Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  John could not stifle the words. “Then what happened?” He feared his uncle would admit John’s appearance had ruined the “love” between his parents.

  “Fiona happened. She could ride better than most men and drink deeper than a variety of gentlemen. My sister studied politics and wished desperately to be a painter. The more Jeremiah attempted to bring his baroness into his world, the more she resisted. She would often write to me to beg for my father’s intervention, but the previous viscount was as much of a stickler for the old ways as was your father. Fiona would spend hours crying in my arms, but I was powerless to change her future for I had not yet assumed the title. She claimed the baron’s control smothered her, but then you came into her life, and for a time all was well.

  “Unfortunately, Fiona was determined to raise you as a man of the world. She insisted on spending her days in the nursery with you, playing games and teaching you of art and music.” John held no memories of those days. “Your father would have you know a more traditional rearing and spoke his objections to Fiona’s methods. When Fiona refused to bend to Jeremiah’s wishes, your father threatened to send you to live with your cousins, the same ones who would inherit the barony upon your demise. Fiona feared for your safety, so she agreed to the baron’s wishes; yet, it ate away at her to ignore you. Finally, my sister could bear the strain no longer. Fiona was not of a nature to love either you or Jeremiah halfway.

  “My sister turned to her art in consolation, but again your father and mine criticized her very nature. You see,” Honesdale explained, “women should only paint charming landscapes.”

  John appeared perplexed. “I have never seen any of my mother’s paintings.” He paused in his musings. “The reason for Lady Fiona surrounding herself with so many aspiring artists,” he whispered.

  “Yes, my sister preferred to learn from the best, and you have seen your mother’s work. Under the name of Lord Franklin, two of her portraits hang in London’s museum.” Honesdale shook his head in disapproval. “I make no apologies for Fiona’s actions. Her leaving was unforgivable, but I know in my heart it was the best for my sister. In my conceit, I considered Swenton an honorable man. It never occurred to me he would suffocate you as he had Fiona. I thought a young man would possess a different disposition than his fanciful mother.” His uncle sucked in a deep steadying breath. “Once you were old enough to know the world, the Moraham family breathed easier. You appeared not to have suffered unduly.”

  John thought of how he had chosen first to join Wellington’s forces and then the Realm to prove himself a man–to escape the strictures of his father’s edicts. Had his mother felt the same as he? Was he more of Lady Fiona’s personality than he thought?

  “When you chose to call upon Fiona upon the Continent, she was beside herself with happiness. She would write me long glowing letters of your successes. She would describe each lady with whom you would dance and reiterate each tale you shared with her.”

  “Why did my mother insist upon us being known as cousins rather than mother and child?”

  “Fiona was determined not to permit her risqué reputation to tarnish yours. My sister claimed others knowing of your relationship would ruin everything between you. You would have become a novelty, and Fiona would have none of it?”

  John wished he had thought so previously. His uncle’s words appeared so sensible, but could he abandon that telling image of his mother’s slap? Could Lady Fiona have purposely driven him away because of his father’s threats? The thought shook John’s very core. “Do you still possess any of my mother’s correspondence?” He shifted uncomfortably. “I would wish to know more or her.”

  Honesdale nodded. “I have quite a collection. You are welcome to join Edith and me anytime you are so inclined.” He stood slowly. “Meanwhile, I have that gift of which I spoke. I am certain you will enjoy it.” He stepped to the door and gave one of John’s footmen whispered orders. “When we finish here, I would wish to freshen my things and then have you show me where Fiona rests.”

  “Certainly, Sir.” Before John could speak orders to his staff, Peter and one of Honesdale’s men carried in a large brown paper wrapped parcel.

  “Place it here. Before the hearth,” the viscount instructed. When the servants exited, John’s uncle announced, “This is one of Fiona’s last paintings. She sent it to me some two years prior, but I believe it should be yours.”

