comfortably circumstanced, there was a void in her days.

  Yet it was unlike her to fill the vacancy with melancholy.

  Perhaps it was the place. For the first seventeen years of her life she had been immured here, never traveling beyond Middleford, not even to attend school. Lord Thorne was convinced that she would call censure down on his head if he allowed her out of his sight, so her education was imparted at home – very spottily. The governess mimicked every other member of the household and scorned her.

  She frowned. Most of her learning had occurred during the months they had lived with Uncle George. She shook her head in sudden sadness. Not once had she ever thanked either of them for broadening her mind and stimulating new ideas. George was as responsible for the woman she had become as Jack was
. And it was too late to rectify her negligence.

  So what was she to do with her life? She already suspected that living close to Thornridge was a bad idea. It was only a matter of time before she came into conflict with the family. Despite her warning, she doubted that Thorne understood how many people knew her background and criticized his actions. Some of them were members of the aristocracy. When he learned the truth, fur would fly. He could never remain silent in the face of ridicule from his peers. And he would blame her, convincing himself that she was spreading scurrilous stories.

  Yet how could she leave? Her financial situation was unchanged. She could not afford to set herself up elsewhere on what she could earn by teaching. There was no use denying that her birth and breeding were responsible for many of the students she now had. If she went back to being the anonymous widow of a soldier, she would lose that advantage. She was investing the bulk of her allowance in Consols, but it would be years before those investments returned enough to support her.

  Her mind circled uselessly. There was no other widow who might welcome her as a housemate. Nor could she seek a traditional post as governess or companion, for no one would hire her without knowing her background. She had given her word to forget all connections to Thorne. Her relationship with both Jack and the army left her dangling near several worlds while belonging to none. She could not live like the officers’ wives – their backgrounds were similar to her own, but her unconventional interests barred her from their circle. Nor could she fit in with the camp followers. Harry Smith’s wife had been her closest friend on the Peninsula, being similarly trapped between worlds, but Harry was still very much alive, so she could not intrude there. Besides, when he was around, Juana saw no one else. Eloping with Jack had severed Amanda’s ties to the nobility. Working for a living made even Jack’s peers in the upper reaches of the gentry look at her askance, as did her work with the army surgeons.