"Nadia, I have always thought about your feelings," Lord Havenshire croaked, "from the moment I watched you born; watched you grow. I would change our world if I could, but that's too much effort for one dying, old man," he continued, breathlessly; he nearly collapsed half-way up the stairs, falling to one knee with a groan. Nadia gasped, rushing spiritedly down the stairs to her father's side, slinging his arm over her shoulder and lifting him.
"Father, please, be careful, don't hurt yourself," she whispered, hefting him up as best she could. "You need to rest. We'll... we'll get past this," she murmured, her own hope about her father's condition beginning to fade away as tears stained red rivulets along her cheeks.
"Nadia, I've only ever wanted to help you, my daughter," Lord Havenshire said, tone full of regret.
"I know father, I know," she assured him tearfully.
"Lord... Lord Beckham, he seems a good man, and more than anything, he's... he's the sort of man who will indulge you, indulge your thoughts, and your fantasies, bless him," her father laughed, as they scaled another step together.
"H... how do you mean?" Nadia questioned, confused, hoisting her father up another stair as a flash of lightning streaked across their faces.
"Something Lady Henrietta said caught my ear, and it's the only reason I agreed to see this man, to judge him, Nadia," Lord Havenshire said, his voice having fallen to a wobbly whisper. "She said... she said she saw him make you laugh. Nadia, my love, I've not seen you laugh from the joke or foible of a man since you were so young that you laughed at everything," he confided in her. "If he had made you laugh... something, in your hearts, I knew... I knew he would... he would be right, for..." he had begun to give in to his fatigue, his words growing delirious. "He... he believes you, in your... your words, about, about women, but..."
"Father, please, you're tired, save your strength," Nadia whispered. One step left, and her knees nearly buckled as she lifted her father, whose legs had given in and whose body had become a heavy, limp mass of disease-ravaged flesh. Ms. Mulwray emerged from the hall lead to the master bedroom, her face full of concern.
"M'lord?" she asked frightfully, rushing to aid Nadia by slinging her master's other arm across her shoulders.
"He'll be fine, Ms. Mulwray, he's simply exhausted," Nadia whispered.
"I warned him, I told him Egan and I and Lady Henrietta could speak with this suitor and report to him, he needn't trouble himself," Ms. Mulwray hissed. "I warned him..."
"He wanted to help me, in his own way," Nadia sighed, her tears slowing. They hobbled together with her drowsy father through the corridor to the darkened room, lightning flashing again as rain pattered hard against the roof, pouring down and filling all the crevices and cracks, with droplets coalescing into little running rivers of rainwater. They crept through the darkness, gently laying the aging man out onto the bed, carefully covering his body with a blanket, lighting a small candle to provide some source of light in utter darkness.
"He cares so much for you, for us - for the estate, m'lady," Ms. Mulwray said in her stern manner. "He's done more than you can know. Don't let him suffer with—"
"It's quite alright, Ms. Mulwray," her father spoke up, startling the two women. "My daughter is just... willful, is she not?" he smiled drowsily, barely able to open his eyes. He took Nadia's hand; she squeezed his.
"She's very much that," Ms. Mulwray said, her eyes still searing as she watched the two of them. "Do you need anything, m'lord?"
"No, Ms. Mulwray, thank you, just leave my daughter and I for a moment," he implored. With venom in her glare she briefly and sternly regarded Nadia before spinning wordlessly and leaving the bedroom.
"Sometimes I fear Ms. Mulwray has it in for me," Nadia joked.
"Oh, come now, you know she hasn't, she's simply protective of me, the old woman," Lord Havenshire laughed. "Very protective of the estate. She doesn't like willful women. Thinks they ought to be in their proper place. Not the sort of thing you'd ever agree with," he laughed a croaking, hoarse and painful laugh.
"Certainly not, no," Nadia smiled.
"I... I only ever wanted to help you, Nadia, and I hope you realize that," the crestfallen lord confided. "I know how you feel, about men, about life here, but... I really think Lord Beckham is different, than the others. I think you might... actually come to love him." Her heart clashed with itself; she wanted to listen to her father, but the subject of that man burned with so much confusion inside of her.
