Chapter 12
“And so all of the Dreshers drowned? Every one of them?” Philip’s eyes widened.
Caroline nodded.
“In that one day I lost them all—my mother, father, brother, sisters—servants and attendants, too.”
Philip shook his head in disbelief.
“What a terrible tragedy!”
The sun had dipped low in the sky, like a ladle seeking white soup. Caroline confessed herself a little fatigued from her stroll to the river spot, but she wouldn’t have wounded Philip’s feelings for the world. Besides, the walk back had given them time to discuss the sad happenings of her past.
“Well, I believe you’re a wonderful and resilient lady, no matter what anyone else thinks,” he said. “And I’m grateful you’ve come to Highcastle.”
Philip cradled her hand protectively. Caroline smiled at him. It had been a relief, talking about the dark events that had so recently haunted her dreams. Philip had listened with wide and pitying eyes, commenting in all the right places as he did now.
“It’s a wonder that you survived!”
“If it wasn’t for the stranger, for the dark figure who pulled me from the water, I should have joined them.” Caroline sighed. Perhaps she yet might. Who knew what trouble her curse would cause? She withdrew her hand from Philip’s arm.
“I am terribly sorry, Caroline,” he said. “I mean, Lady Caroline. Frederic says I’m not to get too familiar with you until you’re ready.”
Caroline winced. It was perilous, this increasing familiarity. She had sworn to herself to stay distant. Philip fidgeted with his cravat.
“It’s all right,” Caroline relented. “I don’t mind the use of my regular name so long as you permit me the use of yours.”
Philip patted her hand gratefully.
“Then we’re—friends?”
Caroline sighed but nodded.
“Friends, surely, and soon to be relatives.”
They had reached the house, now. Esther poked her head out of one of the veranda windows.
“There you are! I couldn’t imagine where you had got off to for such a time, but now, I have ample reason for your disappearance.”
Philip straightened his waistcoat.
“We were just getting better acquainted, Mother. I took Caroline to see the roses by the river.”
Esther peered at Caroline’s face.
“You look a little fatigued, dear. Won’t you come and have some tea before we start your next lesson?”
A simple, hot Negus took the weariness from Caroline’s bones. She sipped it gratefully while Philip looked at her with worried eyes.
“I’m quite all right,” she said. “There’s no use in having good energy if I don’t occasionally use it up.”
Philip nibbled at a beef sandwich as if it were a raw carrot.
“I hope that you’re quite well. Frederic—”
“Frederic what?”
The duke’s voice boomed across the room. Both Caroline and Philip jumped. Philip stood up as quickly as holding his saucer allowed. Carlyle bowed affably.
“Tea, your Grace? There’s a bit of hot Negus, some sandwiches as well.”
Caroline focused on drawing the cup to her lips with as little commotion as possible. The Duke of Blackmore took a seat next to her and accepted the teacup Esther proffered him.
“And how have the lessons been today?”
“Well enough,” Esther answered promptly. “Though this one—” she pointed at Philip, “made off into the garden with my pupil.”
Frederic raised his eyebrows. Caroline winced at Esther’s phrasing. Philip turned a pallid sort of green that reminded Caroline very much of a lily pad.
“It was an accident,” Philip said. He looked at Caroline. “I mean a pleasant accident, but you see—”
Caroline carefully put a sandwich onto her plate to keep her hand from shaking.
“He wanted to show me the most beautiful spot in Highcastle,” she said. “It took a while to walk, but—the roses were lovely.”
Frederic took a hearty bite out of his sandwich.
“Off chasing flowers again, Philip? What about your lessons, much less Lady Caroline’s? It’s no excuse that she needs them far less than you do.”
Esther hemmed into her tea.
“The next lesson concerns you, Frederic. I was hoping you’d be Lady Caroline’s dance partner. There will be dancing at the wedding, you know, and I’d like for the both of you to be prepared.”
Caroline’s heart fluttered as it always did when someone mentioned the wedding. It was so easy to forget—ironically—what all of the practice and preparations were for. Frederic frowned.
“I don’t need practice. I’ve been dancing all my life. Have you seen something amiss?”
