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“I believe I understand your predicament,” Lawrence said, clutching his eyes shut and glancing away. He had no desire of reliving the pain he had endured during his own malformed inheritance - and the thought of depriving Anne of the life she desired, only worsened his mood and renewed his negative convictions. “And it pains me to say that I do not think I can assist you with matters of the estate, m’lord.”
“Come now,” the viscount said with a shaking tone. “I know Anne is quite the firebrand, and I’d be remiss if I failed to admit my own role in raising her in such a way as to promote her thumbing off the authority of the man of the house. And for that, I can understand your trepidations - but she’s a good woman, Lord Strauss. A good woman,” he repeated in a dizzying haze of rough coughs.
“I have no doubt of her fitness as a woman, and indeed I’ve seen… first-hand, that she has quite the temperament, more fit as King of all England than many men I’ve met in my life,” Lawrence responds with a distressed sigh. “She’s wonderful. Beautiful, brilliant, cunning, coy, and quite entertaining. And she stands up for herself,” he recalled. “She’s not one to put herself into a box for others. She’s not the sort of woman who simply lies and wastes as the world moves around her. She has no need of sitting rooms or quiet morning tea. She…” Lawrence stopped himself, gulping, realizing he had made quite a poor showing in lodging his case for why he didn’t wish to marry Anne.
“Lawrence,” the viscount guffawed, before the pain of his laughter gripped his stomach. “If you had not just now told me you had no interest in my daughter, I’d quite mistake you for having quite an interest in my daughter,” the old man quipped.
“M’lord, it is not that she is not a woman fit for love or for marriage, it’s simply a matter of—”
“Please,” the elder lord murmured, his hands shaking. “I am too proud a man, even when I stand in a grappling contention with death itself, to beg upon my knees. Perhaps because I’d never be able to stand up off of them, afterward,” the dying man laughed. “You are a fine man. I am a dying man, with a daughter in need of a hand in marriage - one to inherit title and to give to her the wealth and life she deserves to inherit from me. The earl is a contemptible man, but he is far from the only contemptible man, with contemptible ideas, in all of the nobility,” the viscount grumbled. “In you, I see someone who understands Anne. While you may not love her, I plead to you, for my sake… to give her that chance,” he wheezed.
Woeful contemplation struck Lawrence’s expression; he could not bear to look at the suffering man, as his mind tossed in
agonizing thought on this mess of a situation. He could see in the viscount’s sunken eyes that he had not long left - that the ravages of disease would take him; but in the old man Lawrence saw determination. Lawrence knew that if he did not claim Anne’s hand - if only for convenience’s sake - that her vibrant soul would no doubt suffer under the twisted and conventional burden of the ‘gentleman’ - someone like the earl, or worse, who would see her attitude as a curse instead of a boon.
And he thought again on his sister. He closed his eyes, sighing. Perhaps he could make good for his sister - and perhaps he could make up the mess he had gotten himself in to with Anne on that contemptible night they shared at the earl’s dinner table. He did not deserve marriage to a wonderful woman - and perhaps in a loveless marriage of status, he could pay back to the world all the evil he had done upon it.
“Very well,” he remarked with a sigh. “I shall see on courting your daughter, m’lord,” Lawrence relented.
Chapter Six
It felt as if some divine force heaped endless laughter onto poor Lawrence’s shoulders, as cross with emotion, he sat within his carriage as it bounced along roughly-hewn roadways leading along the hills and through the waterlogged pathways that led from the Duchy of Amhurst back to the Viscount of Roxborough’s estate - where, somewhere within that grand manor, lived Anne Hatley, the woman whom his heart had whiled away in fear and anxiety and want and confusion for the past few weeks. He had never expected to see her again after that night - and yet now his carriage pattered along the trail back to her home, to meet with her father, and to discuss details of what is intended to be a true courtship. The very thought put him off; he did not deserve her, certainly not after their exchange at that dinner party. But perhaps he could bring some good to her life by giving her convenience and freedom - a freedom no man he knew would afford to a wife, certainly not one carrying as sharp a virago’s wit as Anne Hatley did.
