“We had some wonderful days, but then I understood that we could not live like that, and we had to marry as soon as possible. I returned from St Albans full of confidence, knowing her family—your grandparents, in fact!” He suddenly looked at Darcy as if he were aware of that fact for the first time: Darcy was Lady Anne’s son; her parents were his grandparents…
“Your grandparents were very respectable people with a good income. I had in mind all the things I wanted to tell my father, all the evidence to convince him. I was certain he would eventually agree because I knew him to be a reasonable man—though severe. He was not a loving parent, you can imagine. In my time, children were not raised close to their fathers, but I could find no fault in him until then!”
The duke had not forgiven his father nor forgotten that day.
His story was alive; Darcy was in that present-life library, yet he followed the characters from a thirty-year-old tale as if they were in that room.
The 5th Duke of Blandford awaited him in his grim, cold study. It was one of the rooms that, as a child, Fitzroy did not enter. It was not forbidden, but as a toddler, he was intimidated by the portraits of the dukes who held the title before his father. The 5th Duke of Blandford wanted his ancestors nearby; he arranged his massive desk in homage to them and, Fitzroy suspected, as a reminder of family greatness to anyone with business there.
“The first decision I made as the 6th duke was to move the portraits into the main hall where they now resided,” the duke said, interrupting the memories.
That day, he entered the study with the same sentiments as when he was a child: fear! He was not pleased to admit it, but the room, the portraits, and his father made him shiver. It was the worst attitude he could have, but the dread arose regardless of his attempt to control his feelings or to think about his beloved Anne. In that gloomy space, her face refused to appear. His father was aimable enough, but his disposition could change quickly. He knew his father would forbid theirmarriage. In truth, the fear came from that presentiment and prior knowledge of his father’s character, wishes, and feelings. His mother had died a year before those events, but he doubted she could have helped him in any way. Nothing could stop his father once a decision was made.
“I am listening,” his father said imperiously. They had just finished breakfast, and he liked to be at ease for an hour in his study. Fitzroy realised he had chosen the worst possible moment. But he sensed such an urgency to move things along that he lacked patience.
“Father”—Fitzroy spoke in his most courageous tone—“I need your consent to marry.”
He wanted to continue, but the old man cut short his intention. “You have my consent to marry Hilda of Hanover. You may choose the date, but it should be this year.”
It was decided that Fitzroy had no right to oppose or question his father.
“But, sir, I am in love with another lady!” Fitzroy finally said.
His father raised his eyes from the papers he pretended to read. He even tried a condescending smile. “Good for you, my boy. A gentleman must know love and be in love as many times as possible in his life.”
His tone was sarcastic, referring to the kinds of love a gentleman of thetonmight find in London.
That allusion was so distasteful and offensive that Fitzroy felt his body shake. His face turned purple-red, and he could scarcely breathe but resisted. “I am talking about true love for a precious lady I intend to marry.”
These words tore away the apparent calm and the falsely benevolent conversation. His father rose and stood before the chair in which he was seated. Even at seventy, he was a force of nature; he had buried three wives, and it seemedhe would live forever. He was not shouting, but his whisper-like tone was even more dreadful.
“You can have no inclination regarding your marriage, boy. I make all decisions in such matters.”
“Please, sir, let me tell you the whole story and introduce to you the young lady I love!” It was a desperate plea, but it was all he had left.
His father laughed—a burst of superior, sardonic laughter meant to sully his son’s love.
“I know all about the story and the lady!”
Fitzroy froze. All his intentions disappeared in the face of that man who could destroy destinies with that hated, superior smile.
“Or do you think I am an imbecile? It is one of the daughters of that earl who so kindly hosted you after your shameful fall from a horse! Do you think society’s behaviour has changed since my youth? I should have told you how many earls’ daughters tried to catch me in marriage! Go to Madame Laure, my boy, and cool off, then be prepared to leave for Hanover. As I see the situation now, I shall announce your departure for next week.”
Fitzroy knew he had lost the battle, and this new decision to hurry his marriage in Germany was unexpected and dangerous.
“Even after thirty years, the wretched desperation is still present in my heart,” the duke murmured.
They sat silently for a long time, yet both longed for the story to continue.
“When I told him I loved Anne and wanted to marry her, I remember his asking disgustedly whether I fell in love during the five days I stayed in St Albans. I have lived my life in an attempt to be different from my father. Despite his sister’sattempts to reconcile us, I never spoke to him again. Aunt Roberta used to say to me that if he died, I would regret my resentment. But I never did!”
The duke stood up and took a few steps to gather his thoughts. “I left his study desperate, broken, and helpless. He had been peremptory and relentless: no marriage was possible. A signed settlement for the wedding between Hilda of Hanover and me was already signed, and His Majesty had approved it. My father wanted me to marry one of the king’s daughters, but it seems he failed and looked lower within the royal family. It was his mad, unreasonable idea to make me a sort of prince or even king. I had to tell Anne the truth. But then an insane plan came to mind, the only one allowing us to be together. I decided to marry her in secret.”
Darcy could scarcely stay seated; he wanted to stand and pace or even run. When he had left home, his intention was clear: to deliver some letters and share polite talk about his mother. Not for an instant did he imagine the duke would trust him with such a confession, and he now feared he might hear things that would confound his life. The duke wanted to marry his mother, evident from the ring he gave her and the messages addressed to her but he thought that was all.
Darcy finally stood, unable to master his turmoil any longer. He was aware of his rudeness but needed to escape the tension that weighed on him. He went to the window, and only seconds later, the duke came to him with the glass of brandy. They drank again, wordlessly, but the silence did not last.
“Yes, my boy, I was married to Anne for nearly two hours.”
