Chapter 8
That evening Winn took her dinner in Tio’s room. She sent the new maid down with word of it to the dining room. She told herself it was best if she remained aloof from the dear man who had proposed to her and whose arguments still had a powerful sway over her.
But her supper was tasteless. She picked at it.
That was not Bridgette’s fault but her own despair.
Bettington had suffered from his father’s cruelty and society’s sting.
He had been hurt by his mother’s remove to Brighton and the loss of his older sister.
Bettington had suffered just as Winn and her father had suffered because of her mother’s choices.
Her father had lived in such a way that people respected him in spite of rumors of the past. Winn, too, had outgrown the barbs from others and ultimately, they had abandoned them.
She had established her own good character.
She was proud of it. Was that not enough to equal a good stand in society?
Beyond birth or title, gender or profession?
The rightness of that had her rising from her chair.
Tio slept on, peaceful, his forehead cool to the touch. Tio lived and she wanted him well care for, well loved. Roger and William, as well. She wished the three little boys happy lives—and wanted to be one of the two who gave that to them.
She let her eyes drift closed. She yearned to accept Bettington’s proposal.
She wanted to be his wife, his lover. If he could be so bold as to love her, see her as his equal, could she also not ignore the rules he found so repugnant?
Could she not stand with him to change how others thought of the constrictions of class, gender and race?
She could. She would!
She had to find Bettington and hoisted her skirts to take the stairs down at a run.
No one was in the little dining room. They were finished.
She paused. Where were they? She had not heard them upstairs.
She clamped a hand to the newel and ran up the stairs, pushed open the double doors to the large front salon… and came to a halt.
“Oh…I did not know we had company.”
The lady who sat in the upholstered crimson silk Hepplewhite chair flashed remarkable sky blue eyes at her. That color blue Winn knew and knew quite well.
“Forgive me.” Winn pointed to the hallway. They had never met, she had never been introduced to the countess who kept to her townhouse in Brighton. Yet tonight, she was here. For the holiday, Winn concluded and saw it as a breakthrough. “You wait for Lord Bettington. I will leave you to it.”
She would have gone, save the woman called to her.
“Do come back. I assume you are Miss Mathers? Miss Winifred Mathers?”
“I am, my lady.” Winn regarded the lady who was the Countess of Bettington.
When Winn was young, she had never seen the lady.
But during the years she had served as housekeeper at the Grange, Winn had heard of the genteel lady who had left her husband and lived by herself in Brighton.
Bettington, her son, had often gone to visit her and taken his children to their grandmother.
“Forgive me for barging in on you. I was in search of his lordship.”
“Who was here and does return soon. He is reading to his two oldest sons and putting them to bed.”
“I see.” She curtsied. “I will seek him out later.”
The woman raised a manicured hand. “A word, Miss Mathers.”
Winn caught a breath. Whatever this word was, the lady did not sound pleasant. “Of course. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
The countess narrowed her eyes, so blue and true as her son’s and her three grandsons’. “I understand you have served my son well at the Grange.”
Winn nodded. “I have endeavored to do that, yes.”
“For three years.”
“Yes.”
“And in that time, you have endeared yourself to my grandchildren.”
That sounded like a bone the lady wished to pick with Winn. “Yes. I like them very much.”
“Do you?” She rose from her chair. Her stark white hair, perfectly coiffed, complemented her pristine complexion. The midnight blue of her silken gown attested to the countess’s wealth, station and breeding.
Winn braced for the lady’s words.
“I understand you have an education.”
In the dead silence, Winn noted she was expected to reply. “I attended Canterbury School for Young Ladies, ma’am.”
“And your father taught you much about the law.”
“He did. I could not help but learn.” She fondly recalled the hours in which Papa would comment on different cases.
“The law is precise.”
“Mama, I took longer than I—” Bettington appeared and stepped toward Winn. “What is the matter here?”
His mother shot him a look. “Miss Mathers is about to tell me the nature of the law.”
Winn gathered her pluck. “Indeed, ma’am. The law is precise, but also best adapted to time and use when it is fluid.”
The lady strolled nearer. “As society is often not.”
“This is also true.” Winn had no idea where the countess led this conversation. Was she arguing against Winn’s involvement with her son? If she was, she would lose that debate. Winn wanted him. Would have him. Enjoy him. Honor and keep him.
Now the countess stepped directly before Winn.
Beside Winn, Bettington seemed skeptical of his mother’s direction of thought.
But Winn had an inkling. She faced her with a growing smile.
The exact height, the two ladies matched each other in build and unflinching intent.
The countess looked directly into Winn’s eyes. “What do you suppose is required to sway society to be more fluid and useful?”
Ah, this Winn knew. Her father had preached it a thousand times. She had found hers time and time again. Upstairs, minutes ago, she had claimed the last portion of it that she needed in order to marry the man she adored.
