"Yes, per... haps, perhaps you're onto something, Egan. Perhaps she ought to see her father," Ms. Mulwray sighed; she seemed a woman broken, not the unflinching and proud servant Nadia had known all her youth. The majordomo took Lady Nadia's hand and led her through the foyer, its vaulted ceiling and ornate oak reliefs spotless and gleaming with polish. Atop the stairs, their carpets plush and springy as she remembered, her heart began to fill with a dread that only worsened the further down the second-floor hallway Ms. Mulwray led her.
"We've quite... missed you, in your time away. Especially your father," Ms. Mulwray said, her voice cracking, the majordomo clearly as startled by... something, as Egan had been. "How have you fared? Your letters, sparse as they were," Ms. Mulwray commented with mild bitterness, "told of some rather surprising and unusual ideas and encounters."
"I've missed... father, myself. My time out was... quite enlightening," Nadia said, distracted by her muddied thoughts.
"Please don't speak of any of that... confusing, startling nonsense you've learned of abroad with your father," Ms. Mulwray stated starkly and plainly. Nadia sighed, remembering quite well the admonitions so common from Ms. Mulwray, who chastised Nadia regularly in her youth about how women were supposed to act. "You're... liable to hurt him, to give him a terrible heart attack and just kill your loving father," Ms. Mulwray added, her voice increasingly addled with pain and sadness. Finally, the majordomo's eyes filled with tears as she chided Lady Nadia, who shook, realizing it was something more that drove Ms. Mulwray's sharp criticisms.
"Ms. Mulwray, what's wrong with my father?" Nadia asked plainly. Ms. Mulwray shook her head, wiping away tears; trying to face whatever waited on the other side of the door they now stood before with strength.
"He's a fragile man, Lady Nadia. Please, take that into your heart, and listen to him," Ms. Mulwray pleaded, as she threw the door open, wearing the same mask of a smile that Egan had put on. "M'lord, I present the lovely Lady Nadia, returning from travels to exotic lands to see her father," Ms. Mulwray exclaimed. Nadia took a step in to her father's bedchambers - the curtains pulled shut, with only the faint flicker of lit candelabras and hung lanterns to light the dark room, its lavish furniture and accoutrements cloaked away from dust with heavy sheets. Nadia's vision took a moment to adjust, and she wondered just why the curtains had been drawn shut; why her father lay in bed so early in the eve. Confused, Nadia stepped in, and the strong scent of stale herbs and incense immediately struck her nose.
"My daughter! Nadia—" Lord Havenshire could scarcely finish a sentence before a hoarse cough gripped his throat and squeezed deep, wheezing, painful-sounding noises from his chest. Nadia recoiled; she may have spent years away from the family estate, but she had not forgotten the tenor of her father's voice - proud, full, confident, and always mirthful, even when life felt its bleakest. What had been the voice of true Lord had somehow been reduced to a ghastly, strained whisper; the closer Nadia drew to the bed, the more of her stricken father she began to see.
"I've missed you dearly, Nadia," he added, another ashen cough thick in his throat. Though the low light of the candles obscured the finer details, she could see her father - weak, his once-robust chest and shoulders shriveled; his body withered as a dried-out corn husk. Nadia's features fell, her voice quivering; her father's head had been shaved, his eyes sunken, his skin pale, sweat beading at his brow. Her lips gaping in pained shock, Nadia took a deep breath and gathered herself up.
"F... father, I've... I've missed you, too," she said, avoiding the topic of the painful, obvious issues that had befallen her father and chained him so weak and fragile to the bed.
"Is the manor what you remember of it? I've tried to have Ms. Mulwray, lovely woman she is, keep it up, just the way it had been," he smiled, or tried to smile, as best his shrunken face would let him.
"Yes, it's... it's lovely," Nadia responded absentmindedly. She fought the urge to gawk, to see what possibly could've befallen her father, but she found her eyes wandering nevertheless.
"I certainly hope our family fortune paid off. Did you learn a lot? What did you see, out there in the world past the manor?" he asked, and she could hear even through the hoarse whistling the coy playfulness in his tone.
