Chapter 28 - William #2
The only current occupants of the room were two massive Irish wolfhounds who lounged before the large fireplace.
One of the dogs lifted his head and gave William a baleful gaze before settling back down with a sigh.
William was exceedingly grateful that the dogs acquiesced to his presence, as he’d hate to see them angry.
William was left waiting for a quarter of an hour.
Some men would have been irritated, but William simply smirked and made himself comfortable on one of the sofas.
His Aunt Marie was a unique individual. Some thought her to be incredibly harsh.
It was true she was blunt, but he knew that her heart was as soft and squishy as the thick carpet beneath his feet.
Finally, Aunt Marie bustled in, still smoothing her hair. She wore a handsome scarlet dress. She was still a beautiful woman, though her face was marked with lines from both age and grief. She smiled at him and accepted a kiss upon her powdered cheek.
"William, darling, how are you? Do sit back down. I hope you aren't here to ask me for money. That statuary I've been hearing so much about better be bought and paid for and not done on loan."
He chuckled. "I assure you, my finances are well in order.”
She settled herself in the chair closest to him. "Thank goodness you’re not at all like Richard. What an insufferable lout he was. Excuse me for speaking ill of the dead, of course.”
William nodded indulgently.
She continued, “I know he was your brother, so there’s some measure of grief for you, but I wasn’t especially sorry to see him go. He was always hanging about, trying to bilk me for funds.”
He frowned. “I hadn’t heard that. I’m sorry if he caused you trouble.”
She waved his apology away. “It's my own fault. The first time he came around asking for money, I was afflicted with familial nostalgia and gave him a hundred pounds."
"Aunt Marie, you didn't."
She nodded primly. "It was money well spent to learn a good lesson.”
“Which was what?”
“Never to drink more than two of Dora's gin and tonics."
William’s eyes twinkled. “They were for medicinal purposes, I assume.”
"Of course, my dear boy. Generalized merrymaking is medicinal.” She studied him for a moment.
“I’m glad you’ve come to visit. You see, I feel I must apologize.
I left for Paris while Richard was still alive.
I had no idea the hardship your dear sisters endured toward the end and after his death.
If I'd have known, I would have helped."
"I know you would have."
It was the truth—his youngest four sisters currently occupied her mansion in Paris. In fact, when William had first thought to send his sisters off to France, he’d asked his Aunt Marie to accompany them as one of their chaperones.
She’d laughed. “Those days are behind me, my dear. Why would I watch one young couple for the sake of propriety when I could watch them all for my own entertainment?”
William shook the memory away.
"I feel so much guilt." She nibbled her lower lip; her eyes shone with tears. "Those poor girls."
He leaned forward, clasped her wrinkled hand in his. She squeezed it back with a surprisingly strong grip.
"I know how you feel, but it isn't your fault. Richard did an excellent job of alienating everyone." He shook his head. "If anyone in the family is to blame, it's me. I should have been there."
She gave a great sniff and patted his hand before disentangling altogether.
"I suppose it's all in the past now. Heaven knows you're more than making up for those lean years.
The ton is all aflutter about how grand your house is, how well all of the Preston ladies were dressed last night.
There's a great debate about which of the Paris modistes they visited. Even I must say, your sisters have never looked more beautiful than they did at the Duke of Bedford’s ball. "
"Thank you, Aunt Marie."
“So why have you come to visit if you don't need money?”
He paused, then braced as if walking upon a tilted ship’s deck. “I've come on a personal matter. I was hoping you might be able to dispense some advice."
She sat up straight. "You’ve come to the right place. I have many opinions, and I'm anxious to share them all with whomever will listen. What precisely would you like advice about?"
"It's a rather delicate personal matter, but I've come to you because you and Uncle had a happy marriage."
"Ah, it's a romantic question, is it? Hold on." She stood and strode from the room.
It was one of the things he admired about her, that she didn’t conform to social convention—especially the stupid rules, like the one that said ladies should take tiny, mincing steps instead of striding about however they pleased.
William had expected her to have gone to fetch tea or a servant who’d procure some, so he was surprised when she returned with four other ladies in tow, one of whom he was chagrined to realize was Dahlia's own aunt.
