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He had. And he rather wished he hadn’t referred to it now. But the visit to the Crenshaws had kicked up all sorts of inner turmoil. The ranting of Arabella’s parents, particularly her mother, in London had brought everything back. Coupled with his tendency to utter the wrong word at the wrong time, it had tripped him up.
“I am very tired of telling you that expedition was Arabella’s idea not mine, Chatton. And that I did my best to stop her.”
“Splendid. I’m tired of hearing it.”
“You don’t hear. That’s the problem.” Miss Fairclough sighed. “Can we not leave this behind us? You haven’t mentioned it in months.”
Easy for her to talk of moving forward, Roger thought. She didn’t have to face Mrs. Crenshaw. An irritable sound escaped him.
“You are the most intractable man,” said Miss Fairclough.
“Intractable is it? Did you learn such words north of the border?”
“I learned to express my opinion.”
“No matter how misguided. Typical from someone whose mother was a Scot.”
Her lips twitched. “Have we descended to childish insults? Very well.Yourmother is a soft southerner.”
“You like my mother! And she’s always disgustingly kind to you.”
Miss Fairclough’s face softened. “She is kind. Though hardly disgusting.”
“Oh, you can do no wrong in her eyes.”
“On the contrary.”
Their eyes met. Roger could tell that she was remembering, as was he, that his mother had wanted him to marry her. When she was a biddable girl, not the waspish young lady she’d become. Roger didn’t recall his mother’s reasons. He knew they hadn’t been related to the cold merger of properties that their fathers had proposed. They’d both rejected that scheme, five years ago. And of course they’d been right. Absolutely right.
“I must go,” said Miss Fairclough.
Strictly speaking, he ought to offer to escort her. But Roger didn’t care. He wanted his solitude back. And he knew she wouldn’t welcome his company. He settled for a bow from the saddle and watched her ride away. Really, she’d become a bruising rider in her years away.
Fenella urged her horse toward home, fuming, as she nearly always was after an encounter with Chatton. She was so tired of hearing about the notorious ride into the storm that had brought on his wife’s fever and led to her death. His position was quite unjust. The expedition really had been entirely Arabella’s idea. Fenellahadtried to talk her out of going. But the newly minted Marchioness of Chatton had not been a persuadable person. Indeed, Arabella been spoiled and stubborn. Add discontent to that, and you had a volatile mixture.
Silently, Fenella acknowledged that she hadn’t liked Arabella at first. But she’d begun to feel sorry for a girl of nineteen taken so far from her home, discovering that she didn’t like the windswept coast of Northumberland or, indeed, her new husband. Fenella had watched the newcomer discover that a title didn’t make up for a lack of common interests or clashing temperaments.
With Fenella’s sympathies roused, and Arabella very lonely, they’d become friends of a sort, despite Arabella’s volatile nature. Wistful tales of London revealed that Arabella’s parents, particularly her mother, had engineered the marriage, intent on social advancement. Fenella suspected that they’d forced Arabella to relinquish a prior attachment, over which she sometimes wept. For the Crenshaws, Chatton’s position had been everything, his personality irrelevant. And so two young people had been yoked together with little chance of happiness, as far as Fenella could judge. It was sad. And none of her business, of course. Indeed, her history with Chatton made Arabella’s confidences awkward. Yet she couldn’t have rejected her, Fenella thought as she rode. It would have been cruel.
Three and a half years with her Scottish grandmother had taught Fenella a good deal about kindness. Which was ironic on the face of it, because many thought her grandmother a terrifying old lady. Grandmamma came from a long line of border lords who had harried the English and feuded with each other for centuries. She was as comfortable holding a pistol as a teacup. And she’d explained to Fenella that kindness could be quite a complicated exercise, requiring thought and care.
The time with her grandmother had made her feel older than her years, Fenella thought. Certainly more than a few years older than Arabella. Fenella often wondered what might have come to Arabella, and indeed Chatton, if she hadn’t died so young. But that would never be known.
On this melancholy note, Fenella reached her home and turned to the stables, where she left her mount. Looping up the long skirts of her riding habit, she walked to the side door of the great brick pile where she’d grown up. She’d missed Clough House while she was gone. Yet she wasn’t entirely glad to be back.
A housemaid met her on the threshold, as if she’d been waiting there. “The master’s asking for you, miss.”
“I’ll just change out of my habit,” said Fenella.
“He’s fretting.”
Fenella adjusted her grip on her skirts and started for the stairs.
Her father’s illness had changed him. He still growled and demanded, but the tone was querulous now. And too often bewildered. It had startled Fenella when she’d been called back home to oversee his care.
Fenella was struck again by the irony of the situation as she walked up the stairs. Her two sisters had always gotten on better with Papa, mainly because he’d made no secret of his bitter disappointment that Fenella wasn’t born a son. “Third time the charm,” he’d used to mutter. “Only it wasn’t.” He’d shadowed the last years of her mother’s life over this supposed failing, and he’d seemed to feel that Fenella owed him extra obedience to make up for the lapse. And so he’d thought to marry her off like a medieval magnate disposing of his chattel. Well, he hadn’t managed that.
But Greta and Nora had families of their own to occupy them and had happened to settle far away. Everyone had thought it Fenella’s duty to come home, and so she had. Part of her had welcomed the chance. She didn’t wish to be forever estranged from her father.
