“With respect, Your Grace, I did not have a-a smattering of education. I had an excellent education,” Lisa stated confidently. “Blacklands was—is—a superior educational institution for young ladies, and I took full advantage of what was on offer.” She dared to address Antonia. “Please believe me, Mme la Duchesse. I am forever grateful to you. I only wish—I only wish—matters had turned out differently—”
“Sit, Miss Crisp,” the Duke demanded wearily. “It is rather late in the day for you to wish for an outcome that will not disappoint my mother, particularly when you have every intention of further wasting your education by becoming a nobleman’s whore, regardless it is her son you are bedding—”
“I am not a-a whore,” Lisa stated. “I am His Lordship’s mistress, and there is a difference.”
She resumed her seat on the settee, and returned her hands to her lap. But she could not bring herself to look at the Duke, and she dared not even glance at the Duchess. When the silence stretched she kept her chin tucked in, gaze on the flimsy apron covering her floral petticoats. Finally the Duke spoke, and she detected a note of regret which sent her to the brink of tears.
“And yet, Miss Crisp, you were offered so much more…”
This did bring Lisa’s gaze back up to look at the Duke. She knew he was alluding to Henri-Antoine’s marriage proposal, and she was surprised he knew about it so soon afterwards. Perhaps it was the Duke with whom Henri-Antoine had gone out riding earlier that morning, and no doubt confided in his brother. Knowing this did bring the tears spilling onto her cheeks. But she was quick to dash them away. Perhaps she had detected regret in his voice, because looking into his eyes she saw it. Or was it wishful thinking on her part that he considered her acceptable as a wife for his brother? That indeed would have surprised her. No doubt it was because the Duke had his mother’s eyes, and thus this gave a false sense of the compassion in him which was writ large in hers. She decided to pretend ignorance of his meaning.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You have refused my brother’s offer of marriage.”
“I have, Your Grace.”
“May I—we—know why that is?”
“The offer was made under duress…”
“Duress? You mean he would not have asked you had you not forced his hand?”
“No, Your Grace. I did nothing of the sort. He should not have asked me, that is all.”
“And yet, he did… Why do you think that is?”
Lisa shrugged, eyes on the flimsy apron. She plucked at a thread. She swallowed and looked up. “Because he-he is a gentleman. Because he is good and kind and loving and all that is honorable.”
“I do not disagree with you. But that does not answer my question as to why you refused him.”
Lisa looked from the Duke to the Duchess and back again, and smiled sadly. “Surely you know the answer, as you’ve known the answers to all the questions you have put to me.”
“Ah, but the answer to this question I am not entirely convinced. I must hear you say it.”
Lisa stared at him through a film of tears. “Because I love Henri-Antoine—too well—to marry him.”
“I see… You refused his offer of marriage for his sake?”
Lisa nodded. She could not speak.
“But—if marriage to you is what he wants…?”
“It is not what he wants!” she said in a rush and sniffed. “He wants for us to live in his house in the country, where we will be husband and wife in all but name. And I am willing to do this because I love him, and it would suit us both, And when we come up to London, I will stay with him at his house. And it is from his house in London where I can be of assistance to him with the Fournier Foundation. I will visit dispensaries under cover of the foundation, and no one need know who I am, or my connection to His Lordship. Foundation trustees are anonymous after all. Besides, who amongst the poor and the sick will care about my morals, when they have larger problems to worry them, such as their next meal, or where to obtain enough pennies for their medications? And the physicians most certainly won’t concern themselves with His Lordship’s carnal arrangements—they certainly haven’t up to now—I do beg your pardon,” she added stiffly when there was a sudden snort of laughter. “I am sincere, Your Grace.”
“No one would accuse you of anything less, Miss Crisp.”
“I assure you that aside from the work of the Fournier Foundation, I will not be seen in public with him. I will be very discreet and I will do everything I can not to be an embarrassment to him, or to you, or to your family. But I will live with him, support him, love him, and be his wife in every respect.”
Finally, Antonia could no longer remain silent. It was her turn to sit forward. Her voice was soft and very gentle.
“You could do all those things and more, ma petite, and not ruin yourself, by simply marrying my son.”
“Mme la Duchesse, marriage has-has—expectations.”
“Surely those expectations can only be to your benefit, Miss Crisp?” said the Duke. “And if you are concerned lest he take a mistress in the future, I can assure you that in my family the males are rather prone to uxoriousness. Once they find a mate, it is for life.”
“Oh, I believe you, Your Grace. And I am confident of his fidelity.”
“You are?”
“Yes. Because—” She smiled and blushed. “I do believe that he loves me as much as I love him. And I do not say that with conceit or as a wishful thinker. I believe it, with all my heart.”
The Duke stared at her with surprise, and then he surprised himself by smiling.
“And I believe you, Miss Crisp. Thus, here is my dilemma. If you love him, and he loves you, and you are willing to live with him as his mistress, in what is essentially a marriage, then why the fickleness?”
“Fickleness?”
“In not allowing my brother to give your union its spiritual and legal due?”
