Chapter 13
Cynthia
Tuesday
Nothing.
As I turn over and brush my hand over the cool sheets, my heart sinks just a bit more. Of course he can’t be here. To do so would be to invite all manner of scandal, and under his mother’s roof no less.
It still hurts my heart to know I will never wake up next to him, that it will just be me in my room with Henhaven next door. How will I bear it? Closing my eyes, I conjure the memory of Charles’s arms wrapped around me. He was so tender last night, so unlike himself.
Rising, I pull my wrap around me and open the curtains to look out into the streets. Fog coats every surface, turning them a dismal gray. Just perfect for the sour mood in which I find myself.
The room feels chilled despite the embers from the fire struggling to stay lit. I glance about, taking in the empty space. Not one piece of Charles remains behind. No note. No cravat. Nothing to prove he was even here.
The stand next to the bed lies empty. Not even a crumb of the soft cakes mars the surface. Gone is the wrapper they were in. Vanished, as if a specter had passed through, then disappeared once more.
Was it my imagination? All of it? Did he even come through the door? Does it even exist?
Crossing the room, I run my hands along the rough indentations in the wood, seeking out his entrance. There, just barely perceptible. I lodge my fingers in the crack and tug. The wood barely budges, but it gives slightly. It must be locked somehow. That, or I am going more insane than I thought.
As I pull away, the room door opens, revealing my maid and her tray with warmed chocolate. With a soft sigh, I go over to the table and sit, waiting as she places it before me. Her voice is a gentle hum in the background as she fusses about the room, preparing it for the day.
Even as I drink the warming chocolate brought in by the maid, I find no joy in it. Though normally the bright spot in my morning, it sits heavily in my stomach, making it churn. I’m not ill. I know that much. This always happens when exhaustion and nerves run ragged.
The maid waits for me, standing by the basin to help me wash for the day. It’s rote. It’s routine. It’s safe. And yet, my mind can’t help but wander to the unsafe topic of Charles. Would it really be so bad to have us compromised and be done with?
Duty.
Honor.
Sacrifice.
Such things are the burden we bear as peerage. To some, it is a privilege. To me, it’s a noose that cinches tighter around my neck with each passing day. The wedding altar is the gallows, and each moment pulls me nearer.
As I walk down for breakfast, I scent the air, looking for any hint that Charles might be in attendance. Just as with the room, there is nothing. Just the scents of London and my friends.
They sit at the table, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. All I can do is fill my plate with a few morsels and join them. They smile at me, the excitement palpable in the air.
“Oh, Cynthia, that morning dress is just lovely,” Sophia says as she beams over at me. “I daresay it matches your eyes to perfection.”
“Truly,” Penelope agrees. “I must know your dressmaker. I wonder if she has these fabrics in blues instead of that perfect green.”
“Well, she must,” Georgiana, the ever-sensible one, murmurs over her buttered bread. “A modiste would soon find herself out of an occupation if she only carried a few fabrics.”
“You’re no fun,” Penelope fires back. “Always with facts and sense. Never any passion or heart.”
The sister in question merely raises an eyebrow before taking another bite. Unbidden, a soft chuckle slips from my lips. Trust the triplets to always make me feel better.
“There now,” the dowager duchess smiles. “I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh since you’ve been with us.”
“I must confess I’ve been quite out of sorts.”
“As I’m sure you are. What with the wedding approaching and all. If you wish to talk, I am here for you. Though I am not your mother by blood, I feel a kinship with you just as my daughters do.”
“Right,” Penelope laughs. “We all thought you’d be our sister by marriage. Now, you’ll just have to be a sister in spirit.”
“Pen,” Georgiana huffs as she jabs her elbow into her side. “That was very unkind and rude.”
Before she can open her mouth to make an apology, I hold up my hand. “There’s no need to go to war with your sister on my behalf. It’s not as if the whole of London didn’t thought the same. Now then. What do we have on the docket today?”
“Cynthia,” Penelope whispers as tears make her eyes shine. “I really didn’t mean it. I sometimes speak and don’t think.”
“I know. It’s one of the things I love about you. Now then. Diversions please. I have need of ridding myself of this gloom.”
“Then you shall have diversions aplenty,” Penelope says, doing her best to be upbeat and cheerful for me. “Augusta has requested our presence.”
“No doubt she’s bored and wishes to deprive us of our coin,” Georgiana murmurs under her breath.
“What is this?” the dowager duchess asks, her words trembling with barely concealed laughter. “Do you claim the young duchess is untoward?”
As I pick at my food, the three regale their mother with Augusta’s talent with cards. I, however, merely listen and allow the heartfelt chatter to soothe me. In some ways, it helps ease the ache under my breastbone. In others, it makes the pain all the worse, all the sharper.
How long had we four planned my marriage with Charles? How many times did they put us together in each other’s paths? How often had I sighed with happiness at the thought of the triplets truly becoming my sisters and the dowager duchess my mother?
Setting the fork down, I interject where I need to and laugh where it seems appropriate. I play a good guest and make them all think everything is well. Though, deep inside, I feel as if I’m falling into a deep, dark chasm with no hope of escaping.
