Chapter 50
Fifty
The months marched forward. Aurora’s days were busy, filled with activity.
While her mother tended to her father, Aurora oversaw the household and took over more and more of the management of the manufactory.
She met regularly with Calum, frequently visited the shop floor, reviewed the accounts, and ensured she was well acquainted with each of the workers.
Her father rallied, fell ill, rallied again, until finally he began to fade away.
She began to relieve her mother at her father’s bedside, listening to him struggle to breathe, holding his hand in hers to keep it warm, and humming bits of Haydn or Bach that she knew he loved.
One afternoon, wearily returning to her own room to rest, Moore the butler presented her with a letter from London.
Puzzled, Aurora opened the seal and found that it was from Lucy.
As she read the brief message, she was hit with a wave of loneliness so strong her knees nearly buckled.
She tucked the letter away until she could get to her room, close the door, and sit down.
It appeared that Lucy’s latest position was coming to an end, and she enquired if Miss Hardcastle could recommend her to another one?
She was ready now to travel farther afield, the young woman wrote, and did not need to stay in London.
It was as if Aurora had been drowning and a sturdy plank had been extended to keep her afloat. She stood, crossed immediately to her small writing desk, and took a seat in front of it. Pulling out a sheet of paper, she began to write.
Dear Lucy, she wrote, How lovely to be presented with your letter today.
As a matter of fact, I do have an open position to recommend.
It would be some distance from London, and far from the city’s hustle and bustle.
Nevertheless, as we always did so very well together, would you consider entering my employ?
She signed and sealed it. Jumping to her feet, she went in search of the butler so that he could get it into the post.
That task completed, Aurora was heading to the drawing room for a cup of tea, when she heard a muffled scream from upstairs. This was followed by a desperate, “Aurora! Aurora!” and she was running to her parents’ room. I cannot. I simply cannot bear this. No. I cannot. But I must. Oh, Papa!
* * *
Alec was working in the library, when a scratch at the door announced the butler. “A letter, Your Grace,” and the man presented it to him on a rather tarnished silver tray.
“Thank you,” was all Alec said in response, reaching for it and watching the butler make his exit. The note had a black border on it. Someone had died. He quickly broke the seal and began to read.
The message was from Calum Ambleside, Mr. Hardcastle’s factotum.
Alec scanned the words. I regret to inform you…
he was most keen…he requested that I write you at the time of his passing.
I am therefore discharging my duty on behalf of a man I have greatly valued for my entire life.
The manufactory will continue, but we all feel his loss keenly.
All of us do, no matter how competent we may be.
So, Mr. Hardcastle had passed away. Aurora was alone.
In spite of these many months of staying busy with his estate, of putting the loan from Finn to good use and beginning to hope that it was truly a new start, she was never completely far from his mind. He had tried, dear Lord he had tried, but that bloody woman would not vanish.
She was alone. The feel of her here, in this room with him, was suddenly so strong he almost gasped. It would not work, the two of them. It could never work. It was not possible.
But she was alone. Well, she had her mother, right?
She had made her decision. She was living with that decision.
She had never once reached out—all right, one time, when he had received a note this past Christmas from Mr. Hardcastle, wishing him the best of the season and with hopes that he was well.
Alec had sent a short reply; he did not wish to be discourteous.
But she had never reached out. Of course she had not!
She had accepted his decision. She was moving forward with her life; he was moving forward with his. It had all been said and done.
She was alone.
It would not be proper to enter into such an arrangement with her, these, these terms she had set for her marriage. He had decided. It was not the thing to do. It would be mad, quixotic even.
She was alone. And grieving. He remembered her sobs, that day, after the factory. Those sobs had wrenched at his heart. He had ridden away, and a few hours later, left her. Forever. Yes, forever. It felt like yesterday. It felt like he was reliving it all over again. The pain was overwhelming.
He found himself on his feet, striding out into the hall and calling for the butler, for Peg, for Archibald, and for Marjorie. When his daughter appeared, he said, “We must pack, Marjorie. It is time to parley.”
A smile broke on his daughter’s face which spread from ear to ear. She jumped up and down. “Most excellent, Papa. Peg will help me to pack. I am happy to be your second as you parley.”
“See that you are ready within the hour, Marjorie!”
“Aye, aye, Papa!”
He could not bear to think of Aurora alone.
Yes, he was well and truly mad.