“Yes, this is it,” Mary said, excited about this new direction. “He needs a modicum of independence. And a focus, not of the future but of the present. We all know how much he hates being idle, so what if he had something to do? Something that helped him feel useful and in command.”
Mr. Quinn Starrett turned to his father. “Does the baronetcy have a steward? He could be sent for. Duncan could learn the accounts.”
The conversation gained momentum, enough for Mrs. Starrett to seem moderately convinced by the time Mary and Lilith took their leave.
Before Mary climbed into the carriage, Mrs. Starrett took her aside to embrace her and invite her to pay another call soon. However much Mary wanted to show Duncan she would not be pushed away, she did not think it good form to continue to show up uninvited. Instead, she asked Mrs. Starrett to pay her a call at Lyonn Manor. At least for the time.
The parting struck a chord in Mary. She had made the right choice. She knew it. Duncan may doubt they could have a family together, but did he not realize that his entire family would be hers, the family she had always wanted? And what of the little boy? It was not the boy’s fault he was born of sin. The boy needed a mother as much as she wanted a family. Such a thought pained her since his birth marked a betrayal she had not forgiven, but it was a reality she had to face if she was determined to remain in Duncan’s life.
For how long he sat with his head in his hands, Duncan could not say. He had been in that position since Mary’s departure. His words echoed in his head, tormenting him. There was no way to recall such ugliness. How could he explain he wanted her to stay but did not want to ruin her life?
The sound of the door opening stirred him from his stupor. The last thing he wanted was more harassment. If his family heard the disagreement, he would never hear the end of it. The sun rose and set on Mary as far as his parents were concerned.
“Papa?” A tiny voice cracked from the doorway.
Duncan’s head jerked up, shocked to see Bernard holding the door handle, half his body hidden behind the frame.
“I’m sorry,” said the barely audible whisper from the door.
“Come here.” Duncan gestured to the boy. “Why are you sorry?”
“You’re mad at me.” He had not moved from the door.
“Oh, Bernard, I’m not mad at you. You’re an angel. Come sit with me.” He held out his arms wide.
Bernard shuffled over, his eyes downcast. When he stopped next to the chair, Duncan wrapped his arms around the thin waist and hauled his son onto his lap. However disconcerting it was that he could not feel the weight against his thighs, it felt reassuring for the boy to be there. Duncan leaned Bernard’s head to his chest and rested his own head on the unruly curls. He was all the boy had in this world. How selfish he had been. Damn his brother for being right.
“You’re mad or you’d read to me,” the child said, tugging at the buttons of Duncan’s waistcoat.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to. I’ve been ill.”
“You don’t look ill. Are you better?”
“Getting better, yes. Where’s your nurse?” Duncan eyed the door, curious what a three-year-old was doing roaming the halls alone, not to mention descending the stairs from the nursery on his own.
“She fell t’sleep. I sneaked. Are you mad now?”
“Nothing you do could anger me. How about you bring the book to me and we read in here?” Duncan ruffled the curls.
“Now?”
“Well, I suppose we can. We can do it every night, as well. Won’t you feel like a big boy reading in Papa’s room,” Duncan said with a chuckle.
Goodness. It was the first time he had chuckled since the night to end all nights. His eyes burned to think how good it felt to laugh.
“Don’t move.” Bernard jumped off his lap and raced out of the room.
Duncan almost laughed again at the command not to move, but the irony was too harsh for a joke. And what a louse he was. A selfish louse. This whole time feeling sorry for himself when another soul depended on him. His brother would never let him live down being right.
While alone in the room, he concentrated on wiggling his toes. It was something he had not tried. In fact, he had put no effort into moving except the times when Dr. Knowlton visited. The spinal drain or whatever the doctor had done was supposed to be a magical cure, but it had not worked from Duncan’s perspective, however confident the doctor was. But what if Duncan was wrong? What if it had worked and he had been too distraught to find out?
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his toes, willing them to move.
His eyes flew open, his heart racing.
If he could not feel his toes, how would he know if they were moving inside the shoes? They could be moving, and he would not know it. The thought was elating.
Leaning over, he pulled off both shoes and tossed them aside. Eyes trained on the stockings, he tried again.
Nothing.
He pounded a fist on the table.
It was not for himself he tried again. It was for Bernard. He changed his tactic. His goal was to lift the whole foot. Staring at the stocking, he focused on the hinging of his ankle, pleading it to move.
Footsteps pounded on the floor outside as Bernard raced down the hall and back into the room, book waving in his hand.
Duncan held out his arms to catch the launched cannonball that was Bernard. His efforts would have to continue later.
After nearly an hour of reading to Bernard, who never once tired, Duncan stopped only when interrupted. The nurse came to fetch him, looking harried and chagrined to find him in Duncan’s bedroom, pestering the young master. With promises to return at bedtime, the boy followed his nurse.
The self-pity must end, he decided. If he could not do it for himself, he must do it for Bernard. His brother had said as much. It took the boy himself to shake Duncan into the realization.