As I trudge up the stairs to change, Penelope stops beside me and loops her arm through mine. “I truly am sorry, Cyn. I never, ever mean to hurt you.”
I give her as reassuring a smile as I can and pat her hand. “I know that, Pen. Now, let us go see if we four together can reclaim some of our honor, dignity, and coin.”
“I win again!” Augusta cries, earning a groan from us.
“How are you this good?” Georgiana asks.
“Must be the spite,” Sophia adds.
With a chuckle, I peer down at the table to see the “massive” winnings. “I think it must be practice makes perfect, though I’m glad it’s not my coin being swindled.”
“Swindled,” Augusta scoffs, putting on a false face of extreme offense and hurt. “Are you accusing me, a duchess, of swindling? The nerve!”
At that, we all collapse into a fit of giggles. How long has it been since I’ve felt this free? Granted, if anyone is to break through these doldrums, it would be Augusta. She never fails to have some sort of antics up her sleeve.
After a few moments, the laughter dies down, and Augusta pins me with an odd look. “How do you find your betrothed?”
The triplets glance at me, hanging on every word. It’s not as if I choose to hide anything from them. There’s just not much to tell.
“Well… he’s amiable, I suppose.”
“Amiable,” Augusta says, her face aghast. “Amiable? Is that any way to feel toward your future husband?”
“Well, it’s not as if I know enough about him to feel anything else.”
“But surely there is something. Does he not have passions, pursuits?”
Wincing, I recall his animated discussion of rocks and debate if I should even mention it. Although, by this point, the triplets’ heads keep bobbing from Augusta to me as if we’re in a match of field tennis. I suppose I should confess.
“He seemed rather fond of rocks.”
“Rocks,” all four of them say in near unison.
“Rocks?” Augusta repeats. “As in the hard matter under our feet?”
“If only just that. He also seems to have a fondness for its use in architecture.”
“I am confused.”
“As am I. Truly. It’s the only time I’ve seen him so congenial.”
“Rocks?” she asks again.
“Rocks,” I repeat, doing my best not to allow the malaise at knowing I’m bound to the altar with a man who shows far more interest in rocks than he does in wooing me show on my face.
“That is odd.”
“I concur.”
“Not to take this deep conversation for granite,” Georgiana chimes in, earning a chorus of laughs from the others. “But shale we continue to our next stop?”
“You’re incorrigible,” I chuckle, rising to curtsy to Augusta before we set out to the carriage.
“I’d like to think I have layers.”
Penelope snorts. “Quite boulder of you to continue this line of humor. One would think you were mining gold.”
“Just pyrite.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as we tumble into the carriage and make our way toward Teresa’s house. Penelope and Georgiana continue to go back and forth, each statement worse than the last, yet the closer we get, the more that bit of nausea rises in my throat.
Teresa will still be at home with her little one, Thomas.
Would it be odd to see her again now that she’s a mother?
Our excursions were cut short the other day since Thomas was not in a receiving mood, leaving me with an intense longing to see her and the little one.
I’m glad no note arrived this morning to stay our journey this time.
As the footman ushers us into the house, Teresa flies down the stairs, baby nestled in her arms. “Well met!” she cries out. “How I have longed for the company of another. Come, come. Let us retire to the drawing room.”
The moment we sit, Teresa comes over to me and holds out her son. I look up at her for a moment until I realize she means to hand him off. “You mean to have me hold him?”
“Blessed, yes. You are soon to be a wife, I hear. And a mother after that. You will soon learn that though your heart will overflow for your child, you will know no better joy than seeing him held by someone else. Besides, you need the practice. You were an only child, correct?”
“Yes, but-”
“Here. Formal introductions. Miss Cynthia Campbell of Kirden, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Lord Thomas Harding, heir to the dukedom of Foxford, currently drooling on his mother’s best morning dress and with apologies for his ill temperament that made an earlier visit untenable.”
The others laugh around me as Teresa plops him in my arms, complete with a rag to catch his drool, but I find no humor in the situation. I sit there, dumbstruck as the tiny human wriggles in my arms before giving the largest yawn.
“I’m just happy we’re finally here,” I say as I peer down at Thomas’s angelic face.
Teresa sits across from us and engages in more witty wordplay featuring rocks after the triplets tell her all about my intended’s interest. I tune them out as I hold the baby even closer, dragging in his smell. So small, so warm, so very perfect.
Babies. But of course babies happen in marriage. It’s how it’s done. I hadn’t really given it much thought. How would Henhaven be as a father? No doubt he has much practice with his sisters.
Charles would have practice too. Would he be stern but loving? Kind but fair? Would he teach them the way of soldiers? Even now, I can see in my mind’s eye as he parades around our children, making the march like a soldier as they plan their mischief.
Would they have his blue eyes? Would they have my green? Black hair or blond? Maybe some sort of mixture?
Tears form in my eyes as tiny Thomas turns his head to nuzzle my breast. His mouth opens and closes as he roots around, unlocking a maternal instinct in me I didn’t realize was there until that very moment.
A wife. A lover. A mother.
Alone.