Mrs. Somerville giggled. “What a thing to say.”
“I suppose we all love Isabelle best.” Anna grasped my hand and nudged me with her elbow. “For we are not sick of her—yet. Though, Elliot cannot pretend to prefer any woman over his Mary.”
Her brother’s cheeks reddened. “As it should be.”
I nodded and released a long, slow breath—surely Elliot’s words meant the words had been spoken, and I could relieve myself of any notions of attempting to win his affections. In the dullness of the dark carriage, the sun seemed to break between the clouds. The shadow of my mother’s disappointment faded with the current company. Anna and her family held no expectations for me; they simply loved me, and that was precisely what I needed.
Chapter 8
Simon
No one in Heaven or on Earth could have prepared me for the agony of the day after a foolish ride. The groans my father occasionally made when he stood from his chair after his brandy and tobacco made so much more sense, now that I’d managed to get my legs from under my covers and forced myself into a sitting position in my bed.
Now that my feet were on the floor, and I was upright, it was the natural time to attempt to stand. I shifted forward slightly. Standing could wait another moment. Or ten.
“Shall I bring your clothes to your bedside?” Mr. Kearns asked. “And spare you the movement across the room?”
“Perhaps my mother has a tonic for bodies that have been badly abused?” I offered. “She seems to have one for everything else.”
“I could ask, sir. If you wish,” he said as he set a stocking near my toes. “But she is downstairs already, waiting for you to join her.”
That was just brilliant. I stared at the offending stocking. Now I’d have to lift my leg to put it on. “No, I do not wish. We shall speak of this to no one.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I should be back to normal in a day or so.”
“If you say so, sir.” The wryness in his tone, once again suggested that he was not in agreement.
“Perhaps if I stretch a bit…” I leaned forward as if to put on my own stocking, and the pain was both immediate and intense. “Blast,” I mumbled. “What happened over two years?”
“I shall help you get set, sir, and once you’ve had a good breakfast, you’ll feel much more yourself.”
I wasn’t nearly as convinced. Or, nearly as convinced as Kearns pretended to be. Each movement into my clothing ached more than the last. I could only imagine the depths of pain I’d have been in without the bath.
He wrapped the cravat, leaving a simple knot in the front. “Your new clothes should be arriving within a day or two.”
“Very good,” I said as I slowly put one foot in front of the other toward the doorway. Achy, but not so bad. I could just take small steps for a few days. I would seem ridiculous, but yes...I took a few steps down the hallway. Not brilliant, but definitely far better than expected.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, I took a short moment to appreciate the home. Mother always did keep things in the latest fashion—from the massive chandelier to the decorative trim on the ceilings and around the edges of doorways and walls. This house wouldn’t begin to age until she was no longer overseeing the daily workings of the manor.
I took one step down, and the top of my thigh had a hot poker through it, as did the inside of both thighs. What kind of fresh torture was this? I’d survived the hallway. Surely the stairs were no different. The next step down said otherwise.
Step after step burned the inside of my thighs as well as a straight line across the front of the top of my legs. How could one kind, simple, gelding cause so much pain? Sweat beaded across my forehead, and I paused at the bottom to catch my breath and pry my hands from the wide banister.
What a disaster. All this pain, and Mother was retired when I’d arrived home. I’d have to focus all my energy on knowing how Elliot would love the story of my arrival, inability to move off my bed to get dressed, and this...this torturous situation of walking down the stairs.
“Your mother is waiting for you in the parlor,” one of the servants said. A new servant, I supposed, as I did not remember him from before my travels.
The parlor certainly meant less lecturing than the dining room—at least that had been the case when I was younger.
One foot in front of the other slowly brought me down the hall into the doorway of the parlor where I paused.
My mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Windham, blinked blankly. Auburn curls—though highlighted in white—peeked from the fabric of a turban, starched stiff against her glowing forehead. My mother had always taken particular care with her appearance, and she had more skin tonics than I imagined half of England combined. Two years away had rendered her utterly unchanged, though I doubted my father’s accounts remained as intact. Beauty like hers—the type purchased in silks and a bottle—did not come without cost.
“I’ve been waiting for you all morning,” Mother said by way of greeting. “I’ll have another breakfast delivered as I’m sure yours has gone cold.”
Ordering a breakfast before knowing if I was awake or not was a classic maneuver from Mother. “Thank you,” I said as I took a few small steps into the room and paused above the chair that was obviously intended for me.
She peered up at me, her teacup halfway to her lips, and stared. “Are you waiting for an invitation to sit down? This is your home.”
I had two choices. Allow myself to flop onto Mother’s delicate chair, or grit my teeth and use the legs that were still recovering from the ghastly stairs. Refusing to show weakness, I gritted my teeth, leaned forward, and attempted to slowly sit. Though, in the end, I believe my back end was jutted out, I grimaced, and my landing wasn’t nearly as graceful as I imagined it might be.
When I finally met her eyes with mine, her brows were pinched together. “What is the matter with you?”
“Me?” I asked, keeping my voice as light as possible. I took a teacup and poured myself a cup from the pot, thankful my arms still felt as if they were human.
