Chapter 17
Seventeen
It was unseemly for a man of Lawrence’s title and stature to be mired in the depths of emotional confusion, but that was where Lawrence found himself for the next three days as he and Minerva traveled to Godwin Castle. His heart and his mind were at odds, and the upsets of his past were throwing their weight into the argument, causing everything within him to be in constant turmoil.
He was hurt by Minerva’s plot to feign her own death, and even more by the fact that she had not confided in him with her plan. One part of him argued that she could not have known he was trustworthy when they set out on their journey, therefore she would have had no reason to inform him of her plans sooner. Another part of him groused that she should have said something as soon as the bond between them began to form.
Overall, he was deeply concerned for Minerva’s health. They’d made the potentially disastrous decision to continue driving through the night, into the early hours of the next morning, before stopping at a wayside inn. While that decision put much-needed distance between them and Lord Owen, it could not have been good for Minerva’s recovery.
When they continued on the next day, Minerva was still in a terrible state of discomfort, between her thick head, her bright-red nose, and her increasing cough. Despite the fact that she insisted she felt better than she had days before and that she sounded worse than she felt, Lawrence was left with images of Minerva dying in his arms in earnest by the side of the road somewhere in the middle of the country.
Minerva would have enjoyed dying in his arms at twilight, near the seaside, with Godwin Castle in sight on the horizon. She would have found that to be the most romantic death possible.
Lawrence forced those thoughts out of his head as well. There was not room for them. Because he was also desperately worried for what might happen to them, should Lord Owen catch up to them on the road.
He’d ordered Silas to take a somewhat winding route to Godwin Castle in case of such an occurrence. When they stopped at inns along the way, he chose the largest and busiest ones he could find, obtained a room under a false name, and pretended once again that Minerva was his wife so that they might share a room. It was wicked of him, he knew, but it was much safer for him to keep Minerva within his sight rather than leaving her to her own devices in a room of her own.
“I am beginning to think you do not wish me to have my own lodgings because you are afraid I will run away from you and continue with my original plan,” Minerva told him with a tired sigh as she sat at the tiny table in what Lawrence hoped would be the last of their stops before reaching the Isle of Portland, Clarence perched between them.
“Whatever gives you that idea?” Lawrence asked flatly as he placed the meat pie from the tray one of the inn’s maids had brought to them for supper in front of Minerva.
Minerva did not answer with words. She merely glanced askance at him as he took his seat across from her, blew her poor, sore nose—an activity that had become much less frequent in the last day—and picked up her fork.
Several minutes of silence followed before she said, “I am sorry for making you feel put out.”
The battle within Lawrence pitched to full emotion. He forgave her. Of course he forgave her. He was hurt.
He should not forgive her. She had frightened him with the specter of losing her. Surely, she should do some sort of penance for causing him such difficult feelings.
He covered his awkward state of mind and bought himself time to formulate the best answer by reaching for one of the mugs of ale that had been delivered with their supper.
“Did you truly believe you could execute your plan?” he asked once he’d gulped the ale down.
Minerva glanced morosely at him over their suppers. “At the time the plan was formulated, I believed I could. I did not expect to have anyone with me at the moment of initiation who would care one way or another what happened to me.”
The sadness in Minerva’s eyes shot straight to Lawrence’s heart. All bitterness, most of which was merely a reflection of his storied past anyhow, fell aside. He reached out and placed his hand over Minerva’s smaller one as it rested on the table.
“I would have cared, Minerva,” he said quietly. “I do care. I care very much.”
Minerva’s tired eyes were glassy with unshed tears as she twisted her hand to hold his. “You could come with me,” she said, hope joining those tears. “We could escape to Sweden together, you, me, and Clarence, and live happily in Stockholm for the rest of our lives.”
A bittersweet ache struck Lawrence’s stomach. From the sound of things, she still planned to carry out her plan in some way.
“I cannot go,” he said, not without compassion. “I am known in Stockholm. I had an exhibition there several years ago.”
“We could go somewhere else?” Minerva suggested, appearing closer to weeping than to hatching an entirely new plot.
Lawrence shook his head. “I have a life here. I have family whom I love, who need me.”
He should not have said that. Those words tipped Minerva over the edge, and she wept.
“I did not mean to hurt you with those words,” Lawrence said, setting down his fork so he could take both of her hands in his. “We will be at Godwin Castle by tomorrow evening. You will see how kind and loving my family is, even though we are a passel of eccentric misfits. I am quite certain that they will envelop you in their love, and their madness, as well.”
Minerva wept louder, then snotted, then coughed. She was a beautifully pathetic sight, and he loved her more than he could possibly say.
“All will be well, my dear,” he said. “You will see. Even Clarence thinks so.”
They were sweet words, but Lawrence worried that he would not be able to make them come true.
They set out the next day in a driving rain. Minerva had slept surprisingly well through the night, but Lawrence was half convinced that was because her body was still in the throes of illness, despite what Minerva insisted, and it needed the sleep to heal.
