For the bridegroom, Jonathan Stanhope, the Duke of Rathborne, had never showed.
In confusion and despair, Claire and all her family waited at the church, she by turns fearing for Jonathan’s safety and raging at his treachery. Finally, nearly two hours beyond the appointed time, she received word—not by the duke’s arrival, but a messenger’s:
My dearest and most beloved Claire,
* * *
I haven’t the words to express how deeply sorry and stricken I am to have failed you today, a day I had awaited with the utmost impatience and joy. My mother took suddenly ill this morning, and the mysterious and alarming nature of her condition left me without opportunity for communication until the physician could be fetched and the patient made tolerably comfortable. Maman is resting now, though not yet out of danger. I hope you will credit that no lesser power than the love and terror of a devoted son could have kept me from making you my wife today. With the highest estimation of your compassionate heart, I beg your understanding and forgiveness.
Still (most hopefully) yours,
Jonathan
Though Claire could never be so callous as to revel in the plight of her soon-to-be mother-in-law, the effect of the letter was instantaneous and euphoric. For having feared no justification could exist for her intended’s absence, here was justice aplenty.
As soon as the duchess recovered (which was very soon indeed), they set a new date to be married and resumed all their former happiness. On the appointed day, the wedding breakfast was prepared. The guests collected. The suit donned.
And, once again, the groom failed to appear.
Having languished in her wedding finery more than three hours, now quite certain her dreams were dashed—after all, what excuse could Jonathan possibly give for missing their wedding again?—news arrived at last. This time, the duke came in person, looking very foolish and telling an even more foolish tale.
By some great anomaly, he had managed to lock himself in his dressing room. Having made every attempt to break down the door, and then to make noise enough to notify passersby of his plight, he was eventually found by his mother.
The duchess grieved loud and long upon discovering his protracted imprisonment, for it was she who had summoned the whole household outside to see their master off for his wedding, thus unfortunately leaving no one within earshot of her son’s shouts and bangs.
Ignoring Jonathan’s entreaties to cease apologizing and fetch the village blacksmith, the duchess now summoned the whole household to the dressing room door, inviting each man to take his turn at fiddling with the latch and bruising his shoulder. This went on for quite some time until, finally, somebody brought the blacksmith.
Within moments Jonathan was free and racing to the church—although, of course, already far too late, as weddings had to take place before noon.
By the end of this account, Claire had gathered her courage. It was past time to voice an idea she had been mulling over for some weeks, ever since the duchess’s abrupt illness and miraculous recovery.
“Is it possible,” she said delicately, “that your mother might be trying to prevent our marriage?”
His answer was just as Claire had expected.
Ludicrous! Inconceivable!
Why, maman was the last woman on earth who could ever sabotage her own son. Once Claire got to know her mother-in-law better, she would easily discount such suspicions, for anybody who knew the Duchess of Rathborne would inevitably find her to be the most affectionate of parents, and one who enjoyed an uncommonly close relationship with her only child.
In truth, Claire had found that already, despite having spent just one day in the duchess’s company. During their courtship, Jonathan spoke of his mother often and with great fondness, a trait Claire found endearing (at the time), since she herself was close with her family.
Once they became engaged, their first duty lay in paying a visit to Twineham Park, that the two women Jonathan loved might be introduced.
Twineham was located about three hours’ drive from Greystone Castle. Its late master, the previous duke, having embarked on his Grand Tour in the 1780s, had returned with a souvenir in the form of Henriette, the daughter of a French marquis.
Luckily for Henriette, her elopement removed her from France before the Terror commenced. Unluckily, her husband’s early demise left her quite on her own in a strange country, with a vast estate to run and a young son to raise.
In Jonathan’s telling, from that day forward she withdrew from society to attend to her duties, and as her son grew, so increased her reliance on him. He was everything to her—her constant companion, her precocious helpmate, her pride and joy. For love of Jonathan, she had found the strength to endure, had dedicated her life to safeguarding his birthright. And in return he was ever eager to bestow all the filial gratitude, consideration, and love that was her due.
In Claire’s observance, this was all perfectly accurate. Jonathan showed his mother a very pleasing attention and regard. He was forever agreeing with her judgments, deferring to her preferences, and ensuring she and her little dog always had the best chair by the fire.
It was all extremely proper, the model of a perfect son. Claire ought to have witnessed such scenes with satisfaction and approval.
And she did...for the most part. Except that one thought kept plaguing her as she watched the duo in their tableau of domestic harmony…
Where do I fit in?
But surely this was a mere trifle. Claire was being silly. So what if Jonathan was good to his mother—who could object to that? Would she prefer he abuse the poor woman? Could she truly be so petty and jealous as to wish they loved each other less?
