Chapter 16
“Your Grace.” Frederic stood and bowed as she reentered the drawing room.
Caroline blushed but curtsied. Esther and Philip had retired to rest as, no doubt, had Carlyle. Ruins of the morning’s happy revels littered the piano and sideboard—empty glasses spotted with the froth of absent champagne, stacks of plates littered with crumbs like cairns in the woods.
Caroline settled herself in a chair adjacent to Frederic’s with a sigh of relief. He rubbed a stray piece of ribbon between his fingers, staring out the window with a pleased, but absent expression.
It was the first time, she realized, they had been alone since that night in the garden. In the quiet, her aunt’s words about coming together and intimate time echoed around her mind. Was this that moment—this drawing room full of sunlight and shy glances? She shifted uncomfortably.
Was she ready? She wasn’t sure she would ever be. What was she to do? The duke expected—that much her aunt had made clear—that she would provide him an heir, and it was her duty to do so.
But—her curse! Could she ever have a child of her own with the weight of twisted fate bearing down on those she loved? She shuddered. No, no—she could not. She looked anxiously at Frederic’s face and with a start, noticed him staring at her.
“The lady thinks deeply,” he observed. “Would it please her to share her thoughts?”
Caroline stared at her hands for a moment, tracing the path of her scar. It was best to be forthright and to have the question out at once.
“Do you wish for an heir, Your Grace?”
Frederic started. The absent contentment drained from his face like sand from a glass.
“What? What’s that you said?”
He leaned forward in his chair. Caroline’s stomach twisted with nerves, but she raised her chin.
“I asked, Your Grace, if you wished for an heir.”
Frederic sat back, staring at her. Caroline resisted the urge to fidget. She stared back into his eyes, trying to plumb his thoughts. They were—as proved most dark wells—inscrutable.
“No,” he said finally with a finality that surprised her. “No, I do not.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are you certain?”
Caroline’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. Perhaps she had been wrong to ask in the first place.
A wry smile flitted across the duke’s face but didn’t quite chase the concern out of his expression. She rather wished it had.
“I’m quite certain. But—” he said with a searching look, “I wonder both at the boldness of the question and the root of its source?”
“I—my aunt—” Caroline flushed. “I had understood that an heir might be something—expected. Part of my duties as—your wife.”
The last two words stung her like a bee in spring. Frederic nodded understandingly. He didn’t seem infused with an inordinate amount of surprise which consoled Caroline at least in a small degree.
“In many cases, it must be admitted that a man—particularly in my position—may expect an heir from his wife.” He stood and made his way to the window, turning his back to her. “I am, however—and you are, I suppose—fortunate that no such demand from me is necessary.”
“In the case of my premature demise, Philip would be qualified to assume the responsibilities of the estate, thus freeing me from the obligation of producing an heir. And—”
A bitter spasm, like a bolt of sour lightning, twitched up from his mouth and into his eyes. “In any case, I have no intention of having an heir for reasons particularly my own.”
Caroline looked at the pattern stitched into the carpet, or feigned to look, while her thoughts and feelings sorted themselves into intelligible places.
“I—If I understand correctly, then,” Caroline began, “I am to be your wife in name only? Not as—”
Frederic shook his head. The light in his earlier eyes had snuffed out like a candle enveloped by night, replaced by the expression she had come to recognize from the past week.
“Our marriage is the result of an accident. One from which we have fortunately recovered, but—” He turned back to her. “I would never force a more intimate relationship upon either one of us. It shall be as it began—a rescue from scandal, nothing more.”
Caroline sighed with relief. Then the question of a child wasn’t hers to ask. The curse, at least, would have no power to influence her progeny, even if it had some hold on her present.
Behind her relief lurked something: a pang of regret.
Her arms would not hold a baby as had her mother’s and Aunt Olivia’s.
Her hands would not lead little fingers and faces forward into a wondering and open world—not, at least, for children of her own.
Somewhere, a piece of her heart wilted like a flower without sunlight.
Perhaps, in another life, she would have liked to be a mother.
For now, in her case and situation, she recognized the wisdom in Frederic’s words—appreciated it, even. Neither of them had entered into the marriage expecting love or intimacy beyond the usual, transactional amount. A week ago, she would have been relieved beyond measure for the opportunity.
