“Perhaps you moved too quickly, son, but I wouldn’t surrender altogether.” Baxter cleared his throat, forcing the words out that he didn’t wish to say but needed speaking. “Miss Alice may not be the proper lady for you, but that does not mean you must settle for a loveless marriage. Truth be told, I’d rather you not marry at all than go about it in such a manner.”
Stanley huffed a laugh, his gaze growing ever more bleak. “Oh, that I could. I cannot tell you how much I would love to be in your shoes, Father. You have children and grandchildren. Company and companionship aplenty between us all. What need have you to remarry? How could you ever replace Mother?”
The words were like a knife to the heart, twisting deeper with each implication and allowing the wound to flow freely, unable to shut. Protecting his children from the truth of his marriage was a good thing. The right thing to do. There was nothing he could’ve done to alter the situation, so Baxter had done the one thing he could: protect his children.
Yet it stung to realize his children knew him so little.
Did they think he’d been happy with a lady who found such delight in tormenting her social inferiors? Who prized money and position over goodness and kindness? For all that she’d wished to name her eldest daughter Charity, the lady had not a spark of it in her chest, yet her children believed that theirs had been a love match.
But was it any wonder? Charity’s relationship with her mother had been strained, but the boys and the rest of his daughters believed their mother to be the pinnacle of womanhood. Even Camilla had quickly become a supplicant at the altar of Dolores Baxter, doting on her mother-in-law with all the fervor of the rest. They adored their mother, so certainly, their father must have as well. No child wanted to believe his parents disliked one another.
Not to mention that other than Charity, his children had all left home long before the age when children’s eyes began to open to the world beyond their own concerns. They saw what they wished to see, and those fantasies ruled supreme still.
Baxter’s gaze lowered, his chest aching as those thoughts washed over him; his hands gripped the arms of the chair, squeezing tight.
“I haven’t a choice in the matter,” said Stanley with a sigh. “Grandfather made me his heir to ensure his family legacy continued. He may not be here to know, but how would I face him in the next life knowing I refused to do my duty and produce a proper heir born with his surname, rather than simply adopting it as I did?”
Rising to his feet, Stanley crossed to his father and patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Father, for listening. But I know what needs to be done. I enjoy Miss Alice’s company well enough, but I suspect she will not settle for a loveless marriage, so I have no choice but to break with her and find myself a proper bride. I know my duty, and I will not shirk it.”
Stanley turned toward his dressing room, and with a conciliatory smile, he added, “At least you won’t be dragged about town any longer, forced to converse with chaperones. I do not think I will need your assistance again.”
Rising to his feet, Baxter nodded, though it felt as though the ground beneath his feet shifted, leaving him with nothing firm upon which to stand. No more afternoons or evenings with Miss Stillwell. None. His stomach churned as he wandered out of the bedchamber and the door shut behind him; he stood in the corridor like a statue.
Duty. Such an important and difficult word.
More so when one’s duty wasn’t clear. Whether or not Baxter agreed with his son’s course of action, Stanley understood what was required of him and had chosen how to fulfill that responsibility—however flawed that may be. But what was Baxter to do in such a moment?
The house grew quieter by the minute, and with only the bare flicker of candlelight coming from his bedchamber’s doorway, Baxter felt entirely alone. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he made his way toward the light, though the golden glow emanating from his side table did nothing to soothe his soul. Shutting the door behind him, Baxter sank onto the bed as that one question thumped about his mind.
What was his duty? His heart certainly wished to believe his only consideration ought to be his own happiness, and he knew what would grant him that. There was nothing untoward about a widower courting a spinster, regardless of their age. People married at any age.
But what of Dolores? Though he might say his duty to her ended the moment she was laid to rest, Stanley’s question echoed in his thoughts, piercing his conscience like an ice pick. What sort of man courted a lady so soon after the passing of his wife? Could he sully his wife’s memory by leaping into the courting game as though she meant nothing to him?
Baxter knew he’d done many things wrong in his life. No one reached his age without a slew of mistakes in their wake. Yet, he’d done his utmost to minimize his regrets. Though Dolores had allowed him little influence over his children or the running of their household, Baxter had done what he could. If nothing else, he’d striven to give his sons and daughters an example of integrity and loyalty, honoring his vows and treating his wife with respect.
Would he now undo all that effort?
The room chilled, and it felt as though Dolores’s specter swept in through the door, filling his veins with ice. Though that presence had left him for a time, it was clear enough what his duty was to his family and wife. If nothing else, Baxter knew how to set aside his desires for the good of his family.
“You win again,” he whispered. “As you wish, Dolores.”
Baxter hadn’t thought to speak those words again in this life, but they rolled easily off the tongue, for they were old companions of his. He lowered his head, his shoulders drooping as the candle beside him sputtered.
Chapter 10
As she ran her hands along the polished surface of her desk, Hettie’s gaze traced the patterns in the wood, following the striations of brown that whirled together; it was such a lovely shade, with light and dark blended. A wall of drawers sprouted along the far end, the brass handles dangling from their fronts and begging to be pulled; although many of them were too small to hold anything, Hettie remembered just how intriguing all those hidden nooks were when she was a child and how many times she’d searched them.
Although the desk was her domain, Hettie couldn’t help but consider it her mother’s. Her childhood was filled with memories of the great Mrs. Stillwell seated primly, scribbling out vast volumes of correspondence from this very perch. Hettie’s things now occupied the many drawers, but at present, her paper, inkwell, and quill sat abandoned to the side as she fiddled with the handles, flicking them in time to one of the carols she’d played two days ago.
Jerking herself from those distractions, Hettie puffed out her cheeks in a heavy sigh as she considered the letter before her. Whilst she and her sister had little to say to one another in person, Vera was a veritable wealth of correspondence, detailing so many aspects of her world. Hettie didn’t understand how one could make the mundane goings-on of one’s daily life seem so fascinating.
She stared at the blank sheet she had readied for her response, and though it had been easy enough to rattle off replies to her sister’s inquiries, she struggled to know what more to say. Her life varied little from day to day, and none of it seemed interesting to anyone but herself.
With only Nelson and Alice still at home, Hettie couldn’t fill the pages with the children’s antics. Though she supposed that as they were grown and having families of their own, it wouldn’t do to call them children any longer. But still, there were a few stories to share concerning Nelson’s new bride and Alice’s courtship.
Not long ago, Hettie had been the source of familial gossip, but now, Vera’s letters were full of information concerning Winnie, Oswald, and Lavinia, enough so that one might believe that Vera had been their substitute mama and not their absent aunt.
Hettie stared at the papers and scowled at herself. Jealousy was a wretched business, and she desperately wished to scrub her heart of it. But where had her dear little ones fled? For all that their hearts had been full of their Aunt Hettie as children, it seemed that they were forever forgetting her when they grew.
