Chapter 19
Eloise found Mrs. Maggie in her sitting room just after supper the same evening Jamie had taken her out to the cove.
She had not intended to seek advice, though she had been looking for someone who might give it to her by accident or design, and there was a difference between those two things that she was trying very hard not to examine too closely.
The house was settling for the evening. Footsteps had grown quieter. The children were likely still awake, Maisie resisting bedtime until the last possible minute, Duncan pretending to object while already knowing exactly where his book lay.
Eloise knocked lightly at the doorway of Mrs. Maggie’s room.
“Come in,” Mrs. Maggie called.
The room was warm and dim, lit by two lamps and the low fire in the grate. Everything in it had a purpose: the sewing basket by the chair, the folded shawl over the back, the tray with a cup gone cold and a biscuit half eaten. A small neatness that seemed to announce itself without vanity.
Mrs. Maggie looked up from her knitting and studied Eloise at once.
“You have the face of a woman who wants tea and advice,” the housekeeper said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Perfectly.”
Eloise moved into the room and sat in the chair opposite. “I would settle for one of those things.”
Mrs. Maggie set the knitting aside. “You have not come to ask about the children.”
“No.”
“You have not come to complain about the household.”
“No.”
“You have not come to ask whether Clara has hidden anything in the pudding.”
Eloise gave a reluctant smile. “Not tonight.”
“Then what is it?”
Eloise hesitated. She had rehearsed the question three different ways on the walk there. All of them sounded foolish. At last, she sighed. “The viscount confuses me.”
Mrs. Maggie gave a small grunt and leaned back in her chair. “Does he?”
“Yes.” Eloise looked down at her hands. “One day he is cold enough to freeze the room. The next he speaks to me as though he is showing me something he has never shown anyone else. He was cruel to me the day after the carnival, viscously so. Then, he asked me to come sailing with him and showed me the coast as though he was handing me a piece of himself. After which he apologized for being so cruel and looked at me as though he meant every word.”
Mrs. Maggie’s eyes shifted back to her. “And you are wondering what would make him so warm with you if he is capable of being so distant.”
Eloise looked away, because that was too close and she did not like that it was.
“Lord Macalpine has been building walls for a very long time,” Mrs. Maggie said, after a pause.
“Long before the explosion. Long before he came home with scars and a quieter voice than he ought to have had.” She paused again, smiling wanly.
“Do not misunderstand. He has a kind heart, and he can be a rather agreeable man. Certainly before the accident. He courted several women, including dear Lady Catriona. But the walls that were present even before the accident have always gotten in his way, despite the gentleness and affection he is capable of.”
“Why?”
“Because his mother died when he was young.” The housekeeper exhaled slowly. “And because his father remarried a woman who treated the children like furniture. Something to be moved about when convenient and ignored when not.”
Eloise’s fingers tightened in her lap.
“The viscount learned very early that a house could be full of people and still feel empty,” Mrs. Maggie continued.
“He learned that affection from the wrong sort of woman could be worse than no affection at all. That is why he went to sea. It gave him purpose and brotherhood, men who cared whether he was useful more than whether he was pleasant. A place where he was needed.”
Eloise thought of the quiet certainty he wore on the water. The way he instantly relaxed once the boat left the shore. “And when that was taken away?”
Mrs. Maggie’s mouth flattened. “Then he decided the safest thing was to need no one.”
The words settled with unpleasant force. Eloise stared at the fire. The thought did not fit the man she had come to know in fragments, and yet, in a grim, painful way, it made sense.
“And the children?”
Mrs. Maggie’s expression changed, only slightly. “He took them because he was the only one left who would.” Her tone gentled. “And because underneath all that armor, he is still the boy who used to carry his baby sister around the garden when their stepmother would not hold her.”
After a long moment, she smiled sadly. “There is a perfectly suitable woman in this house to be a mother to the children.”
Mrs. Maggie looked at her with something like patience and something like grief. “There has been a suitable woman in this house since the day you walked into it.”
Eloise blinked.
“The world only counts certain kinds of suitability,” Mrs. Maggie said.
Eloise’s breathing changed. Mrs. Maggie did not press. She only let the words sit between them, quiet and firm, until they could no longer be dismissed.
