Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (29 page)

“You will accompany me? I cannot concentrate on all the details and would not wish to misspeak?” A sigh of resignation escaped John’s lips.

“Certainly,” Worthing assured.

John blew his nose in the handkerchief Sir Carter had slipped into his hand. With a deep steadying breath, he said, “I hold a responsibility to my family’s name to guard its reputation, and despite my feelings for my baroness, my actions require I remain silent upon the state of her demise. However, please know I refuse to bury Lady Swenton upon my land.”

He had expected his friends’ objections, but none were lodged. Sir Carter suggested, “Escort Miss Aldridge’s remains to Chesterfield Manor. Tell Ashton you could not bear to deny his grief for you have known the lady but six months while Baron Ashton has shared Satiné’s life from the moment of his niece’s birth.”

John wished to turn upon his heels, mount his horse, and ride hell bent to Marwood. “Would you send riders to Yardley and Thornhill. Satiné’s sisters should have the opportunity to speak their farewells.”

“If it is your wish.”

“One week,” John declared. “One week from today, I will cease thinking upon Satiné Aldridge as anything beyond being a woman of which I once held an acquaintance.”

Worthing warned, “You must publicly mourn Lady Swenton’s passing or know the barbs of scandal once more.”

John straightened his waistcoat. “I will order my household to black, but in my mind, the effort will be for Lady Fiona Swenton, the last baroness of Marwood Manor. I have not given my mother the proper respect, and I mean to correct my previous neglect.”

*

Lexford had accompanied him in John’s small coach, which had been draped with black ribbon across the crest, and John and his staff had worn black armbands, symbolic of the mourning expected of him. The previous evening, he had denied the physician’s suggestion of laudanum, but after a night filled with the terrors of the day, he had accepted the medicinal before climbing into the coach. John was certain the bumpy roads to the west would destroy what composure he poorly feigned.

“I will not be proper company,” he had warned as the laudanum’s effects invaded his mind.

Lexford chuckled ironically, “You would be worst company without it.” The viscount paused before adding, “I think it best if you remain at Lexington Arms with Lady Lexford and me instead of tolerating Baron Ashton’s household. I fear Ashton will not take Miss Aldridge’s death easily, and I will not have you know the man’s harshness.” John appreciated how his friends had accepted John’s need to place distance between him and Satiné’s memory by referring to his late wife as Miss Aldridge. “However, I must caution you Lady Lexford encourages Aaron to join in the family activities.”

Despite the numbing effects of the drug, John’s heart lurched against his badly bruised ribs. Each of his friends had taken to his dream of family and home. Everyone but him. He would be expected to mourn at least a year for a woman who had blatantly announced “I despise you.” Others would say Satiné had not been in her right mind when she said the words, but John had thought her confession “I despise this world, for try as I may, I have never been comfortable in it. I have attempted to make myself into the kind of woman everyone admires, but the mold has never fit. I am different. A mismatch in Society” the only honesty she had ever offered him. “Your family will be a welcomed distraction,” he told Lexford and hoped he could prove himself the friend he wished to be in return.

*

They had arrived at Chesterfield Manor on the third day of their journey; Lexford had insisted it would be best if they escorted his wife’s remains to the estate, and so they had tarried at a nearby inn until the wagon hauling Lady Swenton’s coffin caught up with John’s small coach.

“I do not imagine Baron Ashton will accept the news of his niece’s demise well,” the viscount observed.

John knew he sounded of a spoiled child, but he could not abandon his feeling of loss. “Personally, I care not for the baron’s sensibilities: Lord Ashton relinquished that particular privilege with his poor parenting of his niece.”

Lexford markedly frowned, but the viscount kept his tongue. “What do you wish to share with Ashton regarding Lady Swenton?”

John coldly declared. “Everything. The truth of how his niece plotted to join her lover and the truth of all I did to protect her. I want no whisper of ill repute attached to my actions.”

“Swenton,” Ashton called as John followed Lexford from the coach. “I did not recognize your carriage. What brings two of the Realm’s finest to my door?”

John straightened gingerly, his ribs and shoulder still sore and stiff. “I have escorted your niece to her childhood home.” He spoke without emotion.

Ashton looked to the approaching wagon. “My God, Swenton,” the older man accused, “what have you done to my dearest child?”

John’s ire rose quickly. “What have I done?” he hissed. “I have done nothing but to protect your niece with my life and my title.”

Lexford stepped between him and Baron Ashton. “Swenton,” the viscount said calmly. “Why do you not enjoy Baron Ashton’s gardens while I speak of Lady Swenton to her uncle?”

John certainly held no desire to sit among heavily scented floral arbors, but doing so would be preferable to a confrontation with Satiné’s uncle, a man John had once thought admirable. “As you wish, Lexford. Send Jayson for me.”

