"There is something else that I must tell you, that 1 have also delayed too long in the telling. I will not be leaving this place."
Anastasia frowned, thinking Maria meant to stay here with her and the English husband she was to find. But as much as she would love that to be possible, she knew Ivan would never permit it.
Hating to do so, she had to point that out. "You have told me countless times that Ivan will not let you leave, that he would kill you first."
Maria smiled ironically. "There is nothing he can do to prevent my leaving this time, Anna. The privilege of age will not be denied a final resting place, and I have chosen this place. My time has come."
"No!"
"Shush, daughter of my heart. This is not something that can be debated or bargained aside. And I have no desire to prolong the inevitable. I welcome this gladly, to end the pains that have burdened my body these last few years. I just must see you settled first, or I will not go in peace . . . Now, stop that. There is no need for tears, for something that is so natural as the death of a very old woman."
Anastasia threw her arms around her grandmother, hiding her face against her shoulder so she would no longer see the tears that were absolutely impossible to stop. Maria had predicted distress. Distress was not exactly what Anastasia was feeling just now, with her world falling apart around her. This was much too much to withstand all at once.
But for Maria's sake, she said, "I will do whatever is necessary to give you your peace."
"I knew you would, child," Maria said, patting her back soothingly. 'And you see now why you must be married first? If you are all that Ivan has left, then he won't let you go no matter the reasoning. As long as he thinks he still has me, then he will let you go. Now take yourself to bed. You need a good night's sleep so you will have all your wits about you tomorrow, for tomorrow you search for your fate."
"And whose bed was she found in this week?"
"Lord Maldon's. Really thought he had more sense. He must realize she's got the pox by now, in her vain attempt to outdo the last great court Delilah."
"And what makes you think he don't already have it himself?"
"Hmmm, yes, I suppose it wouldn't matter then, would it? Ah, well, there's not much to be said for variety these days. Stick with a mistress that you keep to yourself, like I do. Might live longer that way."
"Why don't you just get married, then, if you want to stick with just one woman?"
"Gads, no. Nothing will put you in the grave quicker than a nagging wife. Do bite your tongue next time, before you make such an outlandish suggestion. 'Sides, what's marriage got to do with keeping to just one woman?"
Christopher Malory was only vaguely listening to his friends' gossip. He shouldn't have brought them with him. They would expect to be entertained, were already showing signs of boredom as they sprawled in their chairs in his estate office, gossiping about old gossip. But he didn't come to Haverston to entertain. He came twice a year to go over the account books, which he was trying to do this evening, then leave as quickly as possible.
It was not that he had any business or social engagements in London to draw him back in haste. It was that he never felt comfortable in Haverston, felt actually oppressed if he stayed too long.
It was a dark, gloomy place, with outdated furnishings, ugly grays and dull tans in the wall coverings throughout, even dour-looking servants who never said a word to him other than "Yes, m'lord," or "No, m'lord." He supposed he could redecorate it, but why bother, when he had no desire to remain in Haverston any longer than it took to go over the books and listen to his estate manager's complaints?
It was a fine enough estate in size and income, but he hadn't wanted or needed it. He'd already possessed a very nice estate in Ryding that he rarely visited either—he just didn't care for the quiet of country living—as well as the title of viscount. But Haverston had been given to him in gratitude, along with a lofty new title, for having unwittingly saved the king's life.
It hadn't been intentional, his helping the king. It had occurred purely by accident when he'd stepped out of his mired coach into the road at just the moment that a runaway horse was tearing past. He happened to startle the horse into stopping, whereupon the horse had dumped its rider more or less into Christopher's lap, as it were; at least Christopher had ended up flattened on the ground with a hefty weight on top of him.
As queer circumstances would have it, the rider turned out to be his king, who had been hunting in the nearby woods when his horse had been spooked by a small animal. King George, of course, had been exceedingly grateful for the interference which he swore had saved his life. And there'd been no talking him out of being quite generous in his gratitude.
His manager, Artemus Whipple, was sitting across the desk from him and avidly listening to the gossip, rather than the business at hand. Christopher had to say his name twice to draw his attention back to his last question, and repeat it once again.
Whipple was a portly, middle-aged man who had come with the estate, and Christopher had found no reason, really, to replace him. As long as the estate produced an income, which it did, he could hardly fault him, even if some of the expenses he incurred could boggle the mind. He did always have a ready excuse for them. But some were so outlandish, they demanded questioning.
"Fifty pounds for laborers to plow and plant the home farm? Did you ship them in from the Americas?"
Whipple noted the sarcasm and blushed uncomfortably.
"They were outrageously overpriced, yes, but it's getting increasingly more difficult to find farmers to work here. There's a silly rumor that Haverston is haunted and that's why you won't stay in residence."
Christopher rolled his eyes. "What rubbish."
"Oh, I say," Walter Keats interjected. "First interesting thing I've heard since we got here. Who's the haunter supposed to be?"
Walter, the youngest of the three friends at twenty-eight, was the one who abhorred the thought of marriage. His powdered wig was askew at the moment, after an itch had been scratched absentmindedly. Though wigs, and powered ones at that, were mostly worn only on formal occasions these days, Walter took his cue from the older aristocracy and didn't leave his dressing room without one. Fact was, it was vanity and nothing more, since his dull brown hair didn't give him quite the flair that a perfectly powered wig did, coupled with his vivid green eyes.
"Who?" Whipple asked the young lord with a blank look, as if he hadn't expected his reason to be dissected, and in fact, Christopher rarely did question him further on any of his given excuses.
