Chapter 30 Katherine—Attack of the Aunties
KATHERINE—ATTACK OF THE AUNTIES
Rushing to the lower level of Anya House, I hear roaring laughter. A footman positions himself outside the parlor like one of the guards at the Winter Palace.
My toes ache like I’m cold in St. Petersburg. The hall’s decor feels so much like the past that I’m frightened of being turned away again.
But the urns have roses and pink and white hibiscus. “No mums.”
Mr. Steele eases from the corridor. He hands me a letter with horrid familiar writing. “Sorry to bring bad news today.”
I shove the letter into my reticule. “I like the flowers.”
“Yes, ma’am. But when the duke learned of your aversion to them, he ordered chrysanthemums removed from the house. It’s a shame that the pride of St. Petersburg causes such angst.”
He gave them up for me. I only assumed he did that for my room. “The duke’s willing to change for me.”
The trusted steward gives me the look like Scarlett had. STUPID.
My sisters come down. Georgina has Lada.
She offers the basket to Mr. Steele, and the silver-haired man beams. “Good, the three of you can go and toss out those matchmaking mamas. They’re inside interrogating His Grace.
How dare they put the Duke of Torrance under such scrutiny? Don’t they know who he is?”
I admire Mr. Steele’s unshakeable loyalty.
“They don’t,” Scarlett says. “These are the lionesses of Mayfair and Cheapside. In their own right, they are formidable.”
“Lady Lydia’s not inside?” I ask the footman.
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. She and the princess left as soon as these women started arriving. The duke sent them on a special excursion with Lord Livingston.”
Disappointment whips through me. Why would Jahleel send that drunken, lecherous earl with his mother and daughter? A bad feeling crawls into my stomach. I’m nauseous, wondering if Jahleel has picked the earl to marry me. “Why Livingston?”
“He came earlier to look at the space where Mr. Thom’s surgery will occur,” Scarlett says. “Stephen showed him the special room inside the duke’s study.”
“There’s a special room where?”
Mr. Steele looks like Scarlett has said too much, but he mentions, “Livingston seemed quite interested in the ophthalmological surgery.”
Sheer panic numbs my fingers. Jahleel can’t be thinking of a drunk, a known womanizer who practically lives in Madame Rosebud’s brothel, as the man for me.
“Ma’am, you’re shaking,” Steele says. “Perhaps you should go lie down.” He looks at Lada and rubs her ear. “On second thought, I don’t think His Grace would want you to hear the disgraceful things said in this meeting.”
“Yes, he would.” Georgina opens the door. “No coddling for anyone.”
Laughter roars. I hear Jahleel’s voice, but I can’t make out his words.
“Go in and save him, Katherine,” Scarlett says. “Even dear Stephen can’t always quiet the aunties.”
Hackles up, I nod to my sister and slip into the parlor. For a moment, I’m in the past, making my way through the crowded corridors of the Winter Palace, except I’m not on Jahleel’s arm. Alone, I see peers and the Blackamoor dignitaries of Cheapside.
Jahleel’s rich laughter captures me. Over a sea of bonnets—some cream or floral, others bright blue, ruby, or purple with feathers—I see him.
Near the fireplace, he sits like Moses the Moor with a carved staff in his hand. To his left and right are vibrant red roses and pink hibiscus. The mood seems festive. Not a drop of shame or mourning exists.
His accent sounds deeper as he offers them another quip about the waters of St. Petersburg. The women around lean forward in their chairs or the floral settees, mesmerized by his every word. Seems Steele sent me in here for nothing. The duke doesn’t need saving, not when he’s charming London.
“A winter in my city is nothing like Town. The Neva River freezes so solidly that one can skate across with sleighs.”
One lady, dressed in rich peacock blue and a matching turban, stands. I hear a familiar groan from the back of the room.
Stephen, in the back, lowers his head.
“Your Grace, I’m Mrs. Theodora Randolph. While I’m pleased to be invited today by our dear physician Mr. Carew, I must inquire why.”
“Why what, Madame?”
“After being in London for three years, why now, Your Grace? Why invite us?”
He glances at them, his blank countenance swiveling as if he’s searching for answers. “Madame Randolph, it’s never too late to right a wrong. I’m pleased that you have come.”