  His uncle ripped the paper away to display a portrait of John, captured in time. As exact as if he stared into a mirror, and behind him were his mother and father, standing together in a loose embrace. “I never sat for her,” John protested lamely. John stared longingly upon the image. It made him want to rush to London to view his mother’s other efforts.

  Uncle Farrell chuckled. “If Fiona had been a man, people would have clamored for her favor. My sister possessed a natural eye. Once she knew an image, it stayed with her forever. Do you not find the portrait pleasing?”

  “Without sounding of conceit, it is magnificent.” Still in a bit of awe, he asked, “Is Lady Fiona’s interpretation how others see me?”

  Honesdale touched the portrait lovingly. “See the thicker stroke to add depth to the wool coat. The fine lines about your father’s eyes,” he said more seriously, “yes, the world sees you as a powerful man, Johnathan. Fiona described you as Tyr, a god associated with honor, justice in battle, victory, and heroic glory, as well as Mars, for as you recall, Mars represented military power as a means to secure peace, as well as being the pater of the Roman people.”

  “Until this very minute, I have always despised the word ‘fierce’ used to characterize my personality–the description of me as a warrior god,” John confessed. “But I like the idea of honor and justice, without destruction.”

  “Good.” His uncle rubbed his hands together in delight. “It is time your heart was healed, John. Thank God, Fiona had the foresight to send several of her pieces to me. I imagine there is room for them at Marwood Manor.”

  John could not remove his eyes from the portrait. “More than enough room, Uncle. I would like to fill my home with the memory of my mother.”

  *

  The items had been truly a Godsend for John’s mental stability. Over the fortnight following his uncle’s departure, he found himself drawn to his desk at odd times of the day to read and reread each of the letters his uncle had shared. Upon his return to Warwickshire, Uncle Farrell had dispatched a rider to personally deliver to John more than two-dozen letters, representing Lady Fiona’s years abroad. The notes defined the woman who had remained a stranger to him for so long, creating an image of his mother, which John had never considered. The former baroness spoke eloquently on the lack of rights for women, as well as the need for religious freedom. She had told her brother of the new techniques she had learned in her private art lessons–techniques John easily recognized in the three paintings prominently displayed upon the walls of his manor. In addition to the one she had painted of him with his parents in the background, there was another of him at age thirteen or fourteen and one of him after his first visit with her upon the Continent. She had resided in Venice at that time, before her retreat to Vienna, and she had painted him standing alone upon a prominent point along the Venice canals. He recognized the scene immediately. John had watched her approach, and evidently his mother had memorized the moment.

  However, he did not know how she had so accurately captured his early teen years for Lady Fiona had departed York when he was but five, but one of his mother’s letters had explained how she and his father had considered a reconciliation; however, when Lady Fiona had arrived at Marwood, Jeremiah Swenton had refused any compromise. His father had forbidden her from calling upon John at school, but she had convinced Honesdale to arrange a day from John’s studies. John could easily recall the day well for he had enjoyed the day journey into London and the visit to Tattersalls. Little did he know his mother had studied him from a distance throughout the day.

  “I am
thankful for my foresight,” he had told Honesdale during one of their many conversations regarding John’s mother. “I have made arrangements for Lady Fiona’s household to be inventoried and shipped to me. We may both share in my mother’s talents and successes.”

  Tears had clouded Honesdale’s eyes. “You are so much of your mother’s nature. You can be hard when necessary, but your heart is a tender one. I would be honored to bring a bit of Fiona home to Warwickshire.”

  Comfortingly, learning more of his mother had eased John’s desolation. In hindsight, he wished hardily he had shared his mother’s existence with his friends. Perhaps their trained perceptions would have brought him to a better understanding sooner.

  Although he had not forgotten his part in Satiné’s demise, adding Lady Fiona’s presence to his daily life had lessened the guilt he had known for saving his friend over his wife. On those few days he could forget his choice had also cost him his child, John could justify the worth of Aidan Kimbolt to society as compared to Satiné Swenton. Yet, those justifications did not excuse his actions. “I should have saved them both,” he often chastised.