***
The following morning, Lawrence found Eloise in the schoolroom corridor just after lessons had let out for the midday interval.
He smiled, as he always did. “Miss Beauchamp. A moment, if I may.”
“Of course,” Eloise said, with careful courtesy.
He fell into step beside her. “The children seem well settled today.”
“They are.”
“You have a remarkable effect on them.”
“They do the work themselves.”
“You are modest.” He glanced toward the schoolroom door. “I imagine it gives you a great deal of satisfaction, this position.”
“It does.”
“And yet,” he said, with easy, practiced warmth, “it is a pity to see a woman of your qualities spending herself in service.”
Eloise kept her expression pleasant. “I find the work valuable.”
“Of course.” He smiled. “But surely you would prefer something more permanent. A home. A family. Something of your own.”
The flattery was practiced and purposeful, a trap with a velvet lining, and she recognized it at once.
“You are very kind to say so,” she said.
“I mean it. A woman with your grace and intelligence ought not to waste herself.”
She felt the first small flash of anger. “Waste myself?”
“You understand me.”
“No,” she said calmly. “I do not think I do.”
Lawrence’s smile did not falter. “A woman of your qualities would surely want a home of her own one day. A husband. That sort of life.”
Eloise looked at him for a long second. Then, with just enough politeness to remain unassailable, she tilted her head. “And do you ask all the women you meet whether they wish to be wives and mothers?”
Something in his gaze hardened, but he recovered quickly. “Only the ones I believe would suit it.”
She felt the insult then, just enough to remind her again where he thought her place ought to be. She gave him a nod as smooth as his own smile. “Thank you. I believe the children need me now.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
He did not leave at once. He stood a second too long, watching the children through the window and then Eloise again with that measured, careful look. Then at last he walked away.
Maisie did not wait long before leaning into Eloise’s side. Duncan spoke first.
“Uncle Lawrence watches people the way our cat used to watch birds.”
Eloise had been prepared to smile. Instead a cold little chill settled somewhere between her ribs. She looked down at him. “Your cat?”
“Before it got old.” There was no humor in the comparison. Only fact. A bird held in the eye of something waiting.
“That is a very observant comparison,” Eloise said.
Duncan shrugged, pretending not to care. Maisie, sensing the shift in mood, tucked her drawing against her chest and returned to her pencils.
The lesson resumed, but Eloise could not entirely shake the chill the boy’s words had left behind. Lawrence did not want a family. He wanted access. That knowledge sat in her mind like a stone, and she was certain of what she needed to tell Jamie.
***
Jamie returned from the solicitor’s office just before supper. Eloise saw him in the corridor outside the children’s rooms and knew at once from the set of his face that he was carrying news. The expression was too controlled, too still. His hand rested hard on the doorframe as he stopped.
“Miss Beauchamp.”
She turned. “Yes?”
He looked at her a moment too long, then he leaned in close to her ear. “Meet me in the study after the children are in bed.”
The tone of his voice told her more than the words did. She glanced at his hand on the wood. The grip was tight. “Of course,” she said.
He nodded once, no explanation, no reassurance, then turned and disappeared down the hall.
The children were put to bed later than usual, Maisie resisting sleep and Duncan requiring three separate reminders to stop pretending he had not already finished his book. When at last the house settled and the lights lowered and the hall grew quiet, Eloise made her way to the study.
Jamie was already there, standing by the fire with a glass of whisky in his hand. He had not touched it. The line of his shoulders told her everything before he spoke, though his face revealed absolutely nothing.
He looked up as she entered and waited until she had closed the door behind her.
“The marquess has already written to the Court of Chancery,” he said.
She stared at him. He did not soften it or prepare her. He simply gave the fact as it was.
“He is petitioning for custody of both children.”
The words landed with terrible force. For one long moment Eloise could not speak. Her throat had closed. The room felt suddenly cold, and all she could hear was the soft crackle of the fire and the faint beat of her own pulse.
Then, because she trusted him in ways she had not expected to trust anyone in that house, she asked the first question that came to mind.
“On what grounds?”
Jamie’s jaw tensed. He set the glass down on the mantel without drinking from it, then turned to face her fully.
“We are going to find out,” he said.