“Arriving momentarily, m’lord,” the carriage driver advised the duke, who collected his breath and his manners and tried to still the pound of his heart, throbbing wildly in his chest. The fear ever lingered in his stomach, quite spoiling his appetite - that he would throw open those heavy, wooden doors to the Roxborough estate, and find himself face-to-face with her again, grasping with slipping fingers for an explanation of why he had come, and a thousand apologies to offer her for the manner with which he had conducted himself in their earlier meetings. As he saw the manse come into view he removed his hat, fretting on the manner of his appearance - he had not thought on what would be expected of his look. Was the hat too formal? For Anne, certainly, but what of her father? Did he expect Lawrence to be the gentleman that is so common of life in these parts? Perhaps he had worn the improper jacket. He had not shaved this morn - and a faint coat of hair dusted his chin. He fell into a state of miserable stupor in fear he would not live up to the standards a true gentlewoman required of a husband - whether he be a husband of convenience or otherwise.
“We’ve arrived, m’lord,” the carriage driver warned, breaking Lawrence from his fretting; with a deep swallow, he nodded in a gruff show of thanks to the chauffeur, stepping out into the blaze of the midday sun. Clouds cluttered along the edges of the sky, casting shade along swaying trees; a breeze whipped along the grasses and the bold, flattened face of the Roxborough estate, tossing the lord’s coattails about in its furor. He could feel a chill up his spine and the lord withered within it, fearing that it spoke in prophetic terms on the reception he may face should be come to find himself face-to-face with the Lady Roxborough.
With a deep breath, he knocked upon the door. Time passed; another wind blew threw his hair, his gray-eyed gaze narrowing as he looked away; looked to the moors, to the streets running towards the rest of the estate, along the stables and the small servant’s quarters. He looked anywhere but the door, where he expected to see her face waiting for him. Instead the doors parted, and the duke nearly leapt from his shoes, but anxiety settled when he peered upon the visage of the same gaunt man he had met with last time - the Roxborough butler and majordomo, no doubt, grinning a shallow grin.
“Once again, you’re pleasantly expected - Lawrence Strauss, Duke of Amhurst,” the man announced. Lawrence hoped that he would not announce it far too loudly, should it alert the manor’s inhabitants of his presence there. He scanned the couches and the stairwells with a faint hope that she shouldn’t see him - and thankfully, he saw no sign of her face.
“Yes, thank you,” Lawrence murmured quietly.
“Shall I take your coat? The viscount awaits you once more in the dining hall, though this time perhaps you’ve brought an appetite, as he’s had the kitchen quite alive all day, preparing for your arrival,” the skeletal servant-man announced. His manner had been quite dry and purely utilitarian in their first meeting, but the man’s rather favorable disposition unsettled Lawrence. In his paranoia, he feared if perhaps word of his attempted courtship of Anne had already reached into the whispered corners of the estate - if, perhaps, she had heard of a conspiracy to marry her off, and would bear upon him a grudge for his presumptuousness once again.
“I’ll keep it on-hand, good man, it’s quite a chilly day today,” Lawrence responded defensively. The butler nodded and bowed, showing the duke once more with an extended arm where he would find the dining hall. Lawrence followed the suggestion, with a new tension built in his chest with each step he took; he saw her face everywhere, a face he had desperately tried to chase away from his memories since their meeting - a futile gesture, given how much he had silently been taken by her manner. As he stood before the grand pair of doors to the dining hall, he breathed deep, placing his hands on the cold handles. He saw her once more - the last expression they had shared, her face cross with righteous anger, and his dour with regret.
Perhaps he could forge a new memory - one, at least, of peace. He pulled the door open.