That had been three days prior. Satiné’s sisters had arrived in a timely manner. The Worthings had traveled with Thornhill and the Duchess, while Yardley and his countess had made excellent time for Sir Carter had sent the notice via one of the small yachts the Realm used in such cases, rather than to send riders over land. The baronet, his lady, and Pennington had traveled together. Godown and his marquise came to stay with the Lexfords, and even Lucifer Hill had made an appearance. They had all come to pay their respects to Ashton’s niece and to observe John’s reactions to Satiné’s small, yet elaborate, service.

He had voiced no objections to any of Ashton’s suggestions: John had permitted the man his show of grief. Instead, he had kept his distance from both where his wife’s body in the coffin rested upon a long table and the portrait of a virginal Satiné, which Baron Ashton had had brought down from the gallery to be displayed upon an easel. John never permitted his eyes to look upon the image of his wife in all her innocence. Only once had he approached the coffin, and then it was to grieve for the child, not for its mother.

Although Ashton spoke cordially to John, the tension between them lay thick. John had thanked Lexford repeatedly for his friend’s foresight in insisting that John remain at Lexington Arms, which was but five and twenty miles from Ashton’s manor. At Lexford’s manor, it was he, Aidan and Mercy Kimbolt, Gabriel and Grace Crowden, and Henry and Hannah Hill and the children. That was the most difficult aspect of waiting for Satine’s family to arrive and the services to occur: the realization the world had passed him by.

John held little hope of ever knowing the happiness he easily noted on the countenances of those who called him
friend
. “All know family. Everyone but me,” he murmured over and over again as he looked upon a room crowded with Satiné’s family and Ashton’s neighbors. They grieved for a woman none of them truly knew. Only he had experienced the full brunt of her duplicity.

By the day and time of the vicar’s speaking his prayers over Satiné’s body, John’s insides had been held in tight control for nearly a week, and he no longer knew the source of the pain in his chest: his injuries or his hushed anger? “When do you intend to return to Marwood?” Pennington had asked quietly after the service.

Fearing the Realm’s leader might observe what John had disguised, he did not meet the man’s probing gaze. “As soon as I can speak my farewells. I desire no more of this farce. I have served the last of my duties to Miss Aldridge.”

Pennington’s scowl lines deepened. “Unless you release this severe bitterness, Swenton, it will eat away your soul. You are permitting your anger and your feelings of betrayal to imprison you.”

John hissed, “Keep your philosophy; I have had my fill of well-meaning advice.”

“You have named your poison, Baron. You mean to provide your wife continued domain over your life. You are finally making Jeremiah Swenton’s most crippling mistake.”

Her passing had come over a month prior. When he departed Manchester, John had returned to Marwood to grieve for his lost opportunities. Although they each had offered to accompany him to York, he had vehemently forbidden any of the Realm to do so. He had returned to what was familiar: spending time in the fields with his tenants, bachelor meals, and an empty household. Although he had doubted their sincerity, for John had recognized his associates’ earlier disdain for Satiné, his neighbors had extended their condolences. Those he called
friend
had played their prescribed roles, as had he.

“Viscount Honesdale, Sir.”

John rose to greet his maternal uncle. When he had returned to England with Lady Fiona’s remains, he had written to Farrell Moraham to inform his mother’s only brother of John’s decision to bury Fiona Swenton in her rightful place beside his father in the family cemetery, but he had yet to hear from the man until this day. “Uncle.” John bowed with respect.

His Lordship caught John up in a manly embrace, patting John soundly upon the back before they separated. “Despite the reported circumstances, you are looking well, Johnathan.”

John did not respond. What was there to say? He had the look of a man who had known little sleep and no reason, with nothing more than duty to spur him from the bed in the morning. In the manner of family, the viscount seated himself without John’s permission. “May I send for refreshments, Sir?” he said as he moved a chair closer so they might converse.

“Perhaps later.” Honesdale sighed wearily. “I returned to Warwickshire earlier in the week to discover your letter regarding Fiona’s passing and the news of your recent loss, and so I set out immediately for York. Edith’s mother took a turn for the worst, and the viscountess and I rushed to Scotland for by wife to be by Lady Toomey’s side. With the countess’s passing, we remained until the estate was settled upon Lord Toomey’s brother. We have been away from Warwickshire for some seven months.” He paused to adjust his overly tight waistcoat, and John smiled inwardly. It had always been so. Even as a young man, Honesdale had chosen ill-fitting garments. The familiar memory was comfortable in an odd manner. “It grieves me you had no one from the family to welcome Fiona home.”

John admitted, “I thought it best to return my mother to Marwood without fanfare.”

“I understand. The world continues to believe Fiona abandoned you.”

“Did she not?” John challenged.

Honesdale shook his head in sad denial. “I suppose in many ways it would appear so, but you must know, John, how proud my sister was of you.”

