Chapter Seventeen

August 12, 1812

F lorence had insisted on a lock on her bedchamber a long time ago, and this was perhaps the first time she truly felt she had benefited from it.

The solid sound of the bolt shooting across gave a momentary release to her soul.

And then she was standing in silence again, with only the words which been shouted at her ringing in her ears.

"It changed, don't you see, our marriage of convenience, it changed! And I had completely forgotten I'd written that stupid thing, it meant nothing, nothing compared to you, and I—"

The memories were interrupted by a sudden thumping on the door before her. Florence jumped, the noise startlingly close, and took a step back from the door.

"G-Go aw—"

"Florence Bailey, you come straight back downstairs and finish your breakfast like a rational person!" snapped her mother through the door. "You're getting married tomorrow! You really think you can behave like a petulant child when I ask a simple question?"

Florence closed her eyes, leaning against the wall beside the door as her legs shook.

A simple question? Even for her mother, it had not been merely a simple question.

"What was it this Marquess of Aylesbury saw in you, anyway?"

A question which would have cut at the core of anyone who heard it. No one liked to be questioned on such a thing, to have it suggested that the man who was going to marry her the next day had to be a fool to do so.

But after what she had discovered . . .

"You know what I said, how I felt about—ab-bout men wanting me only for my dowry."

Another thump at the door. The hinges rattled but the bolt held. Florence made a private note to herself to thank Mrs. Harris for doing such an excellent job in selecting someone to fit it.

Her mother had not approved at the time.

"Florence Bailey, come down right now!"

Her mother's berating, which usually would have worked almost instantly, merely washed over Florence like a rising tide. What did it matter what her mother said? Or thought? Or did?

There would be no wedding tomorrow. No opportunity to wear that beautiful gown. No need to go to the church, no man waiting for her at the end of the aisle, no vows made to love and honor.

It was all over.

"I demand that you open this door at once! I will not have a daughter of mine hiding from direct questions, it's ridiculous! You come out here right now and we'll say no more about it."

Florence turned slowly so her back was against the wall, then slowly slid. Her ankles buckled right at the end but she was close enough to the floor by that time. Her buttocks hit the carpet and she sat there, drawing her knees up to her face as she buried her head in her hands.

"Florence Bailey, I have never known such disobedience! I will send for your brother, and he will force this door down. Do you hear me? Florence? I cannot believe such..."

The words faded, eventually. Florence knew there was nothing her mother could say that would make her open the door. She was of a mind never to leave her bedchamber again. What cared she for food? What did she need from the outside world—what had it ever offered her?

Naught but pain, suffering, and loneliness. If she had to be alone, she may as well be alone in peace.

Her exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her as she sat there. She had barely slept the night before, the argument with John roaring through her mind, making it impossible to close her eyes and lose herself to slumber.

"I ran out of money, gambled it away—you never noticed, did you, that no matter where we went, I didn't play any game for money? And Cothrom, he cut me off, said he'd send me to the countryside in disgrace, and I thought—"

"You thought you could just marry a fortune."

"Yes—no . . . not exactly.

Eventually Florence fell asleep. She must have done. When she opened her eyes again, she was still sitting on the floor, still leaning against the wall. Her shoulders and neck were stiff, as were her knees, but when she stretched them out Florence could feel herself unfurling, like a flower in the sun.

Just for a moment, she thought about John and smiled.

Then the memories flooded back. That letter, that note John had plainly written, declaring he thought of her as nothing more than a bank account. He was marrying a fortune, that was all. She was immaterial.

As she always was.

Florence glanced about her bedchamber. The curtains were still open, but the sunlight coming through the windows was different, paler than it ought to be.

From her position on the floor, she could see the carriage clock she kept beside her bed. Seven o'clock.

No wonder. She had slept the day away.

Despite her firm conviction, all those hours ago, that she would not require food for the rest of her life, her stomach had other ideas. It was growling most irritatingly, and though she attempted to ignore it for a few minutes, there was nothing she could do.

Groaning as she rose, Florence smoothed her rumpled gown as best she could, then placed an ear on her door. No movement on the landing. No sound could be heard, at least.

Slowly, her fingers stiff with exhaustion, she pulled back the bolt and opened the door.

There was no one there.

She did not encounter anyone as she crept along the servants' staircase either, which was odd. Just past seven o'clock meant it was coming up to dinner. Florence had expected a flurry of maids and footmen running about the place, preparing to serve her mother in the dining room.

