“Have you taken my measure? Sized the opposition?” she asked with an arch of a slender, black brow.
“Are you my opposition?” Feet hip width apart, he affected ease in his posture, limited only by the cane and the bruising of the leg.
“You tell me, young man. You are the one who has summoned me. Come to declare war? Peace? Your undying affection for my daughter? Your devotion and admiration to the Annick dukedom? Your apologies for bringing my daughter from a manor to a hovel?”
Smoothing his bristles, he swallowed his pride. Gulped may be more accurate.
“Your Grace, I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand in holy matrimony.”
The woman’s frown deepened, the creases around her mouth becoming more pronounced until she looked severe. “Is it because you injured your head or because you are a simpleton that you ask for my daughter’s hand when you have already wed her? Without my permission, I might add.”
“Neither, I assure you. I wish to correct my mistakes. I should have come to you first to ask permission. I lacked the courage.”
“And now you have the courage? How reassuring.” She sneered.
“I hope it is reassuring.” He clenched his cane until his knuckles whitened. “I’ve allowed fear of you to control my actions. Rather than court your daughter, I met her in secret. Rather than ask for her hand, I went to war. Rather than come to you once I had returned, I sought her brother for permission. Rather than listen to her sage advice, I ran myself ragged. Rather than listen to my own conscience, I rode a horse who was not yet ready to be ridden. So many other choices I’ve made have been to prove to you—before I could face you—that I was worthy of your daughter. Even after marriage, I was unworthy. I knew it. I knew you knew it. And I feared your censure.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. “You no longer fear my censure?”
“On the contrary, I’m terrified. The difference is I realize my worth is not determined by you. I come to you as a man humbled by my choices. Despite the baronetcy, despite my military rank, despite the program I’m setting up alongside my wife, I have only myself to offer, and that must be enough.”
If she could not hear his knees knocking, it would be a miracle. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. In the middle of winter! He dared not dab at it for fear he would call attention to his nervousness.
“Strength compels you,” she said. “As does a sense of honor. I am pleased to see my daughter has not become a nursemaid nor have you lived up to the expectation of dishonorable cad. I knew your character well enough. No man of honor arranges trysts with a duke’s daughter unless for nefarious purposes. I’ll have you know that had you compromised her, not only would I not have allowed the marriage, but I would have had your head on a platter for my dinner party. I say now that you have not lived up to my expectations.”
He gawked, hoping he did not appear to gawk. Was she insulting him or complimenting him? He believed she was complimenting him in her own way.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, feeling another bead of sweat form on his brow.
“You are inferior to my daughter. As such, I expect you to prove yourself every day for the rest of her life. You must earn the right to stand by her side. I don’t mean by riding a silly horse or facing foes with a sword. I mean by loving her in all the ways I could not.”
His jaw ticked. He knew not what to say.
“You are my son-in-law regardless if I find you favorable. I do, however, recognize valor in your bravery to face me. I do not value cowards. The world is full of them, and they will be the death of great nations. You, it would seem, are not a coward. Stand tall. You have my permission.”
She nodded in reverence.
Was she in earnest? By Jove, he hoped so.
A smile tugging at his lips, he asked, “If I had come to you before I went to war, and I had asked permission for Mary’s hand, would you have granted it?”
Her sneer returned. “Of course not! I would have expected no less than you to ask for her hand every day for a year, at the least. Then, and only then, might I have believed you wanted my daughter and not her dowry.”
He chuckled, the humor not lost on him that he was chuckling in the presence of the Dowager Duchess of Annick.
“And then, would you have consented?”
“No,” she said. “But I would have known you to be sincere.”
“You should know that I was, and remain, sincere. I’ve not touched her dowry and have no plans to do so.”
“It’s unfortunate. I was beginning to believe you intelligent, but when you confess such foolhardy sentiments, I find myself corrected. Is it stubbornness or stupidity not to use it? Are you proving something? I assume the marriage contract details all her assets? The estate in Scotland, the trust funds, and so forth?”
Duncan nodded.
“I take back my compliments. I do not give you my approval if you’re too thick to enjoy the spoils of marriage.”
She turned away from him, her chin high.
Duncan could only chuckle.
When they parted, he felt a sense of rightness with the world, along with a desire for a late honeymoon in Scotland.
That evening, Duncan lay on his back, staring at the canopy, an arm tucked behind his head. Mary’s cheek rested on his shoulder.
“Fifteen,” she said.
“Is that all?”
“Hush. I’m still counting and don’t want to lose my place.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. While his fingers drew circles along Mary’s arm, her fingers traced every bruise on his torso. He dreaded her braving a look at his leg. It was not a pretty sight and any wonder how it had not fractured.
“Nineteen. Still counting.”
“You’ll be at this all night.”
“Not all night. I have far better plans for the next half hour.” She circled a fingertip around his nipple until it puckered.
“I hope your plans aren’t what I think they are. You underestimate the tenderness of my bruises. I beg for another week to recover.”
She whimpered and propped herself onto her forearm so he could see her pout.
