Marriage to Andrew was eroding her manners. “How is your mother, Henry? I’ve written to her, but she makes no reply. I suppose she is disappointed in me for not serving out my year of mourning.”
Henry swilled his tea in one gulp and set the cup down a bit too hard on the saucer. “You say that like mourning Herbert is a prison sentence.”
“Mourning is not a happy time, Henry.” Astrid refilled his cup, thinking she should not have to tell him about the realities of mourning. He’d lost a brother, hadn’t he? “Should I stop writing to your mother?”
He stirred his tea the same way Herbert had, quick little circles in the center of the cup that resulted in the occasional messy saucer. “Heavens, no. I’ve every suspicion she’s written to you, but Douglas has probably refused to frank the letters. We three live in the town house together now, and Douglas’s own house is to let. The situation isn’t exactly comfortable, though I still have my rooms in the City for when it gets too awful at home.”
Andrew had spared her joining that household, and for all the tensions at Enfield, it wasn’t as bad as what the Allen family would have offered. “I am sorry. I know your mother can be a challenge.”
“Mother, I can handle,” he said, oddly bitter. “It’s Douglas, with his endless economies and his grim pronouncements I can hardly tolerate. But I mustn’t complain. I have a roof over my head and decent prospects, which is more than many others have.”
“It is. You are sweet to take the time to come visit me.”
He folded two tea cakes into a serviette, stuffed them into his pocket, and rose. “Visiting you is a pleasure, though the interrogation when I get home isn’t.”
“What will you tell Douglas?” she asked, taking his arm as they walked toward the front of the house. And thank the Deity that Henry was not inclined to overstay his welcome, though he’d taken the last chocolate peppermint cakes, and those were Astrid’s favorites.
“I will tell him you are in great good health and tolerably good spirits, but your new husband is not as courteous to you as he could be.”
Courtesy. Herbert had been courteous, and Andrew was the soul of courtesy, not that courtesy mattered much compared to respect, trust, or love.
“Greymoor is a good man. I am content with him. How is Douglas, by the way? We’ve heard nothing from him since his call on Heathgate some weeks ago.”
“Now that is odd.” Henry took his hat, cape, and gloves from a footman. “I thought he was going to pay a call on you following your nuptials. Appears he changed his mind. Consider yourself lucky.”
He grinned, bowed, patted his pocket, and took his leave.
As Astrid listened to the clatter of his horse’s hooves cantering down the driveway, a choking sadness welled up. She had lied to Henry, and Henry had probably sensed it: Andrew was a good man, of that she had no doubt, but she was most assuredly not content.
“What did the puppy want?” Andrew asked from a perch halfway down the stairs.
“I beg your pardon. I did not know you were in the house.” Did not know where he was in any sense.
“I came in to change.” Andrew prowled down the steps, and if a man could do such a thing peevishly, he did. “You’ll forgive me if I did not join you for a polite chat over tea. I assume he is reporting everything you say and do to Douglas?”
“He did say Douglas will question him upon his return.”
Andrew studied her as if she were a crooked painting of a peculiar subject, badly executed. “You are pale, Astrid. Did the puppy upset you?”
He was standing so close she could smell his cologne and the soap he’d just washed with, but she kept her expression bland and did not allow herself to lean closer.
“Astrid?” His voice was quiet, caring. Not the terse bark he’d adopted of late when necessity dictated they converse.
She did look at him then, knowing her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Whatever he said—” Andrew began fiercely, but Astrid shook her head.
“It isn’t Henry who upsets me.”
She did not—could not—say more but advanced past him, her spine straight, her gait dignified as she left him standing on the stair.
Andrew stood at the bottom of the steps, feeling as if Magic had just delivered a kick to his chest. He contemplated ferreting out Douglas Allen and slapping a glove across the man’s face. A duel would resolve the entire situation, and Astrid would be left in peace to raise her child in safety.
Possibly.
