That brought Riordan up short. He’d heard whisperings, from other boys in town and between the servants, but had never given the story another thought. To him, it was a fairy tale, and he was far too old for fairy tales.
“See all these graves? They belong to women who dared to love the men of Wollstonecraft Hall. Many of the men married young, had their first child before the age of twenty, and all buried their wives only a few years into their marriages. Most of the unfortunate women have died in childbirth. Generations of women who either married or were born into the family. Your own mother survived your birth only to succumb four years later to a heart ailment called carditis.” His grandfather laid a hand on top of the stone.
Fiona Fannon Black Wollstonecraft.
Riordan and Aidan’s Irish mother. Sadly, he had no memories of her. He glanced at his brother; Aidan’s expression was as serious as his own. He turned his attention to their grandfather.
“She was a rare beauty, your mother. Your father met her while on a business trip. He’d gone to meet with her father, a rich Irish merchant, as we wished to expand trade. At least, as far as the Corn Laws would allow.” This was the most Riordan had ever heard about his mother and her family—his father refused to speak of her. “A whirlwind romance. I advised him before he left to guard his heart. But he did not listen to me.”
“Why is it we’ve never met our Irish grandfather?” Aidan asked.
“Ah. When informed of your mother’s death, he was quite distraught. Blamed your father. Claimed he wanted nothing to do with him or his sons. It’s his loss that he does not wish to know you boys.” He pointed to a tombstone in the aisle behind them. Riordan and Aidan turned and found a crow perched on the stone, giving them a defiant look. It was a disturbing vision, and it caused another shiver to trickle through him.
“There rests my first wife, your grandmother, Lady Patricia Ackerly, daughter to the Earl of Clapham. Not exactly a love match, but a solid one in society’s eyes. She gave me a fine son, your father. However, she never recovered from the trauma of his birth, contacted a bed fever, and died a month later. I swore my next wife would be of heartier stock. I would defy the Wollstonecraft curse and bring it to a swift end.”
Their grandfather moved along the row and laid his hand on top of another gravestone. A wistful sigh escaped his throat.
Moira Mackinnon Wollstonecraft
Uncle Garrett’s Scottish mother. “God, how I loved Moira,” he whispered mournfully. “But it wasn’t enough to shield her from the curse.”
Riordan did not like the sounds of this. He and Aidan exchanged worried looks.
“I met Moira in Edinburgh, about twelve years after your grandmother died. She was the epitome of a bonnie lass, with her fiery red hair and passionate nature. Does your father ever speak of her?”
Riordan nodded. “He said he remembered her always smiling.”
“She embraced this family. Became a mother to Julian. Always had a song in her heart. When Garrett was born, my happiness was complete. I didn’t give a hang what society thought about my choice of bride. For once in my life, I was content and in love. At peace.” A lone tear trickled down his cheek. “But it was not to be,” he whispered. “I wish you could have known her. She died when Garrett was five years of age. The year before you lads were born.”
“I thought the curse was broken if a Wollstonecraft man found true love?” Aidan asked. It was the first Riordan had heard of this. How did Aidan know about it?
Their grandfather barked out a cynical laugh. “Apparently not, for what I had with Moira was all that and more. Your father thought he’d found it. Yet here our wives lay, taken from us far too young. The doctor claims Moira died of a cancer that lay dormant for years, long before we met. Who is to know what to believe?” He shook his head.
“I dismissed the curse and refused to allow it to rule my life. Your Uncle Garrett needed a mother. Three years later, I remarried. A complete miscalculation, as we were not compatible. Yet I managed to get her with child the three or four times I visited her cold bed.”
Riordan was not used to such frank talk from his grandfather, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A wave of apprehension rolled through him.
“She died giving birth to a girl, who died three weeks later. They are buried together there.” He pointed to a small stone farther along the row. “Heed me, lads. The proof is before you. Ultimately, it will be your decision to involve yourself with a young woman when you’re older, but you would be better off guarding your heart. Let no female close, for it will end in tragedy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” they answered in unison.
All at once, the dead-leafed trees appeared to be skeletal and more terrifying. Riordan couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through him. A terrible sense of foreboding took hold. Death, tragedy. All of this took place before he was born, or he was too young to have it impact him. But it did now. His family was cursed. He was cursed. He would not forget this day.
Not ever.
The Marquess of Secrets (The Hornsby Brothers Book 3) Page 17