“Of course not, dear,” Esther said, taking a small bite of sandwich. “But you’ve never—to my knowledge—danced with Lady Caroline, who…”
She cleared her throat. Caroline felt herself blushing. Frederic looked at her. She met—or tried to meet—his eyes levelly. This was one area where she could have no pride.
“I would be grateful if you would help me practice, Your Grace,” she said. “I—I—may not have your ease or familiarity yet with dancing.”
Frederic shifted in his seat. Caroline could see as clearly as the painting on the mantelpiece that he was disinclined to dance.
Her blush deepened, accompanied by a familiar pang in her chest. It certainly wasn’t the first time she had been slighted by a partner.
She took another sip of hot Negus. Frederic straightened his waistcoat.
“If the Lady Caroline requests—”
“Excellent!” Lady Esther stood and made her way to the piano seat. “We’ll work our way through a quadrille, then.”
“May I hold your watch, Frederic?” Philip asked. “I’ll use it to time the steps.”
Frederic handed Philip the watch—a gold one that glinted in the fading light—and moved to the middle of the room.
Caroline moved to stand opposite him. She didn’t know where to look.
A blush settled on her shoulders like a pink shawl.
This was the closest she’d been to Frederic—to the duke—since the proposal.
Esther settled herself on the bench and trilled a few notes on the piano.
“Ready, then? Begin!”
Caroline curtsied and tried not to wobble. She could count on her fingers how many times she had stood up with a gentleman to dance. Practicing at home with Winifred and Ajax hadn’t been quite the same. Frederic put out his hand.
She took it. Even through her glove, his touch was so warm, so steady, like a home fire in a storm. His eyes, perhaps, hadn’t heard yet about his fingers’ welcoming warmth. They remained cold and distant, fixed on a point above her shoulder.
Even so, she felt steadier herself, more sure on her feet—even, ironically—than when she had been seated at tea.
Caroline recollected herself. This was a duty to perform—a necessary task to endure. She chasséd through the steps, trying not to watch her toes.
“Prettily done,” Esther called over the music. “A little less stiff, both of you.”
Caroline raised her chin. Her eyes met Frederic’s just as she stepped to walk past him. She stumbled. Her tired limbs missed their cue entirely, sending her careening towards the floor.
Frederic’s arms circled her waist. She lurched to a stop and looked up. For the second time, Frederic’s eyes met hers. This time, they were deep, dark green wells of concern and—attraction? Caroline’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked so open, like an unlatched gate to the garden in spring.
Philip laughed.
“Well, that’s definitely less stiff at least.”
Caroline sucked in a quick breath and put her feet solidly back down on the floor. Frederic set her down and stepped away then bowed like three-day old bread.
“That’s enough dancing. Lady Caroline is fatigued after her exertions today. No doubt her performance will improve with rest.”
Caroline looked at the floor and sighed. She felt drained and more than just a little chagrined. If only she hadn’t stumbled! He was displeased by her error, no doubt, and put off by her awkwardness.
And yet—it was too much to presume—too much to hope, the warmth she had read in the duke’s eyes. He had been caught off guard, no doubt, just as she had been, and thinking of something else.
Frederic bowed.
“I have other business about the house and must leave you now.” He turned to Philip. “Perhaps, sir, you would be inclined to take my place as Lady Caroline’s partner if I may entrust you with that business?”
Esther frowned but busied herself with the music. Philip looked like a bird caught in the nest.
“I—uh, certainly—” he stammered, struggling to disentangle himself from his chair. He looked at Caroline and blushed but smiled shyly. “I would be honored.”
Frederic bowed, turned on his heel, and left. The door clamped shut behind him. Philip looked after him with surprise.
“Oh! He forgot his watch.” He put it in his pocket. “I’ll just look after it until he asks for it again.”
Esther trilled the keys, and he hurried into position. Caroline curtsied, trying to keep her mind on the steps. It was prone to wander, though, and kept going back to her dance with the duke.
They moved through several sets of the quadrille. Philip was a gentle if somewhat scatterbrained partner, but he made his way through the forms in a way that demonstrated equal practice at home.
“I haven’t been out to a ball yet,” Philip explained, “but Mother and Frederic think that this year I might begin.”
“Might,” Esther’s voice echoed from the piano. “Let’s get through these next few weeks at least, Philip, before you begin begging for balls again.”