  Eventually, dreams of Isolde Neville replaced the ones filled with horror. During his sleep, she came to him, and they shared great intimacies. He knew he could not go to Isolde until his year of mourning was complete, but John feared, by that time, she would have chosen another. Often, it appeared Fate was determined to keep them apart. Even if Isolde would accept him before the mourning year had passed, John could not bring himself to deliver scandal to her door. He remained determined to protect her whether it cost him his heart or not.

  *

  “My Lord?” Mr. Fenton tapped upon the study door. “You have a visitor, Sir.” His butler extended a silver salver displaying one gold embossed card.

  John read the card and smiled. “See Lord Stafford up, Fenton.” He stood to straighten his jacket. The sounds of approaching footsteps announced Adam Lawrence’s arrival. Lawrence, a renowned rake, had periodically served the Realm, and John had always found the man’s company pleasant. “Stafford.” John came around his desk to shake the lord’s hand. “What brings you to my door?”

  The viscount grinned slyly. “I was in York on business, and I meant to return to London today; but God has other plans. Might I impose on you, Swenton, for the comfort of quarters until the storm passes?”

  “Storm?” John looked amusedly out the window. “Do you speak of the mere four inches of snow upon the ground? It is January in York, my Lord.” He laughed as he gestured to the chairs gathered before the fire.

  Stafford shivered noticeably. “Do not jest regarding the snowfall, Swenton,” the viscount warned. “I have been considering assuming control of a Yorkshire property I have inherited from my mother, and your joviality may change my mind.”

  John settled before the fire’s warmth. “Surely it is you who jests.” He assumed amazed disbelief rippled across his expression. “In York? Which property?”

  “Maryborne Manor near Sprotbrough. Do you know it?”

  John motioned to Fenton, who waited by the door, to pour Stafford a restoring drink. “You will see to quarters for the viscount and his staff.”

  “Immediately, Sir.” Fenton disappeared to do John’s bidding.

  “I know of the estate–have ridden by it several times, but I was never aware of the connection.”

  The viscount explained, “No one remains of my mother’s family, and the estate passed to me upon my majority.”

  John said skeptically, “I never thought to see the infamous Lord Stafford holding thoughts of domesticity.”

  The viscount shrugged off John’s jib. “I cannot say I will follow through; I have never been known for my dedication to anything but cards and beautiful women, but after spending more time this summer in Derbyshire with Sir Phillip Spurlock and Lady Spurlock, I have begun to think otherwise. Like it or not, some day I will be the Earl of Greenwall, and in my conceit, I would prefer the earldom did not meet its demise under my watch.”

  John summarized, “You mean to try your hand on a smaller scale at Maryborne?”

  Stafford asked with uncertainty, “Have I erred in thinking myself capable of being an estate master?”

  John shook off his companion’s objections. “Not at all, but why not seek Greenwall’s advice?”

  The viscount’s gaze narrowed. “May I speak uncensored?”

  “Certainly.” Inwardly, John wondered upon Stafford’s purpose.

  “I have always known eventually I would assume control of Greene Hall, but I will admit until that disaster at Pemberley some five years prior, I thought shouldering the responsibilities of the earldom too daunting. I could not imagine spending my days resolving tenant disputes and balancing ledgers, but I admit I envy the look of contentment I observe on Darcy’s countenance when the man speaks of his wife and children.”

  John recognized the feeling. “I hold similar thoughts when I encounter Lexford or Lord Worthing or even your old nemesis Lord Godown.”

  Stafford grinned sheepishly. “With the marquis’s withdrawal from London, my days have been easier.”

  John countered, “I imagine Lord Godown has no concerns for the life of a rake. He is quite devoted to his lady, and I am under the belief if a man discovers his other half, he becomes better than a simple gentleman. He sheds the cloak of a boring aristocrat. Such a man can leave his mark on the world.”