The trouble was, he was uncertain how to go about life without the use of his legs. The goal was to walk again, and ideally with returned sensation. But what if that was not an option? Life was going to carry on without him either way, so he had to sort out a plan. He was a military leader who specialized in strategizing. The baronetcy was an accolade for organizing a notable coup. If he could plan war tactics, surely, he could plan life from a chair.
That was not to say he would give up on mobility. For the past week, he had not even tried, already having lost hope. Failure in movement could not bring him any lower. What was there to lose by trying?
If the doctor did not have such confidence. If the pain had not been removed by the doctor’s ministrations. If he did not want it so badly. Well, he might have a different outlook on his plight in any of those cases. But the doctor was so arrogant in his belief that mobility and sensation would return, it did seem foolhardy to believe otherwise, despite the evidence to the contrary. The object—some sort of clotting of blood, the doctor had explained—that had compressed his spine had been drained and removed, and now there should be nothing to prohibit his lower extremities from returning to normal.
Unless permanent damage had occurred.
But if so, the doctor would have doubts, would he not?
Duncan looked down at his legs, still deceptively strong. Lifting them with his hands, one at a time, he stretched them out to see their length before him. With renewed spirit, he focused his attention on lifting his right leg. It had always been his leading leg. However strange it must look for a gentleman to sit staring at his lap, he was hard at work, willing his leg to move.
At times, when marching across the continent, their destination had seemed impossible to reach. They had entire countries to traverse by foot. If they had focused on the end goal, they would have given up. Instead, they had given themselves end-of-day goals, one short distance at a time. When realizing they only had to cross a hill, everything seemed managea
ble. That was what he needed: one goal at a time. His goal would not be to walk or to ride or to dance. His first goal would be to move one leg a fraction of an inch. From there, he could consider making a new goal, but for now one mission at a time.
And so he stared at his leg, moving—or at least attempting to—for all he was worth, though outwardly nothing happened.
The door to the bedchamber opened once again, this time with more gusto. Did no one knock anymore?
“Duncan Sean Freeman Starrett. I am quite finished with your sullenness.” His mother marched into the room, hands on hips, her fiery mane frizzing beneath her cap.
She was a formidable force, his mother. Not just because of her intimidating height, but also her approach to opposition. Judging from her fierce scowl, she expected opposition.
Duncan held up a hand to speak, but she refused to be interrupted.
“It has been five days since the good doctor worked his miracle,” she said. “According to him, you should be training every three hours, every day. And what have you done? Lie in bed feeling sorry for yourself. I won’t have it. Not in my household. If you want to wallow, do it elsewhere.”
Stunned, he stared wide-eyed at his mother.
She continued before he could take a breath to speak. “I did not raise my children to be wallowers, woah-is-meing as the day is long. So, you can’t walk. Boo hoodley hoo. How do you think your father felt when he took a sword to his leg in battle? Did he wallow all day? No. He limped along, refusing to let it stop him.”
Abashed, Duncan held up his hand again. “Mama, I unde—”
“You, sir, have a little boy whose world revolves around you. Have you given a thought to him?”
“Yes, Mama, and in fact—”
“You’ve a young lady so in love with you she’s compromised her reputation by coming here nearly every day. Don’t think that’s not been noticed. If the two of you didn’t have an understanding before, you had better have one now. I’ll not see her heartbroken or ruined because of your selfishness. And that’s what it is. Selfishness.”
Frowning, he tried again to interject. “Mama. Really. This is quite—”
“I tell you now, Starretts do not give up. We’ll be sending for a Bath chair, but if you disobey the doctor’s orders, I’ll set it afire in front of your window. Don’t think I won’t do it.”
Well then.
Crossing her arms, she jutted out her chin, daring him to rebut her.
He waited.
Silence stretched.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she asked at last.
How he kept from laughing, he would never know. “You’ve a convincing argument, Mama. Consider me persuaded.”
Georgina puckered her lips and narrowed her eyes, the crease between her brows deepening. “Prove it.” With that, she marched out of the room and shut the door behind her none too gently.
Only when her footsteps receded down the hallway did he laugh.
Chapter 11
“‘Tck ‘tck, walk on,” Mary said to Athena.
They had been to the lake, she and Athena. It had been the perfect morning for such an excursion—autumn breeze, warm sun, clear skies, all in contrast to the evening’s storm.
The lake brought an onslaught of nostalgia and memories of Duncan as he had once been. Was it only those memories to which she clung? A future could not be built on memories alone, and yet any thought of walking away brought panic. She would not have the past five years be waited for naught.
Everyone had unsolicited advice for her. Lilith had been first with her encouragement to consider what Duncan had to offer and if it was what Mary wanted from life. Charlotte had been next with more questions than recommendations, namely how Mary felt about him and if it was Duncan or the memory she was in love with. It had been Charlotte’s questions that sent Mary to the lake in hopes of finding answers.
