Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“The last of the luggage has been collected and organized, Your Grace,” a footman said as he gave a small bow to Isla. “Mrs. Callahan has been notified and will be traveling ahead of you all to ensure arrangements are made before your arrival. I believe that will be all?”
“Aye! That is grand news,” Isla said. “I ken His Grace is eager for us to make good time back to the country. I will be with the lad in the drawing room should ye require anythin’ further for the preparations.”
“Very well, Your Grace,” he said with a small bow.
Two days had passed since their blissful outing at the theatre, and their departure for Ealdwick was imminent the morning after next. Isla was supervising Oliver through a particularly tedious lesson on Roman history when an unexpected arrival rang through the townhouse.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” the footman said as he entered the room. “There is a Lord Lamfort here to see you.”
Lamfort? Aye, the portly gentleman who had caused trouble at the ball and whose very presence seemed to attract gossip…
Whatever could he want? And without proper invitation?
The lord soon made his way into the room with ease, his arms stretched out wide in greeting.
“Your Grace, what a delight,” Lamfort chirped, bowing low over Isla’s hand as he kissed it.
“I simply could not allow you to escape London without conveying my sincere regrets for the unfortunate disturbance the other evening. A terrible misunderstanding, I assure you. You do accept my most heartfelt apology, Your Grace?”
Isla, ever the polite hostess, masked her annoyance with a tight smile. “Yer apology is accepted, my lord. We are quite prepared to forget the matter entirely.” She indicated the tea tray that was sitting on a nearby table. “Will ye take tea with us this afternoon?”
“Delighted,” he said, settling into a comfortable armchair as if he lived there, and fixing his attention on Oliver.
The boy was trying to shrink behind a stack of books in the corner, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden and unexpected visitor.
“Dear young Oliver,” Lamfort said, his smile too wide to be sincere. “Growing up so fast, aren’t we? Tell me, my boy, are you pleased with your new stepmother?”
“Her Grace is most kind,” he said, stiff-backed as he put down his book to look up at Lamfort.
“Oh, yes, and she is quite a striking woman. Though, perhaps a touch… rustic. At least for us English folk,” he said with a wink, taking a sip of tea and grabbing a biscuit.
“Her Grace is very kind, my lord,” Oliver continued as he rose to his feet. “She was just going over some history lessons with me, and when we are in the country, she is going to show me how to play shinty,” he replied politely.
Lamfort chuckled, but the sound was thin and flat as a piece of parchment. “Shinty. Indeed. An amusing Scottish country diversion, I’m sure. Cannot say I have heard of it.”
“It is a grand game! Her Grace says it is important to stay active, no matter what and—”
“Do you find that Her Grace gives you proper guidance, Oliver? Especially with your…ailments…”
“I’m not sure I understand the question, my lord,” Oliver said, his voice growing low. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you are the future Duke, after all. Do you discuss finance, perhaps? Or the responsibilities of your extensive holdings? Or is it all just flights of fancy?”
Isla stepped in, sensing Oliver’s rising discomfort and the trajectory of the conversation. “Me lord, Oliver is currently focused on his Latin and history, as is appropriate for his young age.”
“Perhaps for some,” Lamfort said sharply as he grabbed another biscuit.
“Exercise is the cornerstone of any young Duke’s future. And as for the rest, I am sure His Grace will see to it,” Isla pressed.
Lamfort waved a dismissive hand, turning his full attention back to the boy.
“Nonsense. A boy of his station needs preparation for the real world. Your father was quite precocious as a young man, you know. I recall when he was your age, he was already discussing the finer points of the market with certain people.”
He paused, leaning toward the boy as he took a bite of his biscuit, crumbs falling on his lap.
“Tell me, do you ever confuse Her Grace with your late mother? They are quite different sorts of women, I must say. Night and day!”
Oliver’s face went pale as his hands tightened into little balls by his sides. He clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
“Oliver, mo chridhe, how about you alert the maids to fetch us some fresh biscuits from the kitchen as our guest seems to like them so, so much?” Isla suggested gently, offering the boy an escape.
Oliver scrambled from the room with no more than a nod. Isla then turned to Lamfort, her eyes sharp and piercing on the interloper.
“Me lord, I believe the lad has offered ye all the conversation he is comfortable with this afternoon. Thank ye for payin’ a call, but I do believe we must focus on our preparations to leave.”
Before Lamfort could retort, the front door boomed shut, and the heavy tread of Benedict’s boots echoed in the hall. Suddenly, the Duke appeared in the doorway, shedding his great coat with an air of cold displeasure.
He stopped dead when he saw the Viscount.
“Lamfort,” Benedict’s voice cut out like grinding stone. “To what do we owe this visit? And without invitation, may I add? We have much to attend to and no time for unscheduled social calls.”
Lamfort remained flawlessly charming as he rose smoothly, extending a hand that Benedict did not take.
“Your Grace! What timing! I was merely calling to pay my respects to Her Grace and, as a great family friend, check in on the young, future Duke. I happened to be passing by is all. No need to fret!”
“I do not fret, Lamfort,” Benedict barked.
