Chapter Two #3
Aaran had no opportunity to respond, for Beaufort and the rector joined them at the front of the church.
“We should begin,” Mr. Sweeney declared.
And that was that. The end of Aaran’s budding interest in Lady Freya Cunningham raised its ugly head to announce he would never know the peace his brothers had found, for Aaran’s sin was one belonging to his parents, both of whom never displayed a speck of generosity to others.
Both her mother and father had not yet come down to breakfast, but Freya sat at the table, nevertheless, and ate her meal.
Her father had forbidden her to speak of Lord Graham, but Freya had always had a mind of her own, and it was impossible, after all, for her heart not to whisper His Lordship’s name.
“I think I shall go for a walk,” she told her father’s butler.
“Cook says there’s rain in the air,” Mr. Wharton warned.
“I shan’t go far,” she assured. “There has been little time for a stretch of the legs lately. For more than a week now.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, more for her mother’s sake than her own, for Lady Maeve Cunningham did still worry for Freya’s constitution.
She started off along the lane that curved down the hill.
It was already rutted by the latest rains, and she had no doubt her father would have men out early to make the necessary repairs, for, last evening, he had been most displeased by the bumpy ride to his home.
In that manner, Freya could honestly say Lord Iain Cunningham was an excellent lord of the manor, as people would say, though, in Scotland, it might be more appropriate to say lord of the keep.
“Everything is the same,” she murmured as she paused to look around her. “Everything, but me.”
Off in the distance, she could view patches of brown. Thatch. Scattered, but drawn close together. Open fields, now fallow and waiting for the spring planting. A pair of young boys guided a flock of geese towards a nearby pond.
“It is not the same, is it?” she whispered.
“People change, but so do expectations. I do not wish to travel the world, though I would if someone special asked me to do so. Lady Annalise wished for a home, but she was intelligent enough to realize a home could also be a person. Exotic places are empty unless seeing them with a loved one. Shared memories. Yet, how do I arrange another meeting with a particular gentleman? And would it matter if I did?”
A bit of mist kissed her cheek. “Better return to the house,” she declared as she picked up her pace. “Cook was right once again.”
She was nearly at a run when she reached the door. Thankfully, Mr. Wharton opened it before she caught the latch. “I should have listened to Cook’s warning,” she said as she shook out her damp shawl.
“Yes, my lady,” Wharton said with a small smile.
“I mean to change my clothes,” she announced as she adjusted the seams of her day dress.
“His Lordship wished to speak to you, my lady. He is still at his breakfast,” Wharton informed her.
Freya frowned. “Speak to me?”
“I told him you had gone for a short walk, and Lord Cunningham said he wished a word with you when you returned,” the butler explained.
Her father’s voice could be heard from the open door of the morning room. “Freya, come here.”
She attempted to disguise her dismay, but Freya fooled no one.
She hurried to answer her father’s bidding.
“Yes, my lord,” she said as she stepped into the room.
Freya was surprised to discover her mother had not come down to breakfast, which meant Lady Cunningham was hiding from the awful truth her husband meant to announce to their daughter. Freya’s spine stiffened.
Her father motioned her deeper into the room.
“I wished to tell you that I have entered negotiations with Sir Patrick Hodge, Dickerson’s cousin, who has asked for your hand in marriage.
Naturally, Hodge cannot consider an actual marriage until his year of mourning for the late Lady Hodge ends after the turn of the new year.
In March, though I am not confident of the exact date, but I will look again at our correspondence.
The baronet is thinking June or July, not too soon so as to raise objections, but soon enough. ”
“Sir Patrick is twice my age,” Freya protested before she could swallow her protest.
“I am eight years your mother’s senior,” her father reasoned.
“And Sir Patrick must be nearer to your age than mine!” Her voice rose in protest.
Her father ignored her concerns. “I have told Sir Patrick that you have always been an obedient daughter and will be an obedient wife and mother to his two daughters. The man will require an heir to his baronetcy. I would not wish my fate on another.”
Freya realized there was no hope to argue against this new reality, for her father’s word was final.
No one would assist her in her cause to know true affection.
Her mother’s life was one she would be required to replicate.
No exchange of ideas. No give and take in how to raise her children or even to decorate the house in which she would spend the remainder of her days.
Her mother’s life and her sister’s life would soon be the model for hers.