Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1

by DeLand, Cerise

  "I will write to Lady Mary this afternoon, Welles." Fifi reassured the maid before the woman stepped out of his coach. "I'm very thankful for all you've done for me these past few days."

  The maid nodded. "I was happy to help, my lady. I do wish you both every happiness."

  As his coachman snapped the reins and headed them toward Fifi's home, Rory took her hand. "Explain to me why you don't wish me to meet your mother today."

  "I need to prepare her for the news of our engagement. It will be a surprise. She thinks of me as a spinster."

  But he had an inkling there was something more Fifi would not say. "You said she is often not logical."

  Fifi cupped his cheek. "Rory, she is quite erratic. I fear for her reaction."

  Wild, then, the mother? Well, he's witnessed worse, he'd wager. He covered her hand and turned to drop a kiss to her palm. "I've seen much, my love, of those who cannot bear what they see or hear. Or what they imagine and fear. I am not put off by such."

  Her smile was tenuous...and troubling to him. "But I am. I wish you to think well of me. Of us."

  He pulled her into his arms. She was stiff in his embrace and he questioned the cause. He'd noticed a strain of fear in her behavior since the wedding breakfast yesterday and he could not pry from her the reason. "I think well of you, my love. So well, I wish not to part from you."

  A wariness darkened her brow. But she nestled to him readily enough. "I do not want it either...but you must tell your mother and sister in person of your decision to marry me."

  He'd written to both of them two days ago and while the post was always delivered swiftly, he had not anticipated he'd receive any replies from them before he returned home. "I have every confidence I arrive to their congratulations."

  "Still," she said, tipping her head to and fro. "I'm sure they want you to themselves when you give them the full story."

  Both women were used to having him to themselves since he'd arrived home from France. "Nonetheless, I will see to delivery of our special license and return to you quickly. I’ll bring my mother and sister along. Shall we marry here in Bath with your mother present?”

  "Don't count on that, Rory."

  "Why not?"

  "I doubt she'll come."

  He pulled away to examine the tension on her face.

  "I doubt I want her to attend." Tears sprang to her eyes.

  "Oh, my darling." He pulled her close.

  She clutched at him and tucked her forehead against his throat. "I'm not ashamed of her. I could not hold her accountable for her mental condition. But I am afraid of what she will do. She can be spiteful and mean."

  The fright on her face took his breath. Dear God. Was her mother that irrational?

  It didn't matter.

  "She cannot frighten me away, my darling." Humans in the throes of mental disparity could become animals. How many men had he seen fight like dogs over a bayonet? Or run into a cavalry charge with only a knife in hand? Or fire their rifle over and over without shot? He pressed his lips to her temple and put two fingers to her chin. "I understand. I do. Know this. That whatever you deem best for her and for us, I will do."

  He crushed her closer. "I love you, Fee. I love you. There is no one who will part us."

  * * *

  Fifi led him into her parlor. "This is Jerrold, my family's bulwark against the world."

  The old butler tipped his head in courtesy to Rory. "May I bring tea or serve luncheon, perhaps?"

  Fee arched a brow. "Before you depart for home? A good idea, don't you think?"

  "I will, thank you." Rory strode to the window and looked out upon the lawn. "A lovely house. How long have you lived here?"

  "My grandfather bought the land when parcels were first offered and houses constructed. My mother and I live here and not on the main estate while the family solicitor searches for the rightful heir. He is a distant cousin and according to his mother, lives in the state of Massachusetts in the United States. But no one has yet found him."

  Rory glanced around at the furnishings and paintings. "A lovely room."

  "Much of the furnishings and art I can take from the house. It's ours, free of the entail. I thought I'd leave most of it to the new earl because I had no home of any size to use it, but now..."

  "Bring what you wish, Fee. Anything!"

  "Won't your mother and your sister wish to keep their home as it is?"

  "You will be countess there, my love."

  She shook her head. "I would not change your home, Rory."

  "You've the right."

  "Ah, but not the need to create family tensions."

  "I admire your discretion, darling." He snapped his fingers. "But I tell you, I've got a good idea. I inherited land in Brighton along the shore. I like the sea. It clears my mind of things I'd prefer to forget. We'll build a summer house there and you will fill it as you wish. With your treasures or new ones. What do you think?"

  She walked into his embrace and sighed against his chest. "The finest treasure I seek to fill it with is you."

  He gave a laugh. "I'd say you are easy to please."

  She pulled back in his arms and grinned. It was the first sign of pleasure he'd seen since he'd made love to her two nights ago.

  "I will do anything to have you smile at me like that every day of my life."

  She kissed him then, a passionate press of her lips to his.

  He left an hour later, eager to go and even more eager to return and make her his.

  Chapter 13

  Despite what he'd hoped for, Fifi had not introduced him to her mother. In one aspect, he understood her reluctance. In another, he wished she'd allowed it and they'd gotten over the tension of it.

