Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jeffrey stared moodily at the drink in front of him as he sat in his library, alone, in the near-dark. It had been a day since he had spoken with Phoebe, and he had not done much of anything. Oh, he had seen to his paperwork, he had met with his secretary, he had breakfasted with his family—who were filled with remarks about how he was compensating for his cheeriness by becoming even more surly than his usual self—and he had even taken a walk with Maxwell through the nearby park. But now he sat, brooding. Maxwell snoozed at his feet, twitching now and then as he let out sleepy barks, likely dreaming of chasing after birds and rabbits, Jeffrey thought with a rueful grin. If only life were as simple as that of a dog.
But, of course, it wasn’t. No, life was filled with women you shouldn’t want but did anyway, who surprised you at every turn. It was filled with responsibility that you never asked for, but that others would do anything to take from you. And it was filled with indecision, at least for him. On what was the right action to take, on whether he should follow his heart or his head. On the greater questions of life, such as whether or not society was based upon the correct foundation.
Phoebe Winters had upended his entire world—well, every part of his world that wasn’t already chaotic. The aspects of which he thought he had entirely under control. Now … he wasn’t so sure about anything.
There was a knock at the door and Jeffrey said nothing, hoping that if he were silent enough, whoever was desiring entrance would go away and he could remain deep within the soft leather of his mahogany chair. He was not so lucky, however, as the door slowly eased open, and Maxwell woke up and gave a traitorous cheerful yip of welcome.
“Shush,” he said as he took another sip of his drink. Whiskey tonight. He needed something more than brandy, of which he was typically quite fond.
“Jeffrey?” came the soft voice, and he sighed. If there was one woman he could never turn away, no matter the circumstances, it was his mother.
“Come in,” he said, attempting to hide his reluctance to invite her into his sanctuary for the evening. The library was shared amongst the family, of course, but, besides his study and his bedchamber, it was one room where he could usually be alone, or if not alone, in silence. Viola was often seated upon the chesterfield in the corner, but she always had a book in hand and let him be. They had a rather extensive library for a London townhome, with floor-to-ceiling shelvings that lined the walls, much like his office but in greater volume, and more throughout the room within recesses, all filled with various books from multiple eras, in many different genres. They had accumulated over the years, and it seemed that no Marquess of Berkley had felt the need to be rid of any of them, nor to change anything substantially about this house itself. It seemed aversion to change was a Berkley trait that had been passed down, and now lay in residence within his very own soul.
Lady Clarissa softly padded into the room, taking a seat across from Jeffrey in a matching leather chair.
His mother was still beautiful, of course, and possessed a gentle soul. Yet, she had been strong enough to raise six children, and to continue to counsel them upon the death of her husband, a man she had loved with all of her heart—though with whom she hadn’t always agreed.
She looked at Jeffrey now, with the deep love in her eyes that she held for all of her children, a look that told him she knew some of the pain he now held.
“Jeffrey, tell me what’s happened.”
It was a soft, silent command, yet a command it was. Jeffrey took another sip of his drink.
“Nothing, Mother,” he said but attempted a smile, though he was concerned that perhaps it came out as more of a grimace. “Please, do not concern yourself. It is nothing I cannot determine how best to handle.”
“Truly, Jeffrey?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. “I have never known you to shutter yourself away, to be so surly to your sisters and me. They may have jested with you, true, about your attitude at breakfast this morning, but that is not how I raised you. If something is wrong, you share it, so that we may help you with it. You do not take your anger out on the rest of us, Jeffrey. You can be silent and read your papers, I understand that. But when Rebecca asked you to pass the sugar, you made it seem as though she had asked you to travel across England to get it for her!”
Jeffrey looked down at the drink in his hand, remorse filling him as his mother chastised him like a child, and he knew very well he deserved it.
“You are correct,” he said finally, rolling the glass between his hands. “Something has happened. I fell in love with Lady Phoebe Winters, but then I found out she is not the woman I had thought her to be. She was dishonest with me, hid her true self from me, took actions that I could not condone were she to become my wife—as I asked her to be. Yes,” he said at his mother’s look of surprise. “I asked her to marry me, and what did she do? She revealed herself to be a woman who I could never accept.”
Lady Clarissa held his stare for a few moments as she took in his words.
“And this … revelation—did it come before or after she accepted your hand?”
“She told me that she would accept my proposal, but only if I still wanted her after what she told me.”
“Well, that, I suppose, Jeffrey, is considered honesty,” she said.
He reluctantly nodded, but continued.
“This was after weeks, Mother. Weeks in which I thought we were developing a relationship that was leading to something. However, she was using me. For nothing more than her damn paper!”
“Ah, I see,” said Clarissa, not looking the least bit surprised, and Jeffrey eyed her warily.
