To the Lady Born (23 page)

He looked at her, realizing she was ordering him about. He made one last stab at controlling the situation.  “I would rather collect the children and you go collect my mother.”

She fought off a grin at his last stand. “Nay,” she shook her head firmly. “Go and retrieve your mother. I will see you in the ward.”

He sighed heavily but did as he was told.  Amalie watched him quit the room, shoving aside the bigger pieces of the broken door so she wouldn’t hurt herself on them. As his boot falls faded down the steps, she collected a small comb and smoothed out her hair where it had been mussed.  After a final glance, and a check of the wound on her hand that was now sealed up and no longer bleeding, she quit the room in search of her children.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Weston realized by the time he reached the block that housed his mother’s chambers that he was considering going back on his word to Amalie. He just couldn’t fight twenty-six years of ingrained hatred.   But it seemed so important to Amalie that he make the effort so he was doing this purely for his wife’s sake. His feelings did not come in to play. What he did, he did for her and her alone.

But with every footstep that drew closer to Elizabeth’s chambers, he could feel himself harden.  As his boot falls echoed against the stone step that led to the second floor, that steely, morose and stiff demeanor he had when he was around his mother began to overtake him.

Torn between giving in to the comfort of his usual behavior and his inherent desire to please his wife, he suddenly realized that he was standing at his mother’s door.  He lifted a hand to knock, let it drop as he pondered what he was going to say, and then finally lifted his gloved hand a second time and pounded. He had to force himself.

He took a step back as the bolt on the door was thrown, and still another step back when the door cautiously opened. Elizabeth’s timid features gazed out from the crack in the door and, realizing that Weston was in the hall, she opened the door wide. Her guarded yet earnest gaze met him.

“Greetings, Weston,” she said with a mixture of pleasure and fear. “I am honored by your visit. How may I be of service?”

He just looked at her. His first reaction was to continue his hateful ways and he had to remind himself again that he was here on his wife’s errand. No more, no less.

“My wife wishes for you to come to Keighley,” he said without emotion. “If you will please gather your things, we are prepared to depart.”

Elizabeth looked as if he had just given her a direct order. She rushed back into her chamber, looking rather disoriented as she went for her cloak but realized it wasn’t the one she wanted, so she scooted into her second chamber and emerged seconds later with a heavy blue cloak slung across an arm. 

In a rush, she went for her small ladies’ bag that held things like her coinage and a comb, but she ended knocking it off the peg and into the small glass figurines that Aubria had loved so well. The figurines scattered, some shattering on the floor.  Horrified, Elizabeth tossed her cloak aside and quickly began picking up the pieces, setting the broken shards back on the table with trembling fingers. 

Weston stood in the doorway, watching her pick up the glass with shaking hands.  It was clear that she was rattled, now having broken some of her pretty and expensive things.  With a faint sigh, he entered the room and took a knee beside her, picking up a couple of the broken figurines and setting them back on the table.   Shocked, Elizabeth looked at her son with surprise and gratefulness.

“Thank you, Weston,” she said, feeling much distress at the glass all over the floor. But she stood up, not wanting to cause any further delay, and swiftly moved to retrieve her cloak. “I was hoping to give some of those glass pieces to Aubria. She seems to like them so.”

Weston could see that the woman was struggling with her heavy cloak, making nervous chatter, absolutely terrified of her enormous son and his attitude towards her.  If he thought on it, he felt rather bad for causing her such distress but there was a greater part of him that resisted any sentiment towards the woman whatsoever.

I want you to show the woman the same consideration you would show any other noble-bred lady.
  He could hear Amalie’s words rattling around in his head and, with another sigh, one of resignation, he went to his mother and took the cloak from her. Shaking it out so the creases would smooth, he placed it on his mother’s slender shoulders.

For the second time in as many minutes, Elizabeth looked startled by his actions, even more startled when he politely fastened the front ties of the cloak. Weston didn’t meet her eye until he finished tying off the ends and when he looked at her, a strange thing happened.

