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“Perhaps I may broach the subject over the evening meal. Will His Grace attend? I shouldn’t like to assume he hasn’t some other pressing business.”
O’Mara nodded. “We will all be present.”
Whoever “all” are, Felicity thought. “It is hard to fathom that little stream is cousin to the mighty river Eden,” she said, and O’Mara did not remark the change of topic. “It ran along our northeastern border, and on the hottest days, my mother and I would spend hours on its banks, picnicking and bathing and reading and…” She would not cry. She hadn’t cried in years, and she would not now, not in front of a virtual stranger. She clutched the dressing gown close to her throat and for the first time found O’Mara’s silent presence to be calming. Felicity breathed and breathed, in tandem with the chamberlain, and came back to herself, strong and calm.
She turned from the window and sat at the desk. “I have several letters to write, and I insist they be delivered.”
“It will be done.” Miss O’Mara dipped her chin again. “Your clothing is even now being seen to,” she continued, “and if you would, please remain in these rooms until the first gong?”
Felicity smiled brightly. “Naturally. I am a captive, am I not? May I expect a serving of bread and water at some stage? Or some thin gruel?” She held up a hand, forestalling yet another appeasement. “One or two of my missives will require express delivery, if you would return in an hour? Thank you ever so much.”
O’Mara bowed at this dismissal, and Felicity set to trimming a pen, adding a note to Aherne and Bailey to her list, to caution them to move Himself and the mares to the holiday field until further notice.
Six
In Ezra Purcell’s study, a lone lamp and a stingy fire were lit, resulting in a deep gloom that seemed to hold its occupants close, in secret. Cecil Purcell sat on his hands so he would not wring them, for doing so annoyed his father. How lucky that he and his brother were seated: often, they were made to stand before Father’s grand desk, as though they were still mere boys, about to be scolded for some infraction or other.
Times had not changed to any great degree.
“I was bringing Waltham to waltz with her,” Rollo whined. He slouched in his chair in a manner he no doubt considered cosmopolitan and devil-may-care; Cecil thought his brother looked like a drunkard slumped in a doorway. “It is Cecil’s fault that Felicity was taken by that duke.”
“How can that be, brother?” Cecil rocked on his hands, finding for once that they wished to curl into fists rather than flutter in confusion. It was his lot in life to play second fiddle to his older brother, to be his whipping boy and toady. Of late, after a lifetime of such a role, he found he tired of it. What if he rose up from his chair and planted Rollo a facer? Wouldn’t that be shocking? And wouldn’t that entertain Father, to watch while Cecil got a pasting on the carpet before the hearth? He would likely be more fearful the carpet would stain from the blood than that his youngest son would come to harm.
It was a harsh thought, but his father was a harsh man. Most of the time. Had he not bought his sons’ way into high society via Eton and used Felicity’s title to further that way? That would appear to be a loving, paternal deed, ensuring they had the best start in life. Unless it had been done out of spite. Father knew thetondespised incomers. How he and Rollo fared, thrown to the wolves, was not his concern.
“Had you been attending, you might have stopped him,” Rollo sneered.
“I? The youngest son of a Cit? He would not have seen me, much less heeded me,” Cecil muttered. “And why should it fall to me, when you were on the very spot when it occurred.”
“It’s always down to me, is it not? Find a proper partner for Felicity, escort said partner to her, proffer introductions…” Rollo slouched even further into the chair. “I have to do all the work.”
“Where had you been, Cecil, if not doing your part to tend to your cousin?” His father’s voice was at its most terrifying when he rendered his queries softly.
“I was squiring Miss Smythe-Watson about the ballroom.” His father would be delighted to know he was close to making an alliance with a debutante who had ten thousand pounds a year—
“You will cease your pursuit.”
“I had thought that securing her hand would please you,” Cecil began.
“You will not offer for her. You ought to have been doing your part to ensure your cousin’s failure in society, but you were not. I wonder why.”
“But…I thought we were meant to bring her about so we may partake of the Marriage Mart?” Cecil assumed he and Rollo were meant to be shopping for wives. Why send them out amongst thetonif they were not to marry advantageously? Had he not been doing what he was told?
Cecil’s nails bit into the leather cushion beneath him and found little purchase, much as he had little purchase on his day-to-day life, with the ever-changing criteria and goals of his father’s oversight. He set brother against brother, ensured they had plenty to fight about, then berated them for fighting, fixed them impossible goals, and withheld promised rewards when achievements were made. Most of all he dangled the family business before them, with the promise of following in his footsteps, thus irritating Rollo, who as eldest believed it was his inheritance and his alone, and frustrating Cecil, who in fact had an aptitude for the work. And yet, Father would not countenance they do more than sweep the floor, an indignity that he claimed was to teach them from the ground up, which made no sense. At least, not after six years of doing so.
“Alas,” said Father, “your cousin’s fate is all but sealed. And the thing to ensure it would be for the tale of her ruination at the hands of the Duke of Lowell to range far and wide.”
“Gossip?” Rollo asked, looking intrigued.
“How odd we should look, to be telling tales on our own family member,” Cecil said.
“Lament, you fool,” Ezra rasped. “‘How could this have happened to us,’ et cetera.”
“Bemoan her fate,” added Rollo. “Express regret that she is nothing more than used goods at this juncture. It has been all of twenty-four hours. Quite a lot of ruin can transpire in that time.”
“I fancy going about a bit myself. My friend General Smithwick has been desirous of my presence whilst out and about. I believe I will grace him with my company.” Father chuckled. “I should like to see her suffer the cut direct once it is known that she will not marry the duke.”
“Won’t she?” What choice did she have? Cecil often thought he had as little choice as Felicity did, when it came down to it. “Has he not offered for her?”