Arabella had written to advise Mary to reconsider, for five years was not a lengthy loss when one considers a lifetime with a virtual stranger who could not give her children. She was of the firm opinion Mary should look elsewhere. Conversely, Drake wanted her to follow her heart, and just as when she was sixteen, he offered to do whatever he could to help her reach her destination.
Even Winston had offered his thoughts during one of his dinner visits. He inspired her with an impassioned speech about remaining loyal, for there was not enough loyalty in this world. Though he said it in a cheerful fashion, she could hear his own heartbreak in the words.
Surely, the love she and Duncan had shared ran deeper than a childish infatuation. The least the two could do was find out. If there was no substance aside from memories, they could both walk away, but backing out now was out of the question.
Since setting out that morning, she could think of little else except how to help him. The intention of visiting the lake had been to search for answers to their relationship, but her mind would not cooperate. It whirled with strategies to make Duncan’s life manageable until he could walk again, as well as in the event he did not regain the use of his legs.
The priority, in her opinion, was getting him back on his horse.
The situation stymied her. He loved riding as much as she, if not more so. He was a Light Dragoon, after all. Their greatest mutual love had always been riding together, be it galloping, jumping, or merely trotting. How could he survive without time atop his horse?
Her best idea was a mounting platform. At first, it could be used to help the footmen hoist him onto the saddle, assuming he was not too proud. Once he regained mobility, such a platform could help ease the distance to the saddle until he was back to full form. If they could build a ramp up to the platform, he could access it with his Bath chair, allowing for even more independence both before and after recovery.
Such a construction would be fast and easy to erect. The trouble was that his pride might get in the way. Of course, it was altogether possible he would not want to ride without the full use of his legs or even be able to ride in such a state, but Mary doubted both. The Duncan of old would not allow anything to keep him from getting on a horse.
For the ride back to Lyonn Manor, she explored possibilities for the mounting platform and mulled over her proposition of the idea to his family. Not only was it an unusual idea, but they might not support his getting on a horse in his condition.
She took her time returning home, in no hurry to quit her ride or to end her plotting too soon. There was no other way she knew to help Duncan than to strategize.
Sometime later, after having refreshed and changed, she sat with her nephew Theodore in the nursery. Only by moments had she missed Charlotte, the nurse had explained. The duchess had visited with her son for nearly an hour before returning to her duties. Mary was relieved to have missed her. Not that she did not want to see Charlotte, but she wanted time to reflect without more probing.
As much as she tried to engage Theo in a game of spillikins, he insisted it was time to write. The boy, in all his somber seriousness, was determined to have his name written in perfect penmanship by the end of the day. The ruffled auburn hair with its unruly tufts was incongruous with his sober nature. Head bent over his desk, tip of his tongue angling out of the corner of his mouth, he worked the quill across the parchment.
Mary sat behind him, observing with words of encouragement. Though she concentrated on his letters, her mind wandered. What of Duncan’s little boy? Could he write yet? Was he playful and outgoing like the Reverend Starrett’s children? Serious like Theo? A little hellion like the Earl of Roddam’s son? Or maybe he was shy like the earl’s daughter? Perhaps he was eternally happy like Lilith’s son? Nearly a month had passed since she had seen Duncan’s boy, and she knew no more about him than that one meeting.
She dared not bring up the subject to the Starretts. Such a topic was not for polite conversation. However much the im
plication behind his existence pained Mary, she longed to meet the boy and get to know him. She could not even recall if the nurse had spoken his name. Did he miss his mother? Oh, she could not possibly think of that. If she thought of that, it would be her undoing.
The nursery door opened to a footman.
“Pardon me, my lady. Her Grace has summoned you to the dower house,” he said with a bow.
Oh, fiddlesticks.
If her mother wished to see her, it must not be good. Never did her mother summon Mary for conversation. Only when the dowager duchess wished to reprimand Mary on some account or inform her of some new decree, did she summon her daughter.
Snarling with a mental arsenal of vulgar words, she kissed the top of her nephew’s head and left the nursery to face the hangman’s noose.
Her lady’s maid was not the least perturbed by Mary’s request to change into a warm walking dress after so recently changing out of her riding habit into an at-home dress. The lady’s maid knew at once the dowager duchess must have summoned her daughter. No one defied Her Grace’s expectations for perfect decorum and proper fashion. Well, no one except Mary. All Mary had done was defy her mother throughout the years. Today, though, she was hardly in the mood for an argument.
Go in. Face the beast. Get out. Cause not a stir that could instigate a lengthy visit.
As she walked with her maid in tow across the estate to the dower house, she fretted. With her mind on the little boy, all she could do was worry her mother had somehow found out about him. That would be the end of days. For the disapproved young man to have an illegitimate child living with him, well, that would be enough to warrant a public cut direct from Her Grace.
The butler, Mr. Taylor, opened the door with a dour expression. He had been with Catherine Mowbrah since she first married the duke. Mary was not sorry when he moved with her, along with a personally selected set of staff. The man was stern and humorless, just like Mary’s mother.
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