“Of course,” Martha said, feeling her heart twist again. “I’ll come back later. I wouldn’t want to stay away.”
“Good. I do like it. Take care.”
“You, too,” Martha said, and tiptoed quietly out. Her heart was sore. Poor, gentle Amelia. She was so distressed for their mother that she herself was ill. Martha wished she could do something to help.
Not much I can do. If the physician said she just needs bed rest, I can only assume he knows best what he’s doing.
She walked swiftly down the hallway to her bedchamber, ready to send off the note to her father. As she went, she tiptoed past her mother’s room. She peered inside.
Her mother was lying on the bed, her head propped up on the pillows. Her long hair, touched with gray at the temples, was loose—something Martha had never seen. As she tiptoed past, she paused.
“Mrs. Lister?” she called through the door. Her mother’s maid turned around.
“Lady Weston is not to be disturbed,” she said gravely. Martha looked up at her with a surprised expression.
“It would be no disturbance to check if she’s all right,” Martha said firmly.
Mrs. Lister looked dubious, but nodded. “Only, don’t tire her. I have the physician’s orders, and he said she’s not to be agitated in any way.” She looked at her with a stern gaze.
Martha looked at Mrs. Lister and didn’t try to disguise how hurt she was by that. She was her daughter. Surely her mother would be pleased to see her? The thought that all she could possibly be was a nuisance or a disturbance cut deep. It was too much like how she felt in any case.
“Mama?” she said softly as she went to the bed.
“What?” her mother said, sounding tired. She looked exhausted, Martha had to admit, her long hair loose on the pillow, her face weary. She was also sweating, though she seemed less fevered than Amelia had.
“Mama…how are you feeling?” Martha asked softly. She tried to feel compassion for her, and she succeeded, but it was tinged with a sense of fear and repulsion. She had always been more than a little afraid of her mother, and seeing her ill did not do anything to change that.
Her mother made a sound that could have been a laugh. “How am I feeling?” she asked bitterly. “I look well, do I?”
Martha felt her heart ache as if someone had struck her in the chest. She instantly wanted to cry. All she’d done was ask. She pushed her feeling of sadness aside.
“Mother, I just wanted to know if you are feeling better. I trust the physician has left you with some cures that help?”
“Cures that help? I doubt there’s anything that can cure me. How can there be, when my malady is being struck down with shame and sorrow. Betrayed, by my own kin! How can I ever be well?”
Martha felt her leg twitch and she wanted to just run. She tried to push aside the swamping feeling of guilt and regret, but she couldn’t quite keep it at bay.
“Mother…”
“Oh, no. Don’t pretend remorse! I wouldn’t want to be lied to. I know you don’t care. I know you’re just waiting for me to die, so you can do as you wish.”
“Mother…” Martha felt her heart twist. Her mother was shifting in the bed, moving so that she couldn’t see her. “Mother, I don’t want you to die. I want you to get better. I’ve written to Father to ask him to come down so that I can look after you and you can get well.”
“You’ve written to Father?” her mother looked surprisingly alert.
“Yes,” Martha said in a small voice.
“Don’t send that letter without my approval,” her mother said harshly. “I will not be having you tell your father all sorts of things about my condition. I do not wish to make him think I’m dying.”
“Mother…” Martha murmured. She wanted to say that the physician had been stern about the seriousness of her condition, and that she really thought their father should be called, so that he could be here in the case of her illness becoming worse. But she was fixed with those cold black eyes and all the words stuck in her throat.
“I wish to see that letter,” her mother said, and before Martha could argue, she turned away.
“Mother…” Martha pleaded.
“Mrs. Lister? Fetch me water. I feel faint.” She murmured.
Martha shut her eyes and turned away. She wanted to cry. She was doing her best. As it was, she was struggling with the thought that she had inadvertently caused her mother a terrible accident. Now she had to face the thought that her attempts to put it right were also unacceptable. Mrs. Lister came running over, and fixed Martha with a look.
“She needs rest,” the maid said purposefully.
Martha turned and walked out, holding back her tears. All she had done was try to help. Why was her mother always so unkind to her? She took a deep breath.
I will not be reduced to helpless tears. I am in charge of the estate, until Father gets back. I will be strong.
She felt her spine tense and oddly, she felt calmer. She walked down the hallway and then turned left at the stairs, going to her own bedchamber. Once she was there, she sat down heavily on the bed.
She rested her head in her hands. She had no idea what to do. She was in charge of the estate—not only for the everyday overseeing of the servants—but for the accounts and rents and all the other things that might arise before her father returned. She had also to take care of her mother, and Amelia. She wanted to send to inform her father of the situation. But she couldn’t risk doing that against her mother’s wishes.
She went to the desk and took out the letter. She would show it to her mother for approval. What else could she do?