Nods sweep the room. The woman sitting beside Mrs. Randolph stands; her orange gown with reed smocking along the bodice looks elegant. “Everyone concluded that you were too busy,” she says, “dealing with the Wilcox girls or the ton to think of us in Cheapside.”
“Mrs. Smith.” Jahleel focuses on her. His smile radiates the confidence and sincerity he has always had since we met.
“I must apologize. You and Mrs. Randolph know the struggles that I had when I first came to London six years ago. Though I prevailed, the mocking of my situation and heritage extended from Mayfair to the immigrant populace of Cheapside. It’s taken emissaries like my friend Mr. Carew to let me know I am welcome. ”
Whispers and fan-waving spread. I see smiles. He’s winning them over.
Still standing, Mrs. Randolph folds her arms. “Was it an oversight that invitations to your balls weren’t sent to residents of Cheapside?”
“I invited the friends I knew, Madame Randolph. I’ve thrown only one ball, and it was to unmask a villain. My thoughts were to seek justice in the most public and humiliating way possible, not exclusion.”
“Well, that’s what you achieved,” she says. “There are gossip and questions about whom you wish to socialize with.”
“I humiliated the Marquess of Prahmn. He deserved it for the injuries he caused my father, the first Duke of Torrance. Everyone must find their own ways to celebrate the passing of Lent, and I relished humbling him at my observance. But I didn’t enjoy the anguish it caused his son.
Lord Mark Sebastian is a friend of the—”
“A friend and brother-in-law,” Mrs. Smith says, making way for a younger woman, dressed in a sea foam–green Spencer coat with chenille fringe about the bust and hem, to join her.
The young lady waves at Jahleel. He stops. His smile broadens. “I forget myself. More questions, ladies?” he asks.
I twist inside. I want to be the one who makes the strategist, the smartest man in the world, stop, lose his train of thought.
“As Mrs. Randolph mentioned,” Mrs. Smith says, “you’ve had your hands full with the Wilcox girls.”
“Well, my hands are large. I can hold a great deal.”
The cackles that follow, the craning to examine him, and perhaps the size of those fingers … my thoughts spiral.
Jahleel spins his cane. The golden cap twinkles within his palm.
“I enjoy such forthrightness. From my previous time in London, I wasn’t ignorant of the risks my actions faced.
I can absorb scandal. I didn’t want any of my guests to befall this scrutiny and have nasty cartoons drawn about them and put in the papers.
It was the Marquess of Prahmn’s night to fall.
Him alone. No one else needed to be hurt. ”
The same nasty newspapers that put my name and the word bigamist in headlines were merciless to Jahleel. Six years ago, I comforted myself, thinking that having no Blackamoor wife made his fight easier. When I look back, I know it was never easy. I left him to face it all alone.
Heads dip and mull. Then Mrs. Randolph looks back at me. “Yes, Your Grace, you seem to abound in scandals.”
“And you seem to track them, Mrs. Randolph. Wasn’t it just a few minutes’ difference that made a potential compromise of your eldest daughter disappear?” Jahleel offers her a withering glare.
Mrs. Randolph sits down quickly. “I see your point. Mary is quite happy and settled.”
Chuckles follow, but Jahleel waves them silent. “This is an invitation for honesty, but please state your opinions wisely. I’ll not tolerate disrespect of the Wilcoxes. They are family.”
My heart warms at this public acknowledgment. I want to turn back time, find my way back to him.
Another woman rises. Her day dress is a beautiful cotton print of crimson leaves intersecting like a lattice. Her matching gloves and smallish bonnet don’t quite say Mayfair or Cheapside, but they have some level of money. “What is your nationality, sir? There are many questions.”
“May I be introduced to my accuser?” he responds. “Excuse me, I meant questioner. Language translation.”
Her pale peach face reddens. “I’m Mrs. Tisdale. I’ve a daughter of marriageable age. She’s lovely and well accomplished, but I hear rumors of you, sir. You observed Lent. Are you Catholic?”
His trusted smile fades for a moment. “Orthodox, actually. Lent is one of the early rites of the Church we retain, but our theology diverged from Rome centuries before our Henry VIII decided he needed a new wife and formed the Church of England.”
He starts to laugh. “Discussing the much-married king when I’m here hunting my future bride is a little ironic.”
