SEVEN #2
Every conversation, she realized. Every encounter with a new acquaintance reached the very same question.
It was inevitable. Admiral Lord Nelson’s heroics still glowed in living memory.
Too many men had returned from the war with France bearing ragged scars and missing limbs.
And Lord Matthias held himself like a soldier—tall, athletic, capable.
On the surface, he appeared a leader of men, only lacking a saber, a uniform, and enemy combatants to dispatch.
But his lordship clearly didn’t understand—or even believe—why everyone kept making the same assumption.
Instead, he likely saw these exchanges as a painful gauntlet to be run, his psyche battered with reminders that most would view his birth defect as a sign of heavenly disfavor.
Living proof that all was not right in the Kinsey pedigree.
Lord Matthias managed a pained smile that, truthfully, was more akin to a grimace.
“I must disappoint you, Mr. Carter.” He waved the stump of his arm. “Alas, I was born with the disfigurement you see, much to my parents’ horror and the disgrace of my bloodline. My missing limb has nothing in common with honor, I fear.”
Mr. Carter flinched and began to cross himself—a reflexive action to ward off evil—before freezing and lowering his hand. He shot a pleading glance at Reverend Liston for help. As a man of the cloth, certainly the good reverend would know how to respond.
But even Reverend Liston appeared at a loss.
The casual acknowledgment of such a deformity from birth did indicate moral corruption in the Kinsey family.
And what was he to say, I’m sure your birth wasn't intended as any sign of the Good Lord’s displeasure, when so many of his god-fearing congregants no doubt believed that it was?
The mantle clock ticked as coal tumbled in the hearth.
The weight of the gentlemen’s judgment sat hard.
The longer the silence held, the more tightly Lord Matthias clenched his solitary fist.
“Gentlemen.” He stood, mouth pulled into a taut line, expression shuttered. “I must take my leave of you. There are . . . matters to attend.”
Pivoting, he left the room, brushing past where Cecily sat.
His departure was rude. Astonishingly so.
But then . . . Mr. Carter’s question had pressed on a particularly sore wound, and the gaping silence had added salt to the sting. And like all hurting animals, Lord Matthias had retreated with a snarl.
“I say,” Mr. Carter frowned. “That was . . . appalling.”
“Indeed,” Reverend Liston sipped his tea, lips twisting. “I wonder if his lordship is entirely right in the head. It would make sense he might not be, given . . .” He raised his right arm, bending it at the elbow.
“Aye. I suppose there is a reason the Dukes of Grayburn have kept that one under lock and key. Blood will out.”
Heat rose in Cecily’s cheeks, and a crimson rage amassed behind her sternum.
As Mrs. George Miller and a lady of reputation, Cecily might have said something. She could have ameliorated the tension or diverted the gentlemen’s attention before Lord Matthias felt the need to leave the room. After all, that was what a capable lady did.
However—as Mrs. Armstrong, Housekeeper—it was not her place.
And so she smiled through her anger and conversed with Reverend Liston and Mr. Carter as they took their leave. But as she gathered half-empty teacups and crumb-laden plates, she couldn’t help glancing at the door through which Lord Matthias had disappeared.
His lordship was so far above her station—or rather, she had sunk so low—that it was folly on her part to consider his emotional state. His life . . . his sorrow, his memories . . . were none of her affair.
And yet, she wondered why Lord Matthias didn’t try to give back as good as he got—turn his arm into a jest with some quip that would needle the prejudice of small minds—Demon spawn? Hah! My mother considered me an angel.
Maybe he has tried, Cecily thought, but how long can one push against ignorance and judgment without collapsing in exhaustion? He certainly appeared beaten down here at Avoch.
So no, Cecily could not blame his lordship for making a hasty retreat.
Lord Matthias faced the world as if braced for cruelty.
And far too often, she feared, the world delivered just that.
Reverend Liston and Mr. Carter were merely the opening volley of visitors.
After their visit, the ladies of the neighborhood descended with daughters, nieces, and even granddaughters in tow. They would sit for half an hour and pour tea for his lordship, their endless chatter echoing up and down the staircases of Avoch.
Poor Lord Matthias always emerged from the great hall tense and frayed. He appeared to approach the visits like some sort of bitter tonic. Cecily would watch him square his shoulders and take several deep breaths before nodding for a visitor to be shown up.
Mrs. Liston and Miss Liston proved the most consistent in their attentions.
Miss Liston matched Lord Matthias’s shyness and reticence—a quiet but gentle lady. To everyone, even Cecily, it appeared they were birds of a feather. Mrs. Liston certainly assumed so. There were decidedly aspirations there.
Surely, Lord Matthias and Miss Liston would marry and spend the rest of their lives in a hush of whispers and slippered feet—a matched pair of fellow recluses. Cecily refused to consider why the idea of Lord Matthias marrying Miss Liston caused a stinging pang behind her sternum.
It would not do.
Lord Matthias was Cecily’s employer—not a suitor or even a friend. She would be wise not to forget it.
As was their wont, Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Liston appeared one Tuesday with their daughters trailing behind. Cecily dutifully delivered the tea tray for Mrs. Liston to pour. Then, unable to stem her curiosity, she stood in the dining room next door, polishing silver and eavesdropping.
Miss Carter carried on a lively conversation. The young lady possessed high spirits and an even higher voice. Miss Liston said little. Their mothers added detail when needed.
His lordship responded to questions when asked, but with curt, unhelpful answers.