Giggling of the male and female variety answered.
Why couldn’t they leave him alone? His beautiful wife had left him, and he wanted to wallow in his own pit of shame, self-hatred and, he realised, stench.
Murmurs now seeped through his door and scowling, he struggled to stand. He looked to be clothed in only breeches and shirt, and his feet were bloody freezing but there was no sign of stockings nor jacket.
With a shrug, he stumbled into the sharp corner of the desk, relishing the pain, and with shuffling steps, crossed to the study door.
Whispers. Another giggle. What were they doing? A voice louder.
“If only Aideen had married you, Jack.” His mother sighed low. “Perhapsyouought to follow her to Ireland. She enjoys your company after all, and I’ve heard–”
Rakecombe flung open the door. “And keep your licentious paws off my wife,” he bellowed.
Expecting them to cower from his words or cast admonishments, he frowned as they instead stared aghast from the drawing room.
He peered down at himself.
Bare feet, well he knew that. Creased breeches with a suspect stain, but he had a feeling – or hoped – it was spilled brandy, and a shirt that looked and felt somewhat putrid. There might even be…stubble upon his visage.
How very un-ducal.
“You have bits of paper and sand stuck to your cheek,” observed Winterbourne, expression appalled.
Rakecombe slammed the door on their stunned faces and fell on the chaise, head in hands.
A timid turning of the handle and his heart plummeted. If Winterbourne prattled rules, he’d… Death wouldn’t be punishment enough – it would have to involve coquelicot waistcoats and slashing blades.
An orange blossom scent pervaded the room and then the chaise lightly depressed at his side. He waited for the condemnation, but instead a soft hand stroked his hair and he wanted nothing more than to turn to Mother like a schoolboy on his first day at Eton and bawl his eyes out.
He didn’t, obviously.
“I was going to berate you, Alex dear, but seeing the state of you – a state I have never seen before, I hasten to add – it seems you are loathing yourself quite adequately.”
“I chased her away, Mother.” He rubbed his face with rough hands. “With my rules and control and surliness. She detests me and I deserve it.”
“Aideen does not detest you. She…”
“Despises me?” he suggested, raising his head.
“No, dear,” she answered, picking paper from his cheek. “She loves you, I believe, but even the most fervid love needs sustenance and you have given her nothing.”
“I know, but Gwen–”
She held his cheeks in her small palms, eyes so direct they stung. “Alexander. I loved Gwen deeply – we all did – but she was a resolute girl who never should have followed you that night. I know you blame yourself, but…” Tears came to his mother’s eyes and his own closed to them. “I could just as easily say it was my fault – for indulging her, sheltering her too much from the dangerous world, and your father equally never denied her anything, be it the enormous harp she insisted upon at seven years of age or that dashed great horse she had at thirteen.”
“’Tis natural, Mother.”
“Maybe, but my point is we can blame ourselves or each other or the man who did the deed or God – it makes no difference. It happened, and all we can do is accept and live the life that Gwen would have wanted. And being Gwen, she would have wanted laughter, love and joy for us all. Passion for life…and the living.”
“But I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Aideen.”
“Silly man.” She smiled and shook him…rather hard, tears retreating. “We cannot live in such fear. I married your father knowing his lungs were weak, knowing they could kill him at any moment and yet we had twenty-three glorious years together. I would not swap them for anything – the memories, the joyandthe sadness. We were together. And if you are in love, well, nothing else matters. Do you love Aideen?”
He wanted his wife to be the first to hear those words from him, but she was clattering along the road somewhere towards the port of Milford Haven. “Yes,” he said simply.
“Then all will be well. Aideen is audacious, yes, but she is not senseless, and I believe she would make an excellent wife for you – strong and caring, capable and ardent.”
Rakecombe nodded. When soberness had intervened, he’d thought on all these matters and come to the same conclusion. He could trust Aideen implicitly. With his life. And her own. But then he’d drowned it all in brandy.
