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“About that…”
“If you’ve been toying with Rosalind’s affections, you’re less a gentleman than I suspected.”
In his shame, he could not meet his father’s eyes.
“It was not… I was not toying.” He blew out a breath. “If you’re speaking of the kiss, it was entirely innocent. No one saw us.”
“If they had, you’d have ruined a young lady’s reputation,” his father said sternly. “You were careless and, frankly, disrespectful.”
“I apologized to her family.” He bit his tongue. “You know I have the deepest regard for Rosalind, and she for me. It’s grown these past few months and I suppose when we found ourselves alone together, we became…carried away.”
“You must understand how delicate a situation this is,” his mother said, her gaze troubled. “We’ve counted the Lockridges as our friends for thirty years.”
“I know, but they were not friendly to me.” Some of the frustration of the last day came out in his terse tone. “They rebuffed my offer of marriage though Rosalind clearly wished for it. In fact, they forbade me to court her. It was insulting.”
“They were taken aback by your proposal, son. Since when are you of a marrying mind? Do you think you would suit one another?”
All this talk of suitability. He’d heard it until he was sick with it and now his own father threw it in his face. Marlow stood and started to pace, stalking his well-appointed parlor like a wild creature in a cage.
“Darling,” said his mother, addressing his father. “Perhaps there are tender feelings to be considered.”
“Tender feelings?” Marlow made a noise that came a bit too close to a snarl. “What I feel, what Rosalind feels, is not important to anyone but us, apparently. The Lockridges will betrothe her to the highest bidder, the loftiest aristocrat available, which is not me.”
“No decisions have been made about Rosalind’s future,” his father said, his level tone making Marlow feel all the more out of control. “But when she does marry, I expect it will be a steady sort of aristocrat, yes. Someone suited to her sedate temperament.” He looked pointedly at Marlow’s wrecked right eye.
“Well, I have made a decision.” He stopped moving and faced them, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m going to India.”
His mother gave a shocked gasp. “India? Why?”
“To get away from England for a while. I doubt I’ll be missed.”
His mother pressed a hand to her mouth. His father took her other hand, steadying her as he turned back to him. “If you go to India, you’ll be missed by many who love you. Have you thought this through, son, or are you influenced by disappointed feelings? How long will you go?”
Long enough to forget her. Long enough to escape the humiliation of not being good enough. “Five or six years, I warrant. Perhaps I’ll go by way of Egypt, travel those countries and learn more about Eastern cultures. Perhaps I’ll visit the villages of Mama’s youth.”
“You would not want to,” said his mother, distressed. “I wish you wouldn’t go so far away from us, not over this.”
His father’s lips formed a tight line. “Five years will be too long. Two years will do.”
He meant that in two years’ time, Rosalind would likely be married to someone else, perhaps even settled with a babe, and the messiness of the “delicate situation” passed. Perhaps that was so. He didn’t want to think about it, and the best way to not think about it was to go sailing across the sea to wild, exotic locations. There was no use in staying and fighting, and if he couldn’t fight, he must be away from this place. For he wished to fight. In his present state, he felt livid enough to tear apart the whole world.
“There are dangers in India,” his mother said, pushing away her tea.
“Monsoons? Wild animals? Tigers?” he scoffed.
“Yes, tigers. You may believe it is a wild place. If you must go to these Eastern nations, stay among the English so they will understand you. Or go to the Continent instead. When Townsend went to France, it calmed his mind.”
“Did it? He came home and immediately bungled into a mistaken marriage.”
His father tsked. “Now, Marlow, Townsend’s marriage does well enough now. These things tend to work out the way they should.” He stood and approached him with a mien of sympathy. “If India calls to you, go there. Think about things. Consider what you wish to accomplish with your life.”
I don’t know that I am going to India to consider anything. I think I am only running away. He didn’t say it aloud, for his mama already looked troubled. He went to sit by her and took her hand.
“I will take care,” he promised.
“You’ll miss our ball at the end of the season.” She pouted, then tried to smile. “But you must follow your heart, I suppose. If you’re set on this adventure, I’ll tell you what I know of India so you can be prepared before you go.”
She cupped his face, a tender gesture that made his chest ache and feel heavy. Following his heart had gotten him nowhere.
