The Prodigal Daughter

by Allison Lane

  But that did not work either. He exchanged a few words with Lady Bradford while Emily instructed the servants and spoke with the guide. Before he could disengage himself and join her, she had accepted Geoffrey’s escort and was already moving away. Mentally shrugging, Norwood offered his arm to Miss Havershoal and followed.

  “Have you known Lady Emily long?” he inquired idly, more for something to say than from any real interest.

  “We were at school together three years ago, though she did not return after her mother died.”

  “Because she was in mourning?”

  “Not really. There were often students in mourning. But Thorne demanded she stay home and oversee the household. Marianne will be expected to do the same once Emily marries..” She blushed.

  “Did she not protest leaving school so suddenly?”

  “Of course not. Her father expects absolute obedience to his every request. She would not have been at school at all if Lady Thorne had not been dying. But Thorne wished her to acquire some polish before assuming control of the Court.”

  “You sound disapproving.”

  “Forgive me, your grace. I was not raised to such standards and often find things to criticize. I meant no disrespect.”

  “I took none, Miss Havershoal. But do I understand that you condemn duty?”

  “Not at all. But one should ask if the duty is both necessary and desirable. If I had been in Emily’s position, I would have demanded that I spend my mother’s last months with her before starting school. A competent housekeeper needs minimal oversight.”

  “But your mother seems loving and kind – not at all like Lady Thorne, from all accounts,” he commented.

  “True, but Emily was very attached to her. Only Thorne’s autocratic commands tore them apart. She lacked the courage to oppose him.”

  Norwood turned the talk to the abbey, adding to the guide’s comments from time to time. He was developing an uneasy feeling about Emily. If she could not oppose Thorne’s edicts even when they ran counter to her wishes, how could he be sure she desired this match? She had definitely been avoiding him.

  * * * *

  Amanda walked past a row of shops, paying little attention to the window displays. Her concentration was focused on the continuing problems of Lucy, her grandmother’s housemaid. The girl needed to marry as soon as possible, yet Mr. Summerton understandably wanted to give Tom Pilcher a month’s trial before accepting him as an assistant.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Amanda..” The unfamiliar voice pulled her out of her reverie, and she recognized Philip’s younger brother. Though he was handsome, with blond hair cut in the very fashionable Brutus, he exhibited none of the airs she had noted in the dandies of London. Both shirtpoints and cravat were modest. His pantaloons fit comfortably, allowing him to walk with a masculine stride rather than a delicate mince. And his coat could doubtless be donned without assistance.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stevens,” she responded with a smile. “Is the party in town today?”

  “No, they went off to visit Fountains Abbey. I am not enamored of such things, so I came to see you.”

  “Why?” she asked in considerable surprise.

  “I am in need of information and hoped you could help me. Can you tell me more of army life? Philip had no time to learn much. I hate to ask Major Humphries, as his opinion will be biased.”

  “Certainly,” she agreed. Was he looking for additional information about his brother, or did something else underlie this request? His shoulders were rigid and his eyes seemed strained. She had seen that look on others, usually before a first battle. “Are you thinking of buying colors?”

  He nodded, leading her into the confectioner’s shop where they could enjoy a quiet chat over tea and cakes. It was the same place she had visited with Norwood the day before.

  “Why do you wish to begin a military career now?” she asked, once they had been served.

  “Are you implying that I am too old?” he returned.

  “No, nor am I impugning your courage just because the war is over,” she added as his eyes flashed. “But you cannot deny that you are older than most gentlemen who buy colors..” She stared at him in question.

  “I am two-and-twenty,” he muttered at last. It was the same age as Philip had been.

  “Are you your father’s heir now that Philip is gone?”

  “I am the third son.”

  “Then why did you not join earlier?”

  He frowned. “I suppose I was enjoying town too much. I have an inheritance from my grandmother that allows me to live as I choose.”

  “And you now choose the army?”

  “It seems as good a way as any to get away.”

  There was a problem behind his sudden decision, decided Amanda. But until she knew what it was, she could not help him. She doubted if the army would be a solution. Buying colors to escape life seldom worked, especially in peacetime.

  “Now that the war is over, military life can be exceedingly dull,” she said calmly. “You would probably be posted to India. I have heard stories of that area, from Wellington among others. It is very hot and very primitive..” She expanded upon the themes of boredom and discomfort for some time, wanting him to be prepared for the worst that he might encounter. Staying in England was unlikely for one in his position. His family had neither the consequence or the connections to get him a commission in one of the elite regiments posted around London. When his expression indicated that running away seemed less glamorous, she set herself to discovering his real problem.

  “Are you enamored with the idea of faraway places?” His sudden interest might arise from ennui and a desire for adventure. She could understand that. She had suffered such yearnings herself in her younger days.

  “I need to escape society for a while,” he said with a sigh.

  “Can you not simply rusticate until the problem resolves itself?” She set her face in the expression of understanding she had often used with young men.

  “It wouldn’t work. I’ve made a mess of my life and need to get away,” he mumbled.

  “It sometimes helps to talk,” she murmured soothingly. “You needn’t worry that the story will become an on-dit in town.”

