Chapter 4
The Dowager Duchess of Westleigh was so accustomed to the vagaries and cruelties of life that she had learned to laugh at them.
How could she not?
The climb she had made from when she was a child to where she now stood, on the summit of English society, had been so immense that sometimes she looked back and could not believe that she had done it. But she had.
She had taken every step. She had gone over every obstacle. And she had weathered the storm of people’s hate, people’s derision, people’s doubt.
So, when she stood on the ballroom floor, watching the dancers dance, proud of her children who were graceful and strong, who fought and who did everything they could to better the people of England, of London, she stood with utter pride.
Every single one of her grandchildren was the same.
She felt pride for them because none of them had cowered before society. None of them had bowed. None of them had tried to shrink. None of them had ever shirked who they were. They were not about to start doing so.
But there was a strange note traveling through Sylvia this day, under the glittering chandeliers and the golden light of the candelabras.
A reckoning, she felt, a cruelty that they had not experienced fully as a family.
But she knew that she could meet it. They had to. They always had. They always would.
But the bitterness brewing on the other side of the ballroom was one, in a way, of her own making.
She wouldn’t look back.
She wouldn’t regret what she had done, the young ladies she’d helped, uplifted, and encouraged to break the bonds of society. She never could. She never would.
All she ever did was encourage people to be exactly who they were, and she was willing to pay the price of that.
She only prayed that all of her family was now willing to pay the price for that too, because as she looked across the ballroom and held gazes with her once dear friend, Lady Minerva, Marchioness of Isleton, a chill went through her veins.
The woman was looking at her as if she wished to devour her.
As if she wished to race across the room and tear her to shreds.
Surely, that could be stopped.
They had been friends for more than two decades. Surely, Lady Minerva could see reason. But what had happened to her son was inarguable. And he had deserved it.
Now, Sylvia was no sprightly creature any longer. When she began to make her way around the ballroom, it took more effort than it used to. Over the years, she had moved with the sort of energy of a goat, tenacious, defiant, and unstoppable.
But each year that passed left her feeling a little bit more tired, a little bit more strained, and the reserves that she had to draw upon to counteract the ridiculous nature of the ton grew smaller.
Those reserves were replenished by the love that her grandchildren and her children gave her continually, and the good that she saw them do, and the way they stood up for themselves.
But it was hard to be an island in a wild sea.
One of her daughters, Perdita, stopped her and gently took her hand. “Mama, you look distressed,” she said.
“Oh, I am,” she replied without hesitation. “I think we are going to have to call a meeting of the family. But first come with me, my dear. Be my prop.”
Perdita was the child who was the most like her in many ways, the child who had the most open heart and who understood things that no one else did. Sylvia was glad to be in her company for what had to be done.
As they went around the ballroom and stopped before Lady Minerva, she held on to Perdita, and Perdita held onto her. They gave each other strength. It was the nature of their family and how they always did things. They had each other’s backs.
And as soon as they had stopped in front of Lady Minerva, she was certain that Perdita understood what was about to occur.
“My friend,” Sylvia said. “It is so good to see you.”
“Is it?” Lady Minerva said, her once joyful eyes hard with anger. The lines at her lips made her mouth appear pinched, and her yellow gown, which should have been cheerful, somehow made her look sallow. “I would have thought that you could not bear to look upon one you had done so ill.”
Sylvia swallowed, trying not to be resigned. This was to be the way of it then. “I thought perhaps you would have seen past this, my dear, but I understand if you are still very angry.”
“Angry,” Lady Minerva echoed, her jewel-dripping hands twitching with her fury. “Your son, the Duke of Westleigh, and that foolish grandchild of yours, Deimos Briarwood, have ruined my eldest son.”
Indeed, this was the way of things, of course. And how she hated it.
No one wanted to take responsibility for their own actions. No one wanted to admit when they had done something wrong. And, unfortunately, mothers would ever protect their sons, even if they were monsters.
How Sylvia wished it was not true. She wished that the monsters would be flushed out, cast out, shamed, or at least somehow reached, but some monsters had become so monstrous that they could never be reached or healed.
