Once a Duchess (29 page)

Her eyes clouded. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you mean. Watching my children grow into adulthood has been the greatest joy of my life.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She pinned him with an arch look. “And if one of you would make me a grandmamma before I die, my work will be complete.”

His jaw tightened. Anger coursed through his veins, setting his hands to trembling. Scotch sloshed over the rim of his glass and across his fingers. “You cannot be serious!”

She strolled to the glass wall and looked out over the expansive parkland, now ringed with trees displaying vibrant gold and orange foliage. “Of course I’m serious. All women of a certain age want grandchildren.”

He rubbed his eyes. Maybe he had been drinking too much. “You did everything in your power to separate me from Isabelle. I don’t believe for one instant that grandchildren crossed your mind. We might have had a nursery full by now, but for you!”

She turned and huffed. “You still don’t understand. For your sake, Marshall, I’m sorry she’s gone, but I can’t say I wish it were different. She was never the proper choice. Somehow, I seem to have failed to educate you when it comes to the importance of marrying a female of our class, a noblewoman of good breeding and character. Someone like Lucy.”

His eyes narrowed and he stalked forward, dropping his glass beside the microscope. Halting in front of her, he looked down with a disgusted sneer. “Hear me now, and hear me well: You don’t get a say about my life. My marriage was my own to handle, not yours. And what you did to us is unforgivable. Frankly, I don’t know if I will ever not despise you for what you took from me. I hope it was worth it.”

Caro swallowed. Her eyes slid down his face and chest.

“Mother.” Slowly, she raised her fearful eyes to his again. “I have an unfulfilled promise to keep.”

The color drained from her face and she quailed visibly. He gave her a toothy, ruthless smile. “I promised I would deal with you later, if you recall. Later has arrived.”

She raised a brow and firmed her lips, but voiced no reply.

Marshall clasped his hands behind his back and straightened. “This is my decision: Because the divorce into which you wrongly manipulated Isabelle and myself resulted in her expulsion from society, it is only fitting that you endure a similar fate.”

Caro gasped, stricken. “You can’t do that!”

“I just did.”

She raised her chin. “What if I refuse? You can’t lock me away like a prisoner. I shall go to town as I see fit.”

“Fine.” Marshall threw his hands wide. “Go to town. You’re right, I can’t stop you. But,” he said, raising a finger, “I can cut you off.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.

“Just try it,” he ground out. “At this point, I’d really like to see you do that.”

Caro’s face went ashen. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

Marshall shrugged. “I haven’t quite decided. It took Isabelle three years to regain some degree of society.” Caro staggered backward. “We’ll start with a year,” he declared. “Next September, then, we’ll see where things stand. If you’ve behaved yourself out here, maybe I’ll let you come back to town.”

“But what about Naomi?” Caro asked. “You can’t mean her to miss next Season.”

“Aunt Janine will keep an eye on her until I’m back from South America. Grant will be in town in the spring, too. She’ll be perfectly well cared for.”

The light in Caro’s eyes dimmed. She seemed to collapse in on herself as her shoulders slumped and her head drooped. For a woman as self-important as his mother, there was nothing worse he could do than render her useless. But when it came right down to it, that’s exactly what she’d already made herself.

• • •

A week later, Marshall started back to town. With the expedition sailing in less than two months, he couldn’t waste any more time rusticating. His leg was strong enough to support his weight without a cane most of the time, and Caro’s attempts to change his decision about her exile at Helmsdale were becoming tedious.

He stopped to stay the night at David Hornsby’s home before the final leg of the trip to London. His colleague met him with his typical air of being one drink shy of blindingly drunk. And yet, as usual, he managed to defy reason and speak coherently when they repaired to the library after supper to discuss the herbarium.

Marshall tapped his thumbnail against his teeth while Hornsby showed him the architect’s proposed design. He listened with only half an ear as his friend pointed out the building’s features and the layout of the various gardens that would surround the facility.

“‘M thinkin’ of a water garden,” Hornsby slurred. “It’d go ’bout here.” He jabbed at the plan. “Now, what do you think about a pagoda for a folly? Or a temple? Or would a mock ruin be more picturesque?”

Marshall shook his head, endeavoring to focus and catch up with the conversation. “Pardon?”