  He stared at her for a minute, eventually accepting her statement. “I fell in love last Season with the most beautiful girl in the world, but any future together is hopeless. Her position is too high for me to be an acceptable suitor. I knew that from the beginning, but I thought I could become her friend and adviser while hiding all personal feelings.”

  He paused to swallow hard. Amanda found her head shaking over his naïveté. Poor boy.

  He sighed. “I was a fool, of course. It all worked as I had foreseen except that continually meeting her is causing me too much pain. You’ve no idea how hard it is to keep from dragging her into my arms. Even worse, she will have no choice but to marry someone else. I do not think I could tolerate seeing them together. There is little chance I can continue to behave like a gentleman. The only solution is to leave.”

  Lady Sarah? wondered Amanda. Mr. Stevens had spent much of the dinner party at her side. And he had been riding with her when she’d spotted the party several days earlier. But he was right. The daughter of an earl was considerably above the younger son of a baronet, even one of means. The Earl of Bradford was nearly as toplofty as Thorne. On the other hand, Bradford doted on his daughters. If the girl truly loved Mr. Stevens, he might consider it.

  “Does she return your affections?” she asked softly.

  “I do not know,” he admitted. “We are friends, but it would be unconscionable to press for more. I could not so dishonor her.”

  “Fustian! You ought to at least discover her feelings. If she loves you, running away will leave you both miserable. And you need to know the truth. If you leave now, doubts will plague you until it becomes impossible to find happiness elsewhere.”

  “It is impossible anyway.”

  “Nonsense. If you are such a p
oor specimen that you cannot face the truth, then you will not be an asset to even a peacetime army.”

  He flushed.

  Amanda continued. “If your love is not returned, there will be considerable pain, but it will eventually wane. You will know that your attachment was only an intense infatuation. But if your love is returned, then you must fight for the happiness you deserve. Despite the difference in station, your birth is not base. What father can condemn a daughter to misery?” She refrained from mentioning that her own father was such a one. There was no point in scaring the boy.

  “But how can I approach her?”

  “You will have to decide that for yourself. No one can do it for you. My husband often compared life to war. One of his favorite adages was, an army that never takes the field wins no battles. That is an important lesson in any endeavor.”

  “I will think about it.”

  “If you try and fail, your position remains unchanged. But think on this, Mr. Stevens – any difference must thus be an improvement.”

  He nodded.

  Amanda turned the conversation to the weather and soon took her leave. What would he decide? On such short acquaintance, she could not tell if he was truly in love or was merely infatuated with the Season’s incomparable – though she would hardly describe Lady Sarah as a diamond. But the girl had a pert prettiness that would appeal to some gentlemen. And perhaps his devotion to someone less than a diamond was a gauge to the strength of his feelings.

  * * * *

  Norwood and Lord Geoffrey were unable to go shooting the morning after the abbey trip. The heavens opened, then settled in for a long, drenching rain. Confinement left the company increasingly grumpy – or at least the male contingent; the women were content with their needlework and their plans. There was a move afoot for a mummery at the end of the week. Norwood declined to participate, citing a lack of ability. Not even the decision to spend more time with Emily could overcome his antipathy to parlor games. He had already ducked a musical evening and liked acting even less. In like manner, he avoided charades and other activities. Playing piquet with Geoffrey or billiards with Lord Englewood was far more entertaining. He pulled his eyes from Mr. Stevens’s attempts to mime some asinine phrase in company with Lady Sarah, and began to shuffle the cards.

  But it wasn’t just confinement that bedeviled the duke. Memory was playing havoc with his sensibilities. He was getting nowhere trying to befriend Emily. They had exchanged no more than a dozen words at the abbey. His betrothed rarely joined him in the drawing room before dinner, nor did she remain by his side when they were in company together. He could not help comparing her demeanor with Annabelle.

  During that long-ago Season, he had been too caught up in happiness and the frenetic social rounds to notice the changes in Annabelle’s behavior. He later berated himself for his stupidity, but at the time life had been too good to consider any possibility of disaster.

  Yet it should have been glaringly obvious. Once Crompton had accepted his proposal and arranged the settlements, he had dismissed Nicholas, claiming that Annabelle was out making calls. And so he had not seen her again until the Debenham ball that night. She smiled, as usual, and danced with him twice, as usual, but there had been no flirtation. That alone should have warned him that all was not well. But it had not.

  The month leading up to their wedding had been the most hectic of his life. It was easy to impute Annabelle’s growing coolness to exhaustion. He was ready to drop as well. Both grew stiffer as the days passed. It required a greater effort to be congenial in public. The constant accolades became burdensome. Though there were moments when he wished they had eloped, Nicholas bore it without complaint, believing that all would be well as soon as they were alone together. He even counted the days until that magical time.

  The duke snorted, banishing the memories. But he could not banish the worry. Why was Lady Emily so reluctant to spend time with him? The situation was not at all the same. He had been open and honest when he proposed. She had been the same when she accepted. Neither pretended affection for the other. He did not expect false adoration, but neither did he approve of disdain. As hostess, it was her duty to at least afford him the same attention she bestowed on others. That she did not was noticeable, though so far, he was the only one to remark it. But it did not bode well for the future. Even a business arrangement needed continuing attention if it was to run smoothly. They must have a serious talk before the ball.

