Chapter 30
“We have a guest, Thomas!” Penrose Carlton boomed at the top of his voice. “And not just any guest, boy, but your fiancée.” He shook his head to register his disgust. “Now I suggest you smarten yourself up and get into the drawing-room immediately.”
“No, Father,” Thomas said and felt suddenly full of purpose.
He almost welcomed the idea of being disowned, disinherited, for it would mean that he would never again have to listen to his father bellowing at him and treating him like a child. Thomas realized that he had been putting up with it for years, just as Pierce had put up with it before him.
Well, there was to be no more of it.
Thomas was not a child; he was a father. He thought immediately of Henry’s beautiful, round face and his eyes. Those pale blue eyes.
That moment of understanding, that absolute knowledge without words that the boy before him was his own son was a moment he would never forget. A moment that would change him forever, only this time, it would be for the better. It would always, always be for the better.
He had a son now, a wonderful, perfect little boy. And Thomas would be a man because of it. He would protect him with his life and never, ever have his child scrabble about for his approval. Henry was here on this earth, living and breathing and utterly perfect. Just his presence gave him intrinsic worth, and Thomas would never let a day go by without making sure that Henry knew it.
And the first act of protection would be this; to stand up to his father and do so unflinchingly. This was how he would live his life from now on. He would need no more in this world than to know he could protect and cherish his son and the wonderful, beautiful woman who had been his only love.
“What?” His father boomed again.
“I am but three feet from you, Father, there is no need to bellow as if the hall itself is on fire. Really, I cannot begin to tell you how tedious it is.” Already, Thomas was beginning to find his old spirit; the enjoyable insolence of his youth when he had been the afterthought and had nothing to lose.
He could hardly believe he had been putting this off, worrying, waiting, procrastinating. His time had come, and he was most certainly going to grab it with both hands.
“What?” his father said again, only this time at a mercifully lower volume. “What is all of this? What do you mean by turning up here late when you have a prior engagement? And what do you mean by talking to me in that manner?”
“And what do you mean by talking to me in that manner? I am eight and twenty years old and still, you call me boy! And you treated Pierce no differently, did you? You barely looked up when he died, barely broke your stride before you started to instruct me the way you had always instructed him. Let me tell you, Father, I am tired of it, and I will take no more of it.”
“And just what do you mean by that? You will take no more of what?” Penrose looked for all the world as if he had suddenly realized that his son was making an empty threat.
He looked self-satisfied and arrogant and folded his arms over his fat stomach before treating his son to a patronizing sneer.
“What I mean by that is that I will not marry Lady Eleanor Barchester just because she suits you. If she suits you so well, marry her yourself,” Thomas began, and it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
He had said it out loud now; he had told his father most determinedly that he would not marry Lady Eleanor Barchester, and marry her he would not. It was done; the thing he had feared for day upon day was done.
“But the announcement ball is just weeks away,” his father said as if the greatest problem under discussion might well be any little invitations he had already made.
“It matters not, Father, for I shall not be there. And neither shall Lady Eleanor Barchester, with or without the most splendid gown known to man. I am not marrying her father, and that is that. I am only angry with myself that I allowed things to get this far, for I have never had any interest in Eleanor Barchester, and well you know it.”
“This is not about interest, boy,” the Duke said and had the decency to look a little perturbed by his habitual use of the word boy. “You need not be interested in a woman to marry her, for heaven’s sake. As a matter-of-fact, romantic interest is a hindrance in a good marriage. You need a Duchess, and that is that. A woman of good breeding who is able to bring a little wealth into the duchy. It is not just about securing an heir, Thomas, but about keeping the duchy thriving for years to come. That is how generations of our family have presided over the title and the hall.”
“Your arrogance and your hectoring, Father, have seen to it that I care very little for the fortunes of this duchy. Had you raised Pierce and I in a very different manner, things might well have turned out a little better. But as it is, your attitude has brought you here, Father. It has brought you to this very day with your only remaining son defying you.”
Although the two men were arguing in the entrance hall of Shawcross, they had done so in relative privacy. What staff had been in the area had scurried away at the first sound of raised voices. The servants at Shawcross Hall knew better than to eavesdrop, and every one of them feared their master too much to ever attempt it.
The creaking of the drawing room door and the click of dainty boot heels on the polished tiles drew their attention and silenced them for a moment.
