“Good morning, dear,” she said with a smile that abruptly tilted downward. “Are you unwell? Are your laces too tight?”
“They are fine,” she said quickly, suspecting that they were the only things holding her together. And that, perhaps, she was fooling herself for believing the void couldn’t grow any larger. “Jane and Ellie are coming for tea tomorrow afternoon. Therefore, I have ample time for a shopping excursion, if you like.”
Winnifred wanted to keep herself as busy as possible for the next two days. And for the rest of her life.
“I would like that very much,” Mother said, coming up to her to fluff her sleeves, eyeing her critically. She pursed her lips. “After seeing you in that dress of your aunt’s, I have a mind to alter a few of yours. The sleeves should not be nearly as broad, I think. As for these additional reinforcements, they are superfluous when you already have a narrow waist.”
Winnifred waited a beat, anticipating a less flattering remark. When that moment passed, however, she was forced to add her own. “A waist that only appears narrow on a figure as plump as mine, you mean.”
Mother blinked as if clueless. “Whyever would you say that?”
“Well, that is how your comments usually arrive—something nice, followed by a harsh reality,” she said wryly. “On my wedding day, for example, you gave me those lovely stockings, like your mother had given you. Then remarked on how you made certain to embroider in vertical lines for a slimming effect.”
“I wear vertical stripes as well, for the same purpose,” she said in self-defense and cupped her daughter’s cheek. “You’re my daughter, Winnifred. Of course I think you are lovely.”
She stepped back. “I’ve never had that impression.”
Her mother’s eyes misted over and she abruptly walked to the brocaded drapes, fussing with the silver tassel tiebacks. She cleared her throat and stared out the window. “I’ve always been weak when it comes to criticism. When faced with my own failings, I tend to retreat and distance myself. So I suppose I thought that I was helping to build your strength, where I’ve never been strong. I wanted you to be braver than I have been.”
“And I wanted to be loved for who I am.”
Mother turned with a start, her face bleached white.
“But you are loved, and more than any child could—” Her voice broke, blue eyes flooding with tears. “I have been a terrible mother. You are my only child and I’ve failed in letting you know the most important thing.”
Crossing the room, she clasped Winnifred’s hand and whispered hoarsely, “You are loved, my dearest.”
Then she rushed out of the bedchamber.
By this time, tears were stinging Winnifred’s own eyes. She fought hard to blink them away, fearing that the dam inside her would break. So she concentrated on the sentiment behind her mother’s speech. She let the words seep into her lungs on a stuttered breath and absorbed the truth in them.
Until now, she’d believed that Imogene Humphries wanted her daughter to be an exact replica, perfect in every way. It was astonishing to realize that she didn’t see herself as perfect at all. She saw herself as flawed and weak.
Even so, Winnifred had always supposed Mother loved her, in her own way. She’d just never fully believed it until now.
“You aren’t a terrible mother,” she whispered to the empty room, incapable of keeping it bottled up. There was only so much these laces could hold, after all.
* * *
On Tuesday morning, Asher borrowed a horse from Avery Hollander and rode an hour west of London to Ashbrook Cottage.
It was time to bid farewell.
Now that Shettlemane held the deed, his first act of retaliation—once he learned Asher had actually gone away on a ship—would doubtless be to sell this house. The marquess might even believe it would bring him back.
It wouldn’t. Not this time.
Before going into the house, however, Asher walked through the untamed garden his mother had so loved. She’d frequently sat beneath the old ash tree, marking the seasons from the weathered bench that still rested against the trunk.
The gray branches overhead only hosted clusters of dark buds. But soon they would burst with vibrant purple flowers, followed by a canopy of silver-green leaves that rustled in soft summer winds, turning crisp and red-gold in autumn. Then, in late winter and early spring, the ash-keys would litter the path.
Picking up one of the winged seeds at his feet, he held it in his hand, recalling the laughing moments when they’d collected them like coins from a treasure chest, before tossing them into the wind.
She’d once told him that she’d been sitting in this very spot, with a hand splayed over her swollen womb, when she heard the tree tell her that her child’s name should be Asher.
He sat there now and lingered on the cold stone for most of the morning, remembering the soft sound of her voice and the way her brown hair had always smelled of tea with milk and honey.
“Goodbye, Mother,” he whispered, his throat constricting as he let the ash-key fall.
A breeze ruffled his hair and chilled the moisture gathering in his eyes. Then he stood and left the garden without looking back.
Heavyhearted, he entered the white stone cottage. Aware that he intended to leave for an extended time, the servants had already covered the few remaining furnishings and chandeliers in sheets.
He gathered the small staff in the kitchen and told them that his father had finally schemed the deed from the trustees and Asher would no longer be able to guarantee their positions. As expected, there was weeping and railing, especially from those who’d lived here during his mother’s time. He promised fine letters of reference. Then, after sharing tea and bread with each of them, he went upstairs to his bedchamber.
A short time later, Asher cinched the worn leather straps closed on a pair of aged valises, before shaking his valet’s hand. “Mr. Lejeune, I’m grateful for all your years of service, but I hope you know you’ve been more than a valet to me. I remember every scolding you ever gave me when I’d come home from university, full of piss and vinegar. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’d be half the man I am if not for you.”