Andrew was lethal with a sword, and a good shot, but he wasn’t the kind of marksman the Allen men were. With his dying breath, Andrew would know he’d left Astrid unprotected and widowed again.
“What are you scowling about now?” Gwen asked, coming down the stairs with Rose at her side.
“I can scowl too,” Rose said, frowning with exaggerated ill humor. Andrew scooped the child off the stairs onto his hip.
“You will scare me, Rosebud, if you don’t stop looking so ferocious. I am scowling because it is nearly luncheon, and I am quite hungry.”
“I am hungry too,” Rose said. “Where is Cousin Astrid?”
“She was here a minute ago,” Andrew hedged, but he caught Gwen’s eye, and the rare compassion he saw suggested she’d overheard, or even seen, some of his exchange with Astrid.
“Cousin Astrid is sad,” Rose said. “I wish she would be happy.”
Gwen’s expression went carefully impassive, but she retrieved Rose from Andrew and set the child back on her own two feet.
“We will go find Cousin Astrid and cheer her up,” Gwen said. “There is nothing worthwhile for her to be sad about.”
They turned their backs on Andrew and went off to enjoy their meal, while he… sat down, pulled on his muddy boots, and returned to the stables, there to muck stalls until the ache in his chest subsided and his hunger was nearly forgotten.
***
Arabella Antoinette Hollister Alexander, Lady Heathgate to the tedious nincompoops of Polite Society, hated autumn, for it was the season of her failures. Thirteen years ago, she’d failed to talk her husband into ignoring a summons from his papa, the marquess, to attend a doomed family gathering in Scotland.
Who in their right mind traveled north as winter approached?
Six years ago, she had taken until autumn to realize her niece Guinevere’s abrupt withdrawal from her first social Season had been a harbinger of disaster, though Rose herself had been more of a salvation than a disaster.
Andrew had departed for the Continent in autumn, and now, autumn found not only Andrew, but his entire household lost at sea.
A lady could tolerate just so much of failure, however, and now that the anniversary of the accident had come and gone—remarked by nothing more than a short, determinedly cheerful call from her older son—it was time to set Andrew’s household to rights.
“My son is due for a review of his domestic accounts,” Arabella remarked after Rose had said the blessing over another meal from which Andrew had absented himself.
Astrid and Gwen looked askance at her, then at each other, suggesting Arabella’s efforts to foster an alliance between the young ladies had borne some fruit, at least.
“What are ’mestic accounts?” Rose asked from around a mouthful of bread, jam, and butter.
“A discussion of his expenditures and assets in the marital realm,” Arabella explained. “Astrid, you are letting Andrew get away with poor manners and all varieties of inconsideration. He walked right past me this morning, not so much as a ‘good day’ to his own mother. He has no conversation anymore, much less any wit, and his gallantries are all wasted on those horses of his. What will you do about this?”
For Arabella’s notions of how to go on with the boy—stern lectures and dire warnings delivered in the privacy of his study—had had no effect.
Gwen
busied herself arranging a serviette as a bib for Rose, while Astrid considered a slice of pear.
“I quite frankly don’t know what to do,” Astrid said. She set the pear down without taking a bite, and fired off something like a glower at her mama-in-law. “The two of you leave me nothing meaningful to see to under my own roof, and if my husband has no use for me, I can hardly take exception to his behavior without taking the two of you to task as well. Rudeness and inconsideration are not such unusual behavior in this household.”
Clearly the girl had surprised herself with her honesty, and she had relieved Arabella, for those dreadful Allens had nearly crushed Astrid’s spirit. Now this spark of forthrightness must be fanned to a flame that might illuminate the shadows still clouding Andrew’s eyes.
“Sweet heavens!” Arabella exclaimed in her best Offended Dowager tones. “Andrew’s foul humor is contagious. This, my dear, will never do.”
A tense silence spread, with even Rose apparently comprehending something had gone amiss.
“Astrid is right,” Gwen said, pushing her spoon around in her soup. “And I am at least partly to blame.”
