by Lenora Bell
He wanted to be worthy of the confidence he saw in her eyes, but at the first glimpse of his mother, the old, tangled wall of thorns had closed over his heart.
Still, he would do his best to be polite.
Everything broken can be mended.
Perhaps this was an opportunity.
He schooled his face to cordiality. “You look well, Mother.”
“Not quite one of India’s artifacts yet.”
She’d softened at the edges, her stern jaw had the hint of a jowl and her hair had gone light with silver.
Too much to hope that the woman had softened along with her jawline?
“Have you taken up bareknuckle boxing?” A disdainful inventory of his shoulders and arms. “You’ve a ruffianly look about you.”
Too much to hope.
“I work at a foundry. I make steam engines.”
Also, too much to hope that he wouldn’t answer in kind.
“Most unfortunate.” An injured sniff. “I heard you were persisting with your endeavors in Trade.”
The worst thing a gentleman could sink to. Worse than adultery. Debauchery. Drunkenness.
The eighth deadly sin and the most wicked of all.
Trade.
He wasn’t going to have this conversation again. Not now. Not in front of spectators.
Conversation resumed. Footmen served claret and punch. The fruit arrangement on the sideboard, topped by a towering, spiny pineapple, had been disemboweled.
But he knew that everyone had half an ear on what he and his mother were saying. They were just waiting for the veneer of politeness to slip. For the ugliness to emerge.
“Why did you come, Mother?” he asked, wearily.
“Why did you invite me?” she countered.
I didn’t. India did. Where was India, anyway?
Probably arguing with Ravenwood in a corner, again, sparring like pugilists at a boxing match.
“I had hoped you might want to meet your grandchildren.” He glanced pointedly at Michel and Adele.
She followed his gaze. Another sniff.
Not good enough.
“Rather too like that woman, don’t you think?” She took a small sip of claret.
That woman meaning Sophie. “It’s not charitable to speak ill of the dead, Mother.”
“When have I ever been charitable, Duke?”
It wasn’t that his mother was evil, Edgar reminded himself. She was just so entrenched in her viewpoints. And those viewpoints were from the loftiest of ivory towers.
Daughter to a royal duke, she’d made a brilliant match with his father.
And paid the highest price.
She’d suffered, just as much as Edgar had suffered. Ruled by the tyrant. Belittled in public, and in private . . . unspeakable cruelty.
He soothed his voice, battling for control over his temper. “I wanted to come and call on you before now, but I wasn’t sure I would be welcome.”
She took another small, measured sip. “I had hoped that these rumors of domesticity—children and governesses and the like—meant you were finally ready to fulfill your duty and produce an heir. If, and when, that happy day comes, you will be most welcome in my home. Most welcome, indeed.”
Welcome only if he produced an heir. She hadn’t changed.
A footman materialized at the dowager’s side the moment her glass was empty. Instead of accepting more claret, she sent him away with one twitch of her eyebrow. “Was that too much for an elderly dowager to hope? That you might have decided to do your duty?”
“I’m more occupied with my foundry, at the moment.”
“A shame. Then why take Lady Blanche riding? Everyone’s saying you’re smitten with the girl. You could do worse. Prolific breeding lines.”
Edgar was saved from that line of questioning by India’s arrival.
“Hello, Mother.” She kissed the dowager’s cheek.
Their mother stiffened. She’d never been one for physical affection. “Still fond of outlandish attire, I see. What in Heaven’s name is that costume? You look like . . . I don’t even know what you look like, but you display no aspect of femininity whatsoever.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Mother,” said India.
She’d always been able to maintain her equanimity when Edgar wanted to explode.
“Have you met Michel and Adele, yet?” asked India with a breezy smile, determined to pretend this was a polite occasion.
Edgar tried to catch her eye, to warn her off, but the ball had been set in motion.
“I have not,” said the dowager.
India waved for Mari and the children to approach. Mari’s hair was coiled atop her head and she’d wrapped herself in a shawl, but she still looked regal and lovely.
“Mother, allow me to present the children’s governess, Miss Perkins,” said Edgar.
Mari dropped a polished curtsy.
His mother barely acknowledged her, giving only the slightest of nods. “Perkins.”
“And this is Michel.” Michel bowed. “And Adele.” Adele gave an acceptable curtsy, but kept her gaze boldly fixed on the dowager.
“Come forward child,” his mother said to Michel.
Michel approached her, his eyes fearful.
“How old are you?”
“Nine, Your Grace.”
Edgar heaved a mental sigh of relief. At least he’d addressed her properly.
“I’m nine as well,” Adele piped in.
“I’m not speaking to you, girl,” said the dowager, without turning her head. “I detect almost no accent in your voice.”
“We had an English tutor, Your Grace,” said Michel. “And now we have Miss Perkins. She makes us memorize poetry.”
She dismissed Michel with a flick of her wrist and turned to Edgar. “They appear intelligent and well-spoken enough. It’s a pity about their birth, though.”
“You mean it’s a pity we’re bastards,” Adele said.
The dowager raised her quizzing glass and examined Adele. “Quite.”
Mari placed a warning hand on Adele’s shoulder. “We mustn’t discuss such things in polite company, Adele.”
