Chapter Seventeen
Henry woke to a terrible headache from his flirtation with the whiskey bottle.
For a moment, he lay there, remembering all that had transpired the night before, feeling sick in body and soul.
But then, he rolled over to look at his sleeping wife.
She slept on her side, with her knees bent, golden hair splayed over the pillows.
It struck him as it often had in the last few days, how could anyone hurt this angelic soul?
It was still hard for him to believe that she was his, that she had chosen him. He would be good to her. Fight for her. That was his work now, as much as it was to protect the land and his tenants. She was in his care. He must never again succumb to self-pity like he had the night previous.
He continued to watch her sleep for a few more minutes, not wanting to get out of bed and face the world quite yet. As if his scrutiny had wakened her, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” He kissed her forehead. “How did you sleep?”
“Better than I expected.” She shifted to look at him properly. “And you?”
“The same.” Which was true. “You made it so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can sleep as long as you are next to me.”
“Well, then, I intend to stay thus.”
A knock at the door made them both sit up. Mrs. Shaw entered with a breakfast tray. “Good morning, my lady. My lord. I thought you might prefer breakfast here this morning.” She set the tray on the table near the fireplace.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw.” Sophia sat up and begin to braid her hair. “That was very thoughtful.”
“The entire household is at your disposal,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Whatever it is you need, please do ask. We all want to help.”
“I will keep that in mind, Mrs. Shaw,” Henry said. “Thank you.”
“We are grateful,” Sophia said. “And if anyone heard any of the hurtful things that were said by the elder Lady Montrose, please tell them it in no way reflects the feelings of either of us.”
“I will, my lady. Thank you. They will be glad to hear it.” Mrs. Shaw bobbed a curtsy and left them to their breakfast.
They ate chunks of bread and jam, cold ham. The tea was exactly the right temperature and worked exactly as it should, taking away his headache and clearing his mind for the day.
When they were finished, Henry left his wife and went to his own bedchambers where Davies waited for him. After a fortifying bath, Davies assisted in dressing him.
“My lord, may I be so bold as to suggest a solicitor?” Davies asked, as he helped him into his jacket.
“You may, indeed.” Henry took a good look at his valet. “The staff knows, then? About my mother? Her threats?”
“Yes, my lord. We are all quite concerned.”
“Do not worry. I shall take care of this once and for all. Have Mr. Whitmore call upon me at his earliest convenience. He has handled my affairs in the past.”
“At once, my lord.”
He suspected his mother had no legal recourse against him. Instead, she would fight with her tongue, spreading lies throughout society so that his wife never fully felt welcome in that world. Regardless, he would feel better knowing where he stood legally.
*
Mr. Whitmore, a respected local solicitor who’d handled estate matters for the Montrose family for decades, arrived several hours later and was shown into Henry’s study.
He was in his sixties and stoop-shouldered.
For whatever reason, he reminded Henry of a basset hound.
Perhaps it was his short legs, rotund body and sad, soulful eyes.
Be that as it may, the man was as sharp as they came.
“Lord Montrose.” He bowed. “Your message suggested some urgency?”
“Please, sit.” Henry gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I need your professional opinion on a legal matter. Regarding my ward.”
He laid out the situation as concisely as he could.
Whitmore was familiar with Rebecca’s will naming him guardian, and the man would need no reminding, but he told him about his mother’s threats, her solicitors, and her stated intention of challenging his fitness based on his time at Dr. Morrison’s sanatorium.
Whitmore listened without interruption, his expression growing increasingly skeptical. When Henry finished, the solicitor sat back with a small shake of his head.
“My lord, I must be frank with you. Your mother has no case. None whatsoever.”
“You are certain?”
“Quite, my lord,” Whitmore said. “A testamentary guardian—one named explicitly in a parent’s will—has extremely strong legal standing. The Court of Chancery could theoretically intervene, but only in cases of egregious immorality, criminal activity, or raising a child in atheism.”
“What about mental instability?” Henry drew in a deep breath.
“You needn’t worry.” Whitmore folded his hands. “A temporary stay at a private sanatorium for treatment of melancholia following a tragic loss is not grounds for removing a child from a loving home. If it were, half the aristocracy would lose their children.”