"What... did he say? About me, about women?" she couldn't stave off that curiosity any longer, and it nagged at her. He had taken advantage of this system that favored him - what could he possibly know about the struggles of woman simply seeking to be equal?
"He'll be able to tell you himself, what he thinks of women, next week," Lord Havenshire said. "I've accepted, on your behalf, an invitation to his manor for a nice dinner, between just the two of you."
"You what?" Nadia asked incredulously, her hesitation boiling over in to mild anger. "Father, I never agreed to such a thing. He may be what you say he is, even, but I don't..."
"Just give him a chance, won't you? You might be surprised. He's not the arrogant, greedy animal you might think he is," Lord Havenshire implored.
"Father, I... I want my freedom. Any man, in this system, is going to want to control me - don't you understand that? No man, no matter how good his heart, is going to work against the way this society favors him," Nadia insisted.
"You take such a dim view of the world, for so beautiful and capable a woman, Nadia," Lord Havenshire said. "Listen to him... you might be surprised."
She doubted she would.
"For your sake, father," she grudgingly admitted. "For your sake."
CHAPTER TEN
Her father had begged her to listen; to keep her mind open. After another week of thought and struggle, Nadia had already made up her mind.
Women aren't supposed to ride; that's what the stablekeeper had told her. Ms. Mulwray had had her own brand of looking down her nose at Nadia, constantly lording over the poor girl and chastising her for disobeying her ailing father, or sometimes for showing any sort of thought or initiative whatsoever. She'd had a whole week to deal with the same sorts of issues she'd dealt with her whole life - the preconceptions and the greed she dealt with as a prisoner of her own womanhood - that by the time Egan had hitched up the horses and readied the carriage to carry her across the moors and through the forests and to Lord Beckham's doorway, she had already decided precisely how she planned to deal with the dinner her father had arranged with the mysterious man.
She had no interest in him - no interest in any man who would continue to benefit from the warped power structure that the aristocracy placed on the burdened shoulders of the workers and the women like her. She'd sit; she'd be perfectly personable. She'd say as little as she needed to, eat as little as she needed to; she'd keep her integrity, and she'd leave. That'd be the end of it, she decided; and her father, as much as she loved him, would have to deal with it.
"You're going to try to have at least a bit of fun, right, m'lady?" Egan implored, interrupting the jaunty tune he had been whistling the entire ride from the gates of Emerys to the rocky roadways leading in to Lord Beckham's estate in Berrewithe. Lady Havenshire remained obstinate, responding in as few words as she could.
"Perhaps, Egan," she lied; she knew precisely what she planned to do, and none of it involved 'fun'. Living a week, a few weeks; any weeks, really, as a woman with a will of her own would never be fun. It had been fun carousing in Canada, and India, and even in the United States; it had been fun, being her own, free person, without the burdens of warped expectations on her shoulders. Now, she knew she'd have no fun again, unless a man decided for he she was allowed to have it.
"That didn't sound very confident," Egan's endless insight provided. "You'll at least give the food a good try, right? I'm curious how the house staff's cooking measures up to Ms. Ranold's usual dinners."
"I preferr
ed your whistling, Egan," Lady Havenshire responded, nonplussed.
"If I recall quite rightly, m'lady, one of the last trips of ours evolved into a rather pointed conversation of how you couldn't stand my whistling very much," Egan quipped. "Am I to take it as a compliment that you're pleased to hear my tunes again, m'lady?" he asked facetiously.
"Take it how you like, Egan," she sniped, and quite obnoxiously, Egan began to whistle again. Like an angry child Lady Havenshire simply bore it, too proud to object. The carriage began to hit rather rough patches of terrain, the horses whinnying and the wagon-wheels creaking; she found herself tilted back against the bench, carried slowly up the side of a rather steep hill, as deep clouds broke to reveal a simmering orange sunset on the horizon. She peeked from inside the vehicle to see the estate of Lord Beckham - its appearance, the sun behind it cresting down through cottony gray-black clouds, taking the girl's breath away.