And, usually, herself.

But Florence had discounted that idea before she'd even drawn back the bolt. The thought of sitting opposite her mother at the dinner table, being subjected to a plethora of questions—none of which Florence wished to answer—was anathema to her.

No, better to go down to the kitchens themselves. That way she could remain out of the way. Cook would give her a little something. Then she could creep upstairs again, and completely avoid—

"Mother," Florence said in shock as she entered the kitchen.

A most strange sight met her eyes. In fact, in all their years living here, Florence could not recall her mother ever stepping into the kitchen. That was the servants' domain, she had once heard Mrs. Bailey say. It was not for the likes of them .

Yet here she was. Her mother was seated at the worn kitchen table, smoothed with age and many hands, with a bowl of stew before her.

Mrs. Bailey dropped her spoon, splashing stew across her pristine white gown. "Florence."

Florence stiffened. "I-I don't w-want another argum-ment—"

"Neither do I," said her mother curtly.

Standing awkwardly, feet from the table, Florence was not sure what to do next. Her instincts told her to leave, that any encounter with her mother would lead to tears. Probably her own.

The trouble was, the stew smelled absolutely divine. A rich, gamey scent filled the kitchen, along with rosemary and what could be basil. Florence's stomach growled.

She glanced at the bowl of stew again, trying to weigh up whether she could carry such a thing up two flights of stairs without dropping it—and then something her mind had evidently noticed but not yet been able to inform her of managed to get her attention.

Her mother. She had been crying.

Florence's lungs constricted, making every movement painful. She had never seen her mother cry before. Mrs. Bailey did not cry. She was famous for it. Hadn't she once said that tears were a sign of weakness, and Baileys were not weak?

"I..." Florence swallowed. She could hardly leave without mentioning it, now she had noticed. What had occurred? Was it Philip—was he perhaps hurt? "You have had word?"

Mrs. Bailey swallowed hard, hands clasping and unclasping before her on the table. Then she nodded.

Florence's pulse skipped a beat. If something had happened to her brother ..."Where is he? Philip?"

And much to her surprise, her mother shook her head. "It... it isn't Philip."

Heart sinking, Florence realized what must have happened.

Of course, she had been a fool not to think of it before. The wedding was tomorrow, was meant to be, wasn't it? Of course, there was no possibility going forward now, and John... and the Marquess of Aylesbury would not wish to go ahead with the thing, just in the hope she would turn up.

He had to know she was serious about her refusal.

And that meant, Florence thought with pain radiating through her, that John—the Marquess of Aylesbury, she corrected silently, had contacted her mother. There was no other way round it. The trousseau would be sent over, the flowers sent back... everything.

A broken engagement. A broken engagement the day before the wedding. A broken engagement the day before a wedding to a marquess.

No wonder her mother had been crying.

Florence tried to take in a fortifying breath, and managed to say without too many hesitations, "S-So. You have h-heard about my b-broken engagement with... with the m-marquess. You should know th-there will be no dis-dishonor. It is—"

"You think I care about that?" her mother interrupted as she looked up. "You think I care about dishonor, or reputation, or anything of that nature?"

Almost taking a step back in her surprise, Florence blinked, attempting to discern what on earth her mother could mean.

Because her instinct was to say... yes. Yes, that is what has upset you. That is always what upsets you. When I am not clever enough or witty enough in company to impress. When the ton does not invite me to a ball, you feel slighted. When I announced my engagement, you planned which house my betrothed would give you.

But something had changed since then. Florence was not sure what on earth it could be, but something had. Something intangible, yet which had a tangible effect on her mother.

Her mother was crying. Tears were trickling silently down her cheeks. "I am upset because... because my daughter had her heart broken. By a rogue, no less, by a—and she did not feel she could come to me. My... my own daughter."

Florence would have bet good money, and she had a lot of it, that her mother had been about to say something about the expense. The shame. The difficulty informing everyone that the wedding was off. That it would now be quite impossible to marry off her daughter.

To hear her mother say such words—and to clearly mean them, to hear the break in her voice...

Her footsteps making almost no sound on the flagged stone floor, Florence caught the eye of the cook and a maid who were working in silence behind her mother.

Just one silent look was enough. Bobbing curtsies, the two of them quickly left the kitchen, leaving Florence and her mother alone.