“I told you. I cannot marry him, for his sake.”
“So you have said, again.”
Lisa looked from mother to son and back to the Duchess, a frown between her brows.
“I thought perhaps Teddy—that Teddy may have confided in-in her mother at the very least, and that Lady Mary may have confided in you, Mme la Duchesse, and that you, Your Grace, would know the answer to this question, too… The simple truth is I cannot be a true wife to Lord Henri-Antoine.”
For the first time since Lisa had sat on the settee, mother and son looked at one another, and both were nonplussed. They waited for Lisa to provide further clarification, the Duke confessing, “No one has said a word to either of us. So we must assume Teddy has kept your confidence.”
“I did not ask her to do so, nor have we discussed the matter in depth. But it is something she has known about me since we were at school together. She did enquire about it when I came here, which was only natural, because it was something which is not in the common way for most females once they progress past a certain age. And I did tell Teddy nothing has changed in me since we were at school. And since my time at the dispensary, and having consulted Dr. Warner, who would never break my confidence, I do know I am not unique. There are others, but Dr. Warner tells me these women are few.”
The Duke tried to make sense of this but was completely baffled.
“Which is what, Miss Crisp?”
There was no other way to say it, so Lisa just came out and said it. She had not openly discussed this quirk about herself except with Dr. Warner, and it surprised her how much it affected her to say it out loud.
“I will not bear children, Your Grace. More correctly, I cannot conceive. I am barren, and will likely remain so for the rest of my life.”
The Duke was so shocked that it was as if a great weight had just fallen on his head and fuddled his brain. He stared at Lisa as if he did not believe her, and she stared back at him with resignation and sadness. He was so affected that he felt the emotion well up within him and had to look away. Lisa
in turn saw that he was genuinely distressed, and she tried to reassure him, and it wasn’t until she looked at the Duchess and saw that she, too, was on the verge of tears, that she faltered and had to resort to her handkerchief.
“You both must see now why I cannot marry Henri-Antoine. Your Grace, you of all men understand that such a defect disqualifies me from being his wife. Marrying your brother is out of the question. I could not do that to him—deny him fatherhood. And I was too overcome to confide in him when he asked me. But I will tell him. I promise you that.”
“Are you certain?” asked the Duke. “I do not mean to pry. I just—Dear me. I do not know what to say. I am—”
“Sorry for me? Please, there is no need to be. I have come to terms with my failing, accepted it, almost welcomed it—”
“Welcomed it?”
Lisa glanced at the Duchess, who was smiling in understanding.
“Yes, Your Grace. On those particular days of the month when females have their menses and I do not—”
“Ah! I see! Yes. I understand—”
“Of course you do,” Lisa interrupted to save him further embarrassment. “What husband does not? And while there were girls at school who cursed their monthly courses, I was praying for them! But what I want and wish and pray for has not happened and so I fear it may never happen.”
It was the Duchess who asked the question.
“Do you not think—as you are only nineteen—that matters they may change for you one day?”
“Perhaps, Mme la Duchesse. I can live in hope. But living in hope is no way for your son to live, for any husband to live, is it? Every husband has a right to expect children of a marriage. A barren marriage is not something I would wish on anyone. Surely that way leads to heartbreak? And you are wrong, Your Grace,” she stated, looking back at the Duke. “I do not believe Henri-Antoine will cast me aside without providing for me. But if the day came when he decided he did want children, then I would accept his wishes. It would break my heart to lose him, but because I love him, I will encourage him to marry and have a family. I only hope that he will at least allow me to continue my work for his foundation, for I wholeheartedly believe in his cause. It is only through advances in medicine that people’s lives will eventually change for the better.” She smiled, remembering the Duke of Kinross’s advice that when the time came she should be herself, and so she added, “You may think my words the fanciful expectations of an idealist, but that is what I believe, how I feel, and what I am.”
“Your convictions, they are not fanciful in the least, ma petite,” the Duchess responded, getting up off the sofa, indication that as far as she was concerned, this interview was over.
The Duke stood, and so did Lisa, who smiled and blushed and bobbed a curtsy, before addressing them both.
“I do not know if I will have this opportunity to be in your company again, for I think Henri-Antoine has plans for us to travel on to Bath as soon as it can be arranged. So allow me to thank you both for having me to stay. I hope my presence did not cause you too much embarrassment or social discomfort. At least it will not happen in the future, for I shall, as I assured you earlier, be exceedingly discreet, as I am sure he will be, too.”
The Duke looked over his shoulder and nodded to a footman who stood to attention halfway up the library towards the main entrance, and mother and son watched on silently as Lisa was escorted away, and with her back and shoulders as straight as when she had entered the library. They then stood there, not knowing what to say. The interview had not gone as they had expected, and yet it had gone beyond their expectations. And they were still in shock from Lisa’s revelation. Both were wondering at Henri-Antoine’s reaction to such news. Impatient, the Duke turned to the settee where Lisa had been seated.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t know what I can say that will give you any comfort.”