"Wild ideas, father, about the world, and about life," she chuckled; she could feel Ms. Mulwray's eyes burning through her from the doorway. "Women with their own families, women teaching, women as hunters, women as equals... such pernicious ideas," Nadia joked.
"Women hunting? Come now, is that truly what you want to do? Lady Havenshire, a gameskeep?" her father laughed.
"Not a job for me, though I think a woman as a hunter, and a leader, is a curious, and useful, thought," Nadia smiled.
"I suppose that quite starkly brings into focus what I obviously need to address. Nadia, my daughter," her father sighed, and she felt her breaths wobble, nervous and weak. "I'm... certain, you can see, you're a smart young woman, as smart as ever have there been in all of England, my darling. You've no doubt already seen something awry in the household. The doctors haven't a clue of what's afflicting my head, but it's worsened and worsened until... well," he exhaled gravely. "There are matters that need tending to before... this situation worsens."
"Worsens? Father..." Nadia's voice trailed away, shaking, a tear stinging the corner of her eyes. "What's... what's happened to you?" she finally asked flatly.
"I can feel myself at the end of this journey, Nadia, but I need to get into order the matters of my household - and my daughter - after death takes me," her father stated bluntly. She swallowed, fighting away tears, her fists tightened.
"Death? Certainly... you're exaggerating, father," Nadia stated with a muted hopefulness in her tone.
"I'm not certain, darling girl, we can never be. But the taste in my mouth and the pain in my head, as every expert in England comes to my bedside, have brought into stark importance the necessity of pressing into you the importance of your inheritance, Nadia."
"My inheritance?" she asked weakly. She had an inkling of what the inheritance meant, but denial took her mind more than any other thought. She couldn't dare think of parting with her father... not so early into her adult life. "Father, we only need worry about your health."
"Your inheritance... Nadia," he said with a sigh. "I'm certain you're not terribly amenable to this idea. But the way our world works, is the way it works, and as smart and free and capable a woman as I've watch you grow in to... there are things not even you can change, my darling." Nadia fought away the tears, unsuccessfully, as they ran across her cheeks in stuttering streams. "I have to be certain of our family's future... of your future, my daughter."
"Father, you know me capable of taking care of the estate," Nadia chimed. "You know you can trust myself and the servants to—"
"I have full faith in you, my daughter," the stricken lord coughed hoarsely. "That's... not what concerns me. You know the world that you live in. And you know that to inherit the estate and to carry on the family legacy... you need to be married, Nadia," he added gravely. "I'm old, and hurting. I'm dying, Nadia. I need to know that you'll be safe. That our name, our manor - that it will live past me."
"Father..." Nadia's voice trailed, her thoughts clashing in scattered directions. Indignant was she at the fabric of society that forced this onto her; the world where men controlled wealth, men controlled lands; men controlled names. It opposed everything she had learned, everything she had thought whifle traveling the world; more than anything, it made no sense. "I'm the person most capable—I know this land, our people, our name..."
"I understand your trepidation, my dear, but... I can't bear to see my only daughter stand alone, unwed, should I die," her father said. A coughing flurry filled the air as he held his hand over his mouth; it seemed almost skeletal, skin stretched tight against each finger. "There are fine men, Nadia, across all of England, you know... fine men more than deserving of your attention," he tried to convince her. Nadia looked away; sighed. S
he could scarcely bear to see her father so weak and wracked with these concerns, but she hated the thought of giving her life away to be another trophy on some sleazy 'gentleman's' shelf.
"Father, I'll..." Nadia closed her eyes. She hated lying. "I haven't returned from my travels simply to settle in to an existence that goes against who I am. On my way back here, I spoke with Egan, and he reminisced on you in your younger days, commenting on how strong-willed you had been. If you had been a woman, as I am... do you think you would rejoice in the thought of consigning yourself to subordination? To a life as a symbol, and not as a person, father?..." a feeling of guilt crept into her knotted stomach; she hated to bring such philosophy to her clearly ailing father, but she knew what his answer would be - if he answered honestly, at least.
"Please... consider, for my own sake, Nadia," he implored. She swallowed, looked away. Her pride bristling, her emotions on a wire, she at least needed to put his heart at ease... even if hers was afire.