“You look…” She sighed. “Disheveled. Though, Mr. Kearns can only do so much with a gentleman who refuses to dress properly.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Mother was faster—per her usual.
“I suppose you’re determined to spend the entire summer at Haven’s Landing?”
Straight to business. Of course. “The party is but a month, Mother.” It wasn’t long ago that she’d have loved the idea of me spending a month near Anna, but perhaps me leaving home for two years after the last time she suggested the match, was enough to dissuade her from that notion. “It appears that you and Father have managed quite well without me. Surely you can spare me for another month.”
Tapping my fingers against my knee, I sipped my tea. These kinds of rituals had never appealed to me—the forced conversation, the bouts of silence, and the tiers of sweets. After living abroad, I much preferred a simple meal.
The pink parlor walls shimmered in the morning sunlight pouring from the window, providing the brightest welcome I’d received upon my return. At times, I felt more accessory than vital to their happiness.
The clock in the great hall chimed, ringing across the marble hall and into the parlor. I took a longer sip of tea, wishing to escape the remainder of this conversation. My mother was taking longer than usual to answer my request. Not that I needed her permission—I was four and twenty years old, a man by all accounts.
Yet, a son, all the same.
I set my teacup on the tray table and stared directly at my mother. “Then you will not mind another month’s absence? I shall visit you, if you wish. Though, I supposed you would be happier with the idea of my finding a suitable companion.”
I almost hated to bring this up, especially if Mother still had the notion of finding a way to match myself and Anna.
She dusted a crumb from her ivory fingers. “I shall not protest your going, Simon, but there is already a match waiting
. You needn’t try for a new one. Miss Somerville is just the lady I wish to see you settled with.”
I inhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders backward. My mother did not wish to be cruel; rather, she was oblivious and forgetful. “We have spoken of this already, a great many times, in fact. Before I left for tour, we spoke extensively on the subject. I do not mean to offer for Anna Somerville.”
“But why ever not?” My mother’s brown eyes rounded. “We have known them for years. They are a good sort of people—wealthy, wealthier than even your father. Besides, you have always spoken of them with far more affection than I believe appropriate.”
I took a bite of pastry. “Yes, I do care for the Somerville family, as a whole. Elliot and Anna were as close a brother and sister as I have ever experienced. But, Mother, I haven’t given the least indication of my caring for her. That, unfortunately, was misconstrued by you and Anna.”
She wriggled one dark brow, creating an uncharacteristic ripple on her otherwise porcelain skin. She frowned. “I see. Then you cannot be persuaded?”
“No.” As I’d said many, many times.
She stood from the sofa and stopped mid-step, placing her hand against my arm. “Your father is quite impatient to see you settled, as am I. It is not that we mean to rush you. Only, I do hope to see grandchildren before I wilt, and knowing you are married will be of great comfort to your father. He wishes you to take over the care of the estate in the coming years.”
I had yet to see my father. He had most likely sequestered himself in his office with only a bookkeeper for company. He was nearing seventy, a full twenty years older than my mother. He was as quick-witted as ever, at least that was the indication from his sparse letters.
“I cannot be made to marry for any reason other than my own happiness.” I placed one of my hands atop hers, hoping to stir her sentiments. After watching desperate young men and women in London, I well understood my privilege of being able to wait for the right person and the right time. Unfortunately, Mother had always felt the right time was sooner. “You understand, don’t you?”
My mother’s gaze bounced to her feet. “Yes, Simon. Though, I do worry about Mrs. Somerville’s guests. She has always had the propensity to be far too generous, and I worry she will have you matched with a poor country girl by the end.”
The irony. My parents wished me happy, so long as that happiness lay in accordance with their expectations; I could marry my choosing, so long as the lady were wealthy and of good reputation; I could travel the continent, so long as I came back to fulfill the duties my father planned for me.
I swallowed, brandishing a grin. “Mother, why would it matter if I married a country girl or one of London society? We are not in need of money.” Surely, I’d never fall in love with a woman who was so uncivilized as to embarrass anyone in the family. After that, what would her station matter?
Her gaze was no longer on her shoes but on me. “The principle, Simon.”
“The principle,” I said, nodding slowly. My lip trembled with the threat of humor. My parents were not overly zealous when it came to religion or matters of integrity. “Pray tell me what principle you speak of.”
My mother pulled her hand from beneath mine, waving it in the air as she spoke, as if the gesture gave her authority to speak of such matters. “The Windham family has lived in this manor for generations, all respectable patriarchs and matriarchs. Each marriage of the past three generations has served to further secure the Windham name. Your father’s wealth was strengthened by mine, as was the way of your grandparents’ marriage before and so on.”
“Ah, we are speaking of financial business again.”
Her eyes widened. “Simon, marriage is business.”
I laughed. I had not meant to, but the way she peered up at me, so solemnly, left me little choice. “You speak without feeling, Mother. You cannot mean to—”
“London tongues talk of little more than love matches, but what can a love match guarantee? Nothing, I tell you. It cannot guarantee wealth, pedigree, reputation, nor—as you so often refer to it—personal happiness. Romance is fleeting, Simon. Station, and family pedigree, lasts forever.”