She went downstairs with the letter, feeling a little uncomfortable. She didn’t want to give it to her mother to read, but she had to. It would be rude not to. She decided to have it approved and sent straight away. There was a lot to be done.
And she needed someone to help her.
Chapter 24
Nicholas looked out of the window into the swirling mist. He tried to gather his thoughts. It was still morning, though early, and he had yet to speak with his father. He had no idea how his father would react, and he found he wished for Martha’s caring presence in that moment.
No point in waiting…I should go ahead and find out what’s happening.
He took a deep breath and glanced at his reflection in the looking glass opposite. He’d dressed surprisingly carefully, in a new tail-coat with a dark velvet collar—any small way to avoid his father making barbed comments would be good. He felt as if he needed armor against him.
“Wycliffe?” he called as he stood up to leave.
“Yes, My Lord?”
“Is my father in the breakfast room?” he asked.
Wycliffe frowned, recalling something. “No, My Lord. He broke his fast an hour ago. I think he’s in the study.”
Nicholas took a deep breath. That was good, he told himself—at least he would not be trying to argue and have breakfast at the same time.
“Thank you, Wycliffe. I’ll go there in a moment.”
He walked hastily out and down to the breakfast room.
The tea had gone a little cold, but Nicholas didn’t mind, and he poured himself a cup. He helped himself to toast and jam, eating as fast as he could. He wanted to feel reasonably strong before he went to see his father.
Upstairs, he waited outside the study. He knocked at the door, feeling awkward.
“Father?” he called.
The door was open, but his father didn’t look up and Nicholas felt a flash of desperation. If he refused to discuss anything, they would not even be able to start settling matters to rights. He felt a strong urge to ride to his uncle’s house.
I’ll do that if I have no luck here.
He cleared his throat, waiting for his father to notice he was there. When he still didn’t, he spoke again.
“Father?”
“So, you can speak, can you?” his father said, looking up from the newspaper. He set it aside and leaned
on one elbow. “That’s a relief. I thought, when you failed to discuss your decisions with me, it was because somehow you had lost that ability.”
“Father…” Nicholas didn’t know what to say. He took a deep breath, fighting to keep himself centered.
“You don’t have to discuss it with me, of course—you can go and live elsewhere, and do as you please. But if you wish to remain under my roof, with the privileges of my rank, you will do as I say.” His voice was hard.
Nicholas stared at him. His father had never actually threatened him before. He felt like he’d been slapped. He took a breath, struggling for air.
“Father…I do not need to be threatened. I came to discuss this with you. Not to argue.” He kept his voice level, refusing to be thrown.
His father raised an eyebrow. His dark eyes were cold. “If you mean not to argue, I presume you have taken back your defiance and that you will do as I say.”
Nicholas was unable to think of anything to say—there was so much he could have countered that with, but his mind was utterly empty. At length, he thought of something.
“I have not changed my mind, Father. I merely wish to explain my viewpoint to you, so that we can agree to some level of compromise. I do not see that the current arrangement is distasteful to either of us,” he said.
“No,” his father chuckled. “I suppose you don’t.”
Nicholas frowned. It was the same thing he’d said the previous evening, and he felt himself getting annoyed by it. He had a right to know what that was supposed to mean. He drew up a chair and sat down opposite the desk.
“Father, if I don’t understand, it is because you refuse to tell me. If you have some particular reason why you wanted your wishes to be respected, I suggest you inform me before you plan my life. It would make it easier to accept.”
His father raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need a reason to accept my plans. You need only to do as I say.”
Nicholas pushed back his chair. He felt all his attempt to be fair-minded and reasonable burning away in the fire of his hurt and anger. He looked at his father and saw someone he despised.
“I am of an age of legal agency, Father,” he said tightly. “I do not need to do as you say. Yes, I might be your heir, but I can change that, too. I will walk away from all of this and never return, happily. What use is title and land if I have not freedom?”
He stood up and walked out. He thought he heard his father laughing.
The sound was like icy water down his spine. It cooled his rage, solidifying it into a plan of action. He was not going back. He would walk away, as he had said. His father might imagine he wouldn’t, but he was quite set. He would go to his uncle, and ask him what he should do.
And he was prepared to go to his solicitor, and ask to be formally removed as his father’s heir.
“Radford?” he said to the butler as he descended the stairs. “Inform my father I am out. And please see to it that my horse is saddled. I will be gone for the afternoon.”
“Very good, Lord Calperton.”
Nicholas rode through the woods, feeling his anger cool. He was no longer Lord Calperton, honorary Marquess. He was just Nicholas Garston. And he was going to make his own way, if he had to.
When he arrived at his uncle’s home, he was out of breath. The estate was further away than he recalled, and he had ridden there at top speed. He leaned on the gate for a moment, drawing a breath in.