  “Darcy speaks of greatness in a man being borrowed from a remarkable woman.” The viscount’s smile widened. “Listen to us. We speak as if our lives are at an end.”

  John swallowed his instinctive denial. “Sometimes I would agree with those who choose pessimism.”

  “I heard the rumors of your late wife’s escapades,” Stafford admitted.

  “Yes, Lady Swenton has much for which to answer before God’s judgment, but then so do I.”

  Stafford asked, “Did you love her?”

  John regarded the man with mild surprise. After all, they were not intimates, but since he had forbidden his Realm friends from crossing his threshold, being permitted to speak the truth aloud was refreshing, for John had spent more hours than he would care to admit analyzing his actions in regards to Satiné Aldridge. “I had convinced myself I did. All around me, the men I had most admired were claiming extraordinary women, who, literally, changed their lives. Lord Yardley had claimed Satiné’s twin, and Lady Yardley had proved herself courageous and passionate. Thornhill had held the eldest Aldridge sister in deepest regard since his years at university, and his duchess has demonstrated her resolve when time and situation have demanded it. How could I go wrong with one of such strong blood lines?”

  “But you erred?” Stafford spoke softly into the heavy silence.

  John sucked in a deep steadying breath and exhaled slowly. “I was blinded by Miss Aldridge’s beauty and by her need for a protector. It is odd: I always thought Thornhill’s obsession with being a woman’s shining knight imprudent, but I fell for the heroic stance. Unfortunately, the lady was not impressed. She viewed me as the gullible do-gooder I proved to be.”

  The viscount unconsciously grimaced. “Is there a secret to choosing a woman who accepts a man’s faults and makes him wish to shed them? In my limited experience, those I know, such as the Darcys and the Spurlocks, who possess strong marriages, began in contest. Do you suppose that is the key: to choose someone you find repulsive in the beginning?”

  John laughed. “I wish it were that simple. Yardley and his countess argued extensively, as did Godown and the former Grace Nelson. The lady’s sister Mercy, as you well know, led Lexford upon a merry chase, and Lady Lowery had Sir Carter at his wit’s end. However, Thornhill loved his duchess for years before claiming her, and Lady Eleanor literally fell into Lord Worthing’s arms. Each of my associates has taken a different course to know love, but each possesses an incredible joining.”

  Stafford smiled wryly. “Then what is the answer? If I am to reform my wicked ways, I wou
ld prefer to know success.”

  “God, I wish I knew. I have observed my friends thoroughly. They are in knots when their wives are around and worse when the women are not. They cannot concentrate upon anything other than their ladies’ welfares; yet, they take delight in the most simple of tasks when their women are near. They are like moths to the fire, unable to resist the temptation the ladies offer. They often appear visibly ill, and their lady loves are the only cures.”

  Stafford’s frown became a positive scowl. “Sounds quite painful.”

  “Do you not grow weary of London’s false glitz? Of the smell of filth and flesh? How can what I describe be worst than that?”

  Another humorless laugh escaped Stafford’s lips. “We are a hopeless pair, Swenton.”

  “Absolutely absurd,” John added with a shake of his head.

  Stafford regarded John during a long pause. “Have you ever known the emotions you describe in your friends?”

  Most certainly, but John chided that renegade thought from his speech. “I cannot say for certain; until of late, my models for love have been few.” He paused awkwardly before adding, “There is a lady whose scent I can recall when I close my eyes. Whose voice I hear when I least expect it.”

  Stafford asked the obvious, “Why did you not claim the woman instead of your late baroness?”

  “Because I had made a commitment to Lady Swenton before I realized my heart sought another,” he answered honestly.

  Stafford’s brows lifted in disbelief. “Pardon me, but I thought your wife many months gone.”

  John attempted to guard his expression. “Only some six months.”