Now—- She studied the scar on the back of her hand. Now, at least, their positions were clear.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I shall endeavor to fill my new role to the utmost of my abilities.”
“I have no doubt you will do so well. And—” He struggled for a moment, “—please do not underestimate my gratitude for your understanding and your cooperation. I deeply appreciate your willingness to abide by my inclinations and hope that they also gratify yours.”
“I will inform Your Grace should my inclinations change.”
He smiled at her, bowed, then led her to her room.
It was large and amply and tastefully furnished. A long, round mirror sat in the corner like a beneficent eye, reflecting back the polish and richness of an ornate wardrobe. Oscar meowed as she opened the door. She gratefully took him in her arms before cuddling peacefully on the bed.
The afternoon passed dreamily as she considered the day’s events. The ceremony, the breakfast, the dance—they blended in her thoughts like notes in a music box, and her feelings danced to the melody.
She thought with pleasure about her aunt and Winifred’s beaming faces and staring into Frederic’s deep, handsome eyes as Mr. Kirkham read the wedding vows.
Perhaps, she admitted to herself, she had been wrong. The brightness in Frederic’s face had not been a particular sign of regard. More accurately, it was a simple effusion of his contentment, a beam of general happiness of which she had been fortunate enough to catch a glimpse.
She sighed over it but acknowledged the rightness of Frederic’s adherence against demanding an heir. It aligned too well with her own inclination to maintain distance—civility, still, but distance and safety foremost.
The face of Lady Felicity floated through the jetsam along with Esther’s wish and warning. Had there been more between Felicity and Frederic? She realized she knew almost nothing about his past—his paramours, his preferences. It widened the gap between them just a few hairs farther.
At dinner, Esther and Philip had been engaged to dine elsewhere and were absent from the table. The meal was a silent affair. Frederic ate, bowed, and departed, leaving Caroline alone at the long, polished dining room.
This was how it would be then. She settled into her chair and raised her chin. She could and would support herself. And, after all, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t return to visit Aunt Olivia and Winifred. Not this evening, of course—that would be seen as odd, perhaps—but definitely on another.
Evening, with its doubts and shadows, crept over Highcastle.
Caroline returned through the empty halls to her room.
A maidservant entered her room and banked the fire for the night, curtsied, and left.
Oscar, curled on Caroline’s blankets, flicked his tail absently.
Caroline caught it between her fingers, brushing it onto a luxurious crimson pillow. Oscar growled without raising his head.
“You would be comfortable anywhere, you great tuft of fur.”
She tousled his ears and sat up.
Her bed was much larger here. The whole room was much larger, but then—so were the shadows cast by the evening fire. She ought to have felt more grateful and a part of her certainly was. A larger, more vulnerable part ached for biscuits and tea with her aunt, Winifred, and Ajax panting at her knee.
She looked through the dark windowpane. What were they likely doing right now at this very moment? A dull, achy feeling spread over her. She longed for just one of her aunt’s jokes or Winifred’s witticisms.
Oscar yawned and stretched himself further out on the blankets.
“You’re right,” she said to him. “It is a comfortable bed, a decadent one even, but I’m not ready for it quite yet.”
She opened her door, poked her head out, and stepped into the hall.
Dim candles lit the long space at either end, leaving a sea of blackness in the middle.
Her heart beat faster like the clatter of wheels over cobblestone.
She forced herself to take measured, deliberate steps until she stepped into the candle’s light.
Caroline turned in the dark, straining at a noise. Most of the great house, tired by the exertions of the day, stood silent.
The dull hum of voices drew her to the library. She stood in the hall shadows, just outside the bright square cast by the open door. Philip was there, apparently returned from the outing with his mother. He and Frederic were playing Whist. Frederic wore a long, dark brown smoking jacket.
“The Duke of York didn’t come today—he said his gout was bothering him.”
Philip laid down two of his cards.
“Would he have come even if it wasn’t?”
Frederic laughed heartily. Caroline smiled. Every lineament of his features had brightened, heightened in this quiet moment with his brother. Caroline allowed her eyes to wander over his face then sighed, preparing to return to her room.
Philip looked up, catching her eye.
“Caroline,” he said, standing. “I thought—”