  Dusk fell by the time his coach rounded the corner to his home. Charlton Manor was a sprawling manse that had begun in the mid-fifteenth century as a small manor home for his ancestor, a prospering miller. One hundred years later, the then owner, was a lesser lord in service to Queen Elizabeth. As such, he expanded the house so that it took on homage to her in the form of an E. Now with wings for servants and stables, the red brick and white stone edifice was a scramble of different elements and materials. To some, it might seem disorganized. But he loved it as the marvelous place filled with endless hallways and hidden nooks and crannies that he still enjoyed discovering on solitary walks.

  He smiled as the coach came to a halt. His walks would not be solitary any more.

  He'd never thought to marry. The idea was always a concept for other men far richer than he. Far higher in the noble rank than he. Then when he'd gone to the army, marriage was not thought of as necessary. Nor was it possible. To be away from his loving family seemed sufficient longing for him to endure as he fought. He did not yearn for a woman to add.

  Only after he'd met a mysterious lady wearing a bejeweled mask at a ball did he think in terms of romance. Or love. Oh, he'd had his share of light skirts. He had not grown to the age of twenty-nine without discovering the basics of fucking. But he had no cause to discover the arts of making love. Only after his heart had been enraptured by a nameless woman had he considered it. Then discovered it the other night.

  Now within days he would bring her home and make her his beloved wife.

  Bringing home her mother too was a challenge he had little practical idea how to manage. He'd dealt with men crazed by cannons, guns and cavalry. Shot and bleeding, mad with fear or imagining ghouls no one else could see, humans could be driven to the edge of hell. Most soldiers so afflicted in his regiment he'd quickly sent to the back of the line to be treated or at the least, detained. His contact with them had been brief. To have a disoriented person in his household would not be easy. He had his own problems that usually came in the dead of night. Umber and ugly nightmares could shock him upright in bed. He’d shout waking himself and shake for long minutes afterward. He understood disorientation and could excuse it in others. Men, women. Fifi’s mother.

  He assumed Fifi would have solutions to her
mother’s errant behaviors. She had lived with her mother in this condition for two years. They would find a way. They would cope. More than that, he believed they'd do well because love gave him hope.

  He stepped down to the pebbled drive and took a look at the huge carved wooden door open to the foyer. He froze, the taut line on his mother's brow told him that perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps there was a challenge here at home he had not expected. Did she not wish him well at his engagement? That he could not believe for she was always supportive of all he'd ever done. But he had no doubt about one thing: the distress upon his mother's face resembled that he'd glimpsed upon his betrothed's.

  "Good day to you, Mama." He took her into his arms and kissed her cheek.

  At sixty-one, she was lithe and lean. Only two winged-streaks of white adorned her dark brown hair and told her age. Her hazel eyes were as bright green at noon as they were dark brown at night and at any hour, they were kind and loving. Save for today, when a river of fear mixed with sadness stood in her gaze.

  "Welcome home, Rory," she said. Ever gracious, she patted his cheek and kissed him there. "An agreeable journey today?"

  "Indeed. Good weather."

  "Still cold for the season," she offered as the butler took his hat and gloves. "We understand there is some disturbance in the air because of an eruption in China."

  "South of China," he said, because he'd read it in the morning papers at Courtland Hall. "I'm sure we'll see more sun soon."

  "Would you like to have time to refresh or should we adjourn to the parlor?"

  "The parlor is best." He offered her his arm and they strolled up the stairs to the living quarters. At the green drawing room, she turned into the open door and headed for her favorite upholstered chair that stood beside the fireplace.

  Settled, she gripped her hands together and tried in vain to smile at him. "Do tell me about the house party."

  He did his best to summarize the events. How his friend Lord Bridges had left the party early. He did not say why. But he did elaborate on the news in papers this morning that Miss Harvey had not appeared at her wedding to the Marquess of Northington.

  "She ran away?" Her mother was wide-eyed with shock at such a possibility.

  "I doubt she is at home." He strode to the window and watched the gardener march toward the orangery.

  "Tragic. How do her parents take it?"

  "I did not see Lady Courtland. And saw his lordship only briefly at the chapel yesterday morning when he announced the ceremony would not proceed." He took the chair opposite his mother. "Now you must tell me what bothers you."

  "I am delighted that you've met someone you care for."

  That was weak tea. He waited for her to continue.

  "You are certainly of an age when marriage is a good idea. And now that you will no longer go abroad or be in harm's way, the prospect to have you home forever is most welcome to me and to your sister."

  He nodded, but he did not take his gaze from hers. "Come now."

  "How well do you know Lady Fiona?"

  "Quite well."

  "When did you meet her?"

  "Six years ago."

  "Six?" That flummoxed his mother. "I've not heard you speak of her. Most men in love go into flights of rapture about a young lady who takes their fancy and I've not heard it from you. But six years?"

  "A long time ago." He did not wish to discuss details. "I met her and loved her at once. Much as you and father did."

  "Oh. Well, I say." She put a hand to her chest. "She waited for you then."

  "We met again quite by chance and renewed our interest. I do not wish to wait long to marry and have requested a special license. I'm hoping to receive it within days. I'd say, Wednesday of next week for the ceremony."

  "That soon? Have you made a public announcement? Perhaps at the Courtlands' party?"

  "No. I wished to honor you and Annalise with a private discussion first."

