“These people, as you refer to them, are also the reason Charles wasn’t hanged for attempted murder, Pamela,” the duke reminded her. “I’d remember that . . . that . . .” His father-in-law glanced to Gertrude and made another attempt to get the remainder of his words out. “Edwin’s wife.”
“You’d take their side,” the duchess hissed, her eyes bulging in her face, highlighting the gaunt, pale cheeks. Life had aged the duchess. She was a pale shadow of the once vibrant leading hostess she’d been.
But then, she’d lost her beloved daughter and now . . . Charles to his imprisonment.
“At any time Edwin might be less magnanimous toward our son, Pamela. I’ll have you remember that,” the duke said somberly.
The duchess’s body arched forward like she’d fly off in a rage, but then she sank back to her heels.
And Edwin found himself, for the first time since he’d married Lavinia and discovered the depth of her parents’ hatred for him, connecting with his mother-in-law. Her suffering was one he could understand as a parent, and he pitied her for it.
“Your Grace.” Gertrude directed that murmuring at the older woman. “Neither myself nor Edwin have any intention of altering the decision we came to with regard to Lord Tenwhestle.”
“The decision was my wife’s,” Edwin said bluntly for the benefit of the duchess. “If I’d had my way, Charles would now be living in the Tower of London for his role in trying to coordinate the murder of my wife. As it is, the fact he’s been sent to Cornwall and lives still, you have my wife to thank for.”
“He lives with a magistrate on house arrest forever, for a crime he is not guilty of. I don’t believe for one moment my Charles has the blood of a murderer in him.” The duchess’s lips trembled, and averting her tear-filled gaze, she dabbed at her eyes.
His Grace bowed his head. “My wife and I thank you.”
“Is that why you’ve insisted upon a face-to-face meeting?” the duchess spat, and when she looked back, the earlier evidence of her tears had vanished. “Do you seek our thanks for the fact that Charles is in some godforsaken corner of England and will never be afforded the life he deserves because of his rank?”
That is what the peerage believed, his in-laws included—that a nobleman’s life and luxuries were ones they were deserving of, and there was never a thought to those men and women who survived and worked. Women such as Gertrude, who’d been proud to build the fortune she and her siblings had with nothing more than strength, skills, and a need to survive.
“No, that is not why I’ve asked you here,” Edwin said quietly. Do not do it . . . You’re making a mistake . . . He felt Gertrude’s gaze and glanced to her. She gave him a small smile and then nodded. And he found the strength to continue. “I have resented you from the moment I married Lavinia and you treated me like a monster for nothing more than loving her.”
His in-laws stiffened.
“You treated me as a villain and made me one with my late wife. And I hated you for that. Now?” His throat swelled with emotion, and when he managed to get words out, they came thick and gravelly. “Now I appreciate what it is to be a parent and want everything in the world for one’s child. I could have tried harder with the both of you. I could have tried to have peace instead of baiting you at every turn.” Knowing his former wife and his in-laws, Edwin didn’t believe there would have ever been any different outcome. But he could have attempted to make peace.
The older couple exchanged a look; in their eyes was the wariness of a pair fearful they were even now stepping into a trap. “And we could have certainly been a better father-in-law and mother-in-law to you,” the duke acknowledged, his face contorting with grief and regret.
“We did nothing wrong, Tremaine,” his wife protested.
“We didn’t do anything right, though, either, Pamela,” the Duke of Walford said with such firmness the duchess’s cheeks went red. “We also should have welcomed you into our family, instead of blaming you for a decision that was as much Lavinia’s as it was yours. And for that?” The duke bowed his head. “I will be forever regretful.”
“I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” Edwin said, and there was something so very freeing in that admission. “I invited you here because regardless of how we felt or feel about one another, the truth remains our lives were forever intertwined the moment Stephen was born.” The duchess’s mouth pulled at that name, different from the one she knew and used. Only she did not fight him on that score, and Edwin went on. “I’m allowing you to have a place in Stephen’s life . . . if you wish it.”
A sob escaped the duchess. “Is this a game?” she cried.
“No game,” Gertrude said softly.
Almost on perfect cue, the door was opened, and Stephen entered. His previously immaculate sapphire cloak and tan trousers, now wrinkled and stained with bits of mud, spoke of a child who’d managed to find mischief before he’d arrived.
Everyone came belatedly to their feet. The duchess was the last to rise.
Stephen wrinkled his nose. “I don’t need any of that nonsense,” he muttered. He pushed the door closed behind him and lingered at the entrance of the room before catching his sister’s gaze.
Gertrude stretched a hand out, and the boy came bounding over, past the duke and duchess, and took up position on the other side of Gertrude. “The duke and duchess have come to visit,” she murmured, brushing a suspiciously damp strand away from his brow.
She narrowed her eyes, and Stephen ducked his head. There’d be questions enough about his shenanigans later. “Won’t you say hello to His and Her Grace?”
“Grandmer—” The duchess pressed her fingertips to her mouth, stymieing that desperate request.
Stephen shifted. “Hullo,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Perhaps you’d like to speak to one another a short while?” Gertrude suggested; Stephen’s permission for such a meeting had been set long before this one had been put into motion. His willingness to grant the visit was just evidence of how very mature he was, and how much the Killorans had helped shape him as a young boy.
When no one immediately responded, Stephen glanced up at Gertrude, a question in his eyes . . . along with a hint of relief and hope.
“We would love that very much,” the duke whispered. He held a shaking hand out toward his grandson.
Stephen hesitated, and then a moment later, he sat before the older couple.
Edwin and Gertrude wandered over to the corner, allowing the trio some space in which to talk. All the while, Edwin’s gaze remained locked on his son, searching for any hint that they’d offended him or hurt him.
“It is going to be fine, Edwin,” Gertrude whispered, looping her arm through his. She rested her head against his sleeve.
“What if it’s not?” he shot back in an equally quiet voice. “What if they can’t accept him for who he is? What if he’s hurt? What if—?”
“We cannot necessarily prevent Stephen from hurting, Edwin,” she said softly. “We can only be sure that we’ll be there to help him if and when he is hurt. But this time? I don’t believe it will be one of those moments.” The duke had shifted over to the seat next to Stephen and was displaying a handful of mints he’d tucked away in a silver case as long as Edwin had known him. Whatever Stephen said earned a booming laugh from the duke, and he turned the entire container over to the boy. “See?” Gertrude asked, lightly squeezing his arm.
He lowered his head so close their brows touched. “I do see. I see you’ve made me a better man. I see what happiness and love is. And now”—tears pricked at his lashes—“now I see what forgiveness is. I love you, Gertrude.”
She caught her trembling lip between her teeth. “I love you.”
And with an unexpected bark of laughter from Stephen that rolled together with that of the duke and duchess, Edwin held tight to Gertrude’s hand and let go the last shred of hatred that had held him ensnared.
He was free.
About the Author
Photo © 2016 Kimberly Rocha
USA Today bestselling, RITA-nominated author Christi Caldwell blames authors Julie Garwood and Judith McNaught for luring her into the world of historical romance. When Christi was at the University of Connecticut, she began writing her own tales of love. She believes that the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections, and she rather enjoys torturing her couples before crafting them a well-deserved happily ever after.
The author of the Wicked Wallflowers series, which includes The Governess, The Hellion, and The Vixen, Christi lives in southern Connecticut, where she spends her time writing, chasing after her son, and taking care of her twin princesses-in-training. Fans who want to keep up with the latest news and information can sign up for Christi’s newsletter at www.ChristiCaldwell.com or follow her on Facebook (AuthorChristiCaldwell) or Twitter (@ChristiCaldwell).
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