Chapter Five
Sitting in the library with her father had once been a peaceful ritual.
She would sit by the bay window with a book of poetry, underlining the lines she loved and circling those she did not, while her father pored over papers she was too young to comprehend.
As she grew older, she began to help him balance his ledgers—numbers having become one of her few unshakable strengths—and he would tell her of his business affairs.
How different things were now. Their easy conversation had given way to silences broken only by his intermittent coughs. Instead of working at his side, she sat by the same window, a random book in hand, reading nothing—her attention fixed entirely upon her father.
He was hunched over the desk, fingers pressed to his temples.
Whether it was a megrim or something worse, she could not tell.
He would never admit to either. Each time she asked, Papa merely waved her off and said it was nothing—only to dissolve into another fit of coughing that made her heart twist.
So for now, she remained silent.
“If you’re going to pretend to read, you might at least turn a page now and then.”
Elowen looked up. Her father’s attempt at humour only deepened her concern; the weariness in his eyes hurt her to see.
“I was too busy counting the seconds between your coughing fits,” she said, closing her book. “At present, we stand at one minute and fifteen—”
He coughed twice more into his elbow.
“They are becoming more frequent, Papa,” she said gently, though anxiety crept into her tone. “Perhaps I should send for the physician.”
“Don’t bother. He’ll only give me something that will put me to sleep for the rest of the day.”
“And would that be so dreadful?”
“I have work to do.”
“Then let me do it for you.” She rose and crossed to his desk. “You know I am more than capable of handling the smaller tasks.”
“You shouldn’t have to concern yourself with such things,” Papa said, waving a dismissive hand.
Elowen sighed and sank into the armchair opposite. “It is not your work that concerns me, Father—it is you. Your health worsens by the day, and you seem determined to ignore it.”
“Why bother if I have you to...” He broke off when he caught the look she gave him—equal parts exasperation and warning. He cleared his throat. “All right, you are right. But I am in no mood to sleep the day away. Perhaps a walk in the garden will do my lungs some good.”
He pushed himself to his feet, bracing his hands on the chair. The effort triggered another violent cough, and Elowen was beside him in an instant, though she could do little but steady him. There was nothing she hated more than her own helplessness.
“Or perhaps,” he rasped, sinking back into the chair, “I should wait a moment.”
Elowen reluctantly returned to her seat. “Father, perhaps it was a mistake to participate in the Season this year. It keeps me away from home, and I should never forgive myself if something were to happen while Mother or I were gone.”
“Elowen, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“Yes—spoken by the man who must be tricked into taking his medicine.”
“I don’t...wait, tricked?”
“Never you mind,” she said lightly. “I am simply worried, that is all.”
Papa sighed, leaning forward on his elbows. Elowen held her breath, half expecting another fit, but none came.
“My dear,” he said at last, “the only thing that would put my mind at ease is knowing that you are taken care of. That you have found a proper husband who will protect and cherish you when I am gone. That is all I wish for.”
“And if I do not?” They had had this conversation before—too many times—and she knew they would have it again. “Then what, Papa?”
“Then I have failed,” he said simply.
Elowen met his gaze until, at last, he smiled.
“Now,” he said, “tell me about your walk with your mother yesterday. I did not get the chance to ask.”
Mostly because, as she’d discovered upon returning home, he had collapsed not long before. He had been confined to bed until this morning, when he’d appeared at breakfast claiming to feel ‘right as rain.’
She bit her tongue to keep from reminding him of it. “It was fine,” she said.
“Only fine? Did nothing happen?”
“Nothing of particular note.”
Eric narrowed his eyes. She looked away.
To her relief, Mama entered just then with a maid carrying a laden tea service. Once the tray was set down and the maid dismissed, Mama said brightly, “It is time for tea, my dears.” She moved at once to her husband’s side. “You, especially, must eat something. You barely touched your breakfast.”
“And as luck would have it,” Papa said, “I am famished.”
“Luck?” Elowen echoed with a raise of her brow. “Or human nature?”
“Whichever you prefer,” he said with a chuckle. They all paused, waiting for another cough—but when none came, they each exhaled in quiet relief.
The baroness fussed over him as she helped him to the sofa, where he insisted on walking the final few steps himself. Elowen sat opposite them, content to let her mother dote.
“So, Elowen,” Papa said once settled, “you were telling me how unimpressive your walk through Hyde Park was.”