Relief flooded through Henry. “So she can’t take Amelia.”
“Not through legal channels, no. Mrs. Weston’s will is ironclad. She explicitly excluded the Countess of Hartwell from guardianship. No court would override that without extraordinary evidence of harm. Which, from what you’ve described, does not exist.”
“Thank you. That’s a relief. My mother has a way of exploiting my deepest fears.”
“She cannot take Amelia from you.” Whitmore’s expression grew more serious.
“What I cannot protect you from is social damage. Reputation. Gossip. Your mother may have no legal case, but she can still wage a campaign of whispers and innuendo. I say this only to prepare you. Your mother strikes me as someone who doesn’t accept defeat gracefully. ”
“There is no need. I know exactly what she will do. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to fight against her in that manner.”
“It is best to fight back, I would think. Whatever rumors she spreads, counteract with the truth. And scandal has a way of dissipating once a new situation arises.”
After Whitmore left, Henry sat alone in his study, staring at the cold fireplace. Legal safety but social warfare. It was almost worse in a way—no clear rules, no decisive victory, just a grinding campaign of attrition.
A knock interrupted his brooding. “Come in.”
Mrs. Bromley entered, her expression troubled. “My lord. Forgive the intrusion. But I thought you should know—I’ve just received a letter from a former colleague in London. There are rumors circulating. About you and Lady Montrose.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “Already? My mother has only just arrived back in London.”
“The Countess works quickly.” Mrs. Bromley’s tone was carefully neutral, but he heard the disapproval beneath it. “My lord, might I speak plainly?”
“Please.”
“The Countess will not take this loss of control lightly. I’ve known her for many years. Since before her marriage.” She hesitated. “I was a junior maid at Montrose Manor when she was young. Before she became Countess of Hartwell.”
Henry sat forward. “I am aware. Is there something I should know about that time?”
“She has always been troubled.”
“Do you mean trouble?” Henry asked, with a wry smile.
“Yes, that too.” Mrs. Bromley’s eyes grew distant. “She was barely seventeen when she married your father. Beautiful, accomplished, proud. But deeply unhappy about the match.”
“Why?”
“Because this was her home. She loved Montrose Manor with a fierce, desperate love. She was as wild as the sea back then, roaming the shore, collecting shells. But then, her parents arranged her marriage to your father. It was as if a light turned off i her eyes. She became listless and dull. She begged her parents to change their minds about the match, but they would not budge. To them, he was a good choice. Wealthy. Titled. They could not understand her reticence. What they did not know—your mother loved another. An untitled man from the village.”
“What? That cannot be.”
“But it is, my lord. It is my belief that because she was denied her own love, she does not want anyone else to have it either.” Mrs. Bromley’s voice softened.
“The day they came for her—to take her to London to marry your father, she stood at the bottom of the main staircase, clutching the banister. Refusing to let go.”
Henry could picture it with painful clarity. A young woman, terrified, clinging to the only home she knew.
“Her mother had to pry her fingers away, one by one,” Mrs. Bromley said.
“She was crying—not sobbing, just tears streaming down her face. My lord, it was one of the saddest things I’ve ever witnessed.
Her brother stood nearby, looking helpless.
And when they finally got her into the carriage, she pressed her face to the window, staring back at the house until it disappeared from view. ”
“Good God.”
“The next time she visited—years later, as Countess of Hartwell—she was different. Harder. Colder. The marriage to your father broke her spirit and took her away from her home and the man she loved. And the sea, which seemed to be part of her when she was a child. I do not claim to understand why she does what she does, other than to say she has never had control of her own life. As most women do not.”
“And when my uncle died,” Henry said slowly. “The estate passed to me. Reminding her of her powerlessness.”
“Yes, my lord. The home she’d loved and lost went to her second son.
The sensitive one. The one who reminded her most of the girl she once was.
” Mrs. Bromley met his eyes. “I’m not excusing what she did to Miss Eleanor or to you.
Her actions were unforgivable. But she was young once.
In love with a man she could not have. You might not be able to imagine what she was like then.
This girl with romantic notions. Perhaps the forced marriage, losing her freedom and this house and the sea made her cruel.
I do not know with certainty, but that is my guess. ”