"I'm sorry, father," she exhaled deeply, spinning away on her heels and, eyes closed and tears on her cheeks, hastily retreated into the hall.
CHAPTER THREE
"M'lord Beckham, your dinner's about to be served," the chipper old man in the white waistcoat announced, peering quizzically into the darkened study of his master, lit only by the dying crackle of a sooty fireplace. No response came at first; its walls arrayed with shelves upon shelves of books and scholarly work, with a grand armchair facing the fireplace, the butler strode through the doorway, bowing his head as he came to see his master, shrouded in shadow, glinting, fiery embers reflected in his striking, deep green eyes; his garb colored in tones of earth and midnight, he cupped his chin in his hand, focused deeply in a myriad of contentious thoughts; his frame tall and strong, he nonetheless seemed a ghost of a man, vexed by a thousand scattered worldly concerns.
"M'lord," the voice repeated, quieter this time. The man in the chair appeared unmoved; he watched the flames lick and and listened to the cool crackle of searing embers, pondering a great many, endless things. Lord Marshall Beckham, the Duke of Berrewithe, had a lot to think about - and not just the nature of the world and the title that bore down on his shoulders.
He thought, far too often, about her. About the woman he had loved - about the woman he had lost. And he thought about what he had done to lose her. He thought about his endless failures; about what was expected of a true gentleman of his era. And how he'd failed to live up to every expectation with her. With the woman who still haunted his dreams - Anna.
"M'lord... Ms. Cauthfield has prepared your favorite meal for tonight. It's taken her all too to properly braise the beef," the butler implored, his voice quiet, almost conspiratorial. "She'd be quite cross should you choose to spend your eve alone in the study once more."
"I'll attend to the emotional needs of Ms. Cauthfield in time, James," the man draped across his darkened throne boomed, his voice resounding; his voice deep, powerful, and almost haunting in its own way, with a tint of broken at its tips. The butler sighed, peering into the fire with his master, as if seeking the sight of whatever broken memories and disturbed thoughts had brought him to this point in the first place.
"Have you been thinking again on the affair at Delshire Moors, Lord Beckham?" the butler asked, as if he already knew the answer.
"I'll not need to hear your lecture on the matter again, James," Lord Beckham groaned wearily, hoping to avoid a conversation his servants had offered him countless times since he left that dark place - alone, unwed, in a carriage of black, with rain raging across the hills, with the lord convinced he'd never find a heart to love him again.
"It's not a lecture Ms. Cauthfield and I offer, simply concern, m'lord. The both of us have served the family for more than a generation. We grew up with you, m'lord," the butler confesses, emotion sneaking into a voice tailored meticulously to appear blase and professional.
"My concern, is for why the headmistress of my house staff is in the kitchen, and not my cook," the vexed lord responded, clasping his hands in his lap idly. The thoughts wouldn't rush away - he heard the patter of the rain; he saw the flowered wedding bouquet he'd offered his dearest love, so long ago, trampled under the wheel of a carriage. He saw the letter she'd left him. The house staff had called her callous; cruel. He knew that it had been his own fault - for failing to live up to what he knew was expected of him. He'd never make the proper gentleman. Anna knew that. And now he'd spent night after night after night, rethinking all that he'd done - retracing every step, to see just where he'd failed. Why he'd lost himself, and why he'd never earn a woman's love again.
"No one makes the honey-braised loins just the way you like, except for her, m'lord," James insisted meekly. "Ms. Roth makes excellent stews and foods, of course. But no one does your favorites like Ms. Cauthfield."
"Is this what we hope to do to lift the veil cast across the estate, James? Braised loins and memories of childhood?" Lord Beckham lamented with a sigh.
"I know it's not quite my place to offer an opinion, m'lord, but... well, you know how Ms. Cauthfield and I felt about the... issue, at the Moors. You're a better man that that, m'lord. You're a better man than—"
"Anna. You can say her name, Mr. Malboro. Anna. There's no mystery as to what you speak of, when the topic of the situation at the moors crosses your lips. It's quite a frustrating euphemism," Lord Beckham intoned - not so much harsh, as miserable; crooning. "Your opinion is noted, though, as it has been quite a many times in the years passed since I last... spoke, with Anna," he added, his heart wilting briefly.
