Chapter Twenty-Seven
Duke was wandering admittedly aimlessly around Fairfield. He had time to himself and wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
He was excited by the prospect of making his home here, of traveling to London with his aunt and uncle. Eve would have been happy to hear he’d been granted his sought-after respite. And he would have loved to tell her that she might have been unintentionally correct when guessing that his dream-fulfilling future included politics. In the end, it might not be his lifelong pursuit, but it would soon be providing him with a purpose and a small income. She would celebrate that with him, and she would understand his excitement.
But he couldn’t let that happen.
His feet took him to the library. It seemed as good a destination as any, so he stepped inside. Perhaps Uncle Niles had a London newspaper to peruse.
Turning toward the desk, he found not a paper but Eve. She sat in the leather chair, arms folded on the desktop, her head resting on her arms, asleep. There was no one else in the room. The door was open, so he hadn’t intentionally intruded on her privacy. But now that he had, what ought he to do?
She couldn’t possibly be comfortable in her current position. She would likely awaken with a horrible crick in her neck. Perhaps he should wake her and give her the chance to go lie down or at least move to a more accommodating chair in the room. He stepped up to the desk but stopped himself before actually nudging her.
Was he violating his own insistence that distance be kept between them? He didn’t want to again be the cause of the pain he’d seen in her eyes the last time they’d spoken. If he opened the door to a renewed tender connection only to have to close it once more, he’d hurt them both.
His eyes fell on a bit of parchment on the desk, a lead pencil nearby. On it was written a short list.
Only two meals each day
Nia also misses the Season
Sell some possession have nothing of value
Pull Scuff from Shrewsbury he’ll need a profession
Pull Edmund from Shrewsbury
It was clearly a list of possible ways for her family to further economize. She must have been even more worried about the O’Doyles’ finances than she had been when they’d spoken about it on their journey. She’d not, at that point, been talking about curtailing what the family ate.
Duke rubbed at the back of his neck as he paced away. He wasn’t in a position to be a confidant, yet if she was this worried, she likely needed one. He also couldn’t violate her trust by telling anyone else what she had told him about her situation.
“ ’Tis as if I’ve been left behind by everyone already. ” She’d said that while they’d been at the inn. There’d been such sorrow in her voice. And loneliness. Even he had stepped away from her since then.
What ought he to do now? He didn’t want Eve to feel entirely abandoned. But he wouldn’t break his promise not to spill the secrets she’d told him. And he couldn’t risk implying renewed promises of a future that he couldn’t follow through on.
He’d maneuvered through the complications of his family for twenty-one years, but he didn’t know how to navigate this.
He lowered himself onto a chair, one facing away from her. He would likely be able to think more clearly that way. But the chair scraped against the floor as he sat, and the noise woke her. He could see just enough of her out of the corner of his eye to know she had sat up straight.
Now what did he do? Ought he to quickly reveal he was there and attempt to make an expeditious, if embarrassing, exit? She might be angry that he was in the room. If she was about to leave, then keeping mum might be his best bet.
“This is what happens when you don’t sleep.” For a moment, he thought he’d been spotted. But then he realized she was talking to herself. “Perhaps Mrs. Greenberry’s suggestion was a good one, after all.”
What had Aunt Penelope suggested?
That question was quickly brushed aside as he realized his hesitation to decide whether to reveal himself or hide had, in the end, made the decision for him. She would be terribly embarrassed if she knew he’d overheard her having a self-directed conversation.
“Miss O’Doyle.” And now, apparently, there was a second potential witness to his bungled decision-making. “Dr. Wilstead asked that this be given to you.”
“Thank you.”
He heard footsteps, a pause, then footsteps again that faded into the corridor. Duke could only just catch the slightest glimpse of Eve, standing near the desk. She was holding what looked like a folded piece of parchment.
“Well, Dr. Wilstead, how impossible is this number going to be?” She held the note but didn’t unfold it. “I need to know what I’m facing, but I suspect you are about to deal me another blow.”
Duke should have left when he’d had the chance. Now he was trapped, intruding.
“And if you could hear me talking to myself, you’d likely recommend I head to Bedlam instead of Dublin.” He heard her sigh. “But I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this. I—I have to sort this out on my own.”
That was one of the last things he’d said to her. He hadn’t intended to be cold or unfeeling, but hearing his words repeated, he felt the sting of them. And he was being unfair again, listening to her private conversation, no matter that doing so hadn’t been his intention.
He heard the sound of stiff parchment unfolding. A moment’s silence was followed by a whispered, “Good heavens.” It was not the sound of someone who had just received good news. “We could never economize enough for this.”
Duke couldn’t be an eavesdropper any longer. He shouldn’t have continued as long as he had. Careful not to scrape the chair legs again so as not to startle her, he stood and turned toward her. But her back was to him, so she still didn’t know he was even there.
He moved around the chair, which placed himself between her and the door behind her. He could have slipped out. But she was hurting, and no matter that he knew he needed to keep a distance, he couldn’t simply walk away.
“Eve?”
She spun around. His heart lurched to see tears clinging to her lashes.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
She swiped firmly at her eyes. “No.”
“Are you certain?”
Eve stood evermore stiffly. “I’m certain.” She snatched her list from the desktop. “I sort my difficulties on my own now.” She moved quickly past him.
He didn’t turn to watch her leave. His heart couldn’t bear it. “I miss you, Eve,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how else to protect you from my family.”