Right. Well. Where did one start?

"It w-wasn't like th-that," Florence said awkwardly as she pulled out a chair.

Mrs. Bailey sniffed. "Oh, really? How is it different?"

Florence squirmed awkwardly in her seat. She had never had to comfort her mother in her life. True, her mother had never comforted her, either. But still. This was uncharted territory for the both of them, and she wasn't sure she liked it.

Her prickly, irritable, argumentative, corrosive mother was at least a constant. She always knew how Mrs. Bailey would respond to anything. She was one of the few parts of life depended upon to be the same in all situations.

Until, it appeared, now.

"Because from what I can see," her mother continued, tears spilling from her eyes, "my daughter had her heart broken, came home, slept, had some breakfast, then stormed away from me, all while keeping from me that her heart... that the wedding... that she was miserable, and I..."

Florence stared in amazement as her mother threw back her head and wailed.

"And I had to find out from Lady Romeril in the street!" bawled Mrs. Bailey.

Shoulders slumping, Florence congratulated herself silently in finally reaching the root cause of this sadness. Of course. It wasn't Florence's actual heart that was the problem. It was being caught out by someone in public, and by Lady Romeril, of all people.

But just as she was about to leave and return to her room, stew or no stew, her mother reached out and took her hand. "And I hadn't been there to comfort you," she said in a thick voice, "when you most needed comforting."

Florence stared at her mother's hand on hers in amazement. This wasn't like her mother at all. She was at a complete loss to explain it, bewildered in the extreme with no idea what to say.

And so she said that. "I-I... I d-don't know what t-to say."

Her mother sniffed, but said nothing more in reply. The moment between them elongated, becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

Though she considered attempting to pull her hand away, Florence decided against it. She still wasn't completely convinced they had got to the bottom of this, but it would be callous in the extreme to immediately discount her mother's words.

"You... Mother, you are always so exacting. So vocal in public—"

"Oh, that's always because I'm so nervous," her mother said, wringing her hands.

It was all Florence could do not to stare. "Nervous?"

Nervous? Her mother—Mrs. Bailey, nervous?

Her mother was still wringing her hands. "I've always been nervous in company, ever since I was a girl, and so my mother told me always to have something to say, and say it loud, and as though you are confident. And she herself was always so certain, so forceful. So of course that's what I do, always have something to say, always have a remark, a comment—"

Of course.

Now that her mother had said it, Florence could not believe how she had missed it. Her mother always sought to fill the silence, make any remark, keep the conversation going even if it had reached a natural conclusion. Her words ran together, she spoke boldly but without thought. From... from nerves?

"We're so alike," gulped her mother, tears still pouring down her face. "I thought you knew!"

"How could I know?" Florence could not help but say. "You n-never told me."

"I thought it obvious—I thought the whole ton knew just how much I hated speaking out in public, how uncomfortable I am! Oh, Florence, the things that come out of my mouth in those moments... and then it's too late!" Mrs. Bailey sniffed. "I can never take anything back! But to hear of such a calamity that has befallen you, from another..."

Florence swallowed. "We... M-Mother, we have n-never been close. In that w-way."

There was no response to her words. At least, her mother silently wept, but as she had been doing so before, Florence was not sure that counted as a response.

She tried again. "We're n-not open. I s-suppose."

Mrs. Bailey sniffed. She released her daughter and started patting her sleeves, hunting for a handkerchief. "I suppose not. I... I... Neither was my mother."

Florence stared. Her mother may invoke her grandmother's standards and preferences often enough, but Florence had never heard her mother speak so openly about her own upbringing.

Her father had been an orphan at a young age, so she'd never had the opportunity to meet her grandparents on her father's side of the family, but she did have a vague memory of her mother's parents. An elderly gentleman who had been deaf, bellowing his good wishes at his tiny granddaughter with beaming eyes. And a woman...

Now she came to think of it, Florence could barely recall the woman who had been her grandmother. Her mother's mother.

She had been stern. At least, she had a stern expression. Florence could just about remember her features if she concentrated, but it was a challenge. They had lived in the countryside and had disapproved, from the few hints her mother had dropped, that the Baileys had decided to live in the capital.

And that was all she could recall. Her grandparents had both died before Florence had reached the age of five, so there wasn't a huge amount to remember.

