Chapter 5

CHAPTER5

Agnes had not planned to call upon her mother at all, preferring to make a wager with herself as to when her mother might emerge. She had placed her bet firmly on her mother making only one or two appearances before the season’s end, and that was being generous, but the need to escape the stifling heat of the Morning Room and the Duke’s increasingly intent gaze had led her to make the detour.

At the guest chamber door, Agnes knocked but did not bother to wait for a reply as she entered, asking, “Mother, are you awake?”

Her mother sat at the writing desk on the far side of the room, staring listlessly out at the beautiful morning. A blanket of coiling fog still lingered upon the emerald lawns, but the sun would soon burn it away, for it looked to be a very fine day indeed with barely a cloud in the sky. Of course, being spring, that could transform into a deluge at a moment’s notice.

“Hmm?” her mother mumbled.

Grasping onto the threads of her frayed patience, Agnes approached. “I asked if you were awake, but that seems rather moot now.” She eyed the breakfast tray, hardly touched. “You should eat more, Mother. If our day were a dance card, it would be scandalously full, and you cannot hide away up here, or you will surely insult Lady Finch.”

“I am quite capable of deciding what I will and will not do,” her mother replied frostily. “My headache is still troubling me somewhat, so I think I shall continue to rest for this morning and this afternoon, and then I shall see how I am faring when dinner comes. Tomorrow, I might venture out with you all.”

Agnes perched on the edge of the writing desk, positioning herself so she could lean right into her mother’s face if the older woman ignored what she had to say next. “Why did you come at all, Mother? I do not mean to be callous, but… I know your headaches. They are excuses, and right now, your daughter needs you desperately.” Her voice hitched, for there was not just one daughter who needed her mother to be a mother. “Lady Finch has arranged a grand ball for Rose, and Rose is terrified.”

“Whatever for?” her mother huffed, folding her arms across her chest. “It is an honor to be so favored by the likes of Lady Finch. Rose shall just have to find a way to endure it and with a smile, too.”

A muscle twitched at the corner of Agnes’ eye. “She is unused to such an audience, Mother. She is not ungrateful, she is scared, and I know it would raise her spirits and help her to endure it all with a smile if you were to take her hand and guide her through it.” She exhaled shakily. “You must remember your own entrance into society. Were you not afraid?”

“I was glad,” her mother replied wistfully. “I could not wait for that day, and when it came—oh, how blessed I must have been, to have met your father at that very ball where I took my first steps into society. He was there to guide me, and that should be what your sister seeks—a gentleman to ensure she never enters a ball alone, ever again.”

“She needs you,” Agnes insisted, frustration wringing out her lungs. “A betrothed, a husband: all of that must wait until she has gained confidence in this world. It likely will not be as it was when you entered society, for Papa was a… rare beast.”

Her mother reeled back. “A beast? Your father was no beast!” Scarlet streaked her cheeks, her eyes filling with angry tears as she grabbed Agnes by the wrist and squeezed. “You will not speak of him that way!”

“It is a turn of phrase, Mother.” Agnes managed to wrench her hand back, though pink imprints remained. “I meant it as a compliment. He was a rare gentleman, and he was drawn to you because you were lively, and you knew how to laugh, and you conversed so well in company, charming everyone. I remember how you were at parties at Snowley House before we lost him. Before you lost yourself.” Her voice hitched. “Rose does not have that demeanor when she is around strangers. That is why you must swear to me that you will be there at her side at her coming-out ball.”

Her mother seemed to calm, settling back into the writing desk chair. “Of course, I will be there, unless another headache—”

“No, Mother, you will not say that. You will not preface the biggest moment of Rose’s life with an excuse to be used at your whim,” Agnes interrupted, frightened by the force of her tone. “You will be there, without excuse, and you can prove your commitment by calling upon Lady Finch’s son with us this afternoon.”

The morning sunlight sliced in through the window in hazy blades, the soft glow illuminating Agnes’ mother’s face like a heavenly spotlight. There was so much beauty left in Katherine Weston, but she hid it behind her cloak of grief, wearing away her smooth skin and bright eyes with daily-shed tears, carving out hollow half-circles, like a river cutting through earth.

