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“Your Grace, are you quite all right?” Warren asked, grasping Graham’s shoulders.
Graham steadied himself. “What has happened?” he asked. “The last I heard, she was sleeping. I know the shock of losing Mary was nearly too much, but—”
“I believe you are mistaken,” Warren said. His brow furrowed, but Graham realized the man was smiling. “Your mother is awake, Your Grace. She’s been demanding to speak to you for the past half-hour.”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Lady Francesca Barnet was nearly as stubborn as her late daughter, and had more than enough authority to ensure her will was granted.
Since Graham’s father had died, Francesca, or Fanny, as her loved ones called her, had been the mistress of Foxglove Hall. Graham had been raised with a deep respect for the women in his life, in no small part because his mother had always possessed a commanding and self-assured presence even when his father was alive. She was strong-willed enough to sway even the most headstrong of men, and was in every way the guardian of Hertfordshire.
She was currently exerting that will over the servants, causing quite the fuss in her chambers as she demanded to see her son. Graham climbed the stairs two at a time and strode down the marble hallway, her imperious voice echoing all around him. Warren chuckled from his side as they walked together, shaking his head.
“She is insistent that she is quite well and more than prepared to get out of bed,” Warren said. “We’ve urged her to stay put—yet she wants more than anything to talk to you and was preparing to leave her rooms to find you. Had you not returned, I fear she may have gone straight to the stables to fetch herself a horse!”
Graham laughed, feeling for the first time all week as if the house was a home. Warren stopped short at the door to the master suite, bowing his head.
“I shall leave you to it, Your Grace,” Warren said. “Good luck.”
Graham smiled and opened the door, the voices growing louder once he crossed the threshold. He entered immediately into her boudoir, with the bed chambers in another room off to one side, where his mother could be heard arguing heatedly with her lady’s maid.
“I amfine, Esther,” Fanny snapped. “Now, do be a dear and fetch me my riding habit and boots. I cannot wait to speak with my son a moment longer. If he has gone out riding, then so shall I.”
“You have been bedridden for over a week, Your Grace ,” Esther said, though Graham could hear her voice growing weaker. Soon, she would give up on the quest to protect her mistress. It was a good thing he had returned when he had. “You must remain here, at least until the physician can see you. We have sent for him, but it is already quite late.”
“Time waits for no man—or physician, in this case,” his mother grumbled. “Now, let me up.”
“I’m here, Mother!” Graham called out, staying in the boudoir, in case she was not ready for company.
Both women fell silent, and then his mother said, “Oh! My dear boy—come around to my chambers and let me see your face!”
Graham smiled and entered the bedchamber, pleased to see his mother sitting up in bed, alert. Nonetheless, she bore the signs of severaldays in bed. Her brown eyes were bright, but her graying blonde hair was wild and frizzy, with many flyaway strands. She still smiled back, a fearsome look that he knew had terrified more than one lord.
“Your Grace,” Esther said, curtsying with a grateful look. “If you have this well in hand, I shall go and fetch the duchess some tea and her dressing-gown.”
“Yes, that would be good, Esther,” Graham said. “And while you’re at it—perhaps some laudanum for my mother’s nerves?”
“Oh, I have had enough of that poison to last me a lifetime,” his mother cringed. “No more laudanum, please. I am wide awake and ready to face the world once again.”
“No laudanum, then,” Graham said.
Esther nodded and stepped swiftly past him, her skirts swishing around her feet. He could tell she was eager to leave—to escape the willful creature that was Lady Francesca.
“Come here, my son,” Fanny said, beaming at him. “Let me get a good look at you.”
His mother extended her hands, and Graham rushed forward to grasp them. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and she sniffed slightly as she tried in vain to regain her composure.
“I wish we could have met again under better circumstances, darling,” she said. “I have missed you so much.”
Graham had a hard time containing his own emotions. Now that he was seeing his mother again, it was as if the agony of learning of Mary's death had been multiplied tenfold. Bridget Sedgwick had been his only solace, but there was nothing quitelike being consoled by one's mother.
He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to her knuckles. She was so frail, her hands shaking even from the effort of reaching out to him. “I am so, so sorry, Mother,” he said. “I have not been the son or the brother you and Mary deserved.”
“Don’t be silly,” Fanny murmured. “Sit, child. You look as if you have been riding all day.”
Graham looked behind him, tears in his eyes, and noticed a chair beside the bed. He drew it closer and took a seat, never letting go of his mother's hands, and they sat still for a moment, studying each other.
She looked… old. There was far more gray in her hair that before, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes had grown pronounced. She was not young—she had been older than most as his parents had struggled for many years to conceive a child—and she was now in her late sixties. Fanny and her husband had longed for more children, but Mary’s birth had been so dangerous, the physician had said two would have to suffice.