“But you said bastards are filled with potential, promise, and possibilities,” said Adele.
A hush descended on the room.
Glasses paused halfway to mouths.
“And so they are,” said Mari.
Edgar sensed the change in Mari. The shift from propriety to protectiveness. She would do anything for his children. Defend them, no matter what. From constables or from dowagers.
And so would he.
“Her Grace didn’t mean to say you should be pitied,” Edgar said, bending close to Adele.
“That’s right,” said Mari. “It’s just that sometimes, through no fault of their own, a person can’t see past their own quizzing glass.”
“Well,” exclaimed the dowager, dropping her quizzing glass. “Who are your people, Miss Perkins?”
“No one of your exalted acquaintance, Your Grace.”
India smiled warmly at Mari. “She’s from Mrs. Trilby’s Agency for Superior Governesses. She’s such a treasure.”
“Superior governesses. Rather an oxymoron, in my experience,” sniffed the dowager.
“Quite,” agreed Mari, in a haughty tone of voice. “Such a hysterical, degenerate breed.”
The dowager gave her a hard stare. “Are you mocking me?”
“I was merely agreeing with you, Your Grace.”
Edgar almost applauded. Mari had put his mother in her place so skillfully that it wasn’t even discernible as an insult.
She had a way of doing that. Putting people in their places.
Cutting people down to size.
“It’s not right to raise a child beyond their station, Banksford,” his mother said, ignoring everyone except Edgar. “You shouldn’t parade them about. It’s past their bedtime.”
“Perhaps it’s past your bedtime, Mother.” He knew his voice was cold, but he was only
matching her tone.
“Well,” she huffed. “I knew it was a mistake to come here.” She tapped her walking stick on the floor, and a footman scurried toward them.
She stumbled slightly. Edgar reached out a hand. “Let me help you.”
“Do. Not. Touch me.”
“Are you well, Mother?” he asked, noticing for the first time the lines etched at the edges of her eyes. The slight hunch to her shoulders.
She left without a backward glance.
He watched her leave and suddenly he saw a lonely old woman. Her spine straight because she had set herself against the world.
She had suffered his father’s wrath in silence for all of those years.
Wounds that deep couldn’t be healed.
They shared the same burden, his mother and he. Shared it and lived with it so differently. He had run away. She had stayed. He’d forged a new life . . . literally.
She’d stayed here, and been the target of society’s scorn.
As if her departure was a signal, the remaining guests trailed behind, making their good-byes. Probably disappointed by the lack of shouting. The thin coating of civility they’d been able to maintain.
Michel and Adele stood on either side of Mari, looking stricken, and so very small.
When the last guests were gone, India turned to him. “Well that went splendidly, I think,” she said.
“Why did you invite her?”
“I didn’t think she’d actually come.”
“Did we do something wrong?” asked Adele.
“Not at all,” said Edgar. “My mother is extremely difficult to please.”
“She’s certainly . . . opinionated,” said Mari.
“She didn’t like us.” Adele took Michel’s hand. “She didn’t even want to meet us.”
“That’s not true, she’ll warm to you eventually,” said India. “Let me tell you a story about your grandmother. You see, she was the most beautiful girl in London, once upon a time, and so you know she has a story.”
“The most beautiful?” asked Adele.
“When she walked into a room, people wept,” said India. “She inspired hundreds of poems. A famous poet wrote a verse about her eyes, comparing them to amethysts dipped in angel’s tears, or some such. Shall I find the poem, and read it to you?”
“I’ll take them upstairs,” said Mari, quickly.
Too quickly. She didn’t want to be alone with him.
She was avoiding his eyes. Was she ashamed of what had happened in the stage box? He never wanted her to feel ashamed.
They needed to talk.
What an evening, Mari reflected, snuggled into her bed after reading to the children and tucking them in.
She’d been kissed by a duke. Propositioned by an earl. She’d stared down a dowager duchess.
Her life was changing. She was changing.
She’d left the gray walls of Underwood far behind. That silent, lonely girl who’d been beaten down by life was thoroughly gone, and in her place was something wholly new . . . and still forming.
Mari stretched her arms over her head, the fine linens stroking her skin.
A lady who navigated the seas of scandal and had wicked thoughts and sometimes even acted upon them. What was she guarding her virtue for, anyway?
She’d never marry. Edgar was an honorable man, but he wanted her, she knew it. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in his touch.
And she wanted him as well.
Kissing Edgar had been like opening the magic box from Lumley’s Toy Shop. She’d expected to find all of the restraints, the prohibitions, the guilt of her past. And instead she’d found a heart of velvety darkness that was filled with . . . everything.
Every longing she’d ever suppressed.
Every word she’d ever swallowed.
And every dream she’d never dared to dream.
A rough, bass voice intruded into Mari’s dreams. “Wake up.”
“Edgar, you’re here.” She reached her arms toward him sleepily. “You came to me.”
“Wake up,” he shook her shoulders gently. “Michel is having a night terror. I need your help.”
Not here to seduce her.
He needed her help.
She bolted upright so swiftly that their foreheads nearly bumped.
