Chapter 4 #2
Gritting his teeth, he wondered what kind of excuse he might use to put off this reunion.
But in truth, there was none. He had held it off for long enough.
“Please, see her into the orangery, and I shall be there momentarily,” George instructed, straightening up the papers on his desk. “And have tea and biscuits brought up from the kitchens.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
With that, the butler disappeared, leaving George to lean back in his seat and inhale deeply.
It had been years since he had last seen his mother. Not since before the war. And he knew well from her letters that the only thing on her mind was his duties towards the dukedom.
There would be no loving reunion, no warm reception from her. Just as his father had been, she was solely concerned with the inner workings of their family.
Leaning forward on his elbows, George laid his head in his hands and considered once more how he might get out of this.
When nothing came to him, he finally rose from his chair and turned to look in the mirror hanging over the mantelpiece.
The corners of his mouth twitched upwards when he saw the state of himself. With an afternoon shadow already gracing his face and his hair one or two inches too long, he was certain his mother would have something to say.
All the way to the orangery, George wished he could turn back. He was quite certain of how this conversation was going to go. Though he was a duke now, his mother always attempted to keep him on the straight and narrow.
At the orangery door, he paused. Sucking in another deep breath, he peered through the open door to find his mother sitting at the centre table, already ordering the servants about, offering instructions for how to make the place look better.
And for a second, George smiled. He had to admit, it was good to hear her voice again, even if it did grow a little shrill at her exclamations of how overgrown the orangery had become.
He himself was quite happy with it. The place had always been one of his favourites, no matter the state of it.
“This is quite unacceptable!” his mother insisted. “Dawling, have the gardener come and see to it once we are finished.”
The poor butler looked as if he were ready to scatter like a frightened mouse, but instead, he bowed his head and assured her it would be given the attention she requested.
Feeling a protective urge to save the butler from some embarrassment, George strode into the room with his shoulders back and head held high.
“Mother, I do hope you are not tormenting the staff already,” he said, and his mother jumped from her seat, whipping around in a graceful, ladylike manner.
“Your Grace,” she dipped a curtsey before surprising George immeasurably.
The way she swept forward to wrap her arms around him caused him to almost stumble off his feet in surprise.
“It is so good to see you looking so well,” she said, holding him at arm's length to get a good look at him.
Just as he thought she would, she started to scowl as she added, “I think you might do well with a trip to the barber.”
George laughed wholeheartedly as he realized just how much he had missed her, even if her high standards and constant need to remind him of his duties was utterly infuriating.
“I have missed you too, Mother,” he said, dipping his head.
“Yes, well,” his mother sighed, lifting a hand to his cheek. “That does not excuse the fact you need a shave.”
“I shall add it to my to-do list,” he assured her before he gestured for her to return to her seat and took the one opposite. “How are you?”
“Well, well,” she said, nodding firmly. “As well as can be expected.”
Feeling a little guilty, George leaned over the table and laid his hand on hers. “I am sorry I was not here when—”
He broke off, unable to say the words.
With a sad smile, she laid her lace-gloved hand atop his. “There was nothing you could have done. Nobody could have.”
Though George knew that had been true – only God might have prevented his father's death – he still felt guilt at having not allowed himself to attend the funeral nor the house afterwards.
“Be that as it may—” he started, but his mother slipped her hand away and straightened in her seat.
“We shall not think on the past,” she declared firmly, once more the emotionless, strict duchess he had always remembered her to be. “We must think to the future. I have had my trunks taken upstairs.”
George struggled to hide his surprise. “You intend to reside here then?”
“For the time being, yes,” she said, her brow furrowing. “If that is acceptable to you, Your Grace.”
George bit his lip. He could tell how hard it was for his mother not to be the joint head of their family anymore.
Not that she had had any real power with his father around.
In fact, in a way, he believed she had more power now than she had ever had then.
Now, she was a dowager duchess in her own right with her own assets and connections.
She had worked hard to make it so over the years.
And in truth, there was very little George could deny her.
For though she was strict and sometimes even cruel, she was his mother, and he would always love her.
“I shall have your room made up at once,” George assured her, but she shook her head.
“I have already taken the liberty of asking Mrs Weems to make up a guest room,” she told him.
At that, he leaned back, shocked. “What of your rooms?”
It was then that a maid arrived with a tray of tea.
His mother occupied herself with instructing her to pour the tea before she turned back to George and pointed out, “It is high time I made room for the next duchess.”
Bile rose in the back of George's throat. With all he had been doing towards the estate, and with what had happened the day before, the very last thing on his mind was marriage.