"Quite a place," Egan said in surprise, stopping even the whistle of his sarcastic tune, simply beholding the manor. "I'm not certain where you may have met this man, m'lady, but her certainly seems prepared to entertain."
"Yes," Lady Havenshire said, turning away and ignoring her own surprise at the manor. He was still just a man, and she wouldn't ignore or forget or be charmed out of making the point she had come here to make today. She crossed her arms, looking instead at the sweeping, rocky hills dotting the estate, a landscape nearly as stormy as the man she remembered from that night - his expression entrancing, but mysterious; concealing beneath someone charming and funny, but clearly troubled. She couldn't dispel all those curious thoughts she had of him, no matter how hard she tried, so she instead ignored them as best she could and tried to maintain her focus on her mission.
"You know, he may not be the greedy scoundrel you think he is, m'lady," Egan whispered conspiratorially.
"That's quite enough, Egan," Lady Havenshire said in a huff, ignoring the beautiful, palatial estate before her. Egan chuckled, driving the horses around the bend and leading the carriage to the doors of the estate.
"Announcing the Lady Havenshire," Egan boomed, pulling the door to the carriage open for her. She hesitantly lifted her ornate, white-blue gown and carefully stepped out of the vehicle, exhaling softly and looking around. Once more the stormy gleam of the manor caught her eye; as darkly enticing as the man she had met that night. She quickly tried to compose herself, wearing her most uninviting expression, as she marched stridently towards the front door of the manor.
"Have fun, m'lady," Egan imparted on her as she left, much to her chagrin. She prepared to open the vast entryway doors, until they flew open before her, bright and inviting faces there to receive the lady.
"Hello and welcome! It's been such a long time since we've played host to such a lovely personage," came the warm and comforting voice of an old woman ushering Nadia out of the cool sunset and into the darkly-paneled, richly-appointed halls of the estate. "I'm Ms. Cauthfield, head of staff here at Berrewithe Manor, and it's an utter joy to host your arrival, m'lady," The old woman insisted, taking the lady's hand and leading her past plush couches, maple tables and gold-trimmed accoutrements. "Lord Beckham has anticipated your arrival all week! We've been preparing endlessly to ensure everything's just as you like it."
Nadia quietly admitted that this... was certainly not what she expected, not when coming to the manor of a stormy man, on a rocky moor, possessed by ghosts of his own past. She had expected... well, frankly, she had expected a woman to shout at her in much the manner she had grown used to dealing with, as she had with Ms. Mulwray. Instead, Ms. Cauthfield appeared to be something of a kindred heart. Her own defenses still starkly drawn up, she couldn't help but be impressed by the beautiful art paneling the halls of the manor as Ms. Cauthfield led her through.
"Is that a piece by Madame Gerard?" Nadia blinked, utterly stunned to see Parisian art adorning the house of a man as dour as the one she remembered.
"You know your art, do you?" Ms. Cauthfield smiled. "Lord Beckham has an eye for the finest painters you'll find in much of Europe, and elsewhere."
"I spent time in Paris," Lady Havenshire recalled, momentarily awestruck. She tried to reel back her surprise, briefly forgetting she had come here to rebuff the man and all he stood for. Instead, she found herself admiring his art as they strolled towards his dining room.
The doors to the dining hall flew open, cool lights dimly illuminating a table covered in ornate candelabras and a gold-trimmed tablecloth. It took her a long moment to take in the wondrous look - and the wealth it must have taken to assemble something so luxurious.
"Lord Beckham's quite excited to see you," Ms. Cauthfield insisted, pulling out a chair for her to sit in - it was taller than she, its wood-carvings hand-painted, weaving beautiful flowery patterns among overstuffed, plush cushions. "He's quite pleased to have you. Is everything to your liking, m'lady?" the old woman asked gleefully.
"I'm... yes, quite, Ms. Cauthfield," Nadia said, a quiet and incredulous laugh in her voice. "I... well, I simply didn't expect this. Given, you see, what I've known of your master, thus far."
