Chapter Fifteen
The drainage meeting had run even longer than Henry expected.
By the time he left the village assembly room, dusk was falling and rain was coming down in earnest. He urged his horse faster, eager to be home.
To see Sophia. To kiss her and hold her and perhaps steal her away to their chambers before dinner.
God, when had he become such a besotted fool? Three days married and he could barely stand to be away from her for a full day.
As Montrose Manor came into view through the gray drizzle, Henry felt his spirits lift. Home. His home. Their home. With his wife waiting inside, probably in the drawing room with her correspondence, or perhaps upstairs with Amelia.
He handed his horse to a groom and strode toward the front entrance, already loosening his cravat. He was damp and cold and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and—
Grimshaw opened the door before Henry could reach for the handle. The butler’s face was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes. A warning.
“My lord. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Grimshaw. Is Lady Montrose in the drawing room?”
“She is, my lord. But I must inform you—” He paused, and Henry felt dread settle in his stomach. “Your parents have arrived. They came this afternoon, unannounced.”
His last meal threatened to come back up. “My parents.” Henry’s voice came out flat. “Here.”
“Yes, my lord. They’re currently in the blue suite. We are preparing the blue rooms for them.”
“How long have they been here?” Henry’s hands clenched into fists. “How long has my wife been dealing with them alone?”
“Since approximately two o’clock, my lord.”
Nearly four hours. Four hours of Sophia facing his mother without him there to protect her.
“Where is she now?”
“The drawing room, my lord. She’s been—” Grimshaw hesitated. “She’s been quite composed, my lord. Very dignified. But I thought you should know.”
Henry didn’t wait to hear more. He strode down the corridor toward the drawing room, his wet boots leaving tracks on the polished floor.
She was standing by the window, her back to the door, her posture rigid. Even from behind, he could see the tension in her shoulders.
“Sophia.”
She turned, and the relief that flooded her face made his chest ache. In three strides he was across the room, pulling her into his arms.
“Henry.” Her voice broke on his name. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Are you all right?” He pulled back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though she wasn’t crying now. “Did she hurt you? What did she say?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” But her voice was shaky. “She’s… She’s exactly as you described. Worse, perhaps.”
“Tell me everything.” He guided her to the sofa, keeping her hand firmly in his. “Every word. I need to know what she said to you.”
Sophia took a breath and recounted it all—Constance’s arrival, the cutting comments about the house, the implications about Sophia trapping Henry, the poisonous remarks about the staff. “She managed to insult Mrs. Bromley, Grimshaw and Mrs. Mills within the first five minutes of her visit.”
With every sentence, Henry’s fury grew.
“She called it a coup,” Sophia said. “Said I’d been planning to catch you. That I was manipulative and calculating.”
“That’s rich, coming from her.” Henry’s hands clenched.
“She is here to win. I could see it in her eyes. I just don’t know what she intends to win.”
“She hates that she can’t control me. That’s what this is really about.” Henry pulled her close again, resting his chin on top of her head. “I’m so sorry. I knew they might come, I just didn’t think it would be so soon.”
“You had business to attend to. You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have been here to protect you.” He felt the anger burning in his chest—at his mother for coming, at himself for leaving Sophia vulnerable, at the whole damnable situation. “Where are they now?”
“The blue suite. Resting before dinner.”
“Have they seen Amelia?” Henry asked.
“Yes, I had Lucy bring her down for a visit. Your mother, despite insisting she see her, was cold to Amelia. She looked at her as if she were assessing livestock.” Sophia bit her lip.
“I don’t want her near Amelia. Not after what you told me about how she treated her own daughter. The child must be protected.”
“Agreed. We’ll supervise any interaction very closely.” He let go of his wife, striding over to pour himself a glass of fortifying brandy. “May I get you a sherry, my love?”
“Yes, please.”
Henry poured her a drink and then led them both over to the settee by the fire. “What exactly did she say to insult our staff.”
“She said the house looked shabby, implying Grimshaw and Mrs. Bromley were not doing their jobs well. And that Mrs. Mills’s biscuits are hard. All of which deeply offended me. We have the best staff in all of England. It pains me to know that Grimshaw heard what she said.”