Suddenly, he was four years old again, sitting on his mother’s lap, enjoying her warm hugs and gentle voice. He had visions of her feeding him cakes with raisins and nuts, and singing softly to him when he was ill with fever. Staring into her deep blue eyes, he remembered how much he had loved her.  If he thought hard on it, he still loved her. She was his mother. But he was still deeply, deeply hurt and confused.  It created a massive conflict within him.

He dropped his hands from her neck, went to her open chamber door, and slammed it shut.  The entire building rattled with the force of the door shutting as Weston emitted something of a frustrated roar.  Terrified, Elizabeth moved away from him, stumbling against the wall as she watched him pace in circles like a caged animal.   The helm came off, clattering to the floor, as he wandered around, working his enormous hands and grumbling to himself.  He finally kicked at the door and rammed an enormous fist into a table next to the door. The table collapsed and Elizabeth shrieked, fearful that he was going to kill her where she stood. She gasped and trembled, watching her son pace. 

Finally, Weston settled himself unsteadily into the nearest chair.  He just sat there, twitching and grinding his jaw.  When he finally looked up at his mother, his dark blue eyes were filled with turmoil.

“Why?” he finally hissed. “Why were you so happy when my father killed himself?”

Elizabeth stared at him with wide eyes, struggling to keep her composure. It was the first time in twenty-six years that Weston had addressed her regarding Marston’s death.  In fact, it was nearly the first time in all those years he had addressed her at all. She took his question extremely seriously.

“I was not happy when Marston killed himself, Weston,” she said quietly.

His features tightened. “Do not lie to me,” he hissed. “I saw your expression. You smiled when I told you what he had done.”

Elizabeth struggled to stay calm.  “I do not believe that I did,” she insisted softly. “In shock, people can do a great many things that they do not remember. But believe me when I tell you that I was not happy for your father’s death, not at all.  It was a shattering and terrible blow. My biggest regret is that you and Sutton happened across his body first.  If I could have protected you from that blow, please believe that I would have.”

Weston’s tight features eased somewhat, but not entirely.  He was still boiling over with emotion. He averted his gaze, running his hand through his cropped blond hair, fighting to discern just one thought out of the hundreds that were rolling through his mind.

“You shamed him,” he finally muttered. “You shamed him by carrying on with his father.  How could you do such a thing? Explain this to me so that I understand.”

Elizabeth, oddly, was calming quite a bit. She had dreamed of this day for years, the day when Weston would ask her what truly happened and she would have the opportunity to vindicate herself.  She had planned what she would say.  But now, given her earlier conversation with Amalie, she changed her tactics.  She wanted to explain it to her son in terms he could understand.  She knew she would only have one chance to do it and she wanted to do it right.

“I would be happy to and I thank you for giving me the opportunity,” she said softly. “But before I explain, may I ask you a question?”

He rolled his eyes, his jaw ticking.  Then he waved a careless hand at her. “If you must.”

Elizabeth chose her words carefully. “Your wife is a gracious and lovely woman,” she said quietly. “I am so happy you have met her. It is obvious that she loves you a great deal. Surely you must love her as well; I can see it plainly.”

He just sat there, grinding his jaw, realizing her question was more of a statement of fact.  He lifted his eyebrows at her.

“Are you asking me if I love my wife?”

“I am.”

He ground his teeth so hard that he ended up biting his lip.  “I do not see where that is any of your affair.”

“Please,” Elizabeth begged softly. “I am trying to explain things to you and it would help if I could present you with something relatable.”

His brow furrowed. “Relatable?”

“Do you love your wife?”

He nearly exploded but managed, somehow, to dig deep and keep his calm. “I do,” he said through clenched teeth. “I love her more than anything on this earth. Why do you ask?”

Elizabeth drew in a long, thoughtful breath and planted herself on a small stool near the table with the shattered glass figures. Her dark blue eyes gazed at her son imploringly.

“Please do me the courtesy of hearing me out before passing judgment,” she said softly. “If, at the end of my explanation, you decide that you still must hate me, then I will not protest. In fact, I will leave Netherghyll and you will never hear from me again. Is that fair?”

