Chapter 49
Forty-Nine
Aurora stood in the drawing room, looking out over the front drive and watched Alec’s—no, the Duke’s—carriage set out for its trip to Scotland. She felt numb, wrung out. What was there left to say? Left to do? One foot in front of the other, Aurora; it is time to face your parents.
She climbed the stairs slowly, holding onto the banister all the way.
When she told her parents, it would truly be real.
He would be gone, and she would begin her new life.
She was prepared for her parents’ disappointment—she had walked away from a duke, after all this effort on their part!
The guilt was immense. As was the sadness.
She could imagine that small hand on hers, promising friendship and something new.
She would have been able to be a mother, and have that little girl in her life, every day.
A few months back, she would not have imagined wanting such a thing so soon, and not even her own child.
Except that Marjorie would have been, in fact, she already felt as if she was part of her.
The feeling of that small hand changed to a larger one, and it was strong enough that she tightened her grip on the banister.
She wanted him back, to look at her with those sharp, intelligent eyes.
She wanted him to smile at her and hear that teasing tone in his voice.
She wanted him to touch her. But that was over.
Any volumes of Byron left in the house would be going directly into the fire.
Eventually, she reached the top step and headed toward her parents’ room. She scratched gently at the door; after a moment, her mother opened it. The latter took one look at her face and said, “Come in, my dear. Come in. We heard the carriage. What has happened?”
The drapes were opened in the room to let in some sunshine, and Aurora’s father was sitting up in bed, a cup held in his hand which was still giving off a faint cloud of steam.
His face fell when he spotted her, and he beckoned her to come closer.
Dragging one of the room’s heavy chairs closer to the bed, Aurora sat down and took his free hand.
Her mother resumed her seat near the bed.
“Papa, he has gone. It is me, that is, it is because of me. What I want, for myself, for Marjorie, for a marriage, he cannot stomach. You were right, Papa. I asked too much of him. A man of his class, the way I wish to conduct my life, those things could not work.”
“Aurora—”
“Papa, I know.” She turned and looked at her mother before she began again.
“This home, the manufactory— they have been your life’s work.
I intend them to be my life’s work as well.
I care very much for these people, for what you have established here.
I do not wish to see the business turned over to someone who does not understand why we run things the way we do. ”
She swallowed and continued. “I know you are disappointed in me. You have both worked very hard to turn me into someone who would elevate our family to a higher station. But the price? The price is too high. I cannot pay it.”
She dared to meet her father’s eyes, waiting to see the reproach in them.
All she saw was sadness. And a resigned acceptance.
“I hold myself responsible, Aurora,” he said.
“I encouraged you from the time you were small. I gave you the run of my library. I allowed you to come to the manufactory, learn how the machines worked along with how the business was conducted. You would have made a better duchess, without all that particular knowledge and experience. I should not have encouraged you, but, oh, I would also have lost so much. Rose, will you ever forgive me for destroying all your hopes for our daughter?”
There was a silence, punctuated by a sudden sob.
“Desmond, there is nothing you have ever done that I would not forgive.” Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief, then faced Aurora.
“Daughter, you will be so lonely, so very lonely. I wanted you to have comfort. I wanted you to have station. I wanted you to have everything your father and I could not give you. You have grown into such a lady; the way you speak, move, conduct yourself. I am so proud of you. But I fear for you. I will not be here forever, just as your father will not. What will your life be? Even I know this is not how things are done.”
Aurora set her father’s hand down on the counterpane. Standing up, she took the few steps to her mother and enfolded her with an embrace. “It will be hard, Mama. But I am your daughter. I come of good, hardy stock. I will make this work.”
Her mother clung to her in response. They were interrupted by her father loudly blowing his nose into his own enormous handkerchief.
He cleared his throat. “All right. I think it is time to begin, Aurora. I would advise that you, Calum, and I sit down together tomorrow and begin to plan for the coming year.”