Was her mother suggesting... well, was it possible that her mother had grown up in a home just as cold, just as lonely as she had?

"I always thought," her mother said with a watery smile, "hoped, that is... hoped I would break the cycle."

Florence breathed out the tension that had been building in her. "I b-beg your p-pardon?"

"Break the cycle," repeated Mrs. Bailey. Her eyes were red, but tears had ceased to fall. "Be different, I suppose. Be a different kind of parent, a different kind of mother to you than I had. But I fell into her habits, her phrases, her judgment. I couldn't stop myself, sometimes I didn't even notice I had done so until... until it was too late."

Her words echoed around the kitchen and in Florence's mind.

It was a revelation. She had never inquired of herself—or her mother, for that matter—why she was the way she was. It was not the sort of question one asked anyone, let alone a parent.

Florence's father had died years ago. Philip had left as soon as he was able, taking up rooms with a university chum who had inherited a house with plenty of space, and that was it. The two Bailey women had been left together.

Yet all this time, her mother had resented the way she had been spoken to by her own mother—and at the same time, not even noticed she was falling into patterns she herself had suffered from. That she was subjecting her own daughter to a treatment she herself must hate. All this time, her mother had panicked in company and just said the first words that came into her head. All this time, the pair of them had been equally plagued by nerves in company, but she had never known.

Florence did not need to think. The pity she felt for her mother was enough to drive her forward.

Rising from her seat, she did not say a word as she stepped around the broad kitchen table and pulled her mother into a tight embrace.

It felt... wrong. No, not wrong, exactly. But Florence could not recall the last time she had even touched or been touched by her mother, let alone embraced her. It was an alien thing, a discomfiting closeness that nonetheless she persevered through.

Because someone, to use her mother's words, had to break the cycle.

Her mother's sobbing returned and increased in volume for a while, her shoulders shaking, before the cries subsided. Only then did Florence carefully release her.

"It wasn't—I n-never th-thought that..." Florence swallowed hard as she slipped into the chair beside her mother. Goodness, this was difficult. "I did n-not wish to talk ab-bout... about it with anyone. It was n-not just you."

Mrs. Bailey swallowed, her face blotchy. "T-Truly?"

Florence tried to smile. "N-Now you sound like me."

Their awkward laughter echoed around the otherwise empty kitchen.

It was hard to take in. The idea her mother did not wish to be the way she was, that she had hoped to be different—it was startling. A revelation. One which Florence wished she had known years before.

How different things could have been. Perhaps they would have been able to enjoy each other's company. Perhaps their visits, attendance to balls, that sort of thing, would have been a burden they could have shared. Perhaps Florence would have turned to her mother the moment she realized her engagement to John—to the Marquess of Aylesbury was over.

Well, you could not go back. Florence could not turn back the hands of time and live those months, those years again. But she could choose how to live, going forward.

"I... I suppose it truly is over?" her mother asked in a small voice.

Florence's veins turned to ice. It was too difficult to speak. She nodded.

Mrs. Bailey sighed. "You... well. You seemed to really like him."

Only after she had taken a steadying breath was Florence able to speak. "I did."

The two words were said with such finality, she almost surprised herself. Was she starting to believe it? To accept that the marriage she had hoped for these long months, even years, which had seemed so close, was finally out of reach?

"And it can't be . . . repaired?"

Florence shook her head weakly at the hope on her mother's face. It was natural, she was sure, for mothers to wish for the best for their children. It was just so bizarre, seeing it in her own mother. "So that I c-can be a m-marchioness?"

It was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say. Her mother drew herself up proudly, and spoke with such strength of feeling, Florence was rather astonished she was still seated, and not parading up and down outside Westminster with the women making demands of Parliament.

"You could be a cottager's wife, if it made you happy," she said firmly, eyes still red. "Happiness is what matters, Florence, and finding that with a husband... I sometimes think I would have been a very different mother if your father had not... If you have found someone, someone you truly love, why let them go?"

Tears crept into the corners of Florence's eyes.

She was mostly bluster then, this mother of hers. Oh, the words would hurt, and she was thoughtless, and at times uncaring. But they were faults. Not failures of character.

And faults could be repaired. Together they could begin to undo the damage.

"Mama," Florence said, her voice cracking as tears finally fell. Her mother swept her into a comforting embrace before she could even get the next stammering words out. "M-M-Mama, he n-never l-loved m-me a-after... a-after all."