“Of course, Your Grace. I just learned that you are leaving for Ealdwick soon?”
Benedict stepped fully into the room, his hulking presence dwarfing the older man. “We are. And when we return to London, I shall send you notice should you like to arrange for a proper call.”
Lamfort chuckled, the sound brittle as his belly shook.
“Of course, Your Grace. Always so proper! I must confess, this was all brought on by my deep affection for, well… for all members of the Ealdwick household. Past and present.” He shot a pointed, lingering look at Isla.
“It has been a delight, Your Grace. I trust your journey home will be uneventful.”
He bowed deeply and offered a final, unnerving smile, then swept out of the room like a tempest.
Isla sat down heavily, her shoulders slumping as she ran a hand over her eyes. Oliver returned with the biscuits and looked at the empty chair, then visibly relaxed as he set them down on the table.
“He is gone, mo chridhe. Ye can go back to your lessons now,” Isla said softly. “Ye can go to the library, and I will meet ye shortly.”
The boy rushed to the corner, grabbed his books, and skipped out of the drawing room, leaving Isla and Benedict alone.
Isla looked up at him as he stood rigid by the empty hearth, staring at the spot where Lamfort had stood moments ago.
“That man is a poisonous creature,” Benedict finally bit out. “Always has been you know.”
“He is surely a bother,” Isla agreed, rising and walking toward him. “Why does he have such free rein to be so pesty, Benedict? He seemed… fixated on yer former wife. He said some things to me…”
Benedict stiffened, running a hand through his dark hair. “Lamfort has always been a jackal. He was quite close to Cecilia. She was his cousin, you know. Lamfort attached himself to her circle like a parasite. A leech.”
Isla took a tentative step closer. “Ye have never spoken of her before.”
“I find it difficult,” he admitted as he finally met her gaze, his voice rough. He paused, collecting himself. “And not for the reasons you may expect. We were not… in love, as one reads about in the books. She was an excellent match that helped me at a time when the duchy needed repair.”
“Oh?”
“It is a long story,” he said with a sigh. “There is much you do not know and that I do not discuss openly.”
“We have time,” Isla said softly, encouraging him. “Why nae start where it feels right?”
“The guilt is always there, you see. About everything. I—I was too aloof, too consumed by the burdens of the title and picking up the pieces my father had left fall around us. I failed Cecilia. I should have protected her from everything, including the demands of this life. And when she died…” He stopped, swallowing hard.
Isla placed a hand softly on his arm. “How did she die?”
Perhaps if he says it, he can be freed of the burden…
“Fever. A sudden, cruel fever that took her in three days.” He turned, leaning his forearm on the mantelpiece, his head bowed. “It was all so quick. And brutal. Just like… just like my mother. Right after childbirth.”
Isla stood in shocked silence. She knew the Duke’s mother had died young, but the pain in his voice made the fact real.
“My mother died when I was born,” Benedict continued, his voice barely audible. “From what little my father shared, she had been ill during the pregnancy, and a fever during the birth took her life.”
“Oh, Benedict—”
“Father insisted that Dukes do not show distress. So, whenever I cried for her, a woman I never even knew, he said I was weak. He said I was just like her. He was a vicious man, Isla. Cruel and distant. He used her death to harden me… it worked.”
He lifted his head, his eyes burning with a fierce, self-loathing intensity as he began to pace the room.
“When Cecilia died, I felt that same sense of failure. I could not save my mother, and I could not save my wife. They both died under my roof. I see Oliver, and I worry every day that I am repeating my father’s cruelty. That I am too cold to truly care for anyone. But it is all I have ever known…”
Isla closed the small distance between them. She reached up and placed her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look down at her.
“Stop, Benedict! Stop right there,” she commanded softly, her accent pronounced with emotion.
“How do you give something that you never received yourself?”
“Ye are nothing like yer father. Ye are fierce, aye, and ye are far too stoic, but ye are nae cruel. Ye are a good man. I ken ye have love in yer heart, I can feel it in me own bones.”
“You do not know that,” he whispered.
“I do know that,” she insisted. “Cruel men do nae fight for a broken woman’s dignity in front of the whole town.
Cruel men do nae let their lads hug their knee after a pantomime.
Ye are terrified of failure, and so ye hide behind the coldness.
But it is just a mask, and we all wear them.
Ye are a good man, mo chridhe. And ye are a good faither. ”
It was a shocking display of vulnerability she had never expected to witness, bringing a pang to her gut. He leaned down, burying his face in the soft crook of her neck. His arms wrapped around her tightly, a desperate, silent plea for comfort.
“I am so tired of the guilt, Isla,” he confessed, his voice muffled against her skin.
She held him, stroking his soft, black hair, her own heart swelling at the true intimacy of all he had shared, of being so close.
“Let me carry some of your troubles,” she whispered into his ear. “Let it go, Benedict. We are here now. We are safe. We have each other.”
He pulled back slightly, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. His hands slid to her waist, and he pulled her closer still, kissing her not with the passion of possession, but with the tenderness of a man newly found.
We are nae so different. We are just two people, scarred by life and loss, clingin’ to each other in the quiet sanctuary of our home.