"I know how he can come across as," Ms. Cauthfield explained, "but we're all behind him. We, his staff that is, know him quite well."
"I didn't imagine anyone knew him quite well," Nadia remarked.
"Few do, but he is far more of a generous man than he lets on," Ms. Cauthfield said with a smile. It seemed so wrong to Nadia; a chipper maidservant praising her master's generosity so sincerely? Had this been the same man, the one who had inherited from his sister - the one who had taken the family fortune, who had benefited from this warped system Lady Havenshire so despised? She began to wonder on whether she had too harshly judged him.
"He'll be here in just a moment; I need to check on things in the kitchen. It's been such a pleasure, m'lady," Ms. Cauthfield nodded, rushing off towards the doors at the rear of the long, tall chamber.
Nadia had to admit. Even the dining room chair felt so, unusually comfortable. Nonetheless, she steeled herself. He could present himself as fashionably and as bombastically as he wished; it would do little to change her mind on precisely what she felt about the nature of this entire arrangement her father had made. She wouldn't fall for it. Not for the fancy paintings or the stormy setting or the handsome face, or the mysterious nature of him, or—
"Announcing Lord Beckham, Duke of Berrewithe!" She couldn't stop herself from looking to the door - and there he was, wearing only a simple jacket, that same endless expression on his face; the one she had looked into, had almost gotten lost in, at the dinner party.
"You don't need to announce me, Ms. Cauthfield," Lord Beckham insisted with some manner of derision, as his maidservant emerged from behind him.
"Yes I do! It's only proper," the woman insisted with a little self-satisfied snicker.
She denied it, so sternly, but... something about him, about Ms. Cauthfield, about all this, had begun to thaw that rigid iciness she had arrived carrying in her heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"How is your braised beef, m'lady?" he asked plainly.
She wanted to tell him how it was. She wanted to tell him that the honeyed delicacy had crashed into her mouth with a ferocity of sweet and savory taste she had never anticipated, or yet experienced in so simple a dish. She wanted to tell him it tasted overwhelming; it tasted like nothing she had expected to taste, and that it had helped to set her free from the anger she carried with her after a week of suffering the rude and intolerable notions of a society bent against her. She wanted to tell him everything she had felt since she saw his manor, and since she saw what lived beneath it; a confusing mire that enticed her at the same time that it repulsed her, the majesty much like the beauty of northern England, which she both appreciated and deplored for what it represented. She wanted to tell him everything.
"It's fine," she said quietly, keeping her words sparse, and her emotions sparser. He didn't respond with words, but only a simple nod, seeming as
out of place and as unsure of his feelings as she was, but she held out hope she could make it through this without exposing those feelings. Seated at the opposing end of the long dining hall, their words came not directly but as distant echoes reverberating along tall, vaulted ceilings.
She hadn't strayed yet from her original plan. She was halfway there; she need only finish her food, offer those same empty pleasantries as would be expected of her, thank her host, and leave. Then this week of contemplating and curiosity and hatred and of everything other confusing notion would end.
"It's rather lovely, isn't it," he asked, his voice that commanding and powerful tone she remembered, but feeling so... forced, so disingenuous. "The... sky," he said awkwardly. She regarded him closely, and began to think on a curious thought, one that struck hard at her pride. Had he been as anxious of this meeting of theirs as she had been? It wasn't something that would have troubled her before, but she could feel herself slipping.
"Yes," she responded coldly, and then silence. She devoured another exceptional bite of this braised beef, confident that she could report to Egan that whichever chef had crafted so divine a recipe deserved many times the credit he had given to the Havenshire home's kitchen staff. Knives and forks scraped against porcelain and teeth chewed quietly with mouths closed, but little else happened for a long and uncomfortable stretch of time.
"Your father is an honorable man," Lord Beckham said quaintly, making sure to clear out his throat before saying it, in the same stilted manner as his previous query. Something inside of Nadia flared up; perhaps that same, prideful part of hers that had brought words out from inside of her the first time they'd met. She'd always been willful, after all.
The Duke's Headstrong Woman: True Love In London (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 2) Page 7