Henri-Antoine came lightly down the spiral staircase. He kissed his mother’s cheek and then embraced his brother.
“No need for an apology. And thank you both. Miss Crisp has sealed her fate, and mine.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘THE VIEW FROM here is enchanting,” Lisa said conversationally when Henri-Antoine joined her on the bench outside the family mausoleum. “You can see all the way to France! Or that’s what I’d like to think that blue haze is off in the distance.”
“At least you know what you’re looking at,” he replied in the same conversational tone. “We’ve had family members think that way lies London, looking for St. Paul’s, and arguing about it.”
He handed off the reins of his mount to one of the two lads who had arrived on horseback with him, and they moved off down the path and disappeared behind the building to join their fellows in the shade. He removed his gloves and shoved them into a pocket of his riding frock coat, all the while an eye on Lisa, who was watching him from under her wide-brimmed straw hat.
This was the first time they had seen each other since Henri-Antoine had left her to go riding earlier that morning. When Lisa had departed the library and returned to his apartment, Michel Gallet gave her the news that His Lordship wished to see her here, at the family mausoleum. A carriage had been fetched, and with two of the lads, she was driven across the stone bridge to the other side of the lake. Where the path divided, going one way towards the Gatehouse Lodge and on to Crecy Hall, the carriage went the other way, on up and around a hill that seemed to climb forever. At its apex was a Palladian mausoleum with a domed roof and a glass oculus.
The door was wide open, but Lisa waited on the bench in the shade and admired the scenery. And here Henri-Antoine found her fifteen minutes later.
He sat beside her and looked out at a view he had seen so many times since he was a small boy he was certain he could draw a map of it from memory. But as this was the first time he had looked out on this landscape in Lisa’s company, he gave the moment its due.
They silently held hands, both wanting to speak about the night before, acutely aware that much still needed to be said, and soon. Yet, they continued to enjoy the summer’s day, with its blue sky and haze of heat blanketing the landscape, and to admire the sweep of countryside, with the big house dominating the foreground, and further afield, forests and a meandering river, and the gently undulating patchwork of farming lands. It was such a delight to be still and say and do nothing, fingers entwined. And they were happy in each other’s company, despite the undercurrent of unease and uncertainty that still swirled about them.
“Shall I tell you about two of the happiest days of my life, and a third, which I hope will be today?” he said at last.
She nodded and smiled, but instead of saying yes, asked, “Why today?”
“Trust you to choose the more difficult alternative! No. Not that one first.”
“Then tell me about the other two days.”
He shifted to face her.
“The first happy day was the day my nephew Frederick—Freddy—was born. I was nine years old. It was the happiest day because it meant I was no longer my brother’s heir. That if my father died, and so, too, did my brother, it would not be I who would be duke, it would be Freddy. I cannot describe to you my relief.”
“Because you felt unworthy of the title? You were, after all, only a little boy.”
“There was that, of course. My father was in his middle years when Julian was born, and an old man when I finally arrived. There was a real fear he might not live to see my brother have children, and thus not know if his dukedom would live on after him. And there was I, the second son: Always sickly, always coddled, a constant worry to my parents, and second in line to inherit a dukedom… Then Freddy came along, which was a huge relief to everyone, particularly my father.”
“And the second happy day?”
Henri-Antoine grinned. “That day was when Deb presented Julian with twin sons, two years after Freddy’s entrance into the world. So with the heir to the dukedom producing three sons in two years, its future was secured beyond doubt,
and this second son was set free from all obligation—”
“But you would never have shirked your responsibilities and the obligation had it come your way.”
“Thank you. I would not. But with three nephews, I was now free to live my life how I pleased to purpose it, not how others deemed I must, as my brother must. And having slid to the fourth notch on the branch of the family tree, I was able to breathe easier. I cannot prove, but I am certain that the births of my three nephews helped decrease the frequency, if not the severity, of my seizures.”
“And the third happy day? Today, did you say…?”
“Ah, that depends on you,” he replied as he untied the silk bow holding on her hat. He carefully laid the hat on the seat, stood and held out his hand. “You won’t need it inside. I want to show you something—No! First, must come introductions.”
They walked hand in hand across to the mausoleum. The iron gates were unlocked and one of the heavy, brass-inlaid double doors was open in invitation. The vestibule was lit by two burning tapers in elaborate sconces, and fresh flowers spilled from urns either side of the entrance. There was a chair in the corner and beside it a mahogany box filled with candles.
Once inside the cavernous space of the main room, Lisa let go of Henri-Antoine’s hand and walked on ahead, fascinated, eager to look about. Not only was the Italian marble floor and much of the interior surprisingly well-lit from above by the summer sun streaming through the enormous glass oculus, but so too were the painted walls and marble monuments to long-dead ancestors. Tapers in sconces at intervals around the room had been lit by the caretaker in preparation for His Lordship’s visit. That old gent came out of the shadows, bowed and quietly returned to his chair in the vestibule, where he would remain until needed, or until it was time to snuff the candles at sundown, when the doors would be locked and the padlock clamped to the iron gates.
Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5) Page 42