Chapter Seven

The packet of letters weighed his pocket as he and Lady Catherine moved through the museum together. Her maid followed behind. How could he tell her what he discovered? It had shattered him on behalf of his father, crushed him on behalf of his mother. Did his mother know the history? How could she have put on such a happy front all these years, knowing her husband loved another?

Lady Catherine kept glancing in his direction. Likely she sensed something in his quiet mood. Remarkable how connected they were, how connected he felt to her.

They moved to sit in a quiet room against the far wall. A large sculpture took up the space in the middle of the room and shielded them from many who would be walking by. He pulled the packet of letters out of his pocket.

Lady Catherine’s eyes widened.

“I have made some discoveries.”

Her eyes held concern along with the open curiosity that filled her face. “What? Tell me what you have learned.”

“It is a sordid tale. Of sorts.” He cleared his throat. “And a romantic one.”

He enjoyed the sparkle in her eye even though it was clouded by hesitation, by the expectation of bad news.

“So, it turns out, my father did indeed love your mother.”

Her eyes widened, and a delicious awkwardness settled between them, the kind created by two who had yet to disclose any sort of feelings for the other, feelings he suspected existed in her and he knew ran powerfully through him.

He rested a knuckle at the side of her face, allowing the moment to linger. “He writes of his feelings, pages and pages. The man was a terrible poet.” He grimaced, and Lady Catherine laughed.

“Tell me. What happened between them?”

He looked out over the room. “My father and your mother arranged to meet. He was to come for her and ask for her hand. She waited for him at the back swing. I have a letter from her as well.”

“From my mother?” she reached forward. “May I see it?”

“Of course.” He handed her a well-worn piece of parchment, the fold lines rubbed bare, the words still visible, the handwriting fading.

My dear Jorge.

You never came. I risk much in writing you, but I must know if your feelings are still engaged. You seemed so distant at the musicale the other evening. It was as if we had not spent the past summers admitting what we have. I love you still, Jorge. If you are to continue with the plans we discussed, please ease my mind as to your feelings. I am left with a great deal of uncertainty regarding your many promises. Mother is pressuring me to make a decision. I am ever yours.

Amelia

“What?” Her hands shook. “What could this mean?”

“I have discovered the rest of the tale through my father’s words in this old journal.” He reached for her hand. The trembling made him wish to pull her into his arms. “It seems that on the very day they were to meet, the day my father would approach Amelia’s father to ask for her hand, my father received a visit from a caller.”

She squeezed his hand, a troubled expression crossing her face.

He regretted what he was about to say to her. “It seems His Grace Lord Aster had similar designs on your mother.”

She grimaced. Then nodded.

“When my father was unmoved by his petition to allow him the opportunity to court her as well, for Salsbury to hold off on his proposal, Lord Aster turned angry and with many threats demanded that my father step aside. All of which my father ignored until your father mentioned Agatha.”

“Agatha?” Her voice shook, and she cleared her throat.

He nodded. “My father’s aunt. She is very much like Penelope. Every other generation, someone special is born into our family line.”

Her eyes widened.

“And the knowledge is kept secret, especially for that particular generation, as they were certain to give birth to someone who might behave . . . might be . . .”

She moved her hand to his forearm. “It’s all right. I understand.”

“History was unkind to some of the past Salsburys, and there have been many who viewed these siblings as an embarrassment, a scandal, even. What family would want to unite with our bloodline, knowing a member might need Bedlam or worse?”

“No, Penelope would never need Bedlam.” Her face pinched in pain.

Stephen warmed toward her even more. Her appreciation for Penelope showed a gentle and caring heart. “She would not, that is true, but for many generations, the treatment of the Salsburys with her condition has been suspicious and often unkind. Until my father. He wished for Agatha to live with him, to be a part of the family. His father and mother supported the idea, but as was wont to happen, knowledge of her existence and condition leaked out, and Aster became aware.”

Lady Catherine dipped her head. “I don’t know if I want to hear the rest.”

Great sympathy filled him. “I don’t have to continue.” He waited.

She was silent. At length she said, “I fear I know what you are about to say. Keeping it from me does not make it untrue, though I wish it were. I need to know.”

