Elmwood #2
The carriage was open to the evening air.
The four passengers—Winthrop, Lady Isobel, Miss Floret, and Elmwood himself—were seated knee to knee.
The air was heavy and damp, and Elmwood thought it might rain.
He wondered if he ought to say so to make conversation, but he couldn’t quite find the will to do it.
His hip ached like an abomination, and he wished more than anything that he were still in bed, with Rollo curled up beside him.
He hated to think of Rollo being lost out there in the dark and rain. Rollo hated the rain.
Lady Isobel, who was seated across from him, was staring at her hands, but she occasionally glanced up at him, revealing red-rimmed eyes. He supposed she’d been crying, which was undoubtedly his fault. What a useless heel he was.
Miss Floret was most certainly in agreement on that point, which he could tell from the way she was glaring at him.
Since Winthrop was next to him, he didn’t know what sort of expression he was directing at Elmwood, but he could imagine it was similar to Miss Floret’s.
He supposed he ought to make some sort of effort.
“That’s a pretty…cloak,” he said to Lady Isobel, his voice croaking a little. It was a pretty cloak, the color of seashells, with little glass beads embroidered around the scalloped collar. It would be much better suited for a night at the Opera House than a muddy carriage ride in the countryside.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, then fell silent again.
Winthrop nudged his foot with his own.
“I hope…you will be merry at dinner,” tried Elmwood. “The troubles of the day ought not distress you further. That is to say…I am sorry that I was upset. Please do not hold yourself responsible.”
It was inelegant, as apologies went, but it would have to do.
Lady Isobel looked up at him with unbearable gratitude.
“If it will cheer you, then I shall endeavor to be the very soul of merriness,” she said.
He smiled at her, certain it had a grim aspect, despite his efforts. “Then I, in turn, shall do my utmost to be cheered.”
It was a lie, but a well-intentioned one. He fully intended to spend dinner quietly wallowing in misery.
They descended from the carriage inside Croftholde’s walls, just before the main entrance.
It was his second visit to Croftholde, and this time, he noticed it in a way he had not cared to before.
For now it was not just a house like any other.
Now it was the place that Lady Croft loved above all else.
It was the home that she was willing to do anything to preserve.
So this time, he regarded it with great interest.
It was not the sort of house that inspired affection with architectural beauty or whimsy.
It was a stout fortress of a place, all rough-hewn stone and battlements.
He supposed that its merits lay in the sense that it was safe.
No attack or storm or shaking of the earth would tumble Croftholde’s walls.
Come the end of the world, it would surely still be standing.
They made their way inside, where Lady Croft was waiting to greet them, and immediately it became clear that as long as she was in the room, her presence would consume his every attention.
Despite his distress over Rollo, his general despair, and the pulsing pain in his hip, as soon as he laid eyes on her, she became the only thing he could think about.
She was wearing a strange velvet sack of a dress that mostly hid her shape, encouraging him to imagine it most vividly.
The dress was a relic and made her resemble an ancient queen from an illuminated manuscript, especially with her braids crowning her head.
She need only lift her chin and legends would be born, operas written, and parades thrown upon the Commons.
She appeared to be avoiding making eye contact with him, which only made him long more intensely for her regard.
There were six of them seated at the table: Elmwood and Lady Croft at the ends, then Lady Isobel and Han along one side and Miss Floret and Winthrop on the other.
Rain had begun to patter against the windows as Lady Croft’s footman served some sort of onion soup with a blistered puck of cheese floating at its surface.
Miss Floret made a face at the soup, which was admittedly rather rustic, but Elmwood suspected that it would be delicious, and he was not disappointed. He realized it was the first thing he’d eaten that day, and it warmed his insides.
As he ate, he found himself wistfully imagining that this was his table, and Lady Croft was his wife, and they were hosting an intimate dinner together with friends.
And if this were his home, and she were his wife, then after they bid their guests good night, he would lead her up the stairs to their chambers.
He would pull the pins from those braids, letting loose the dark waves of her hair, and he would slide all that velvet up and up until he revealed the curves of flesh that hid beneath…
“Don’t you agree, dearest Erol?”
Elmwood dropped his spoon clumsily, sending it clattering into his bowl, and then everyone was staring at him.
“What?” he said to Lady Croft, who was frowning at him.