Jahleel points to her with his cane. “Are you and your spinster Catholic? Though I’m not one to judge, out of allegiance to our King George, I must ask all Papists to leave.”
Mrs. Tisdale turns beet red. “No. I’m not. Neither is my daughter. I just needed an answer. There are rumors, sir.”
“That you have a spinster on your hands? She’s welcome to Anya House, home of the Duke of Torrance. I will not gossip of her choice to live unmarried.”
“Sir … Your Grace,” she says in a more formal tone. “Please clear up the rumors.”
“I am British and Russian. George III is of the Hanover line. That would be British and German. Our lovely Queen Charlotte is now British, but she originates from Mecklenburg-Strelitz, which is German. One might even say Moorish, too.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Mrs. Tisdale looks to the left and the right, and the wonderful crowd is representative of all of London—all faces, all colors. “Do you not have slave blood in your veins?”
Nobody moves or makes a sound. Jahleel’s countenance remains stoic.
“My grandfather was Abram Petrovich Gannibal. He was a man of great intellect. He was from Landon, West Africa. My grandfather was stolen as a boy, enslaved but then freed. He came to prominence under Tzar Peter the Great. Tzar Peter became his godfather. I believe my grandfather’s final honors from the empire were as a general of engineers. ”
“So you are part Blackamoor.” Mrs. Tisdale becomes haughty once more. “So the rumor is true.”
“I’m proud of the blood that courses through my veins. It is of Enlightenment and Empire—African nobility tempered by Russian steel and British … well, British guns, I suppose. How else can one explain King George’s reach all over the world? It’s simply mad.”
The crowd murmurs. I’m happy that he’s proud of who he is and proud of the blood in his veins. It takes profound courage and thoughtfulness for a man who suffers from the blood sickness to claim pride in his circumstances.
Jahleel shifts his cane. The sconce’s light catches it for a moment, sending sparkles everywhere.
“Does this answer your question, Madame Tisdale? Tisdale, the purveyor of haberdashery and trinkets. But do not worry. I won’t hold these rumors against you or the spinster that you have are of common, simple middle-class stock. ”
She wilts and reclaims her seat. Whispers swirl. I hear something about looking at his lips; that bit of color in his skin can’t just be from the sun.
“Why is your former wife here?” Mrs. Randolph stands again and points in my direction. “That seems an odd arrangement.”
Jahleel taps with his cane, directing all eyes to him. “Lady Hampton and I are friends. But our bloodlines are incompatible. That is my fault.”
He rises slowly. “I have the blood sickness.”
Gasps echo. Someone says, “Those Wilcoxes have it, too.”
He pounds his cane and again silences the packed parlor. “I wasn’t properly diagnosed until three years ago. I’m rather determined and have masked my setbacks.”
Jahleel glares at the crowd. “And from the gossips of Cheapside, you’ve noted that the Wilcox line carries this sickness, too. Many of you have ostracized them because of it.”
More gasps. Someone even points to Mrs. Randolph as the leader of the movement.
“Mr. Carew diagnosed me. He and his lovely wife and Lady Hampton have saved my life. I am indebted to them.” Jahleel lowers his tone.
“Yet you can now understand the true reason we parted. A man in my position needs an heir. I need more assurances of a healthy son. I need a wife without the sickness in her lineage.”
Scarlett walks in, wearing Father’s boots. “Fifty percent. There’s a fifty percent chance that you and someone like Lady Hampton could have a healthy child.”
Jahleel looks directly at me. “Fifty percent is not enough. There will always be great affection and care between Lady Hampton and me, but she cannot promise me forever. I need my legacy to last beyond tomorrow. The House of Torrance will continue. I need a new bride who can offer me a future.”
I can’t breathe.
That’s the thing between us. My fear of him dying—I thought that meant no future for us, but I never considered his perspective.
Knowing that our son died, that if we were blessed to have another, there’s a coin-toss chance of him being healthy and living without the sickness—that’s not enough for Jahleel.
For him to choose me I’d have to be more important than the survival of the legacy he fought to preserve.
Am I selfish?
Yes.
Do I deserve happiness?
Also yes.
But how can I ask him to choose me? I love Jahleel, but for him to keep my heart, he must be willing to allow his legacy to die.