“Eleanor, my dear, please do wait in the drawing room for us,” the Duke said, and it seemed that he truly believed she had heard nothing of their conversation. “We just have a couple of matters to attend to and will be with you in no time at all.”
“Your Grace, you are very kind, but I think this is a conversation that I ought to be a party to, given that it concerns me greatly,” Eleanor said, holding the Duke’s gaze firmly.
For a moment, Thomas thought he could almost admire her. She was one of the few people he had ever seen do anything other than placate and pacify the old Duke. But, of course, she was not doing it because she had so firm a backbone, she was simply incensed that she was about to have her plans disarranged.
“Then perhaps we all might retire to the drawing room,” the Duke said and sounded vexed beyond measure.
“Why not,” Thomas said and knew that it mattered not what happened now; as far as he was concerned, the thing was done.
“Well, it seems that you have come up against your weakness, Thomas,” Eleanor said, and it was clear that she was determined to take the reins of the conversation the moment they were behind the closed door of the drawing room. “But you will make yourself a fool by it, mark my words.”
“Meaning what, Eleanor?” Thomas said and was determined to keep calm.
“There is something rather damaged about Catherine Ambrose. For one thing, it would never even occur to me to address her as Lady Catherine. I know she is a lady, strictly speaking, but everything I have learned of her life in Derbyshire sounds rather savage. I believe she is addressed as Miss Catherine in the wilds of the Peak District.” Eleanor laughed.
“I do not see what difference that makes, Lady Eleanor,” he said sarcastically.
“She is not good enough to be a Duchess, Thomas. She is not made of the right material and probably never was. She is weak and too quick to fall into her own emotions, that sort of woman would never do in a fine hall such as this.” She spread an arm wide and rather dramatically.
“I hardly think that Catherine would be at all bothered by that. And Catherine has never sought to be a Duchess, has she? In all her dealings with me, what she might gain for herself materially and in terms of title have not even been a consideration. If you think that is a failing in a woman, then it is very likely that I would never be able to persuade you otherwise.” He glared at Eleanor. “But let me tell you that as far as I am concerned, Catherine Ambrose is head and shoulders above all. She far eclipses any other member of her sex that I have met, and I could never marry another whilst she is still alive and in the world somewhere.”
“Fine sentiments indeed, Thomas, but you have made an assumption. You have assumed that I will allow an Ambrose to live in this house, to even call herself a duchess, and I shall not.” The Duke of Shawcross looked as if he had fired the decisive shot and was extraordinarily pleased with himself.
“I rather fear that it is you, not I, who have made an assumption,” Thomas said in the strong and self-assured tone he had always wanted to use on his father. “For I had known immediately that your old hatred and determination to win could never be reasoned with. And look where it has brought you, Father. You have continued a ridiculous feud, one that your father and Oscar Ambrose’s father entered into, and they were young men. How can that possibly be important anymore? How can it have meant so much to you that you would see your own son unhappy?”
“You make it sound so simple, and yet it is not,” the Duke said, but he did look wrongfooted.
“But it is so simple, Father.”
“You are letting your heart rule your head, Thomas, and it will not do you any good,” Eleanor chimed in, and he turned to look at her.
If only he could shout it out there and then. If only he could tell the dreadful woman that he had a son, a beautiful son, and nothing else in the world mattered anymore.
“If I thought you were in any way truly upset by this, Eleanor, I would genuinely be sorry for it. But you do not have a heart in your chest, dear lady, and I could fully imagine there to be nothing more than a small hard stone inhabiting the spot where it ought to be, swinging from side to side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.”
“How clever you think you are, Thomas,” Eleanor said airily.
“You are not heartbroken, my dear lady. You are not upset that you will not spend the rest of your life with me. You care no more for me than you care about anybody else in this sorry world. You are simply annoyed that I have interrupted your plans. You had fully intended to be a duchess, and you would not care who you had to marry to be one. Well, I am sure that there are endless old dukes up and down the country who would be more than willing to fulfill your every demand in life.” He laughed and shook his head. “But I will never be one of them.”
“I think you have said quite enough, Thomas,” his father said in a low and somewhat softer tone. “I think you should go away now and have a very good and long ruminate. I am sure, given time, you will come to your senses. And when you have, then you may come back to me.”
“You do not understand, Father. What you see before you now is your son coming to his senses. Finally, and after so long, Thomas Carlton is coming to his senses.” Thomas bowed his head respectfully and turned to leave the room.