“She’s just finding ways to criticize the running of the house. It nearly killed her to see it go to me.”
“She cannot take it from us, can she?”
“Absolutely not. As much as she wishes otherwise, she has no power. Anyway, you’re my wife.
The rightful Lady Montrose. This is your home.
” He stroked her creamy cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“My mother has no claim here. None. The estate went to me through the entail, exactly as the law prescribes. She’s bitter about it, but that doesn’t give her any rights. ”
“What do you think she wants? In truth?” Sophia asked.
“That I cannot be fully certain of.” A nagging worry crept up the back of his spine as the voice of the devil whispered in his ear.
She wants Amelia. That is why she had come.
Perhaps to punish him. Perhaps to take what she felt was rightfully hers.
But he kept this to himself for now. He did not want his sensitive and gentle wife to worry overmuch until he knew more.
“However, I intend to find out. We will send them home as soon as possible.” He kissed her.
“Please, try not to worry. This is our home. Our marriage. Our life. And no one—not even my mother—is going to take that from us. I promised your brothers I would not let her hurt you, and I intend to keep that promise.”
*
After Sophia left to prepare for dinner, Henry sent a footman to the blue suite requesting his parents’ company. Immediately.
He paced while he waited, his mind churning with barely contained rage. Four hours. Four hours his mother had Sophia alone to work her poison. And Amelia—his sweet, innocent Amelia—subjected to that cold, assessing stare.
The library door opened. His mother swept in first, dressed for dinner in a dark purple gown. His father followed, looking uncomfortable but resigned.
“Henry.” His mother’s smile was all politeness. “How good to see you. It’s been far too long.”
“Sit down.” He didn’t return her smile.
“Such a warm welcome for your parents.” But she sat in one of the leather chairs by the fire, arranging her skirts with deliberate precision. His father took the chair beside her.
Henry remained standing, using the height advantage. “Why are you here?”
“Can’t a mother visit her son?” Constance’s tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. “Especially when she learns, via letter, I might add, that he’s married? We wanted to meet your new wife.”
“You wanted to intimidate her.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Constance said.
His father shifted uncomfortably. “Henry, perhaps if you’d told us more about how this all came to be.”
“And why you kept it from us,” Constance said. “All very suspicious.”
“I didn’t tell you because I knew this would happen.” Henry turned his gaze to his father. “Because Mother would find some way to poison it. Just like she poisoned everything with Eleanor.”
No one spoke for a second or two.
“Eleanor.” His mother’s voice was soft, dangerous. “Is that what this is about? You’re still carrying that torch after all these years?”
“I know what you did, Mother. You killed Eleanor.” The words came out flat, cold.
“You visited her while I was in London. You forged letters in my handwriting. You threatened her father’s living.
You told her she was ruining my life and that the kindest thing she could do was let me go.
And she believed you. She walked into the sea because you convinced her it was the loving thing to do. ”
His father’s face had gone pale. “Henry, you can’t possibly think that is true.”
“I don’t think. I know.” He paused. “Eleanor left a note, Mother. Did you know that? She apologized to me. Said she was setting me free because you’d convinced her she was a burden I couldn’t afford.
She told me everything you did. Father, you are a fool to think otherwise.
Do you not see what she does? To her own children? ”
Constance’s expression didn’t change. “That poor, fragile girl. Such a tragedy. But Henry, surely you can see that she was unstable. Unfit to be your wife. I was trying to help you.”
“Help me.” Henry’s laugh was bitter. “You murdered her. You drove a sweet, innocent woman to her death because she wasn’t good enough for your standards. Because she was a vicar’s daughter with no fortune or connections.”
“I did no such thing. If Eleanor was so weak-minded that she couldn’t withstand simple scrutiny, then that is hardly my fault.”
“Stop.” Henry’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t you dare blame her for what you did. She was nineteen years old. Sheltered. In love. And you preyed on that. You manipulated her until she believed dying was the only option.”
His mother pulled her hanky from her sleeve, as if she were about to cry, but he knew better.
It was all part of her act. “I see you’ve created quite a story for yourself.
A way to absolve your own guilt, perhaps?
You left her alone, Henry. You went to London when she needed you.
If anyone drove her to that beach, it was you. ”