The dining hall glowed a fair bit differently than it had only days past - heavy curtains drawn away from the windows, sunlight showered in brightly, reflected in silver serving platters, bone-white dishware and gold-painted wooden paneling lining the walls. Maroon wallpaper bearing ornate flower designs seemed to temper the glow of a cloud-streaked afternoon, and at the end of the tapered chamber, behind wafting waves of steam and the warm scent of the fresh feast laid out in dozens of different dishes, sat a familiar face, its expression sunken and glazed with an opium-heavy stupor. Nonetheless, the ailing viscount recognized the duke, and forced a weak smile.
“A pleasure to see you again,” the viscount said, trying to sound inviting, though the sickened tremble of his tone inspired a mild sense of revulsion. Lawrence ignored his instincts and stepped in with a put-upon smile of his own. “Did Wentley not offer to take your coat? Forgetful old man,” the viscount lamented in jest.
“He did, m’lord, but I thought it providential to keep hold of it, should the breeze and chill from outside continue to afflict me,” Lawrence announced.
“I’ve not felt the fresh air for some time,” the viscount lamented. “Autumn approaches. I’ve seen the trees from my window. How I miss feeling the cool breezes that come with the end of summer. However, we’ve more business to attend to than simple memories from a sick and silly old man,” he added with a hoarse laugh. “And food to eat! Certainly, plenty of it,” he announced proudly. “I’ve had the kitchen buzzing all day. I hope you’ve a taste for game, and a chilled leek soup.” The memory of leeks and pepper-weighted broth brought a twinge of guilt and pain to Lawrence’s memory - once more he questioned whether some divine power had derived endless and enthusiastic amusement from the predicaments the Duke of Amhurst had found himself embroiled in, and the painful memories each experience continued to conjure.
“I do enjoy wild hog, and I can do with some venison, as well,” Lawrence admitted tersely, taking a seat at the end of the table, opposite the viscount. Even then the ambiance and muted size of the place made the setting far more intimate than he had expected. A host of serving-girls in snow-white gowns appeared from the swinging door at the rear of the dining chamber, bustling quietly towards the table; in a dizzying flurry of color and smell and motion they cut and carved and worked with clattering plates and jangling glasses. A symphony of politely-muted sounds, nods and movement saw the arrival of plate after plate of food - stewed meats, glazed hocks, boiled vegetables, and of course, peppered leek soup - upon the table before the duke. The viscount thanked and smiled at the serving girls, each of whom offered him a curtsy or a bow of adoration in response before vanishing once more behind the swinging, creaky kitchen door. Overwhelmed, Lawrence looked at the feast laid before him, quite unsure of where to start.
“I’m certain a man of your status has no interest in such frivolities, of course, but courting my daughter and inheriting my estate comes with a few appreciable benefits,” the viscount said in a gurgle that Lawrence could only interpret as his vain attempt at a whispered joke. “Exceptional food stores, and the finest domestic staff you’ll find in all of England. And, of course, the hand of a beautiful woman!” he concluded with a laugh that, from the wince upon his elderly face, painfully rattled his stressed bones.
“Certainly a pleasant addition to the benefits,” Lawrence responded politely, though his nerves burned too anxiously for him to revel in the joke. He sat, and watched the steam lift from his dishes. From the array of dishes laid before him he guessed that perhaps he had been meant to enjoy the soup first, as the maids had placed it in front of him - but he recoiled at the burn of pepper in his nostrils, and seemed content only to look upon the feast, as his stomach turned over and over again.
“I’d recommend the kitchen’s basted ribs, they’re a curious connection of the sweet and the savory that I’d never tasted before I hired this particular chef,” the viscount offered. Lawrence watched the old man bury himself in the food as if he’d never eaten before,
and it only made Lawrence feel more out of place. He glanced along the windows - the clouds had begun to drift further inward, and the sun pulsed weaker as cottony-white drew across its blazing orange.
“M’lord, I certainly appreciate the fabulous dinner, and your overflowing hospitality,” Lawrence commented with tension in his tone, “but I had hoped to discuss with you the terms of this… situation, with your daughter, and myself.”