Guinevere was brave to a fault. Of course she would join this affray and try to protect Astrid from a scolding. As Gwen set her spoon aside, Arabella noticed a hint of her own late father about Gwen’s chin and jaw.
“I am so unable to consider any life for myself other than the one I’ve made here, that I see Andrew as the enemy,” Gwen said. “I see you all as my enemies, and I know I have been… difficult. I am sorry.”
Rose took another bite of bread and jam, her gaze bouncing among the adults seated at the table. Clearly the child sensed that the ladies were spading fresh turf, and clearly, she relished her bread and jam.
Andrew used to love bread and jam, too. Now, his own mother could not have said what or whom he loved, other than the small blond lady sitting across from her.
“I believe, my dears, I should return to Town,” Arabella said, though the words were difficult. “I was here to smooth the way between Andrew and Gwen, but you are in residence now, Astrid, a widow and a wife, and you are right: this household should be yours to run as you see fit. Besides, come the holidays, I will be staying with Heathgate and Felicity to assist with the care of my new grandchildren.”
Both young women looked at her as if she’d just announced an intention to emigrate to the Antipodes. Young people could be so predictable—and so dear.
But these young women were bright and brave, too, and Arabella was leaving her son in their care, so she did not abandon the table to deal with a sudden tightness in her throat. Years ago, Andrew had pulled her from the waves, but in many ways, Arabella had been the only one to make it to shore.
Astrid took a nibble of her pear, chewing thoughtfully. “For a time, Andrew’s conversation, wit, and manners allowed all of us to continue bumping along, though not happily. Perhaps his ill humor is a blessing in disguise, but ladies, I honestly do not know what to do about my husband. I will happily take over the household management, Gwen, and I will understand, my lady, if you want to return to Town, but neither of those changes will make Andrew any happier with me.”
Rose stuck a finger in the jam pot and smeared the results on a piece of bread. Andrew had perfected the same maneuver before he was three. Now he’d perfected the art of being a ghost in his own home, and Arabella had had enough of it.
“My dear girl, you are no more able to make Andrew happy than your sister could have made Heathgate admit he loved her. Men are stubborn about the simplest things.”
“She’s right,” Gwen added, wiping Rose’s finger off on her bib and giving the child’s hand a light smack. “Andrew cares for you. You have only to catch him watching you when he thinks he’s unobserved. Whatever troubles him is something he has to resolve, Astrid.”
“But why won’t he let me help him? Why won’t he let anybody help him? Talk to him? Carry his burdens with him?”
How often had Arabella asked herself the very same vexing questions. She suspected Heathgate plagued himself similarly where Andrew was concerned.
“Maybe he thinks you’ll be disappointed in him,” Rose piped up. “Cousin Andrew is a grown-up. He wants to do things himself.”
She went back to munching on her bread and jam, having stated the obvious, after all, while the adults exchanged bemused smiles over her head.
Astrid dipped her slice of pear into the jam pot, leaving a smear of red over creamy white fruit. “Please don’t feel you must go back to Town, my lady.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Arabella said, scrounging up a smile. “I have overstayed my welcome. Seeing a growing unease between you and Andrew, and foolishly thinking I might be of some help. All I’ve done is aggravate everyone around me.”
Which at least had given the young people a common complaint, and that was a start. That Arabella had for once been with Andrew as the anniversary of That Awful Day had come and gone was a private victory, but a significant one.
Arabella steered the talk thereafter to pleasantries— the increasingly cold and gray weather, the prospect of Felicity’s confinement in the coming month, the approach of the holidays.
“We haven’t resolved your situation, Astrid,” Arabella said, lest the girl feel her woes were ignored. “The only advice I can give you is to be patient. Andrew is a good man, if stubborn and proud. His father was the same way, and I can’t tell you the number of times I threatened to take my boys and go home to my mother.”
Gwen passed Rose a slice of white cheese flecked with caraway seeds. “You still miss him, your Robert?”