The older man’s droopy basset hound eyes watered and he sniffed. “My lord, it has been a great pleasure watching you grow from a lad. Most of us have only stayed on to watch over you. And with that said”—he walked over to the console by the door and withdrew a parcel—“the rest of us have put a few things together to take with you on your journey. Mrs. Flemming embroidered fresh handkerchiefs. Mrs. Hervey baked your favorite biscuits. And Mr. Wey and I put together a few coins. It isn’t much, but we all wanted to send your lordship off properly.”
Touched and mildly embarrassed, Asher felt tears prickle the corners of his eyes as he weighed the package thoughtfully. “It should be I who gives a gift to each of you.”
“We know that your lordship has done his best for us, more than anyone else would have done under the circumstances. And if it isn’t too much to ask, we’d be much obliged if your lordship would write to us every now and again.”
“I’ll write you so often that you’ll be sick to death of hearing about my travels across the sea.”
With another sniff, the valet mopped at his considerable nose with an embroidered handkerchief and then managed a smile and nod. “I should like that, my lord.”
“What’s all this blubbering?” his father asked, making a sudden—but not wholly unexpected—appearance. He’d likely come to gloat and threaten.
“I already told you, Father,” Asher answered as Mr. Lejeune slipped out the door. “I’m cutting you out of my life. I’m leaving. And this time, you won’t be able to send any henchmen after me to clean up your messes.”
Without turning around, he carefully packed the parcel inside one valise. There was nothing else in this room that truly belonged to him, or that wouldn’t be sold during another obsessive episode.
The only thing he wished to have was the cer
tainty that Winn would wait for him. And that, no matter what happened—whether he found the treasure or only sand—he would have a life with her.
But because of his father’s interference, that dream was now over, too.
“You’re not going to leave,” the marquess said with a laugh. “Then I’d have no choice but to sell this cottage.” When that earned no response, he went on, firing off threats one after the other. “But before I do, I’ll have that old tree in the garden cut down. Oh, those logs will make a grand fire, too. And then I’ll sack all the servants. Most of them are too decrepit to find another post. And it’ll all be your fault, my boy. Every bit of it.”
Asher expelled a weary breath, his shoulders heavy as a yoke. Taking hold of both valises, he turned and walked past Shettlemane without another word. He was finally done with it all.
There was nothing left for his father to take.
Chapter 29
By evening, Asher was determined to leave London behind and forge ahead with a new life. At least, that’s what he told the Hollander twins.
In the forefront of his mind, however, he could only think about Winn. Those infernal ifs had been swirling inside his skull and leaving him with the lingering thought that, should he go to her one last time, it might make a difference.
Picking up his hat, he passed the twins on the way out.
“Well done, Holt. We’ve just come to fetch you for a proper send-off celebration,” Bates said with a waggle of his brows in the lamplight. “A night of merriment awaits us in the fine company of a few opera dancers.”
Avery, on the other hand, said, “I don’t think he’s leaving with us,” and released a lengthy sigh. “You’re going to her again, aren’t you?”
“I’m likely beating my own head against a rock, but I have to try.” And without another word, Asher sprinted away, leaving them to celebrate without him.
He was out of breath by the time he reached Winn’s house. After a robust rap on the knocker, the butler opened the door and eyed him warily.
“Lord Holt, I cannot allow you admittance.”
“Is it that blasted Holt, again?” Waldenfield barked from within, then marched across the foyer and filled the doorway like a blockade. To the butler, he said, “I’ll handle this.”
Then he stepped outside, closed the door behind him and crossed his arms. “Let us be done with this once and for all. I’ll even hear you out, if you like. So, tell me, what are your intentions toward my daughter?”
Asher straightened and offered the complete truth without varnish. “I want to marry her, my lord. I want you to rescind her dowry. And I want to take her away with me on a ship that sails tomorrow morning.”
His wiry red brows arched in amusement. “Is that all?”
“It is not a jest. I am in earnest.”
“Very well, then,” he said wryly. “What are you offering my daughter, a life of uncertainty? A promise of flitting off whenever a whim takes your fancy?”
He thought about the coin in his pocket from the servants. “At the moment, I have next to nothing. At least, nothing more than love to offer her, and a promise to give her the happiest life she could imagine.”
Waldenfield’s mouth tightened. “Did it ever occur to you that my daughter wants to marry Mr. Woodbine? He will make her a duchess one day, after all. And she will have a fine house and a life that will allow her to hold her head high in society.”
“A life from which she ran away. She never cared about becoming a duchess. All Winn wanted was to please you and her mother, and try to live up to impossible standards.”
“Mind the ground where you tread, young man,” Waldenfield warned darkly.
“Forgive me, my lord. It’s just that I know how difficult it is to live in the shadow of a parent who constantly demands more than any person can be expected to give.” Asher stood tall, straightening his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. “Winn deserves to be loved for who she is and I can give her that.”