Her eyes flicked to Lady Isobel. Oh. Of course. It was not Lady Croft who had called him “dearest Erol.” It was Lady Isobel. Whom he was supposed to be keeping happy.
“Of course!” he blurted out. She beamed at him. He had no earthly idea what he had agreed to. Someone kicked him underneath the table—was it Winthrop? Elmwood was trying to do as he’d instructed.
“Ten children is…rather a lot of children,” said Lady Croft. His eyes darted back to her. “It is fortunate that you are both in agreement about wanting so many.”
“What?” said Elmwood, baffled.
“You just agreed with Lady Isobel about wanting to have at least ten children,” said Winthrop, who was well aware of the fact that Elmwood intended to have precisely no children.
“I wasn’t paying attention!” Elmwood blurted out.
Lady Isobel’s face fell, and he could have kicked himself. She did not deserve this. Why was he always making everything worse?
She seemed to rally while he struggled to think of something to say to make up for his boorish behavior. “What of you, Lady Croft?” she said. “Are you and Lord Croft blessed with children?”
Elmwood stiffened at the question, his eyes darting again to Lady Croft. She didn’t have children…did she? She hadn’t said anything about children in all the time they’d spent together. Had she wanted to have them with her husband? Would Lady Isobel’s question pain her?
She showed no signs of distress, dipping her spoon calmly back into her soup and then saying, “No, I do not have any children.”
“Surely your husband wishes to have an heir,” said Miss Floret. “Bearing children is a lady’s duty to her lord.”
Elmwood flinched again. He hadn’t blamed Miss Floret for threatening him, but there was no reason for her to badger Lady Croft. What if Lady Croft had wished to conceive and been unable? What if she had borne a babe and lost it?
“Not all husbands are so preoccupied, Miss Floret,” he said before he could think better of it.
“There’s no need for you to come to my defense, Lord Elmwood,” said Lady Croft, and he choked back his next words, with which he had intended to demand where Miss Floret’s children were, if bearing them was indeed a lady’s duty.
Where was his mind tonight, and why did it not seem to be connected to his mouth?
“My husband knew when he married me that I had no wish to bear children. Third sons have less interest in heirs, I suppose.”
“Surely he will wish to pass this estate on to his own children when the time comes,” said Miss Floret.
“Croftholde is held by the Duke of Engelbrooke, Lord Croft’s brother, whom most of you would know as the Western Harrier,” said Winthrop in his lawyer voice. “So it will pass to the duke’s heirs, regardless of whether Lord Croft has children.”
Another spoon clattered. It was Lady Croft’s.
“That is not correct, Mr. Winthrop,” she said. “Croftholde was portioned off to my husband by his grandfather and separated from the dukedom’s holdings.”
Winthrop frowned, opened his mouth as if to argue, and then looked around the table and seemed to remember he was at dinner and not in court.
“I’m sure it is as you say, Lady Croft,” he said, inclining his head. “You must excuse me, as I always get ahead of myself with enthusiasm for the intricacies of estate law.”
There was an awkward pause.
“I was surprised there were no others to join us this evening,” said Miss Floret, breaking the silence. “Six is a strange number for dining. Ten would be more customary. Was there no other suitable company to be had?”
“We are quite remote here, far from any company that would be considered the equal of yourselves,” said Lady Croft. She seemed distracted. Elmwood wondered at her tolerance of Miss Floret’s rudeness. Though he doubted it was in her nature to care about such snobberies.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. The queen herself has a country estate not half a day’s ride from here,” said Miss Floret. “It seems to me that appropriate company can always be found, if one cares to seek it out.”
“Though I suppose it would not have been appropriate to invite her, Auntie Floret, seeing as our visit to Merewyth is under certain…circumstances,” said Lady Isobel.
They all had an uncomfortable moment to contemplate the unfortunate nature of said circumstances and how they were all Elmwood’s fault.
“I think that solitude is part of the Gaze’s appeal, don’t you agree, Lord Elmwood?” said Lady Croft, breaking through the voice of his internal recriminations.
He looked up at her, and she had a kind expression on her face, which he was certain he did not deserve but he accepted gratefully, like she’d offered him a pat of butter to soothe a burn.
“I don’t know about that,” said Miss Floret.