John gave a faint grimace. “I know of no such emotion ever expressed by my mother.”

Honesdale’s scowl lines deepened. “You truly believe the words you speak?”

“I do, Sir.”

“Then I am doubly glad I have come, and I possessed the foresight to bring you a gift.”

“What gift?” John asked suspiciously.

Honesdale smiled wryly. “All in good time.” The viscount raised an eyebrow, and the very air was ripe with anticipation. It was the first emotion John had permitted his foolish heart since returning to Yorkshire. “I should not be surprised by your opinions; they are the ones often uttered by Jeremiah Swenton. Although your father was a most excellent baron, he never understood a woman of Fiona’s nature. My sister was not one to hide her opinions or to leave her sensible mind upon a shelf simply to please her husband.” John easily remembered his father’s face turning purple with rage when the previous baron and Lady Fiona had exchanged words in misunderstanding.

His uncle continued, “Believe it or not, Fiona loved Jeremiah.” John would normally have scoffed at Honesdale’s assertion, but he swallowed his protest for he suspected he was finally to be privy to family secrets. Moreover, Olde Sapp had said something similar only a few months prior. “Both families thought the connections strong ones, and our Fiona had convinced herself she desired what every other woman did. However, the dew quickly fell from the bloom. I attempted to caution Fiona to take more time to consider her choice, but your parents were so certain.”

John could not stifle the words. “Then what happened?” He feared his uncle would admit John’s appearance had ruined the “love” between his parents.

“Fiona happened. She could ride better than most men and drink deeper than a variety of gentlemen. My sister studied politics and wished desperately to be a painter. The more Jeremiah attempted to bring his baroness into his world, the more she resisted. She would often write to me to beg for my father’s intervention, but the previous viscount was as much of a stickler for the old ways as was your father. Fiona would spend hours crying in my arms, but I was powerless to change her future for I had not yet assumed the title. She claimed the baron’s control smothered her, but then you came into her life, and for a time all was well.

“Unfortunately, Fiona was determined to raise you as a man of the world. She insisted on spending her days in the nursery with you, playing games and teaching you of art and music.” John held no memories of those days. “Your father would have you know a more traditional rearing and spoke his objections to Fiona’s methods. When Fiona refused to bend to Jeremiah’s wishes, your father threatened to send you to live with your cousins, the same ones who would inherit the barony upon your demise. Fiona feared for your safety, so she agreed to the baron’s wishes; yet, it ate away at her to ignore you. Finally, my sister could bear the strain no longer. Fiona was not of a nature to love either you or Jeremiah halfway.

“My sister turned to her art in consolation, but again your father and mine criticized her very nature. You see,” Honesdale explained, “women should only paint charming landscapes.”

John appeared perplexed. “I have never seen any of my mother’s paintings.” He paused in his musings. “The reason for Lady Fiona surrounding herself with so many aspiring artists,” he whispered.

“Yes, my sister preferred to learn from the best, and you have seen your mother’s work. Under the name of Lord Franklin, two of her portraits hang in London’s museum.” Honesdale shook his head in disapproval. “I make no apologies for Fiona’s actions. Her leaving was unforgivable, but I know in my heart it was the best for my sister. In my conceit, I considered Swenton an honorable man. It never occurred to me he would suffocate you as he had Fiona. I thought a young man would possess a different disposition than his fanciful mother.” His uncle sucked in a deep steadying breath. “Once you were old enough to know the world, the Moraham family breathed easier. You appeared not to have suffered unduly.”

John thought of how he had chosen first to join Wellington’s forces and then the Realm to prove himself a man–to escape the strictures of his father’s edicts. Had his mother felt the same as he? Was he more of Lady Fiona’s personality than he thought?

“When you chose to call upon Fiona upon the Continent, she was beside herself with happiness. She would write me long glowing letters of your successes. She would describe each lady with whom you would dance and reiterate each tale you shared with her.”

“Why did my mother insist upon us being known as cousins rather than mother and child?”

“Fiona was determined not to permit her risqué reputation to tarnish yours. My sister claimed others knowing of your relationship would ruin everything between you. You would have become a novelty, and Fiona would have none of it?”

John wished he had thought so previously. His uncle’s words appeared so sensible, but could he abandon that telling image of his mother’s slap? Could Lady Fiona have purposely driven him away because of his father’s threats? The thought shook John’s very core. “Do you still possess any of my mother’s correspondence?” He shifted uncomfortably. “I would wish to know more or her.”

Honesdale nodded. “I have quite a collection. You are welcome to join Edith and me anytime you are so inclined.” He stood slowly. “Meanwhile, I have that gift of which I spoke. I am certain you will enjoy it.” He stepped to the door and gave one of John’s footmen whispered orders. “When we finish here, I would wish to freshen my things and then have you show me where Fiona rests.”