“Over here, look.” Hornsby gestured to a rectangular area on the plan. “Maybe a rose garden. I’ve always liked yours at Bensbury — do you s’pose you could help with the herbarium’s?”

Marshall cringed at the mention of the Bensbury rose garden, a brutal reminder of his failed courtship of Isabelle. When he squeezed his eyes closed, he saw her on the backs of his lids as she’d looked the night of Naomi’s party, all rumpled, delectable female — soft in his hands and generous in her affections. And she’d needed him then, every bit as much as he’d needed her.
But she doesn’t need you anymore.

“Are you all right?”

Marshall cast an agonized look at his friend’s red-rimmed eyes.

“You don’t look well, old man.” Hornsby gestured to a chair. Marshall fell heavily into it and rubbed his eyes. A moment later, Hornsby pressed a glass into his hand.

Marshall took a sip, but the alcohol made his stomach churn. He’d had his fill of overindulgence.

“A bit of bad luck,” Hornsby sank into the chair across from Marshall and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Being shot, and all, I mean.”

Marshall scoffed. He’d hardly given the shooting any thought, beyond the frustration it had caused him in moving about. The pain in his leg paled in comparison to the empty ache in his chest he wasn’t sure would ever go away. Not this time.

But riding close behind it was the guilt he felt for Thomas Gerald, now floundering around in London, looking to rebuild his life. His young love, Sally Palmer, would return to Australia — as a convict this time. The woman had poisoned his horse, abducted his sister, and attempted murder. It had taken the weight of Marshall’s influence to save her from the gallows. He couldn’t help but pity the anguish Thomas must feel at losing her. Indeed, he could empathize all too well.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Hornsby said, pulling Marshall from his thoughts, “what was all this about poisoned horses and whatnot? Not that I would expect a stupid journalist to get anything botanical correct, but something in the report in the paper struck me as off.”

With his elbow propped on the arm of the chair, Marshall rested his forehead against his fingertips. He was exhausted, and loathe to discuss recent events yet again. Nor was he particularly interested in Hornsby’s drunken insights, which probably sounded more sensible in his addled mind.

The portly man clinked the decanter against his glass as he refilled his beverage. “Why don’t you tell me? What happened all those years ago?”

Marshall raised his head to meet a surprisingly penetrating gaze. Hornsby’s esteem for him would come crashing to earth when he heard the truth, but what did it matter? The pain of losing Isabelle had dulled his response to everything else. Losing the regard of someone like David Hornsby would not even register.

He shrugged and related the story of his father’s ailing mare, and his desire to help induce her foaling. “I cooked up the medicine. Thought I’d used juniper berries. Thomas Gerald fed it to the horse, because she wouldn’t let anyone else approach her. A short time later, her womb ruptured, and she and the foal died. Later, I discovered I’d made a dreadful mistake, and used yew instead of juniper.”

Hornsby grunted. “Yew is nasty business.”

Marshall nodded in agreement.

“However,” Hornsby raised a finger, “as I suspected, you’re completely mistaken about that mare’s demise.”

Marshall’s eyes snapped to his face. “What do you mean?” His words were clipped. “I was right there in the stable when she bled to death.”

“Well, that’s jus’ it.” Hornsby took a long swallow of his drink before continuing. “Yew is deadly stuff, but it don’t cause bleeding, old man — it stops the heart. If you don’t believe me, we can pay a visit to Jeremiah Brodrip, a sheep farmer lives just down the way. He lost several of his flock to accidental yew poisoning this summer. And I tell you, Monty, there was no blood or anything like what you’re talking about with that poor beast all those years back. C’mon, Monty, this is basic stuff. Surely, you know what’s what here.”

Marshall stared, stupefied, at his half-inebriated friend. “I … You’re right. Huh.” Suddenly, he felt cut loose, ungrounded. Everything he’d believed about this one wretched incident was wrong. “It was so sudden, so violent. The screaming and bleeding started seconds after Thomas gave her the medicine. I was so sure it was my fault.”

Hornsby blew through his lips. “If you’d killed that horse with yew, she would’ve dropped dead without spilling a drop of blood. Sounds like your Thomas Gerald didn’t feed her enough of it to do her in. What you’ve got is a foaling gone wrong, nothing more. Unfortunate about that Gerald person being dragged into all this, though he seems a shady sort, anyway.”