“Well, Miss Mathers? Have you an answer?”
I do, ma’am. “Courage.”
“For a woman who loves—and you do love my son, don’t you, Miss Mathers?”
Winn stood her ground. “I do. Very much.”
On a gasp, Bettington curved a strong arm around Winn’s waist.
“Do you not have the courage to take and give what love you have for him and make your lives worth living?”
Winn turned her face toward the dark handsome creature who had stolen her heart when she was very young. “I hope, sir, you will forgive me for this, but—”
His features fell to dire despair. He caught her closer to his chest. “Winn, I will not let you go.”
“Oh, no, my dear, dear man. I do not leave. I want you to know that I am not engaged to be married.”
“How delightful,” he crooned and bent, taking her lips in a ravishing kiss. “I need not go and challenge George Detwiler to a duel.”
“What? No!” She chuckled as the man who embraced her kissed her lips once more. “You would not have. Would you?”
“To win you, my darling Winn, I would do anything!”
“Oh, that is wonderful to know. So then, tell me one thing, will you?”
“Anything!”
“I am asking you to marry me, sir.”
“Walter,” he demanded, an infectious grin spreading wide his firm mouth.
“Walter, then. Do you think you might marry me? Soon? Say…after Advent when an officiant of the church will allow us to say vows?”
He threw back his head to laugh. “I will get the first cleric who agrees!”
She kissed his cheek.
“Sir?” Fox was suddenly behind them. “Pardon me, sir. You have a—”
“Visitor!”
Winn and Walter stared at the burly little man whom Fox presented. The euphoria of Winn’s decision and question equaled the surprise at seeing her father before them.
“You did not come home, girl!”
Her attempt to hug him was met by his scowl. She paused. “I know, sir. I wrote a note—”
“It was piddle. Pardon me, sir,” her papa addressed her with sad eyes and a wave of his hand, “but, my girl, you cannot just send me one sentence.”
“No, sir. Not good. But I want you to know—”
Her father reached over and pumped Walter’s hand. “Thanks for your letter. I would not have had the gumption to come if you hadn’t invited me.”
“You invited my father?” Winn was aghast.
“I did.” Walter nodded firmly. “He deserved to know.”
“Know?”
“Know what you intended, sir. I worried about my beautiful girl.” Her papa shook a finger at her. “You should have written me that he loves you, sweeting. Besides, I could not let you have Christmas without me! Nor get married for that matter.”
He clapped Walter on the back. “Good man. You take care of her. Through thick and thin, illness and health. All that. Eh? Who’s this?
Oh, the countess! ‘Course, it is! I recognize you, ma’am.
Not over a day, I say. Lovely. Lovely. Do you approve of this between them?
” He bent close to her, not taking any guff, his beady brown eyes hot on her blue ones. “I hope you do, ma’am.”
For the first time here, the lady chuckled. “I certainly do, sir.”
“Good. Good. Now, that means we can have a tipple to the couple, can’t we?” He followed Walter to the sideboard while the countess embraced Winn and took her to a nearby chair.
“When is the wedding?” her father harangued Walter. “Soon? Better if it is, you know, sir. Talk among the nutters, not good. I brought my best frockcoat. I say, I went to tell old George Detwiler I was coming here!”
Winn froze. “Oh, Papa. George is such a gossip.” If Papa told him she had come to London to serve Bettington or rather, Walter, George would think the worst and spread it around.
Walter was grinning at Winn. “What was George’s reaction?” Walter handed him a small glass of sherry. “Mama, you would like one, too, eh? And Winn?”
“Yes,” said the countess.
“Yes,” murmured Winn.
“George took it in stride. Said he never expected our Winn was good enough for him. But he had to try. Didn’t he? I say, hmmm. Good sherry. Got anything stronger than this?”
Walter had looked at Winn through it all. The twinkle in his eyes told her that he was glad she was his.
“Not here, Mister Mathers. But I will have my butler bring up a good bottle of brandy for us. After all,” he said with tenderness in his gaze, “we forgive each other all kinds of weaknesses when we know we bring each other a bright new day.” He came forward to hand Winn her glass. “Wouldn’t you say so, my love?”
“I do. Every day.” She clinked her glass with his.
Hours later, as she lay in his arms in his bedroom, she sighed, startled, thrilled and complete. She had told them the whole truth. George had not proposed to her recently and she would have had to have gone to him to propose when she returned after Christmas.
“I knew he hadn’t recently.”
“No!” She pulled backward. “How?”
“You are a terrible liar.”
She collapsed back into his arms. “Oh, thank God, you know. I do try to be good.”
“You are. At everything.”
“Everything?”
“Well, practice does make perfect. Shall we try again?”