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."