“Not convincing, my love. The bruises hurt. Don’t think I don’t want you. If you were to peek below, you would find that I’d be a willing participant otherwise. Alas, I need a few more days.”
Batting her eyelashes to no avail, she huffed and returned her cheek to his shoulder. “You’ll be pleased to know that Bucephalus and Caesar have become fast friends. I must warn you, though; by the time you return to the stables, you may find a corpulent Arabian waiting for you. The stablemaster has spoiled him.”
“I’ve not yet thanked you for the gift. It’s always been my dream to own an Arabian. Now that I do, I owe him apologies.”
He was itching to return to the stables, not to train, just to ride. Much time with Caesar and now Bucephalus had been lost because of his shortsightedness and reckless behavior. One more week he would give himself to heal, and then nothing could keep him from the stables.
“About what did you speak with my mother today?” Mary asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Mr. Sherman said you were both in the parlor.”
“Traitor,” he mumbled, stroking her hair. “If you could have picked any topic to dissuade me from a tumble, it would be this one. There’s no hope for you now.”
Rather than laugh, she waited for his answer.
He exhaled deeply. “We talked about you. Us. Our marriage. My cowardice.”
“Your cowardice? You’ve never done anything cowardly in your life.”
“No? I beg to differ. But that’s not the point. The point is we had a good conversation, as good as one can be had with her, I suppose. You said she’s close to your cousin Lady Collingwood and to your other cousin’s wife Lady Roddam?”
He felt her head
nod against his chest.
“I don’t understand it,” she said. “They’re both such kind women. How can they stand her?”
“Perhaps they value her forthright nature.”
Mary scoffed. “Tyranny, you mean. Did I tell you she proposed to my father?”
“Did she? Hmm. I would have liked to see that.” So tickled by the visual, he laughed, sending Mary’s head bouncing against him.
She moved to stretch out her arm and prop her head in her hand. He angled to admire her. Long lashes framed her dark eyes. There was a softness to her features that her mother lacked. The two shared a remarkable likeness, but the dowager duchess had none of the softness of Mary’s expressions. Being a duchess, and at such a young age, she could not have had a difficult life, and yet she wore the lines he had seen only in the most hardened soldiers.
“God, you’re a beautiful woman,” he said.
Matching roses blushed her cheeks. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Am I? It connects in my concussion damaged brain. Mary, your mother leaves tomorrow. I want you to talk to her.”
Her pink cheeks paled as she pursed her lips. “Why? I’ll be happy when she leaves.”
“Have you ever talked to her about how you feel? Let her know how much she’s hurt you over the years?”
“You think she doesn’t know? Oh, she knows. No qualms about it, she knows. Her hatred is intentional.” Mary stared over Duncan’s shoulder, deep in thought. “Nothing good would come from me confronting her other than more heartache. There’s only so much rejection one can take from their own mother.”
“I understand, love. I do. But she said something today that struck me as odd. I think you should talk to her. If the two of you can’t make peace, at least you’ll have tried. Life’s too short not to try. Three times in a year, I’ve faced death. There are no words in this world worth taking to the grave. Let them be said. If she hurts you again, then you’ll know you’ve done all in your power to salvage the relationship, and the problem lies with her, not you. But have you ever tried to confront her about it?”
“No,” she admitted. “I’ve avoided her as much as I could over the years. Every year becomes more difficult, each encounter more strained. I fear at some point, we’ll both burst or strangle each other. I can’t forgive her for how she’s treated me all my life, but if it came down to it, a life or death situation, I could accept her for who she is—a heartless woman incapable of love. If I accept that about her, then I suppose I really must forgive her, for how can I expect love from someone without a heart?”
“Mary, Mary, Mary,” Duncan repeated, crossing an arm over his chest to cup her cheek. “I believe, though I could be wrong, she acknowledges her treatment. I believe she wants to make amends.”
Mary frowned, staring at the bedlinen. When he realized she had no more to say on the matter, he pulled her to him and tucked her head on his shoulder.
In a chair before the hearth, Mary waited. This early in the morning no one was awake except her, Duncan, the servants, and her mother. She had sent a missive to her mother to meet her in the drawing room. Though not as grand as a single room in Lyonn Manor, it was still the most ornate and the largest, the only room that would do for meeting her mother.
This was not a meeting she wanted to have. Somewhere in the night, she found it in her heart to forgive her mother for never loving her. All too likely, her mother had wanted a spare heir and resented Mary’s birth. Could she fault her mother for that?
Catherine was due to arrive in a quarter of an hour. Mary was early, steeling herself. For over half an hour, she had been poised in the chair, her spine straight, her hands folded, her ankles parallel, and her mind racing through all the possible scenarios of their conversation.
When the drawing room door opened, Mary nearly leapt out of the chair, not expecting her mother so soon. She tensed.
Countless times, Mary had been summoned by her mother, never the other way around. How was she to go about this? What was there to gain? There was far too much to lose. She did not like making herself this vulnerable. Jaw clenched, she watched her mother make her way to a chair.