“Do not tell me that you knew of her role as publisher of that rubbish!”
Jeffrey’s mother stared at him calmly in response, not rising to his anger.
“I had my suspicions,” she said with a lift of one shoulder. “I knew her opinions on matters such as those written, was aware that she would have the means to create such a publication, and I also knew her parents. They would have raised her to be a woman who would speak her mind, to not hide behind the trappings of what is expected of a young lady, and to believe life held more for her than what is typically expected of a woman. You may not want to hear this, Jeffrey, but I admire her. She is brave and doing what she feels is right. You do not necessarily have to agree with her, but you must understand where she is coming from.”
His mother leaned forward now, and Jeffrey was taken aback at her passion for the subject, for his mother was most often fairly reserved in her opinions, allowing her children to express their own instead.
“Think of it from the other way, Jeffrey. Imagine if the roles were reversed, if men were relegated to the household, to marrying well and bearing and raising children.”
He snorted at the idea, but she ignored him and continued.
“How would you feel about it? Would you feel stifled? Would you not want your voice to be heard?”
“You can hardly compare, Mother, for then I would not have been raised with the expectations that I currently hold.”
“That is true,” she conceded. “However, you did not know Phoebe’s parents as I did. They raised her to be aware of her true potential, and now she is sharing that knowledge with other women, who are awakening to the possibilities that may be available to them. It is a powerful thing, Jeffrey, to learn the world may not necessarily be as stifling as one thought, to find a sense of freedom in knowledge. For that is what Phoebe is providing—knowledge.”
She paused for a moment, then leaned forward and rested cool hands on his cheeks as she looked into his eyes.
“All I am asking, Jeffrey, is for you to consider my words, and then consider hers.”
She stood and walked over to a corner cupboard. She opened the bottom doors, rummaged around a bit, and then, finding what she was looking for, she returned to him with a pile of newsprint in her hands and held the sheets out to him.
“Read these, Jeffrey,” she said. “Not just on the surface, but truly read them. Do not think about how these articles might affect you, but of how you would react were you a woman. What would you think? How would you respond? And not only that, imagine if every other newspaper you read was only for those of the opposite gender, and finally, there is now something you feel comfortable reading. How would you feel?”
He reluctantly took the papers from her, and she lit another candle, bringing it over to him so that he would be better able to read, as his current near-burned candle was far too dim.
She began to walk to the door, but stopped and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “Oh, and Jeffrey?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“I simply want you to be happy. And from what I can tell, Lady Phoebe Winters certainly makes you so. It does not matter whether or not she would make the perfect marchioness. What matters is that she would be the perfect wife for you.”
With a pointed look telling him that she expected no argument, she left as quietly as she came, leaving him alone with his newspapers, his drink, and his swirling emotions—or so he thought.
“Well, you certainly have a conundrum, do you not?”
“Ambrose!” Jeffrey shot up in his chair at his brother’s voice, which came from the depths of the library. He stood, looking between the shelves, until he found him, leaning nonchalantly against one bookshelf up against the wall. Jeffrey squinted to make him out in the dim light, glaring at him and his smug expression. “How long have you been here, eavesdropping on my private conversation, observing me for whatever sick purposes you may have?”
“Long enough,” said Ambrose, uncrossing his arms and advancing toward Jeffrey. “So, dear brother, you have a choice to make. Do you maintain your reputation as the perfect marquess, filled with honor and responsibility, or do you bend your wills for a woman, one who would be oh, so unsuitable, despite what Mother may think? And what would happen then, with Phoebe’s little publication? Would you tell your friends, the Earl of Totnes, the Duke of Clarence, and all the others, of the true identity of the publisher—your betrothed? Oh, what a scandal it would make!”
“Yes,” Jeffrey said, tight-lipped. “It certainly is, as you say, a conundrum. But,” he made the decision that instant, one he had known deep inside but had not spoken aloud. “Whatever happens, I will not tell anything of Phoebe and her role with The Women’s Weekly. It would be too great a betrayal, and whatever should happen between the two of us, I do not want to see her persecuted or hurt by any other.”
“No? How very gallant of you,” said Ambrose. “But what if someone else were to find out?”
“To whom would you be referring?” Jeffrey asked darkly, knowing full well what Ambrose was insinuating.
“Well, Jeffrey, I see you are taking far longer to make this decision than you have with any decision I have ever brought to you. So I suggest that you think much harder about what I have asked you. Just a pittance, really, for your own brother. And no, I have no plans to vacate to the country, nor to take up a commission. Me, in the military? Ha, it is laughable! Yes, Jeffrey, think hard on your next actions, I implore you.”
He chuckled as he walked around Jeffrey and out the door, his laughter echoing along the corridor. Jeffrey stood with fists clenched tightly as he watched his brother’s shadow depart.