He helped her down from the bed, his eyes worried and fearful.
“Has he injured himself?” she asked, as she threw a wrapper over her nightgown and slid her feet into her slippers.
“Not yet,” said Edgar. “But I can’t wake him. And he’s making the eeriest moaning sounds. Adele is beside herself. You said you have experience with night terrors.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “I do. Edgar, look at me. Everything will be all right. Now take me to him.”
Mari had seen night terrors before. Michel sat upright in his cot, his eyes open but staring straight ahead. The expression on his face was one of extreme fear, as if he’d turned inward and was seeing a nightmare inside his head.
“It looks like he’s awake,” Mari said to Adele. “But he’s not. He’s fast asleep. I’ve seen this before.”
Adele hunched her shoulders. “He’ll do this for hours sometimes. I wake up and he’s just . . . staring like that. Breathing heavily, like an animal. What is he seeing? Why doesn’t he wake up? He never even remembers anything about it in the morning.”
“Wake up, Michel,” said Edgar, shaking his son.
“Shh,” said Mari. “It’s best not to try to wake him. We sit with him. And we make sure he doesn’t hurt himself thrashing about. These terrors usually only last an hour at most.”
“Last time I tried to wake him it didn’t go well,” Edgar agreed. “He hasn’t had one in weeks. Why do you think he’s having one tonight?”
“He could be worried about something,” Mari replied. She turned to Adele. “Did he say anything to you, sweetheart?”
“He was upset about meeting our grandmother. He wanted her to like him.”
“Non. S’il vous plaît,” Michel moaned in French, as if he’d heard her. “Non. Ne partez pas sans nous.”
“Sometimes he . . .” Adele made retching noises.
“Vomits,” supplied Mari. “That’s rather messy.”
“And smelly.” Adele made a face. She was trying to be brave, but Mari could see the toll this took on her, not being able to rouse her brother, or ease his terror.
His limbs were all tangled in the bed sheets and his hands gripped the bedclothes so hard his knuckles were white.
Mari eased one of his hands open and chafed it between her hands.
“Sometimes loosening the bedclothes works. He may feel trapped.” She spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact voice as she and Edgar loosened the sheets and smoothed them out. “At least he’s not a somnambulist.”
“What’s that?” asked Adele.
“Someone who walks in their sleep. I knew a girl who wandered halfway across a cow pasture in her sleep. And she never remembered a step when she awoke the next day, after we returned her to her bed.”
“She’s lucky she wasn’t injured,” Edgar said.
“Sometimes it sounds like someone’s trying to kill him,” said Adele, gazing at her brother with tears in her eyes.
“It’s very frightening, isn’t it?” asked Mari.
“Yes,” Adele whispered.
“But it will end soon.”
Mari attempted to lift his legs out of the cramped seated position.
Without warning, his body twitched into motion, convulsing as if he’d been punched in the belly. “Non. Non,” he yelled.
His elbow flew out and caught Mari’s lower lip. She stumbled back, the painful sting of the blow momentarily blinding her.
“Mari!” Strong hands gripped her elbows, righting her. “Are you injured?”
Edgar’s face coalesced, first a dark brow, then a pale gray eye, finally a handsome, worried face, close to hers.
“It’s nothing,” she said, wiping her lip with her s
leeve.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Edgar asked in an anguished voice.
Michel was breathing heavily now, twisting his hands in the bedclothes.
Mari felt his pulse. “His heart is beating very quickly.”
The moaning began again. Eerie and low, from the back of Michel’s throat. As if he were a cornered animal.
“Can you lay him down?” Mari asked.
Edgar tried to guide Michel’s legs into a supine position. “No. He won’t go.”
Michel jumped into the air, landing on his feet on the bed.
Edgar caught him in his arms and held him tight to his chest, speaking in a soothing voice. “Michel, it’s Father. You’re safe. Breathe now, just breath.”
He rocked him back and forth like a small baby.
Michel quieted, relaxing against his father’s chest, his head lolling back.
Mari found P.L. Rabbit on the windowsill. “Lay him down now,” she told Edgar.
Edgar laid Michel in the bed. Mari nestled P.L. in his arms and Michel curled his body, clutching the rabbit in his hands.
“The worst is over,” she said.
“What do you see, my son?” asked Edgar, stroking Michel’s cheek. “What terrors lie behind those eyelids? I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars did wander darkly in the eternal space.”
“Byron,” said Mari.
“You’re not the only one who memorizes poetry,” Edgar said with a faint smile.
Michel sighed, his breathing slow now.
Edgar brushed the hair back from Michel’s face and cupped his face with his large hand. “There’s nothing to fear.” He kissed his brow. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”
Who knew a brusque terror of a duke could be so sweet?
Mari’s heart brimmed with tenderness, and never-to-be-shed tears welled behind her eyes.
There’s hope for you yet, Edgar.
When she left this family, she would know that Michel and Adele had a father who was learning to show them that he cared.
Someone to soothe the night terrors. A steady shoulder to lean upon.
A good man to emulate.
She checked on Adele, who was fast asleep, her fierce little face calm in repose. “She’s asleep,” she whispered.
Edgar nodded, rising from Michel’s side.