Chapter 31
“So,” the dowager countess asked from over the rim of her Limoges teacup, a trio of fawns dancing amidst a field of wildflowers across its rippled porcelain canvas, “did Calliope enjoy the tour?”
Edward stood by the window, watching Calliope and her mother as they strolled through the withering garden.
“I believe so,” Edward replied, turning back to the dowager countess and the pale green drawing room where once the three of them—he and his mother and his father—would gather every evening after dinner.
His father would read the newspaper while his mother pored over the latest editions of her society magazines and Edward whiled away the hours with a book—something adventurous when he was younger, to satiate the hunger for daring escapades that he, as the oldest and only son of an earl, would never be able to act upon outside the pages of a Daniel Defoe or Robert Louis Stevenson novel; and then, when he was older, a book that would satiate the curiosity of a growing mind intent on making the most of his life, whether that be in discourses on agriculture, mathematics, business, or finance.
His greatest regret was that he had kept his nose in those books and had rarely engaged his father whenever the earl tried to speak with him about whatever current event he was reading in the paper.
Edward, who’d felt at the time he was growing his mind in more important matters, would reply with one-word answers, or sometimes even a grunt or two, before returning to his books.
Now, he wished he had paid better attention to the things that mattered to his father, as well as discussed the things he himself was learning.
Perhaps they both could have grown wiser, and Whitefawn more profitable, had they worked together.
But Edward, in his naivete, had assumed they would have all the time in the world for that later, and in his ignorance, had no idea how desperate Whitefawn’s situation had become.
In his darkest moments, Edward wondered if it was the weight of responsibility that had crushed his father in the end.
If it would have stopped him from dying had he felt comfortable sharing the load with his son.
Maybe then his father’s heart wouldn’t have given out on him from the seismic stress of it all and he’d still be here with them today.
“Do you think it will be enough to convince her?” his mother asked, setting the cup on its saucer and placing it on the table to her right.
Edward, his own cup in hand—this one featuring a galloping herd of rabbits—crossed the room and took his usual seat, leaving his father’s chair untouched. His mother glanced at it, both of them feeling his absence just as keenly as if he’d died only yesterday.
That was the funny thing about time. It didn’t lessen their grief, but it did allow enough distance to compartmentalize their pain and resume their conversation as if the moment hadn’t happened at all.
“She spoke as if it might,” Edward replied, doing his best to keep his tone even, his composure placid, even though inside he felt anything but.
He still could not believe Calliope had spoken of her father staying with them as if their marriage were already decided.
The hope her words had instilled simultaneously thrilled and terrified him, for he found himself desperately close to giving his heart to her completely and was beginning to doubt very much that he could marry anyone else.
It was no longer a point of pride for him, as it had been in the beginning.
Instead, he had somehow, within the course of a week and a half spent in her company, become completely besotted by her, and while he held no illusions that she felt the same way, he hoped that, in time, she would grow to.
For he was quite certain no other woman would make his heart race or befuddle his mind so completely as Calliope did, and since he needed to marry in order to ensure Whitefawn’s survival, he foresaw a very unhappy life ahead if forced to wed anyone else.
“Well then,” his mother replied, her gaze also finding the Hart women in the garden, “let’s hope the answer to our prayers is imminent.”
Edward nodded and tried very hard not to think of how alive he had felt that morning, racing across the grounds, Calliope’s hair coming free of its pins, the two of them as exuberant as schoolchildren.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so happy, so fully ensconced in the present moment.
It was as if he’d been battling his way upstream for years, only to have someone come along and pluck him from the water and place him onto a life raft, carrying him back to a place where the weight of the world no longer felt so heavy upon his shoulders.
No, he would not let his thoughts linger on those precious, carefree moments, for fear that Calliope would still refuse him in the end and he would be forced to marry someone who would, most likely, only add to his burdens with lists of societal functions to host and attend, with no room for such flagrant and improper behavior as horse racing across the lawn.
He did not want to think of his foretaste of heaven if there was a very good chance his feet would be forced back to earth, for he did not think he would survive the heartbreak it would cause, and then he would become even more a shell of the person he used to be—the person he should have been, had his father not died and had his heart not been given away to someone who had no intention of keeping it.
Unfortunately for Edward, it seemed Calliope was striving to make it as difficult for him not to fall in love with her as possible.
She’d come downstairs for dinner looking like a woodland nymph, with tendrils of hair framing her face, the rest of it swept into an intricate system of knotted curls at the base of her neck.
A golden comb bearing a jeweled hummingbird seemed to be the only thing keeping it in place, and the urge he’d suddenly felt to take her in his arms and pull the comb from her hair, allowing it to tumble down her back as he pressed his lips to hers and let her know that his proposal was no longer just about saving Whitefawn, but saving himself, was frightening in its propensity.
Her gown did not help matters either. Although it was entirely proper, the way the mint fabric cascaded down her frame, darkening to an emerald hue that reminded him of the usual vibrancy of Whitefawn’s rolling countryside when it was rain-soaked and fertile, held a Grecian quality to it that made Edward’s heart flip inside his chest, as if she’d simply draped a swath of bed linens around her frame before descending the staircase.
In truth, he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life, and his ache for her was growing nigh unbearable.
The dinner hour was not any better, as the candlelight that sparked against the golden accents detailing Calliope’s dress painted her countenance a warm amber hue that only further emphasized her natural beauty, so that every time someone asked Edward’s opinion on a topic, his only responses were, “Hmm?” and “What?” and “I really couldn’t say,” the last of which garnered a rather odd look from Tilly, whom he realized a moment too late had gotten up the courage to ask if she might borrow a book she’d seen in his study.
It was decided after dinner that, with their party only comprising the six of them, the men should join the ladies in the front parlor for cards and coffee.
Aesop waited until the ladies were preoccupied to pour a generous bit of whisky into his cup from a hidden flask.
He offered it to Edward, but he declined.
He felt the necessity of keeping a level head this evening, lest he should do something ridiculous that would undermine his proposal, such as proclaim his undying love to Calliope and frighten her away forever.
He slipped away momentarily to his study to retrieve Tilly’s requested book.
He thought he’d chosen his moment well—with his mother instructing the footman where to place the card table after Bethilda had asked him to set it halfway within the fireplace, and the Hart women receiving an education on the room’s paintings from Aesop—but this decision had dire consequences, for he returned to his mother, Mrs. Hart, Great-Aunt Bethilda, and Tilly all engaged in a game of whist, leaving poor Calliope alone with his uncle.
“How much money exactly will you be bringing into the marriage?” Aesop practically shouted in Calliope’s ear, not from malice or for intimidation’s sake, but simply because the more whisky Aesop drank, the louder he got, to the harm of everyone else’s eardrums.
The women all looked up from their game, shock registering on their faces. The only one who didn’t was Bethilda, who exchanged a few of her cards with others from the draw pile when no one was looking.
Calliope blushed under Aesop’s penetrating gaze and stammered, “I, well, that is to say—”
Edward stepped forward. “Miss Hart, has anyone had occasion to give you a tour of our music room yet?”
Calliope turned a grateful smile his way. “No, Your Lordship.”
He immediately offered his arm. “Would you like to see it?”
She took it, wrapping her gloved hand around his sleeve. “I would be delighted.”
Aesop nodded and gruffly pronounced, “I’ll go with you as chaperone, and then you can tell me the state of your father’s finances—”
The card table nearly upended as Edward’s mother shot to her feet. “Actually, Aesop, would you mind taking my place at the table? I’ve been fighting a headache all evening, and I fear it’s getting worse.”