Much as Mary had done the other day, Catherine took her time to reach a level of comfort, in no apparent hurry to begin the conversation.
Her mother fixed her with a stare. “Is it a habit in this household to summon me at odd hours for interviews?”
Mary took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I forgive you for everything,” she said without preamble. “Your coming to my home tells me you want me as part of the family. Or I hope it does. You have surpassed my expectations by accepting Bernard. Thank you. Above all, Mother, I forgive you for not loving me.”
Catherine leaned back, her eyes widening.
“But,” Mary continued, “this is my household, and I will not have you speak disparagingly to me or any person or object in the house. For too long I’ve suffered your tyranny, fighting against you with rebellion and misbehavior. No more. I am my own person. I choose not to be goaded by you any longer. I forgive you and free myself of your judgement.”
Although each word had been spoken with precision, nothing rushed, nothing colored with anger, it had been a tumble of thoughts void of cohesion. She would not be cowed despite the ineloquence. Looking to her mother, she saw an arrested expression, one mixed with shock and incredulity.
“You forgive me for never loving you?” Catherine asked.
Mary nodded. “All I ever wanted was your affection. Think worse of me if you will for admitting I misbehaved in my youth to get your attention. You ignored me for the entirety of my childhood. Only when critical did you notice me. All I wanted was some indication of care. I know I’m the greatest disappointment of your life, first born a girl, then wayward and insolent, then disobedient, and now married to someone of my own choosing. It would be too much to ask for you to acknowledge your mistreatment, beg for forgiveness, and remedy your ways. You’ve not the heart for it. And so, I absolve you of all sins, if not for your sake, then for mine.”
Catherine stared, looking bewildered.
Not often had her mother been speechless. The few times she had were in moments when words failed to express her disapproval and disdain. Mary recalled the time, at age nine, she had sneaked fresh horse dung onto her mother’s dining chair. Words had failed her then. Or the time, at age sixteen, Mary had stomped on a suitor’s foot. Words had failed her then, as well.
Catherine’s black eyes studied her daughter. Mary sat still, accepting the assessment for what it was—her mother finding fault in all Mary was and had said.
“Everything I’ve done,” Catherine said, “has been out of love. Not the recklessness you young people call love; I’ve loved both my children in the only way I know how. You know so little of the harshness of the world, of what life without love is truly like.”
Catherine’s expression glazed as she stared at the cane resting against the side of her chair.
Continuing, the dowager duchess said, “Do you know why I use a cane? Let me enlighten you. My father crushed my ankle when I was twelve years of age. It was my punishment for running through the gallery. This was not an isolated incident. My father knew nothing but violence. He showed his children love by beating the bible into them for even the most minor infraction.”
Mary bowed her head, eyes trained on her hands.
“Do you know why I proposed to your father? I was sixteen at the time. Your father was two and forty and in need of an heir. I met him at the annual shooting party. The duke was to stay for the week. I saw him as my chance to escape. So intent was I to snare him, I became careless. I ran down the stairs hoping to catch his attention when the men returned from a day of shooting. My ankle gave way. I tumbled, landing in the vestibule for all to see.”
Catherine paused to look about her as though to search for her next words.
&
nbsp; “Within an inch of my life, my father beat me for humiliating him, the severest beating of my life. I could not walk for weeks, could not breathe without wheezing, could not see out of one eye from the swelling. I dictated to my lady’s maid a marriage proposal to the duke. She wrote it and had a trusted footman, my butler Mr. Taylor, might I add, hand deliver it. The duke arrived the following day. I never looked back.”
Mary wiped tears from her eyes. She would never have wished such a life on anyone. Why had her mother never divulged such a secret? Why had she never talked about her past?
“This is the love I’ve given you, Mary, a life free of violence. I have loved my children by spoiling them and never laying a hand on them. This is the only way I know how to love.”
Dabbing her nose with her handkerchief, Mary said, “I’m sorry you suffered, Mother. I am. I wish you would have told me sooner, talked to me about it. I know nothing about you, just as you know nothing of me. No, you’ve never laid a hand on me, for which I’m grateful, but that’s the point. You’ve never laid a hand on me. A hug would be nice. A kiss on the cheek. Something. Some words of affection. You may not be violent, but your words can cut as deeply as any hand. I don’t equate you to your father; please, don’t misunderstand. But of all the ways to love me, you chose an extreme that left no room for perceived love.”
“I would not have a weak daughter,” Catherine replied. “I would rather have a daughter of independent, strong will who can defend herself and rule a county than one weakened by emotion.”
“Would it have been too much to hug me? Do you even recognize how your treatment affected me, even if it was meant well?”
Catherine harrumphed. “Only we can choose how we react. We cannot control how other people react. It was never my intention to harm or hurt you. Quite the opposite. I do regret if I caused you pain, but I would not alter my choices. You must understand my intentions. I was motivated by far greater fears than the consequences of my daughter not being hugged.”
ColonelAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks Page 37