And Lady Minerva’s son had been truly cruel, and her son would have made darling Alice’s life a misery if Alice had chosen to marry him, despite the fact that he had revealed his true nature.
“Minerva, you’re a good woman,” she said, not softly but firmly. “I am sorry that your son was twisted by whatever made him thus. You know it was not my wish that he should be so condemned, but his own actions were quite—”
“He is, should be, one of the most powerful men in the land,” Lady Minerva cut in.
“And your family had him cast out over the daughter of a country squire with no great fortune, no great prospects, except for the fact that my son saw something in her. And when she and that family of hers proved that they were not worthy of him, and he said something about it, you lot had him destroyed.”
Sylvia squared her shoulders. Perdita stood strong beside her. “If that is how you choose to see it, Minerva, you cannot see who your son has become. Who he is becoming.”
Lady Minerva sneered. “My son would have been a great man. He had great prospects. And your new daughter-in-law, Muriel, with that shameful nonsense upon the stage? The Mitchell family clearly has bad blood. It is clear to me that you have lost all sight of things, Sylvia. And you, who were my friend? I now realize you were never out of the gutter from which you were born. You always were low. You still are, and you wish to drag everyone down with you.”
Perdita took a step forward. “Madame, the only one in a gutter here is you.”
Lady Minerva whipped towards Perdita. “You have always been strange.”
“Indeed, I am,” Perdita said. “And I am exceedingly grateful for it, for I should hate to be like you. It looks as if it is a miserable thing.”
Sylvia squeezed her daughter’s hand. “She is speaking out of grief.”
“No, Mama,” Perdita said with that candor she possessed.
“She is speaking out of her true character, and you can no longer deny it. She acted as your friend all of these years, but at the end of the day, she would crush Alice. She would let her son do whatever he wished, say whatever he wished, treat those beneath him however he wished.”
“You admit it then,” Lady Minerva huffed, triumph gleaming in her eye.
“Alice was beneath him, is beneath him, and her blood is bad, just like yours. No amount of washing will make it clean, my dear Sylvia,” she said, whipping to the dowager.
“And truth be told, you are all descended from scandalous people. The very dukedom of Westleigh comes from scandal and a woman who did not know her station.”
“My dear,” Sylvia said without rancor, “I would be careful if I were you, before you deride my children. I am not easily sparked to anger. I have a great deal of sympathy for you. I can only imagine how it must have felt when you realized that your son was not the man you raised him to be. Because I do not believe that you raised him to be like that, Minerva.”
Minerva’s eyes crackled. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s my son,” she said, her voice all but shaking. “And now he has gone from me. My darling boy who I nursed and kissed and loved. You all have taken him from me.”
“No,” Sylvia countered. “He took himself from you when he decided that he was better than a young lady who—”
Lady Minerva snorted. “A young lady who I have a feeling will turn out to be just as scandalous as her sister. And when she does, I will be there to prove to you that my son was right, that the blood of the Mitchells is bad. Even their eldest son, Cassius, has that blood. He no doubt shall turn out to be some fool revolutionary, dragged up before a court someday for inciting violence. The lot of them should be thrown out, not elevated, as you are doing.”
And with that, Lady Minerva turned, her skirts whooshing, and she headed out of the ballroom.
Sylvia let out a long sigh.
“Oh dear, Mama,” Perdita murmured.
She nodded. “We must draw battle plans, my dear.”
“Mama, that is not usually how you operate.”
“I know. I know it is not. If I could save my friend, I would, and I will still try. But she is choosing darkness,” Sylvia said, her heart sorrowful but resolved.
“She is really and truly choosing the monster in all of this. And, my dear, there is a moment in every single one of our lives where we must weigh ourselves, where we must ask ourselves what we truly believe in, and what we are willing to sacrifice to have it. And she’s simply not willing to sacrifice her son. ”
“Right then,” Perdita breathed. “I shall get my brothers and sisters together, and we shall do exactly as you say, Mama. We shall be ready for when the storm comes.”