He wished to know what thoughts ran through her head. His sorrow grew. How dreadful to be the one to discover any bit of unpleasantness about another’s family and especially to be the one to deliver the blow. He continued. “My father’s journals claim that Aster threatened to reveal the family secret, to tell your mother what she would have to bear as a mother to a child like Agatha, like Penelope. He promised to shout it to the ton in the most negative terms if my father didn’t immediately back away and withdraw his attentions.”

Stephen’s anger for Aster simmered just under the surface. When he had read the account last night, he punched the wall, anger coursing through him at the injustice dealt his father. But soon a sense of logic entered. His father had been happy in his marriage, with his family. And his mother had happily accepted the existence of Agatha and had loved, did love, Penelope with the fiery love of any mother. He received a great amount of peace in the happy turn for his father, for his family. But he didn’t think his father had ever fully recovered from the loss of his first love.

“My father threatened yours so he could pursue my mother.” She shook her head. “And all this time I thought the Salsburys were to blame.”

He bristled. He couldn’t help it. “For what?”

Her eyes flew to his.

His voice sounded sharper than he intended. “What could we have possibly done to you that hasn’t been done ten times already to us at the Aster hand?”

She withdrew her hand. “Come now, we can’t believe only the words of one journal, one person, to give a complete account. The Salsbury and Aster dislike began generations before our fathers.” She stood.

He stood to join her. “But you can’t possibly think the Salsburys have treated the Asters wrongly, even knowing the great extortion . . .”

“I’ll think whatever I like. I’m surprised you would not even consider the possibility that Salsburys were to blame. No family is without fault.” She choked on her words. “Perhaps it is time we leave.” She walked in the direction of the exit.

Hurt she would doubt the word of his father in his own journal, he wanted to lash out as much as he wished she would stay. “Just like an Aster.”

She stopped, turning to face him again. “What?”

“Feeding anger, creating discord.” Perhaps there was more in her of her uncle than he had originally realized.

She began to walk away again and wiped at her eyes. “I’ll ask for a hack to be called.” She hurried from him.

His anger dissipated at the signs of her distress. He chased after, regretting his callousness. “No, wait. I’ll see you home.”

She didn’t look at him, just nodded.

Their ride home with the maid present was oppressively silent. Every time he looked at her, she was angled firmly from him, her eyes focused downward. He thought of her almost engagement to Channing, of his duty to court Lady Fenningway, and of all the discord between their families. A wave of hopelessness filled him. From their first moments, dancing, he discovered a fascination with Lady Catherine that had not lessened over time. He could not imagine happiness with any other, knowing how strongly and with so little provocation his heart hammered for her.

“Lady Catherine, please.”

She stiffened and then turned to him; the red-rimmed, hollow eyes struck him.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know how else it could be. It’s best to discover this unpleasantness now, before . . .” She didn’t finish.

Perhaps she meant before her heart was engaged. He knew his already had been. But perhaps hers wasn’t. They had hardly spent any time together.

And if he was talking sense, what did he know about her, really? She was an Aster. That enough gave him reason for distrust. He hadn’t admitted it to her, but the anger for her father lingered. What a snake. So much like her uncle. Her brother seemed more malleable, less intractable, but what did he know about them? And how could he consider opening up a closer association with that family? How could he do that to Penelope, knowing what danger she would be in if Asters were to learn of her existence? He saw no reason to believe her uncle would be any nobler than her father had been.

He shook his head at the irony. He sat in the same position with a difficult choice that his father had before him, except he had avoided the attachment of an almost engagement. He should be grateful for an early warning to dissuade him from further risk and hurt, even potential disaster.

But Lady Catherine’s stiff posture when she left his carriage tore at his insides.

Her last words, “Give my love to Penelope,” nearly broke his resolve to let her go.

Watching the door close behind her, he suspected if they ever saw each other again, it would be with pretended disinterest. And he prayed his heart could endure the pain that thought created inside him. He rapped on the roof. It was time he started moving forward with his own duty: Lady Fenningway, or if not her, someone he thought would be a good fit for his ducal estate.