"If you're looking for romantic advice, there’s none better at giving it than this council," Aunt Marie said.
He pressed his lips together. "As I’ve said, my questions are of a personal nature."
"And yet if they're of the romantic sort, I can offer you no better gift than the advice which can be had from the five of us."
William was struck with the inadvisability of blurting his private business to Dahlia’s own chaperone. He remained silent for a moment, weighing his options. He didn’t wish to give offense, but his endeavor was too important to ruin with misplaced words.
"Oh, get on with it already," Dahlia’s Aunt Janie said, flapping her hand. “We all know who you're here to talk about. For the record, I saw it coming far before either of you did."
He tilted his head. "How will I know that the words I speak in this room won't walk right out the door and spread after I'm gone?"
"Because we are in service of romance and good matches in general," one of the ladies said.
"What she means is that what Dahlia doesn’t know won't hurt her.” Aunt Janie arched an eyebrow. “If you're coming around asking for advice, then you must know that you stumbled horribly and you're trying to rectify the situation. Am I right?"
He nodded.
"Wonderful. I won't tell her you came here or what you said. Not until you're well married, how about that?"
"If only I were as certain of the success of my endeavor as you seem to be."
"With us on your side, you absolutely should be."
Aunt Marie made quick work of the introductions. Katherine was short and plump. Irene was thin as a fire poker, with a rather pinched expression. Dora had a wide smile and great quantities of grey curls escaping from a thick braid.
He noticed that the introductions only went one way—they all looked at him as if they knew him already. But of course they did. His Aunt Marie and Dahlia’s Aunt Janie were notorious gossips.
Janie began, "I don't know exactly what happened, so you'll have to tell us—"
"In great detail," Katherine interjected.
"In great detail," Janie conceded, "about what happened. All I know is the ladies left the house in high spirits as usual, then returned later in the day in a markedly different mood. Then Dahlia informed me that she intended to marry this year. She knew I'd get the word to the proper people."
He tamped down irritation. All of this could have been avoided if he'd only known the truth of how he felt.
Perhaps he was the villain of this story, after all.
He hadn't known he wanted to hold her until he saw her in another man's arms. He hadn't known how he felt until her feelings had already turned away from him.
Granted, he hadn't known how she felt, either. He'd thought they were only friends, and that was all they'd ever be, because of what he'd done four years ago in a moonlit garden.
The tall, thin lady on the end sighed and looked at Marie. "You pulled us from a game of billiards for this? I thought this was going to be more interesting."
"Apologies," Aunt Marie said to him. "Irene has very few qualms about saying what she thinks."
William took a deep breath and began.
"I still think he should just kidnap her and drive to Gretna Green," Katherine said, some time later.
William tried not to blink when the tall footman came and refilled all the ladies' champagne flutes. Again. Was it his imagination, or were the man's trousers a bit too tight?
Katherine had flopped onto the empty end of his sofa, her stockinged feet propped against one arm. She claimed she did her best thinking from that position, though she had to struggle upwards and still spilled a little whenever she tried to tipple her champagne.
"That might have worked for you, but my charge won't be bought so cheaply."
"Cheap?" Katherine squawked. "Have you seen the contents of my jewelry drawers? I made that man pay through his nose his entire life."
"Focus, ladies," Aunt Marie said.
"I confess I wasn't much interested in the romance that occurred prior to the altar," Irene said dryly.
"It was the romance that came after that you were keen on," Katherine said. "With ten children, it’s fairly obvious."
"I hardly think you're one to dispense rational advice on the matter. Your idea of pre-altar romance is quite muddled with post. Hence the need for Gretna Green."
Katherine winged a throw pillow at Irene's head. It went wide, landing near the wolfhounds with a muffled thump. One of the dogs lifted his head; the other slept through the exchange.
William didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry that he'd come to this house for advice. He still hadn't decided if it had been a waste of time.
"Katherine, those pillows are French," Aunt Marie hissed.
"Good heavens." She struggled to sit upright. "If only you'd told me, I never would have touched the things to begin with. Dirty French."
Katherine began systematically divesting the sofa of its extraneous cushions, dumping them on the floor. Aunt Marie looked at her ceiling in supplication; William bit back a laugh.