CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
“I never understood, before, what it meant to work toward something. I had everything I could want, title, wealth, freedom. But I had nothing to build, nothing to sacrifice for and nothing that required me to be better than I was.”
“And now?”
“Now I have three daughters who need a father and a woman who needs a husband and a future that depends on whether I can sustain this long enough to deserve it.”
Benedict studied him before she spoke, his expression thoughtful.
“Serena wants to help with the wedding,” he said finally.
“When it happens. She’s quite keen on the idea of supporting Miss Grace through society’s inevitable hostility.”
“Serena is a good woman. Better than either of us deserves.”
“She is. She also sees something in your Miss Grace that she admires. ‘A woman of uncommon sense,’ she called her. Coming from Serena, that’s high praise.”
Rhys thought about Mel, about her practical efficiency and her clear-eyed honesty and the way she had looked at him in the study when she told him not to decide what she could bear.
“Uncommon sense is an understatement,” he said. “She sees through every pretense I’ve ever constructed. It’s terrifying and liberating in equal measure.”
“Most worthwhile things are.”
They drank in companionable silence, two men who had known each other since boyhood contemplating the strange paths their lives had taken. Outside, London continued its eternal bustle, indifferent to the transformations occurring within its residents.
The estate improvements began in earnest during his seventh week in London.
Rhys had always known, in an abstract way, that his properties required attention.
The reports from his various land agents had been piling up for years, documenting repairs deferred and improvements postponed and tenant complaints that went unaddressed.
He had signed the necessary documents and authorised the minimal expenditures without ever truly engaging with what his responsibilities meant.
He met with architects about the cottages on his Cornwall estate, authorising repairs that would make them weatherproof before winter set in.
He consulted with agricultural experts about improvements to drainage and irrigation that would increase crop yields.
He reviewed lease terms and adjusted rents to levels that were fair rather than merely profitable.
“Your Grace has become remarkably attentive to estate matters,” Mr. Grieves observed during one of their meetings, his tone carrying a note of surprised approval.
“The tenants will be pleased.”
“The tenants have been patient. They deserve an estate owner who takes his responsibilities seriously.”
“If I may say so, Your Grace, this is quite a change from your previous approach.”
“My previous approach was inadequate. I am attempting to do better.”
Grieves nodded, making notes in his ledger like a man who had finally seen proof of transformation.
“The repairs at Hartfell are proceeding well. The new roof on the east wing should be complete before the first frost.”
Rhys thought about Hartfell, about the house where his daughters lived with the woman he loved.
He had not returned since coming to London, though the temptation pulled at him constantly.
But Mel had said that trust was earned through consistency, and consistency meant staying here and doing the work rather than rushing back to claim credit for good intentions.
“Ensure that Miss Grace is consulted on any changes that affect the schoolroom or the children’s quarters,” he said. “She has a better understanding of their needs than anyone else.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Anna has mastered the subjunctive. Viola spoke at normal volume for an entire afternoon. Thistle convinced Mrs. Kemp that her bedroom could accommodate a terrarium.
The roof repairs are proceeding. The workmen are competent but loud. Anna has filed a formal complaint.
The weather has turned cold. The children spent yesterday building a structure they insisted was a scientific research station. It appears to be a fort.
***
Two months after his return to London, the moment he had been dreading finally arrived.
He was in his study, reviewing a report on drainage improvements, when Jenkins appeared in the doorway with an expression that suggested impending difficulty.
“Your Grace, you have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“Lady Forsythe.”
Rhys felt his jaw tighten. Lady Forsythe had been one of his regular companions during his years of rakish indifference, a widow whose interest in scandal was exceeded only by her interest in the Duke of Trevane.
She had been remarkably persistent in her attentions, undeterred by his lack of genuine interest or his obvious preference for uncomplicated entanglements.
“Tell her I am not at home.”
“I attempted that, Your Grace. She insisted that she would wait until you became available.”
Of course she did. Lady Forsythe had never accepted refusal gracefully.
“Show her in,” Rhys said, rising from his desk with resignation.
“And Jenkins? Remain nearby. This will not be a lengthy conversation.”
Lady Forsythe swept into the study moments later, her presence filling the room like a woman whose manners were those of someone who was entirely unused to the word no. She moved through the world as if every path were cleared for her express passage.
She was dressed in a gown that emphasised her considerable assets, her expression carrying the confident certainty that had served her well in London’s social wars.
“Trevane. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy.” She pronounced the word with evident scepticism.
“You’ve been in London for two months. You’ve attended every significant social event of the season. And yet somehow, every time I attempt to secure your attention, you vanish.”
“Perhaps that should tell you something.”
“It tells me that you’re playing a game I don’t understand.” She moved closer, her skirts rustling against the carpet.
“The old Trevane would never have been so elusive. The old Trevane enjoyed being pursued.”
“The old Trevane was a fool who didn’t know what he wanted. It appears that our new Trevane has become perfectly apprised of the situation.”
“And what does the new Trevane desire?”
Rhys met her eyes directly, without the charm or deflection he had employed for so many years.
“I want something you cannot offer. Something I’ve found elsewhere and intend to keep.”
Lady Forsythe’s expression flickered, surprise giving way to calculation.
“There’s someone else. Someone in Cornwall, perhaps? The scandal sheets have been speculating about your extended visits there.”
“The scandal sheets can speculate whatever they please. My private life is none of their concern.”
“Your private life has always been their concern. It’s what made you interesting.” She tilted her head, studying him with renewed attention.
“You’ve changed. I don’t know whether to be impressed or disappointed.”
“I don’t particularly care which you choose. What I do care about is making myself clear.” He gestured toward the door. “I am not available for whatever you came here seeking. I will not be available in the future. I suggest you redirect your attention to someone who is capable of appreciating it.”
Lady Forsythe stood very still, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she smiled.
“She must be remarkable,” she said quietly.
“Whoever she is. To have accomplished what no woman in London managed in all these years.”
“She is.”
“I hope she knows what she has.”
“I intend to spend the rest of my life making sure she does.”
Lady Forsythe nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than approval. Then she turned and walked toward the door, her departure as dramatic as her entrance had been.
At the threshold, she paused.
“Good luck, Trevane. Whoever she is, wherever you found her, I hope she’s worth the transformation.”
“She is.”
The door closed behind her, and Rhys stood alone in his study, feeling the weight of the encounter settle onto his shoulders. It was done. One more ghost from his past, dismissed. One more step toward the life he was building.
He crossed to his desk and pulled out fresh paper, beginning a letter to Mel that he would send with the evening post.
Lady Forsythe visited today. She wished to resume our acquaintance. I declined in terms she could not misunderstand.
He paused, considering what else to add. The encounter had been significant, a test of his commitment that he had passed without hesitation. But he did not want to make too much of it, did not want to seem as though he expected praise for doing what he should have done all along.
He settled on simplicity.
I am coming home next week.
The letter went out with the evening post. He returned to his drainage report with a lighter heart, counting the days until he could return to Cornwall and show Mel, through presence rather than letters, that he had become the man he had promised to be.