He stood in the silence for a drawn-out moment. He’d imagined many times since latching on to the possibility of staying at Fairfield how quiet and peaceful his aunt and uncle’s home would be. It had been one of the most appealing things about the idea. That stillness felt more burdensome than freeing just then. He had a direction and a potential purpose for his future, but he felt lost.
He dragged himself from the library. Not far down the corridor, he came upon his mother wearing her all-too-familiar expression of pained offense.
“Dubhán, you will never countenance what I have just endured.”
Lud. Had Grandmother said something? Had Mother encountered Aunt Penelope and felt she’d been shown insufficient graciousness?
“Miss O’Doyle passed by,” Mother said. “But when I offered her my warmest greeting, she responded with nothing but a halfhearted nod and smile so fleeting it could not possibly have been sincere.” Mother’s chin quivered a little. “No doubt your grandmother said unflattering things about me during the journey from Dublin and poisoned Miss O’Doyle’s opinion of me.”
In this, at least, Duke could be of some help to Eve. “Miss O’Doyle’s sister is quite ill. Her concern for Miss Nia would, almost without question, render her thoughts distracted. We would do well to show her compassion during what must be a very difficult time.”
That seemed to give Mother at least a moment of pause. Duke took full advantage of that pause and walked away. But he wasn’t quick enough.
“What did your grandmother say about me during the journey from Dublin?” Mother asked, hurrying to catch up with him. “You heard her last night repeatedly referencing my ‘pathetically nervous disposition.’ The things she says about me when I am present are unkind; I can only imagine what she says that I do not hear.”
“You say a great many things about her that she doesn’t hear,” Duke reminded her.
“Only acknowledgments of how unkind she is to me.” Mother pressed a hand to her heart, walking alongside him. “Surely you are not going to begin disregarding her treatment of me.”
“Of course not, Mother.”
She shook her head. “You were quite harsh with your father two nights ago when she was complaining about every aspect of the evening’s activities.”
That night’s row had culminated in Father calling Grandmother a banshee. Duke had taken him to task for it, yes, but Duke had been well within his rights to do so. He shouldn’t have had to, but it had needed to be done. “I was careful to discuss the situation in private. No one was privy to our conversation.”
“But I am certain they guessed. And your aunt and grandmother, no doubt, were pleased to think he was being humiliated.”
“Neither of them has mentioned it.”
“Your father has.” Mother set a hand on his arm and stopped their forward progress. “He will need to talk about this. No one outside of the two of us ever listens. And he is particularly helped by you. When this gathering has concluded, we’ll have time to talk about it all.”
If Duke were to return to Writtlestone, that would monopolize his energy for months. He would actually miss his parents. He loved them. And during the increasingly rare times when they were focused on something other than past defeats, perceived wrongs, and family tensions, he enjoyed being with them. But Mother’s declaration drove home once more how crucial distance was between himself and his parents.
“I suspect my friends are ready to begin the day’s activities,” Duke said. “I am going to seek them out.”
“But what if your father needs to speak with you?” Mother looked shocked at the possibility of Duke not dedicating his every waking moment to the fiasco of the Seymours. “What if your grandmother is unkind to me? What if Miss O’Doyle not acknowledging me proves to be an intentional slight? What are we to do if you are with your friends when your family needs you?”
“This gathering was planned specifically for these friends, including me, to be together. I ought not be prevented from taking part.”
She looked hurt, though he didn’t know whether the possibility that she was being inconsiderate or the possibility that he would not abandon the reason for his journey in order to assuage his parents’ injured sensibilities caused her offense. No matter her reason at first, if he didn’t disrupt the thought, she would soon be bemoaning that she wasn’t a good enough mother and that he didn’t love her as a son ought.
“As you said, after the gathering has ended, Father will have ample time to discuss his experiences, as will you. I am certain you have the fortitude to be patient until then, though I acknowledge that your patience will be sorely tried.”
She squared her shoulders. “I have endured worse,” she declared. “And I can be counted on to be long-suffering.”
Duke pressed a quick kiss to his mother’s cheek. “In exchange for your forbearance, I will tell you that the library was empty. You will find a great deal of peace and many books to choose from in there.”
She didn’t seem convinced, but at least she was distracted. Duke walked away again, this time managing to escape. His parents would have plenty to say during their return journey to Writtlestone; not the least of those grievances would be the fact that Duke was not journeying with them. There was every chance they would follow him to London.
He followed the corridor around a turn and found his aunt standing in a doorway, watching him with a look of concern and compassion.
“Is it always like that, Duke?” She subtly indicated the direction he’d come from and the conversation she had apparently overheard.
“No. Sometimes it is much worse.”
She stepped up to him and took his face gently in her hands—a feat, as she was quite a lot shorter than he was. “If I’d fully realized just how much you’ve been burdened by all this, we’d’ve long ago brought you here to stay.”
“Uncle Niles told you?”
She smiled. “Almost the instant he returned from Penfield.”
“Thank you for letting me stay,” Duke said.
She dropped her hands to his upper arms, still looking directly into his eyes. “There is peace in this house and in our London home. You’ll find respite with us. The harmony here is a bit shattered at the moment, but it always returns.”
“I am increasingly desperate for it.”
Aunt Penelope did something next that Duke couldn’t even remember his own mother doing in years: she wrapped him in a loving, maternal hug. After a lifetime of being broken by the family’s animosity, he felt he finally had a chance to piece himself back together.