Elowen stiffened as her mother’s head shot up. “Unimpressive? It went far better than either one of us could have imagined!”
“Indeed?” The surprise in Papa’s voice was as manufactured as the sofas they sat on. “In what way?”
“Did she truly not tell you?” The baroness turned a look of reproach upon her daughter. “Oh, Elowen, surely your father would like to know about the invitation to the British Museum.”
“He certainly would,” Eric drawled. “And who extended this invitation?”
“The Duke of Beaushire, of all people.”
Eric choked on his tea. “Lucas?”
“He only did it out of pity,” Elowen interjected quickly. If she did not temper her parents’ expectations now, the conversation would run wild.
“And I suppose the dance you shared with him at his ball was also out of pity?” Margaret scoffed.
“Yes,” Elowen said. “Yes, it was.”
“Pity or no, it was a splendid opportunity. What better way to step back into society than through the Duke of Beaushire? Do you not know he is the most sought-after bachelor in England?”
“Not to mention the fact that he would just jump at the chance to court a disgraced lady who holds no place in society and has nothing to offer him.”
“Exactly! He is—” Margaret broke off, narrowing her eyes. “That is not what I meant.”
“You walked neatly into that one, my dear,” Papa said with a chuckle. They all hesitated—waiting for the sound of another fit—but when it did not come, they relaxed again.
Margaret waved a dismissive hand and reached for the sugar. “In any case, we must look to the bright side. Even if nothing comes of it, others may take notice once they see that the Duke has done so.”
“Or,” Papa added, “perhaps the Duke himself may be taken with her.”
Elowen sipped her tea, acutely aware of her father’s gaze upon her. She kept her face perfectly composed, though her pulse betrayed her.
“I fear that is a most romantic notion," she said evenly, “but hardly a likely one.”
“Why?” Mama demanded. “You are beautiful, intelligent, and charming. Qualities any gentleman would admire—especially a man of sense like the Duke.”
“The Duke of Beaushire,” Elowen replied, her voice quiet but firm, “is not likely to pay romantic attention to the daughter of a supposedly corrupt baron. That is a fact.”
Her words fell into a silence that settled heavily upon the room. She disliked speaking of the scandal—but she disliked even more the way her parents sometimes spoke as if it had never happened, as though they did not all live each day beneath its shadow.
Mama broke the quiet first. “Either way, we should be grateful that he invited us to join them. And it is not as though you have no other prospects. What of the Marquess of Cherrington? Have you shown your father the gift he presented you in the park?”
Papa said nothing, only raising his brows in silent question.
Elowen sighed. “A book of poetry. He claimed he purchased it because it reminded him of me. It is upstairs, if you wish me to fetch it.”
“There is no need,” Papa said. “The mere fact that he gave you a gift—so publicly, no less—suggests he is interested in courtship.”
Elowen regarded her father over the rim of her cup. “You do not seem nearly as enthusiastic about that prospect as you were about the Duke’s supposed interest.”
Papa shrugged, reaching for a cucumber sandwich. “Any chance of your finding a husband piques my interest.”
“Is that so? You seemed rather familiar with His Grace at the ball—you even called him by his given name. Just how well acquainted are you two?”
“I was something of a mentor to him after his years at Eton,” Papa replied. “The late duke was not always easy to approach, and I suppose Lucas sought a measure of guidance in me. I was glad to provide it.”
“Ah... I see.”
Margaret chuckled. “You have rendered her speechless, Eric.”
“We should commemorate this momentous occasion,” Eric agreed with a grin.
Elowen resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I did not expect that to be the reason, that’s all. But that only proves my point—His Grace’s attentions are born of gratitude, nothing more.”
“Indebted or not,” Papa said mildly, “you ought to go and prepare for the museum. We would not wish to keep His Grace waiting.”
“How dreadful that would be.” Elowen’s tone held the faintest trace of irony as she set down her half-finished tea and rose. Then, more softly: “Are you certain you will be all right without me?”
“I shall manage perfectly well,” Papa said with a faint smile. “Your mother will see to that.”
“Indeed I will,” Mama replied, her tone brisk but fond. “I shall have Harold remain nearby in case he is needed.”
“He is our butler, Margaret,” Papa sighed. “I daresay he has more important matters to attend.”
“And what could be more important than ensuring his master’s comfort?” she countered gently. “Besides, he is always glad to be of help.”
“Margaret—”