“Easy, Moonbeam,” he said to his horse softly. “I shouldn’t have ridden so hard.”
His horse made a small huff of sound, seeming in agreement. Nicholas touched his nose affectionately.
Now I should go in. I do hope Uncle is at home.
He took another deep breath and walked up the path towards the front door.
His uncle’s home was set in a well laid-out garden, with mature trees, topiary hedges, and a winding path that led to the front door. It was, from the front at least, not an imposing place—a double-story house made of pale sandstone, with gables and chimneys reaching up towards the blue sky. All the same, it had a certain gravity about it. Nicholas lifted the knocker, feeling a little nervous, and tapped.
The butler answered the door. He seemed even more stern and forbidding than he could remember, and Nicholas took a deep breath.
“Good day. Is Lord Exley at home?”
“Yes, My Lord,” the butler said slowly. “You’ll find him in the drawing room. May I take you there?”
“Yes, please do,” Nicholas nodded.
He passed his hat and coat to the man, who hung them up by the door, and then, ponderously, climbed up the steps. Nicholas followed behind him.
“Ellery? Is that the paper?” someone called from inside a room as they approached. “If it is, can you leave it in the breakfast room?”
“My Lord, your nephew, Lord Calperton,” the butler announced Nicholas, pausing in the doorway in case Lord Exley should want to send him for tea or anything else.
“Nicholas!” his uncle said, and stood instantly, coming over to the door. He stared into his face, then took his hand in his own and shook it firmly. His own soft face was wreathed in smiles. “My dear boy! It’s been ages! Come in! Ellery? Tea and cakes, if you please! Unless you’d prefer something stronger, Nephew? What hour is it?”
“It is ten o’ clock in the morning, Uncle,” Nicholas said softly.
“Is it? Oh! Well, in that case, tea and cakes will do, eh? Send them in, please, Ellery!”
Nicholas grinned to himself as his uncle headed back to the big upholstered chair he’d been sitting in, and waved him opposite. He looked at his uncle fondly. He was not particularly tall; with a full-cheeked face, merry eyes, and a comfortable physique. His hair had gone white in the years Nicholas had been away, but his gray eyes were as bright and lively as ever, if not more so.
He looked up to see his uncle studying him. He was smiling.
“Nicholas, my boy! It is a surprise to see you. Now, do tell me all about how you find it here. It’s not a bad part of the world, is it?”
Nicholas nodded slowly. “I like it, Uncle. Not that I have much to compare it with, besides Yorkshire,” he added with a smile.
His uncle nodded. “You’re right! And London, of course…but we both have a horror of London, so we shan’t raise the subject, eh?”
Nicholas laughed. His uncle was a delight. He had always thought of him as somewhat detached from the rest of humankind—preoccupied, more interested in clockworks and maps of the world than he was in prestige, money, or the other things that obsessed so many.
“Yes, let’s not,” he agreed.
“Capital! Now, I seem to recall you had a special purpose here? Tell me about that.” He leaned back in his chair, ready to listen to Nicholas’ story.
“Yes,” Nicholas said awkwardly. “I did come to discuss that.” He wasn’t sure what his uncle would think about him having defied his father, so he was unsure of how to mention it. He was saved by the arrival of the tea-trolley, rattling and squeaking its way up the hallway under Ellery’s hand.
“Ah! Tea! Capital!” his uncle declared warmly. “Ellery, put it out over there, please. Is there spicy cake?”
“There is, My Lord,” the butler said gravely.
“Capital! My favorite,” his uncle agreed. “Now, Nicholas, where were we?”
Nicholas stammered something about wanting to tell his uncle his news, feeling reluctant to broach the subject while Ellery was still there. He still had no idea of what his uncle would say.
His uncle was a genuinely kind man—easygoing, considerate. He was supportive of anyone, except those who were cruel to others. Nicholas had no idea how he might feel about disobeying one’s father. Given the additional fact that his plan to announce his choice had led to a woman being taken gravely ill, he had a feeling his uncle might be disapproving. All the same, he cleared his throat.
“Uncle, I came to a decision,” he said carefully, listening to make sure Ellery had gone down the ha
llway already.
“Yes, yes?” his uncle nodded. He was already at the table, pouring tea and cutting slices off the cake. “What is it, Nicholas? I am most excited to hear whatever business you’ve been up to.”
Nicholas smiled. His uncle hadn’t changed. He had always had all the time in the world for people’s conversations.
“Uncle, you know my father brought me here with the intent of making a betrothal…”
He told the story from the beginning, leaving nothing out. His uncle sat opposite, drinking tea and eating cake, all eyes and ears. He nodded once or twice, made outraged sounds and nodded more. When Nicholas had finished, right up to the argument of earlier, he put his plate aside.
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 18