Waldenfield scoffed, studying him with hard scrutiny. “You’re one of those romantics, with your head full of poetic delusions. Permit me to be crystal clear, Lord Holt. My daughter is not pining for you. In fact, she is so eager to marry Mr. Woodbine that she insisted the wedding be done with utmost haste. The date is set for the day after tomorrow.”
Asher winced as though he’d been struck. He certainly felt the sting of the blow.
But Waldenfield wasn’t through delivering his beating. “My daughter hasn’t mentioned your name once since you left. And in case you aren’t aware, it was her decision to have your letters returned at the door, not mine.”
This, Asher knew too well, had been his last chance.
Swallowing down the bitter truth, he inclined his head. “I am grateful for your candor, my lord. I shall be away for an indeterminate amount of time, and so I wish you and your family all the felicities that one can possess in life. I will not trespass again.”
* * *
That evening after dinner, Winnifred stopped by her father’s study to bid him good-night.
When she pressed a kiss to his cheek, he looked at the clock on the mantel and frowned. “So early? It’s not quite eleven.”
“Merely tired from a long day. I don’t have mother’s stamina for shopping,” she said, offering him the same excuse she’d given to Mother when she’d left the parlor a moment ago.
Though, in all honesty, the excursion had only been a jaunt to the milliner’s, where her mother had spent far too much time praising how well Winnifred wore a hat—without once mentioning that it effectively hid her unruly curls—and then to the draper’s to discuss the importance of the perfectly upholstered chair.
She turned to leave, when her father suddenly spoke, stopping her.
“You don’t sing any longer.”
“I will, if you like,” she said reflexively but secretly hoped he would not ask it of her.
The very thought of singing made her lungs feel tight, close to suffocation. She pressed a hand to her middle and drew in a breath before she faced him, forcing a smile in place. At least, she hoped it was a smile. Contentment was a disguise that fit about as comfortably as a steel corset with an iron busk.
Thankfully, he shook his head. “I used to hear you humming to yourself or singing oftentimes throughout the day. I suppose I noticed how quiet it has been these past days.”
“Perhaps you need to send Mother on an excursion for a music box.”
“Perhaps,” he said with a sardonic curl to his lips. Then he looked at her intently, his mouth in a grim line. “This wedding business is on my mind, as it is doubtless on yours.”
She offered a nod but said nothing.
“I want what’s best for you, Winnifred. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” she said, and meant it. She understood better now that her parents were flawed creatures, just like everyone else. And she appreciated that they tried to do the best they could. “You’ll be glad to know that there won’t be any running away this time. I’ve come to terms with my marriage to Mr. Woodbine. With him there will be nothing to speculate over. No unwelcome surprises waiting to spring out at any moment. I know precisely what I am to him and he will never be capable of fooling me into believing otherwise.”
His frown deepened. “Is that what Holt—”
“Please, Father, don’t say his name,” she said in a rush.
She tried to smile afterward, to stand tall. But she was suddenly too exhausted, and especially tired of how her parents were always looking at her as if she were about to dissolve into a puddle at any moment.
She said nothing more as she excused herself from the room. But in the corridor, she pressed her back against the wall and tried to catch her breath.
Then, when she was alone in her bedchamber, she let her false smile fall. She was fairly certain no one knew that part of her died a little more every day. No one knew she clutched her pillow to bury the desperate sobs choking her.
She tr
ied not to think of Asher Holt, or how she’d once felt priceless and beautiful in his arms. She tried to ignore the suffocating agony of losing a love that she never truly had in the first place.
But every night, her pillow and her heart knew the truth.
It had all been a lie.
* * *
Imogene walked into his study that evening, charging forward in a rustle of silvery-blue taffeta, and stopped on the other side of Julian’s desk. She set her hands on the graceful flare of her hips and expelled a huff to gain his attention.
As if she imagined he wasn’t aware of her every moment of every day.
“Well, Julian? Did you see Winnifred at dinner?”
He casually lifted the first page from the wedding contract and turned it upside down beside the stack. “Of course, we were all at the same table.”
“You’re so stubborn and single-minded that you never see what’s truly important. But surely, even you have to realize that she’s in love with Viscount Holt.”
Yes, he did. He’d seen it in her face with such stark clarity that it was almost as if he’d been looking into a mirror. He wanted to save her from the pain that would come from loving someone too much. After all, he knew too well that love was like a plague on some hearts, slowly devouring and destroying.
When Holt had come here this evening and boldly told him that he could offer Winnifred nothing but love, Julian feared that her fate would be similar to his own. After all, he’d once married for love.
He would rather see his daughter strong and self-assured in her position in society than be crippled by a romantic heart.
Julian stood and straightened his waistcoat, walking around his desk to face the wife who’d unknowingly brought him to his knees too many times to count.
“Imogene, our daughter is going to be a duchess. As her father, it is up to me to ensure that she has everything. Winnifred deserves . . .” He cleared his throat and said, “All the things I never had the chance to give our other children.”
They grew still, staring at each other, the air quiet aside from the barest crackle of embers from the hearth. The faint tick of the clock on the mantel.
Lord Holt Takes a Bride Page 25