  His mother pressed her lips together. But she could not hold back the quivering that undid her composure. "I'm grateful. But Rory, this girl...this marriage..."

  He reached out and took his mother's hands. Whatever her objection was, it was greater than he'd feared. "Oh, my dear. Tell me."

  Tears poured down her cheeks. "You cannot marry her."

  "What?" Never had his mother forbid him anything. Not hot chocolate at bedtime. Or a new bow for archery practice. Or joining the army. "Why?"

  "I could not bear it if she were to live in this house. With me. With us." Blood drained from his mother's face as she shot to her feet. Her eyes wide with terror, she shook her head. "She must not come here."

  He rose to try to embrace her.

  But she would not have it. "No! I cannot be near her. Not her mother either."

  "What? You know her mother?"

  "No. Never have I met her, but I...I know of her. She's mad, they say. And why not? Living as she did, any one would be carted off to Bedlam. I cannot allow her in my home. Ever."

  "You must tell me why, Mama."

  She backed her way to the door, the hall and escape. "No. Never. You must honor me in this. You must! This is my home. Mine."

  "Of course it is. But it is my home, too. I have a right to know the full of your—"

  "No!" She put out her hand to warn him off. "It is all too shameful to utter."

  "For whom?" He was at sea.

  "Me. For me!"

  He'd never seen his mother so agitated, so angry and protective of...what? Herself? The past? Some horrible knowledge of Fiona's mother? That was ridiculous. Why had he not heard of this? "You cannot expect me to break my promise to Fiona without reason."

  "But I do."

  "That is unfair."

  "What he did to me was unfair."

  "He? Who?"

  His mother clenched her fists and spun on her heels.

  He was left to stare at the empty threshold...and question what secrets his mother had hidden from him. And evidently had done so for years.

  * * *

  Two days later, he sat in his office and stared at the marriage license his estate manager had acquired for him from the church. Now was the time to write to Fifi and tell her when he would arrive in Bath to bring her here.

  He had waited these past two days for his mother to admit him to her presence. But she'd refused. Now he could no longer wait.

  Would no longer wait.

  For the past two days, he'd argued with himself and argued with God, to be frank. He'd also talked with his sister, Annalise. She was twenty-two, a sprite, a lovely young lady whose beau had died in the battle of Nivelle nearly three years ago. She lived here with their mother, tutoring children in the village, teaching them to read and write. Since her beau's death, she'd not gone to London, nor attended many social events in the country. In fact, she'd lived a secluded life.

  Since his arrival home, his mother had not come down to partake of meals or conversation in the parlors. So he and Annalise had renewed their former fondness for each other in their hours together.

  "Mama will not tell me what disturbs her, Rory," she'd told him that first night at supper. "I asked after your letter arrived a few days ago and announced your intention to marry Lady Fiona. But she read your letter and turned hysterical. I've never seen her so and I had trouble calming her. But the next day, I asked her if she wished to talk and she rebuffed me with such caustic words, I had to abandon any attempts to draw her out. I wish I knew what the cause was. Then I might help you two come to terms. But I don't have any clues."

  "She's never mentioned the Countess of Marlton?"

  "No."

  "Nor her husband?"

  "Not even their names." Annalise shook her head. But her charming green gaze grew dark with worry. "Whatever this is, it's nothing that can be wished away."

  He hadn't asked his sister for more. But neither had he slept. Instead, he walked his land at night taking his favorite old hound Star with him for company. During the days, he rode out to gaze upo
n the fields. He spoke with a few of his tenants about the cool weather and what they might do to ensure better crops. Twice, he met with his estate manager.

  At night, he'd walked the old halls of this house. His ancestors' home was precious to him. Those who had lived and prospered here seemed to live within him. Those who had nurtured those within its walls and those without had always provided hours of speculation for the curious boy he'd been. The family, like many, had tales of this one or that who'd accomplished deeds both bold and brave, funny and solemn. He turned down hallways to view items on the walls, the plot of this field in 1516 or the sketch of the house in 1756. He'd contemplated the tiny portrait of the first Fletcher, the wealthy miller, who'd built his half-timbered house here. He'd been stocky with a jolly look about him. Rory compared him to the portrait of the man who'd served Elizabeth during her glory. That silver-haired gentleman appeared self-impressed, all trussed up in his tight-fitting doublet and jerkin, his huge white ruff and his pride. As a child, Rory had imagined they'd all accomplished fabulous feats to gain the wealth and power that were now in his own hands. But he wondered, what had they done to persevere?

  Last night, he’d ended his midnight walk in the oldest parlor, paneled in dark and gloomy wood. He lit two candles and poured over a diary he'd found years ago but never had time to read thoroughly. It was the record of the first earl of Charlton, and a tale of his attempt to save his wife and son after they collapsed from the plague during the reign of Charles the Second. The earl had nursed both of them, night and day, falling ill himself as his two loved ones recovered. Their turn to save their husband and father, they labored and saved him. Weakened from this as he was for the rest of his life, he praised his family for their diligence and devotion to him.

  His last line in his journal account of that epidemic struck Rory. "'They labored over me for love. I do the same for them and ours, and hope all our tomorrows that our descendants do.'"