Need she even ask? Privileges had courteously decided that Arabella’s menfolk had died in order of the succession, the marquess, his son, his grandson, then Robert, and finally Adam, so Arabella might have the courtesy title of Marchioness of Heathgate.
The title was not a courtesy, but rather a curse to a woman who’d much rather have remained simply the wife of Lord Robert Alexander.
“I miss my Robert every day,” Arabella said as Rose made another raid on the jam. And because the child would not understand, but the young ladies would, she added, “and every night.”
Astrid set her pear down, probably realizing belatedly she’d set a bad example for the child. “I cannot see Andrew ever pining for me that way, though I can see him taking ship for darkest Peru without a backward glance.”
“But you would pine for him,” Gwen said, rising and holding out a hand to Rose. Rose and her mother left, with Rose munching on her cheese and nattering on about why lessons after lunch were not a good idea.
Now it was safe to smile. “That girl…” Arabella reached for the teapot.
“Rose?”
Rose, too, who was at risk for growing up exactly as independent and lonely as her mother—and her great-aunt.
“Guinevere. If only I knew which of her admirers had taken such shameless advantage of her, I’d turn both Gareth and Andrew, not to mention your lovely brother, loose on the scoundrel. But she’s never said a word.”
They finished their meal in quiet, companionable conversation, though Astrid glanced repeatedly at the door and at the clock. No doubt she worried that Andrew was out in the barn, starving himself—as his mother worried—and not for food.
Arabella announced an intention to depart the very next day, lest anybody waste effort trying to change her mind.
“You’ll miss Andrew,” Astrid said, demonstrating the perceptivity Arabella was counting on to salvage a young and troubled marriage—and a young and troubled husband.
“I have been missing Andrew for thirteen years,” Arabella said. “In some ways, he was the worst casualty of the accident. I don’t recall many details of the entire incident. I doubt Andrew can forget any of it.”
“I hate that accident,” Astrid said. “I never knew those who drowned”—a less forthright wo
man would have used a gentler phrase for death—“but I know that because of that day, Andrew does not intend to remain a proper husband to me. I might well be missing him myself, every day and every night, even thirteen years from when he leaves my side.”
“Then you must not allow him to slip out to sea, lest he take your joy, your meaning, and your heart with him.”
Arabella ran her finger around the edge of the jam pot, and let a dab of strawberries and sunshine grace her palate before leaving the dining parlor in search of her maid.
And a quiet corner, in which a lady might say a prayer or shed a few tears.
A few more tears.
***
The dream started the same way it always had, with the frigid sea air whipping a stiff, briny lock of Andrew’s hair against his mouth. He didn’t bother brushing it away, and beside him, his brother Adam waved off a footman who would have teetered and plunged across the pitching deck to offer yet another dram of Heathgate whiskey.
“At least we’re getting close to shore,” Adam muttered. “Bloody, infernally stupid of Grandfather to keep us out in this weather.”
Adam rarely used foul language around his younger brother, and that as much as the heaving seas made Andrew uneasy. “We’ll be on shore soon.” Part prayer, part wish, because progress toward shore was hampered by the wind, the waves, and the whiskey Grandfather and the other adults had been swilling all morning.
“I’m glad Gareth isn’t aboard to see that.” Adam’s scowl took in the sight of Julia Ponsonby, standing at the captain’s wheel with Grandfather, the damp wind plastering her dress to her body to an indecent degree.
Andrew looked away, whereas five weeks ago, he would have shamelessly gawked. “She seems to be enjoying herself.”
“That damned woman has a penchant for enjoying herself, but Grandfather needs to be minding the tiller, not Julia’s wares.”
Another wave lifted the small pleasure vessel higher, which meant the plunge down the trough—
I’m scared. Andrew was fifteen, and a man at that age did not admit such a thing, even to a trusted older brother whose expression suggested he too was at least uneasy.
Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords) Page 19