"Then... m'lord Beckham, perhaps it would behoove you to note that you've given yourself far too much pain and regret for something quite beyond your fault. If..." James held back the full brunt of his emotional tumult, only to earn to the faint glare of his master. He backed down, knowing cross words on the legacy of Lord Beckham's lost love would do little to deter the gloomy disposition of the man.
"I suppose it's time to listen to Lady Cauthfield's weekly haranguing of my self-reflection, then?" Lord Beckham asked stormily, lifting himself from the armchair and proceeding past his butler. Lord Beckham could recognize James's concerns - and he knew the old man had only the lord's best interests in his mind. But, he thought as he proceeded into the grand and sprawling hall on the third floor of Berrewithe Manor, neither well-intentioned James nor sprightly old Ms. Cauthfield would ever understand what it meant to be a man who could never again deserve the love of a beautiful woman. Neither could they know the sensation of failing at your life's duty - to make a woman happy, in the way only a gentleman could.
As his footsteps echoed through the shadowy stairwell, lush paneled stairs and walls gleaming in faint candlelights, he heard a storm rumble just beyond a wall of glass panes, elegant red-black curtains draped across the towering window at the second-floor landing. Lightning flashed just long enough for streaking of electric white-blue to illuminate his features; sullen, and tinted with the warmth of growing age, yet so deep; so entrancing, with a masculine cut to his jaw and a wild freedom to his dark hair. He gazed upon his visage, reflected in the lightning crackling through the windows; it would never satisfy him. A virile bed of stubble crested along his chin; something quite ghastly to see festering on the face of one who ought to be a proper gentleman.
The dining room doors swung open and Lord Beckham entered silently, the scent of fresh rain falling replaced by the thick scent and sizzle of stringy beef loins braised slow in pots with honey, stock, and spices. A recipe Lord Beckham had loved since his childhood, he knew that Ms. Cauthfield cooked it in trying times; she cooked it whenever she felt the need to placate an imperfect man. Though the scent pleased him, it brought back memories no longer idyllic, but tragic; memories viewed through the shards of a broken mirror.
"You're finally here! I've been braising this meat all day," exclaimed the elderly woman in the frumpy white linens, her voice full of exasperated mirth. All at once Lord Beckham's countenance changed;
while the smell of the meat and the welcome smile of his loyal maidservant would normally seem so inviting, tonight was not a night he wished to again entertain her patronizing attempts to cure his foul mood, or to hear her speak once again on how little regard she had for the lord's lost love, Anna.
"Ms. Cauthfield, I certainly appreciate the sentiment, but I feel that perhaps tonight would be an evening best spent alone, with a simple glass of sherry to keep me company. I certainly hope you won't take offense," Lord Beckham murmured apologetically. Ms. Cauthfield sighed, deflated, shaking her head.
"M'lord, we do this because we care about you - James and I," she added, as her master turned his back to the door. "You do quite understand that, don't you? We're concerned. This spell that witch has cast upon you—"
"Ms. Cauthfield, I know in no uncertain terms how poor you happen to regard Anna, but I'll not have you speaking ill of her like that so boldly to me his evening," Lord Beckham growled. "Please. Enjoy the braised loins between the house staff - I know James has quite a love for your cooking, as well. I apologize for appearing mercurial, Ms. Cauthfield, but I simply don't have it in me tonight."
"Will you ever have it in you, m'lord?" Ms. Cauthfield asked, bedraggled. He took a long, contemplative silence to consider that before leaving the dining room.
CHAPTER FOUR
"M'lord! Look at what a wonderful day it is!"
He heard the metallic shlllick of curtains drawn open against steely curtain-rods; he felt the sun leap through smudged windows, glaring into his pulled-shut eyes. A beautiful day had taken off across the rolling moors, and the glower of the day's burning beams pulled him harshly from reverie; a meandering and painful dream he had too often, one that he couldn't forget; one that floated through his mind almost any time he pulled his eyes shut and closed out the sound and the light and the life of the world.
The Duke's Headstrong Woman: True Love In London (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 2) Page 2