He looked at her, some confusion on his face.  He wanted to agree with her but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.  “Go on.”

Elizabeth quickly thought of the best way to explain what she must because she could tell that Weston did not have the patience for anything long or drawn out. She had to be concise and to the point or else she would lose his attention. She squared her shoulders and began.

“Do you remember my father, Weston? Your grandfather, Hugh de Busli?” she asked softly.

Weston nodded faintly but he did not speak.  He was looking at her almost as earnestly as she was looking at him and Elizabeth continued.

“My father and Marston’s father, Heston, both served King Henry and were great friends,” she explained quietly. “My father brought me to Netherghyll to enter into a contract of marriage between Heston’s son, Marston, and me.  When the terms of the contract were settled, I remained behind at Netherghyll to wait for Marston’s return from London where he was serving the king.  If you recall, Heston had long been widowed. Heston was kind, compassionate, humorous and generous. It was just the two of us waiting for Marston’s return and as the days passed and I came to know Heston, I also came to realize that I loved him.  It was not a difficult thing to do. And Heston, having been a very lonely man for quite some time, fell in love with me as well. He simply couldn’t help it.”

By this time, Weston wasn’t looking quite so belligerent. In fact, he looked rather sympathetic. “So it started back then.”

Elizabeth nodded. “It did,” she admitted. “But it was all quite proper, I assure you. Heston did not compromise me. He was desperately torn, of course, loving the woman meant for his son, but sometimes, the heart is stronger than the mind. There are emotions that one simply cannot overcome no matter how right or wrong they are.”

Weston understood, and was reasonably sympathetic, but he would not let on, at least not yet.  “What happened when my father returned to marry you?” he asked quietly.

Elizabeth smiled sadly. “How would you feel if you had to watch Amalie marry another man? That is what Heston suffered through. Your father returned from London simply because he had been ordered to; he had no use for a wife. He did not want me. But he was forced to marry me so he did, as Heston stood by and watched, knowing that his son did not want to marry. Do you have any idea of the pain Heston must have endured?”

By this time, Weston was feeling much more compassion and far less frustration. He could feel his fury abating but it was still a struggle; it had been something he’d held on to most of his life. It was difficult to let go.  But in truth, because he loved his wife so, he understood exactly what his mother was saying.  He was starting to see the situation from an entirely different angle At that point, his hard stance started to slip away.

“So my grandfather watched the woman he loved marry his son,” he clarified quietly.

Elizabeth nodded faintly. “He remained stoic and calm throughout the ceremony,” she said softly as she reflected back on the painful memories. “He played the part of the proud father at the wedding feast as Marston drank himself into oblivion.  When it came time to consummate the marriage, Heston had to practically carry Marston to our wedding bed because he was so drunk.   And he left me with his drunken son, who was so angry that he had been forced to marry that he beat me soundly on our wedding night. He was quite… brutal.”

Weston stared at her, seeing a huge parallel between his mother and Amalie. Their first intimate experience with men had been a harsh, cruel thing. But as the shock of his parents’ marriage began to settle, as reality loomed, he could feel more turmoil within him.

“My father was not a brutal man,” he insisted. “I have many fond memories of him. Never once did I fear him and never once was he cruel.”

Elizabeth nodded patiently. “Marston was not, by nature, a brutal man,” she agreed. “But it was different when he was drinking. He became someone else, someone horrible.  And he was extremely resistant to being married and took his drunken frustrations out on me. The next morning, he awoke sober with no memory of what he had done other than a battered wife, and went on about his business as if nothing had happened. Heston, however, found me bruised and bleeding, tended me, and wept over what had happened. It was terrible for us both. But he could do nothing more. He could not avenge me. I was another man’s wife.”

Weston gazed steadily at his mother, absorbing her explanation, reconciling himself to it. It was information he had never heard before, shocking and deeply troubling. He kept seeing Amalie after Sorrell got through with her, bruised and bleeding, with no one other than servants to tend her. It tore his guts out to think on it. His jaw began to tick as he averted his gaze, unsure if he wanted to hear the rest of it.  But he had come this far; he had to see it through.