You could have loved again, Agnes knew. Papa was irreplaceable, but would a companion have been so terrible? There must have been countless widowers out there in the world, desperate for the same thing—someone to share the rest of their lives with as friends if not lovers. But Katherine Weston had chosen the path of brutal misery, isolating herself entirely, denying herself any opportunity to feel joy again, forgetting everything but her sorrow, and sacrificing her daughters to the altar of her bereavement, leaving them without a father and a mother.

“You promised me you would do better,” Agnes urged when her mother did not reply. “You swore you were improving, but I have seen no sign of it.”

Her mother’s face crumpled. “I am here, am I not? A few months ago, I would not have come. I would have sent you both away in the carriage, leaving you to your own devices.”

Guilt shivered up from the depths of Agnes’ stomach, rising in a smothering tide through her chest and into her throat where it blocked the air coming in and going out with a lump of her own sorrow. As a woman who had never known love and likely never would, she supposed she could not understand the grip that a love like her parents’ could have upon a person, digging in passionate claws that never let go, even when parted.

Would I be the same if I had been through what she has? Would I be able to forget a love like that if I once had it? Agnes swallowed and reached out to take hold of her mother’s hands.

“I am sorry, Mother. I spoke unfairly,” she said softly. “You are here, and I am glad of it, but you must not let yourself take a step backward, now that you are here.”

Her mother drew her hand back and wiped her palm across her skirts as if she had touched something unpleasant. “I am pleased you can see my improvement. I am doing my best, and that is all that can be asked of me.”

“So, you will not come to Marquess’ residence this afternoon?” It was the only question that Agnes had the strength left to ask, for she had grown weary of this persistent conflict with her mother years ago, and whenever it was repeated, it drained her.

Her mother shrugged. “As I told you, I believe I shall still be suffering the effects of this headache. Another day, perhaps. And I shall do what I can to attend dinner.”

“Why not just do the kind thing, Mother, and take the carriage back to Snowley House? Why not leave the mothering to me as you have done for years now?”

The harsh retort danced upon Agnes’ tongue, but the rising guilt swept it back at the last moment, dragging it down into the dark fathoms of her heart.

Chiding and scolding never made a difference. Nothing did. And though her mother had come to Lady Finch’s, Agnes did not trust that her mother would not hide away again as soon as the season was over. Nor did she trust that her mother would make any effort to attend dinner or any other event that came along while they were in residence with the Dowager Marchioness.

As long as she attends Rose’s ball, that will be enough, Agnes lied to herself, for after a decade of neglect, she doubted anything her mother did would come close to making amends. It was easier to pity Katherine. It was easier to cling onto sympathy and let that absolve Agnes’ mother in perpetuity.

“Shall I, at least, call upon you after we have visited the Marquess to let you know how Rose has fared?” Agnes ventured weakly, already aware of what the answer would be.

“Another day. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

Agnes nodded. “Tomorrow.”

For ten years, she had heard that word offered as an empty promise for every eventuality. Even for something as simple as taking tea together, as a mother and her two daughters, it had been the same: Tomorrow. Tomorrow, perhaps. But tomorrows came and went, hopes rose and fell, and nothing ever changed until Agnes had all but given up.

“Finish your breakfast at least,” Agnes said, feeling even more like the mother of the family.

Her mother nodded. “I shall try.”

With that, Agnes left, already dreading the prospect of someone taking her up on her invitation to walk in the gardens. Alone, she did not have to paste on a smile and wear the jester’s costume to make others smile. Alone, she could rally her strength again, steeling her resolve to see Rose in possession of a happy future as far from the widow and spinster of Snowley House as possible.

Mercy, how I shall miss her. A sob caught in Agnes’ chest, pushed hastily away. She could not think about her impending loneliness and sorrow now, for Rose deserved her freedom, and Agnes would not allow her selfishness to make her sister doubt her course.

“It is always painfully warm in that guest bedchamber. You ought to ask for some ice from the kitchens to soothe that awful redness in your cheeks,” a voice stalled Agnes, and her fingertips rushed to brush away any hint of a tear that might have escaped.

He was behind her. She could not see him, but she could sense him. And she could never have mistaken that voice: deep, husky, sultry, and thrumming with danger.