Caroline blushed again, this time with a pricking self-consciousness. In moments with the duke, she almost forgot the burden and the duty of the coming marriage. It had all happened so quickly, and she hadn’t had time—No. Here she must be honest.
She hadn’t made time to consider how irksome her marriage must appear to Esther and even to Philip.
It pained her to think of the discomfort and unease that must inevitably filter down to them as a result of the scandal, regardless of the marriage to come.
A few tears pricked the edges of her eyes.
It was good of them to help her so—to support what, in their minds, must be a necessary evil.
And then, there was her curse to consider.
Was she making the right decision bringing not only her background and scars to Highcastle but also the curse that had shaped them?
She crossed hands with Philip and turned together before landing at a new place in the line.
He seemed so eager to be friends—so willing to listen and understand. Dangerously so.
Philip bowed after the last chassé. Esther clapped politely from the piano bench.
“Well done to both of you. Shall we try it once again before dinner?”
Frederic marched through two hallways and a drawing room before he collected himself sufficiently to realize where he was. Where the deuce had he been going? He turned on his heel and headed toward the library.
He was going to be married next week. There wasn’t much to be done in that quarter. The license had been purchased, the church reserved, and the bans accordingly published. The business was nearly done with, then. His reason rested on that assurance. His feelings, however, took no such comfort.
Lady Caroline had not been what he anticipated. Her beauty was distracting, it was true, but so would it be for any other man. Something else—something deeper discombobulated and disarmed him in a series of alarming and embarrassing combinations.
He couldn’t allow himself to be infatuated—appreciative, perhaps, even grateful since the bride of his forced-choosing bore so many marks of good breeding and beauty.
His heart beat like a drum on May Day. It must have been the exertion, strolling through the halls as he had been.
He flattered himself on making a regular habit of exercise, but today, he must have overdone his efforts.
He’d sit a moment and allow his pulse to settle before continuing on with his business.
Carlyle had already lit the evening candles. The light flickered over the worn, friendly spines and tickled at the gold lettering. Frederic threw himself into a tufted leather chair.
The entrancing smell of her hair, mixed with fresh sunshine, floated through his memory. He stamped it out like coal in a grate which did nothing to help his fluttering heart rate.
It was a convenience—an obligation born out of scandalous necessity, nothing more.
He covered his eyes with his hand. Her face, gentle and wondering in the moment he’d caught her—held her—swam to the surface.
He frowned. The memory flickered for a moment then changed.
He remembered it differently—dark, broken, and drowned in a storm.
He shook his head, clearing both images from his mind.
It didn’t matter. This marriage wouldn’t affect his daily habits or actions—he was absolutely determined. He could—and would—continue on with his life as usual.
“Your Grace?”
Frederic nearly jumped out of his chair. Carlyle bowed from the doorway closest to the kitchens.
“The evening meal is in the final stages of preparation, sir. It will be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
Frederic breathed deeply through his nose.
“Yes, thank you.”
His wretched pulse wouldn’t settle in a place like this—too many interruptions. He felt more like running a lap around the house than sitting down to eat, but perhaps some food would do him good. He had but a few minutes to wait.
A copy of Aristotle lay on the side table. He picked it up and flipped through the pages. He brushed away his thoughts and turned his eyes to the words.
“Friendship is essentially a partnership,” he read. “It is not a lack of love but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”
Frederic sighed and rubbed his eyes. As if he needed reminding in his current situation. He and Lady Caroline were but a week away from being complete strangers, much less genial acquaintances, but he didn’t need his marriage to be happy—just civil. That was achievable, at least.
He flipped the page, searching—for the first time in his life—for a droll comment on the navy or economics. His eyes found a new passage.
“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”
He tossed the book back onto the side table. Aristotle, not for the first time, had not been as helpful as he had hoped. He wandered to the shelves to return the volume and searched for something else to read.
He passed over The Sorrows of Young Werther—too pathetic—and The Bride of Lammermoor—too droll.
Surely there was something better available than those.
He needed something meatier, something less dramatic.
He made his way to a lower shelf, stooping to find an old copy he’d used in his own lessons years ago.
Where in the world was Tacitus when you needed him?
The dinner bell rang. He stood, straightening his jacket, relieved and annoyed. Tacitus, it seemed, would have to wait.