“Certainly, Sir.” Before John could speak orders to his staff, Peter and one of Honesdale’s men carried in a large brown paper wrapped parcel.

“Place it here. Before the hearth,” the viscount instructed. When the servants exited, John’s uncle announced, “This is one of Fiona’s last paintings. She sent it to me some two years prior, but I believe it should be yours.”

His uncle ripped the paper away to display a portrait of John, captured in time. As exact as if he stared into a mirror, and behind him were his mother and father, standing together in a loose embrace. “I never sat for her,” John protested lamely. John stared longingly upon the image. It made him want to rush to London to view his mother’s other efforts.

Uncle Farrell chuckled. “If Fiona had been a man, people would have clamored for her favor. My sister possessed a natural eye. Once she knew an image, it stayed with her forever. Do you not find the portrait pleasing?”

“Without sounding of conceit, it is magnificent.” Still in a bit of awe, he asked, “Is Lady Fiona’s interpretation how others see me?”

Honesdale touched the portrait lovingly. “See the thicker stroke to add depth to the wool coat. The fine lines about your father’s eyes,” he said more seriously, “yes, the world sees you as a powerful man, Johnathan. Fiona described you as Tyr, a god associated with honor, justice in battle, victory, and heroic glory, as well as Mars, for as you recall, Mars represented military power as a means to secure peace, as well as being the pater of the Roman people.”

“Until this very minute, I have always despised the word ‘fierce’ used to characterize my personality–the description of me as a warrior god,” John confessed. “But I like the idea of honor and justice, without destruction.”

“Good.” His uncle rubbed his hands together in delight. “It is time your heart was healed, John. Thank God, Fiona had the foresight to send several of her pieces to me. I imagine there is room for them at Marwood Manor.”

John could not remove his eyes from the portrait. “More than enough room, Uncle. I would like to fill my home with the memory of my mother.”

*

The items had been truly a Godsend for John’s mental stability. Over the fortnight following his uncle’s departure, he found himself drawn to his desk at odd times of the day to read and reread each of the letters his uncle had shared. Upon his return to Warwickshire, Uncle Farrell had dispatched a rider to personally deliver to John more than two-dozen letters, representing Lady Fiona’s years abroad. The notes defined the woman who had remained a stranger to him for so long, creating an image of his mother, which John had never considered. The former baroness spoke eloquently on the lack of rights for women, as well as the need for religious freedom. She had told her brother of the new techniques she had learned in her private art lessons–techniques John easily recognized in the three paintings prominently displayed upon the walls of his manor. In addition to the one she had painted of him with his parents in the background, there was another of him at age thirteen or fourteen and one of him after his first visit with her upon the Continent. She had resided in Venice at that time, before her retreat to Vienna, and she had painted him standing alone upon a prominent point along the Venice canals. He recognized the scene immediately. John had watched her approach, and evidently his mother had memorized the moment.

However, he did not know how she had so accurately captured his early teen years for Lady Fiona had departed York when he was but five, but one of his mother’s letters had explained how she and his father had considered a reconciliation; however, when Lady Fiona had arrived at Marwood, Jeremiah Swenton had refused any compromise. His father had forbidden her from calling upon John at school, but she had convinced Honesdale to arrange a day from John’s studies. John could easily recall the day well for he had enjoyed the day journey into London and the visit to Tattersalls. Little did he know his mother had studied him from a distance throughout the day.

“I am thankful for my foresight,” he had told Honesdale during one of their many conversations regarding John’s mother. “I have made arrangements for Lady Fiona’s household to be inventoried and shipped to me. We may both share in my mother’s talents and successes.”

Tears had clouded Honesdale’s eyes. “You are so much of your mother’s nature. You can be hard when necessary, but your heart is a tender one. I would be honored to bring a bit of Fiona home to Warwickshire.”

Comfortingly, learning more of his mother had eased John’s desolation. In hindsight, he wished hardily he had shared his mother’s existence with his friends. Perhaps their trained perceptions would have brought him to a better understanding sooner.

Although he had not forgotten his part in Satiné’s demise, adding Lady Fiona’s presence to his daily life had lessened the guilt he had known for saving his friend over his wife. On those few days he could forget his choice had also cost him his child, John could justify the worth of Aidan Kimbolt to society as compared to Satiné Swenton. Yet, those justifications did not excuse his actions. “I should have saved them both,” he often chastised.

Eventually, dreams of Isolde Neville replaced the ones filled with horror. During his sleep, she came to him, and they shared great intimacies. He knew he could not go to Isolde until his year of mourning was complete, but John feared, by that time, she would have chosen another. Often, it appeared Fate was determined to keep them apart. Even if Isolde would accept him before the mourning year had passed, John could not bring himself to deliver scandal to her door. He remained determined to protect her whether it cost him his heart or not.