“Yes, well, there are much more important things to be considered before any of that,” he said firmly, hoping she would let the matter rest.
The dowager duchess tilted her head gracefully. “Is there anything I might assist with?”
George thought for a second. There was truly nothing she might help with, bar one thing.
Yet could he really voice the situation to her? He had no idea how she might react to the absurdity of Lord Flannery's last wish.
“Georgie, what is it?”
George felt suddenly thrown back in time, back to the days when he had been a boy and in lieu of being able to talk with his father, he had always turned to his mother for advice.
He watched her pick up her teacup and take a sip before he admitted, “A proposal has been brought to my attention.”
Interest sparked in his mother's clear blue gaze, and he took a moment to look at her more closely.
Though her hair was still glossy and black, flecks of white were beginning to appear at her roots. She clearly still cared for herself well, but at almost forty-five, the cracks were beginning to show. Perhaps he ought not to trouble her with this. After all, it was his decision to make.
“Whatever it is, I am certain we shall manage it,” his mother assured him, and George prepared himself to admit the truth.
“Mr Jones called me to Fernworth Manor for the reading of Lord Flannery's will yesterday.”
“Whatever for?” his mother exclaimed. “Surely that is family business?”
“Indeed,” George said, nodding. “I had believed so, too, but it appears Lord Flannery had a clause in the will stipulating that he wished me to chaperone Lady Cecelia for the Season this year.”
“Surely not?” she gasped. Her eyes grew wider than George had ever seen them, and he almost laughed. It took a lot to surprise his mother.
Yet, it seemed he was the one about to be surprised as he said, “It is absurd, don't you think? Their mourning period has not yet been observed.”
He couldn't help thinking of Lady Cecelia then. Her raven hair. Her deep, striking green gaze. Her porcelain skin. The way she had looked at him …
“The only absurdity is that you should chaperone her at all,” his mother stated, sounding positively beside herself.
“I found it absurd, too,” George said, “I am much too busy.”
“The absurdity is that you should not court her yourself!”
At her words, George's mouth nearly fell open.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Cecelia is a beautiful and intelligent young lady. She is the daughter of a well-respected man from a decent and well-connected family. She would make a fine duchess.”
George did not dare to think of it.
So many times in childhood he had considered the idea. But he had been young, foolish, and hopelessly in love. And that had been before.
“You cannot be serious, Mother,” he protested.
She grew stiff at that, glowering at him as if she meant to scold him. “Why ever not?”
“You always said she was far too rebellious, far too stubborn, and far too boyish.”
She laughed and shook her head. “She was a child.”
Again, George thought of Cecelia. She had changed so much since they were children. On the outside at least.
Though she had always been beautiful in a girlish way, she was now a stunning if not stubborn young lady.
That much he knew for certain. He had seen it in her eyes the day before.
He was certain that even if he offered his help, she would not accept it.
Not without the encouragement of her mother, and he did not wish it to be so.
“You ought to remove the idea immediately from the table,” his mother advised, “do not waste your time when you could nip it in the bud and court her yourself.”
George's throat constricted. How could he possibly do such a thing after all that had happened between them?
The word coward still lingered in his mind. The look on her face that day even more so.
“I cannot imagine she would even entertain the idea,” George scoffed, his gaze lowered.
“Georgie, you are a duke,” his mother reminded him. “Nobody would dare reject you.”
George found amusement in that. To be called Georgie and a duke in the same sentence was laughable.
“Lady Cecelia has always been rebellious.”
When his mother didn't respond immediately, he looked up.
“She is also intelligent,” she said, looking him dead in the eye. “She would be foolish to reject such a proposal.”
George shrugged, unsure what to say.
“And, dare I say it, but you would be foolish not to try,” his mother said, continuing without blinking. “I remember how you used to follow her around like Little Bo-Peep's sheep.”
George felt his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “We were children.”
“And now you are adults. You ought to know a good thing when it is right in front of you.”
****
George and his mother conversed well past their discussion on Lord Flannery's will, and by the time he returned to his study, he was more than a little fatigued.
He dropped down into his seat and gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling window, admiring the roses growing outside. Those roses, Lady Cecelia had always stopped to smell whenever she visited. In fact, it was always one of the very first things she did.
He smiled at the memory as he realized, I cannot chaperone Lady Cecelia.
It would not be in the least bit appropriate, he decided, and knew he should take the decision to the Flannerys the very next morning.
How they might react, he was not certain, but his mind was set.