I crossed my arms. Her speeches served to convince me opposite of her intent. My parents’ relationship was a far cry from marital bliss. They traveled together, attended parties, and made it a point to be seen anywhere and everywhere. My mother was a renowned beauty. Even at forty-nine, she wore the latest fashions and accessories, and my father took pride in parading around with her at his side.
But Mother stayed in her rooms. And Father generally stayed in his. Their common interest was being seen together.
My parents were not unhappy in the general sense; they seemed content with worldly pleasures and the company of one another. However, it was the way they enjoyed one another that bothered me. My mother appreciated the status—my father’s wealth and estate, the adventurous travels, their joint reputation, and the way he spoilt her every whim. My father, on the other hand, appreciated her only for what she offered him—the very mirage of envy. Mother was younger, outrageously pretty for one nearing fifty, fashionable, proper, and willing to go along with all of his plans.
The fact of the matter was this: Father was a pocketbook for Mother’s superficial aspirations, whereas Mother served to stroke my father’s ego. Was not love more than that? Where was the tenderness, the mutual respect, the actual bettering of one another?
“Now, you will attend the Somerville party, but promise me you will not allow Mrs. Somerville to convince you of a match to anyone undeserving.”
My nostrils flared, and I replied, “I would not think of it, Mother.” Though, her definition of undeserving and mine, were likely far different. “At any rate, I’m not in a hurry.”
“As we are all aware,” she responded dryly.
I sat back, flexing my toes, wondering how much movement I had without pain. Moving my toes went fine, but as soon as I shifted in my chair, my sore legs protested again.
Her countenance brightened, seeming to have dismissed our previous conversation, and she swept around the room. “Did you notice the walls?”
“The walls...” I tried to follow her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“The paper, Simon. You must remember. This room was papered in gold before you left, and I have had it replaced to rose-petal pink.” She stared at me as if I’d not noticed that the house had burned to the ground, not that the walls had changed from one pale shade to another. “Mrs. Atkinson told me Marchioness Conyngham had her drawing room papered in this exact shade.”
“Oh?” I said, not even trying to mask my disbelief at her ability to jump from topics of marriage to wall coverings.
“To think I share parlor-wall coverings with that of King George’s former mistress.” My mother laughed, shaking her head. “It was the talk of Derbyshire, I tell you. The entire neighborhood came to see the parlor.”
As if the whole of Derbyshire had much else to do. My mother was indeed remarkable. “Rose-petal pink is a charming shade indeed.”
She patted my back. “I am glad to see you still maintain good taste. Travel has the tendency to break a man’s appreciation for the finer things—that is, unless you were to travel with your father. He requires the best, you know.”
I did know. I required a good museum, pretty buildings, a spot for reading, and willing card players. Everything else was secondary.
“And then there’s the matter of the sun. When one goes about, here and there, they often forget to take a bonnet or hat. Do you remember when that little waif of Mr. Reddish’s niece came back from her travels with freckles all about her cheeks?”
I shook my head. “Miss Jennings had freckles long before touring.”
“Did she?” My mother’s brows lifted for a brief moment. “I suppose you might be right. In any case, I am glad to see you did not come back leather-faced. The sun seemed to do your complexion good, which is not something most may boast. Come to think of
it, I do not think you’ve looked better.”
For her, she meant to compliment me the best she knew. I nodded, softening against her kindness. “Thank you.”
My mother inspected the beds of her fingernails, preparing to move to the next topic. “Now, you must hurry off to Haven’s Landing so that you might secure the most reputable young lady there. Who knows? Perhaps Miss Somerville will have changed greatly since your time away, and you will be forced to acknowledge I am right, as I always am.”
Back to that again, was she? I could not help but love my mother. Her heart, buried beneath the worldly cares, was quite good. “I shall try my best to please you.”
She patted my arm as she might an old lap dog, repeatedly and without any conscious affection. “Yes, do try, Simon. I suspect you shall wish to go to Haven’s Landing as soon as possible then?”
“It’s been far too long since I’ve seen Elliot,” I acquiesced. “Meeting up in London had not been possible.” Due to my need to avoid his sister for a few more days. “So yes, I should like to set out shortly.” Just not on horseback.
“Dinner tonight with your father.” She started for the door. “Give us a few days, at least. Your father will wish to discuss some business details with you, and we haven’t seen you since we left you just outside of Paris.”
At which point, Elliot had taken their place as my companion.
“Of course,” I responded and plucked another pasty off the plate, hoping she’d leave before I was forced to convince my legs to push me out of this chair while she was still in the room.
“We are moving my mother to the manor as well.” Mother paused at the doorway. “She is not well, and my sister is not overseeing her care in the way she ought.”
Grandmother had become more and more confused over the past few years, and I dreaded seeing her again. I did not wish to think of my grandmother as nearing her deathbed.
“Once she is settled here, we will join you at Haven’s Landing.”
Of Twisted Fates (Kinsley Sisters Book 1) Page 6