A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,8
and held up her embroidery hoop, debating whether to add another spray of leaves to the handkerchief she was working on. “The Season is all but upon us, and that is the best time to bide in London.”
Sarah snipped away. “Don’t you ever grow homesick?”
“I miss my offspring. I do not miss Rothhaven.”
Sarah peered at her over gold-rimmed half spectacles. “Meaning you do not miss the ancestral pile, or you no longer miss your late husband? He was certainly a handsome devil and quite vigorous.”
Oh, he’d been a devil. Thank the heavenly powers Nathaniel hadn’t turned out anything like him. “Who could miss a dwelling that has all the charm of an icehouse? The Hall is a magnet for dust and cobwebs, and nobody can live there for long without risking rheumatism. I really do wish Nathaniel would let the dratted property out.”
Though he couldn’t. Wilhelmina knew that.
“He needs a duchess,” Sarah said, putting down her scissors. She unpeeled the folds of the paper, her movements as always patient and careful. “He’s not getting any younger.”
“He’ll marry in good time. Nathaniel has his hands full with Rothhaven.” Another response that hid a world of heartache. Nathaniel could not marry, and for that too, Wilhelmina blamed her late husband.
“Rothhaven Hall holds unhappy memories, doesn’t it?”
Unhappy memories were inevitable in the course of a long life. When a woman had borne two children to a man undeserving of love, and then seen both of those children treated terribly, her memories bordered on hellish.
“Rothhaven Hall holds creeping damp and mildew, as best I recall. What is that supposed to be?”
Sarah’s cutwork was a chain of barely connected figures, far more of the paper having been snipped away than remained.
“I intended it to be a replica of the lace pattern you devised for the curtains in the music room.”
“Best give it another go, my dear.” Paper was expensive, but Sarah well deserved her little pastimes. She’d been a friend, companion, and occasional shoulder to cry on for decades. What mattered the stationer’s bill compared to loyalty like that?
“What does Nathaniel have to say?” Sarah asked, upending her tray into the dustbin beside her chair.
“Spring is arriving—always a relief. The flocks and herds thrive, Vicar Sorenson sends his regards.” That was the third paragraph of the letter, but it was the postscript Wilhelmina treasured most.
Nathaniel missed his mama, he wished they need not dwell so far apart. Over the past year, the postscripts had become more elliptical, like Sarah’s cutwork. What went unsaid far surpassed the few sentences jotted on the page, but that could not be helped.
The larger situation was entirely hopeless. Nathaniel would never marry, and the ducal line would die out. If anything gave Wilhelmina satisfaction, it was knowing that her late husband’s most desperate ambition would never be realized.
The Rothhaven succession would end thanks to the previous duke, and well it should.
Don’t leave me. The words welled up from an old, miserable place in Althea’s memory. A violent father inflicted one sort of pain, a mother who’d died too young another, and loneliness yet another.
Quinn, as the oldest of the Wentworth siblings, had gone out looking for work from a tender age, leaving Althea to manage Constance and Stephen. Papa would disappear for days at a time, then stumble home reeking of gin, his mood vile. Althea dreaded to hear him pounding upon the door, but as a child with only one extant parent, she’d dreaded to hear of his death even more.
Then Quinn had found steady work that meant he no longer dwelled with his family, and Althea had learned to dread every moment. Thanks to Quinn’s wages, she, Stephen, and Constance had had more to eat, but she would have traded her food for an older brother’s protection in an instant.
Now she dwelled alone amid splendors unthinkable to that girl, and Rothhaven was deigning to share a cup of tea with her. He had asked her to explain her unusual pedigree, which suggested a degree of isolation on his part that surprised even Althea.
“If you haven’t heard of the Wentworth family’s improved fortunes, Your Grace, then you truly are a dedicated recluse.”
He paused, a cheese sandwich halfway to his mouth. “I like my privacy, but even I know Wentworth is the family name associated with the Walden dukedom. Your brother is the recipient of that title?”
Did nobody feed this man? “He is, and with the help of a devoted duchess and three darling daughters, he’s bearing up manfully.”