* * *
It was one of the longest carriage rides Alec felt he had ever taken. Marjorie spent the days of travel as far away from him as possible. On the times he had attempted to engage her in conversation, she had only said quietly, “I am not ready to parley with you, Papa.”
At long last, they arrived at the Selkirk estate, and the party wearily made their way inside.
Marjorie immediately took off for her chamber, Peg in her wake.
Alec headed to the drawing room, which was dusty and unprepared for their arrival.
The elderly butler scurried after him, gesturing for the even more elderly footman to follow him and begin opening the drapes and pulling the cloth covers off the furniture.
The sideboard still retained its dusty decanter of whisky, and Alec quickly poured himself a glass.
“Thank you,” he said. “You may leave me. Just a light supper in our rooms this evening. I am sorry for the lack of notice.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he heard, but it sounded very far away.
“Deuce take it,” he said out loud after both men had left.
“I am not the one at fault here. You are the daughter of a duke, Marjorie. Why do you not understand, Aurora?” He knew neither one was here with him.
This had been the argument dementedly going round and round in his head the entire drive.
It felt a relief to speak it, even if just to a silent room. But there was no one to reply.
The air around him felt cold, empty of any human warmth.
By doing what he was sure was the correct thing to do, had he lost them both?
Well, he could try again with Marjorie. His daughter did not bear a grudge; there was always tomorrow.
But Aurora? With a growl, he downed the whisky so fast it burned the back of his throat and set him to coughing.
“Damn you, woman. How am I supposed to live without you?”
The strength and pain in that question pushed him to his feet and led him out of the room, almost running up the stairs to get away from what felt like an insistent ghost.
A restless night’s sleep had him up early and on his horse.
Calling on his steward, he had the man join him on a ride around the estate.
He stopped to check the conditions in the fields, of the buildings, and even addressed some of the concerns expressed by his people when they encountered him.
He knew the unexpected return of the laird would get tongues flapping.
The fact that he returned the same way he had left—alone, and with only his daughter for company—would lead to even more gossip.
And worry. He meant to do well by his tenants—why could Aurora not have seen he understood her care for the workers at her father’s manufactory?
They had this in common: neither wished to exploit the people they each felt responsible for. Why did she not see this?
Then he remembered his daughter in her trousers, running across the field.
His daughter, in trousers! In a manufactory!
It was one thing for him to undertake this task, this business; it was necessary for her future.
But it was not for her to clamber around machinery as one of the commonfolk working there.
It was not done! Slamming down his glass, Alec went in search of some food.
After luncheon, he reviewed the books with the steward and saw that things remained as they had per the last letter.
De’il take it! Money. He still needed it, badly.
Well, he had learned the hard way that marriage was not as easy a state to obtain as he had hoped.
He dismissed the steward and pulled a sheet of paper onto the center of the desk.
Picking up his quill—the deuced thing needed sharpening, but he did not care—he dipped it into the inkwell and began to write.
Dear Cousin, he began. I am home again, though without a bride.
A tale for another day. All remains as it was on the estate.
The time has come—the quill hovered so long over the paper, it began to drip.
His stomach roiled. But there was no avoiding this, pride be damned.
With a muttered oath, he blotted at the splotches of ink—to take you up on your generous offer of a loan so that I can begin the improvements we discussed and plan for the next harvest.
He signed with a simple “A.” Finn would know who this was from. Finn would also know the effort it took to write it. While Alec was grateful that his cousin would never shame him for this request, it rankled. It rankled fiercely.
Letter completed, he stood, uncertain of what to do next. His memory abruptly floated up sounds and images from Lady Hinsdale’s event.
“I can play the violin,” he had offered, that night. Why he had said this, he could not recall. But he had.
“You can? How wonderful,” she had answered.
“It is many years since I played. I fear I have lost whatever skill I once possessed.”
“Then you must take it up again directly, Your Grace.”
He found his lips curving into a smile. He remembered the earnestness of her eyes. And her laugh. He had loved to make her laugh.
He went in search of his violin.