Marshall’s gaze floated to the flames crackling in the fireplace. By slow, minute increments, the pain and guilt he’d carried for half his life began to fall away. He hadn’t killed Priscilla and her foal, after all. For an exquisite moment, he was awash in relief.

I have to tell Isabelle,
he thought. For an instant, he envisioned the warm smile she’d give him when she heard; he could almost feel the welcome weight of her in his arms when they embraced.

No, there would be none of that. The memory of her last words seared through him again like a red-hot poker. He couldn’t share his news with her, because she despised him for what he’d done. She’d all but sworn to eradicate whatever love she may have felt for him.

He hastily excused himself, claiming a complaint in his wounded leg. In his guest room, he sprawled face-down across the bed while the same tormenting thoughts that had been eating at him for weeks resumed their relentless circuit.

Learning that he’d not been responsible for the mare’s death was welcome news, but it did nothing to fill the hole in his life created by Isabelle’s departure. While reason suggested their separation should have left two plenary individuals in its wake, this was not the case — at least not for Marshall. When Isabelle left, she’d incised out some fundamental part of his being, so that he was now less than he was when they’d been together.

Could she really stop loving him? If so, he envied her. For himself, Marshall could not foresee a diminishing of his own devotion. Further, he thought as he burrowed into the bedding, he didn’t want his love to go away. Even if the object of it despised him, it was a way to keep her close, to remember what they had shared.

If only I’d known it sooner, if I’d told her sooner.
The self-recriminations mounted as he drifted into an uneasy sleep. He listed them nightly, a perverse flock leaping through his mind, driving him into oblivion in the hope of escaping them.
I never should have listened to Mother. I should have made love to her a thousand times while I had the chance. I can’t believe I ever doubted her. I should have come clean about Thomas Gerald straight away.

Gerald was still an albatross of shame around his neck. As darkness blissfully brought him temporary release, he determined to find the man in London. He might never escape the torment over Isabelle, but at least he could free himself of that blot on his conscience.

Bessie opened the door for Isabelle, admitting her to the rambling farmhouse she’d taken near the small cottage the two had previously inhabited. The home was modest, but more spacious than anything Isabelle ever thought she would have for herself. She handed off her shawl and gloves and rubbed her hands together. “So chilly out. You can feel winter coming in the air.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bessie replied. “How was the committee meeting?”

Isabelle groaned. “Getting the ladies’ auxiliary to settle on a charity to receive the proceeds of the Harvest Ball is like pulling hen’s teeth. I nearly went mad listening to the bickering. When they’d narrowed it down to five, I thought it would come to blows. I finally said I’d give a thousand pounds to each if we could just pull the name of one out of a hat and conclude the meeting.”

Bessie gasped. “Five thousand pounds! You’re too loose with your money, ma’am,” she chided. The servant clucked her tongue and shook her head.

Isabelle smiled ruefully. She understood Bessie’s apprehension. When she’d lived with Isabelle before, she’d known her as Jocelyn Smith, and they’d been destitute. Isabelle had returned to the village with her true name and the unwanted burden of Marshall’s money. Alexander had been quite firm on that point: take the money or marry. And since Isabelle had decided she would never marry, she took Marshall’s guilt money. The least she could do was use it to help the less fortunate.

Bessie handed off Isabelle’s outerwear to a passing maid. She’d taken to her new position of housekeeper like a duck to water. She kept the house running smoothly, leaving Isabelle with plenty of time to do as she pleased. Too much time, truth be told.

“The post is on your desk,” Bessie said. She followed Isabelle to the sitting room where Isabelle did her writing. “There’s calling cards, too.”

Isabelle dropped into the elegantly curved wingback chair behind her oak desk. She pulled a penknife from the drawer and opened the envelopes.

The first one contained an invitation to Lady Chirken’s birthday fête. The second, an invitation to join the Ladies’ Society for the Improvement of Our Fallen Sisters, which, if Isabelle read between the delicately composed lines correctly, sought to provide assistance and training in new occupations to prostitutes. The next was a letter from Lily.