  Chapter Twelve

  Norwood slumped into the corner of his carriage, oblivious to the passing scenery as blue devils chased around his head. Even billiards and cards had palled, leaving him more restless than ever before. At least if he were at home, he could read or study reports from his various estates.

  Not until the fourth day had the downpour finally waned. He was driving to Middleford, hoping the local bookseller might offer something interesting – Thorne’s library contained only collections of sermons. It was discouraging to discover that the man set no store by education, and daunting to realize that Lady Emily’s insipid ignorance was not merely a fashionable facade.

  Startled, he considered that last thought. Why would it matter? Father-in-law or not, Thorne would rarely be in his company. Lady Emily was a paragon of correct behavior, for society decried intellectualism in females. Ladies thought of nothing weightier than fashion, gossip, and the latest novels. His expression darkened as he realized that his purpose had changed over the past six months. Instead of reluctantly bowing to duty, he now welcomed the idea of marriage. Why?

  Ennui. That explained his sudden urge to make a friend of his wife. Time hung heavy on his hands. For all his dislike of the shallow social chatter of a London Season, he had enjoyed conversing with other gentlemen and had even warmed to some of the activities. The summer back at Norwood Castle had been lonely. Not that he had admitted it at the time, attributing his increasing melancholy to the limitations posed by his broken arm. But in retrospect it was obvious. He needed someone willing to talk, who could sustain a serious discussion.

  A wife could make a perfect companion, provided she did not indulge in the empty prattle common among society ladies. Annabelle had destroyed any tolerance for that. In fact, instead of an ornament or a dutiful vassal, what he needed was that dreaded breed, the bluestocking.

  Devil take it, why was he ranting on like this? The thought itself was bad enough, but his timing was abominable. He had carefully chosen his wife to fit his ideals, and intelligence had not been one of them. At best, Lady Emily had the most conventional of educations, with less than one year spent at a school for young ladies. She was not even the sort to spend her time on gothic novels, and would doubtless condemn their impropriety. Nor was she capable of sustaining a true discussion, for that would involve stating her own ideas even if they disagreed with his. But a conformable miss would never dare counter him, and conformability was why he had chosen her.

  He ran his hands through his hair. What was happening to him? He was suddenly doubting not only his decisions, but his most basic ideas. It was all the fault of that damnable Mrs. Morrison. She had swept into his life like an avenging fury and was maliciously overturning all his perceptions. He had indulged in more uncharacteristic behavior since meeting her than he had in years. Since Annabelle’s death, in fact.

  But he repressed his mental tirade and forced himself to reconsider. She had not really forced him into abnormal behavior. She had merely reached past his cynical propriety to find the enthusiastic boy he had once been. Not once had she held a gun to his head.

  There had been a time when he would have done all those things without thought. Lacking affection at home, he had often turned to the tenant children for companionship. His parents had paid so little attention to him that he doubted they even knew that. Having done her duty and produced an heir, his mother had gone her own way. The ninth duke cared for no one. And so Nicholas grew up alone, his tutor a lazy man who welcomed frequent days to himself.


  There had been an element of wonder in the way he looked at the world at that time. The future was a marvel to be embraced and enjoyed. Each new experience triggered enthusiasm. A new day brought a smile to his face. It was hard to recall such carefree impetuosity from the perspective of a cynical, dour man of two-and-thirty. But the memories could not be denied.

  That laughing boy would have readily pitched in when confronted by a crisis, doing whatever he could to help without considering either his own safety or the social standing of the victims. He felt no pride in the man he had become, having adopted the worst traits of his parents in an effort to protect himself from another painful interlude like his reckless marriage. But that facade was not Nicholas Blaire. No wonder his life contained no joy.

  He climbed down to visit the bookshop, pleased to discover a Fielding novel he had never read. As an afterthought, he added the works of John Donne. As he headed back to the Court, he tried to concentrate on his purchases, but his mind would not cooperate. Sighing, he turned his attention back to his problems. What was he to do? The course he had so carefully charted was impossible. He could not tolerate another forty years trapped in the joyless existence of the last ten.

  The only solution was to develop affection for Lady Emily. They needed to feel close if they were to benefit from their marriage. And he must encourage her to speak her mind. It would take time to move her away from Thorne’s expectations, but he must try.

  A crash of thunder drew his gaze to the window. The storm had returned. Rain poured down in sheets, accompanied by gusty winds and more lightning. The coach lurched, skidding slightly on the corner. He rapped firmly on the panel that separated him from the box.

  “Slow down and take it carefully,” he called to Carson. “We don’t want to risk a ditching.”

  “Very good, your grace,” the man responded.

  The elderly Carson undoubtedly wanted to get back as soon as possible, but he was a conscientious coachman and would understand the need for care. Norwood sighed. The road had already been muddy. He could feel it worsening under the sudden onslaught.