She dozed in the carriage as well as they jostled on over more muddy, rutted roads, Clarence by her side, Lawrence watching her. If he never traveled again, it would be too soon. Or he would travel by boat alone from that point forward. Minerva might have thought rain and gloom were delightful, but Lawrence craved sunshine and dryness. If Minerva wanted to run away with him anywhere, he might consider fleeing with her to the deserts of the Levant.
At last, in a moment when the rain let up just a bit but fog hung low, with lanterns already lit and a chill breeze blowing in from the sea, they reached Godwin Castle.
“There you are,” Lawrence nodded out the window at the grey, stone edifice as they drove nearer. “Godwin Castle. My family’s ancestral home.”
Despite the curse hovering over it, Lawrence felt the warmth of familial affection in his heart at the stony sight.
Minerva, who had been quieter throughout the day, both in terms of conversation and a decrease in sneezing and coughing, inched forward on her seat, one hand remaining on Clarence’s pate, and peered out the window. Lawrence felt a certain sense of satisfaction in her gasp and in the light that came to her eyes. He hadn’t seen that light in days.
“That,” she said, “is a cursed castle.”
Lawrence chuckled before he could stop himself and remember he and Minerva were supposedly at odds. “Yes, unfortunately, it is.”
He had never been so glad that the castle was cursed. In fact, thanks to the light in Minerva’s eyes alone, he almost wished that they would march into the great hall and find that Dunstan had already married so that he was the sole inheritor of the blasted place. Presenting Minerva with a cursed castle as a wedding gift seemed somehow fitting.
That was not what happened once they arrived, however.
Silas drove the carriage into the cobblestone courtyard on one side of the castle, Lawrence alighted and helped Minerva down, Clarence held carefully in her arms like a pet and a shield, and the castle footmen rushed forward to help with the baggage.
It would have been an unremarkable arrival, had not Mrs. Weatherby spotted them as they made their soggy way into the front hall.
“Good Lord!” Mrs. Weatherby exclaimed, clapping a hand to her heart, her eyes going wide. “Lord Lawrence, is that…is that Lady Minerva Llewellyn with you?”
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
Lawrence’s casual thought that the castle’s housekeeper looked as though she’d seen a ghost was proven startlingly accurate when Mrs. Weatherby continued to gape and said, “But, my lady, we all believed you were dead.”
All three of them stood stock still, gaping at each other. Lawrence suddenly wondered what the old woman from the village had written in the letter he’d signed. It must have been dire, judging by the way Mrs. Weatherby blinked at Minerva.
More importantly, Minerva stared sharply at Lawrence, a puzzled frown on her wan face.
“How would they believe that I was dead?” she asked, shaking her head slightly.
“I, er, I wrote a letter to my father, telling him you were ill and advising him I would bring you here for your convalescence and asking him for healing advice,” Lawrence said, trying not to mumble his answer. “At least, that is what I thought I said. The old woman from the village actually wrote the letter.”
“And you did not read it?” Minerva asked.
Her expression changed to sheepishness a moment later as she must have realized what she was asking.
“That is not what the letter said,” Mrs. Weatherby informed them. “It stated that Lady Minerva had taken ill with a putrid fever, one that had killed many people in the area, and that she was not expected to survive.” She paused, glancing between the two of them, then told Lawrence, “The letter did say you were coming here, however. We have been anticipating your arrival. Your room is ready and waiting, but I will need more preparation to make a guestroom available for Lady Minerva.”
“I will be grateful for whatever accommodation you could provide,” Minerva said, sounding weak and tired.
That must have appealed to Mrs. Weatherby’s deeply caring nature.
“My lady,” she said, as if saying “my poor dear”. She stepped forward to slip one arm around Minerva like a sister. “You are clearly still unwell. Come to the duchess’s sitting room with me and I will prepare a healing tea for you. As soon as a guestroom is ready for you, I will have a nice, warm bath drawn, and then you can rest for as long as you’d like.”
Minerva looked as though she might melt with gratitude at the kindness Mrs. Weatherby was offering. She glanced questioningly to Lawrence, though.
“Go,” Lawrence charged her with a nod. “I will explain to everyone here.”
A few instructions were given to deliver baggage to the proper rooms, arrangements were made to move the statue that had caused so much trouble into the castle, and Mrs. Weatherby vowed to see that everything was thoroughly laundered, as she supposed it was not in the best condition after their journey.
Once that was taken care of, Lawrence braced himself, then headed up to the great hall, where he was certain his father and anyone else in the family would be.
As expected, not only was his father there, sitting in his usual chair by the fire, Dunstan was ensconced in the window seat he favored, and to Lawrence’s horror, Waldorf and his new bride, Lady Katherine, were there as well. Not only that, they leapt up as soon as Lawrence entered the room.
“Is it true that Minerva is still alive?” Lady Katherine asked, radiating anxiety and hope.
Lawrence felt himself flush even before he said, “Er, yes, there seems to have been some sort of misunderstanding.”
Lady Katherine exclaimed wordlessly in surprise and relief, then asked, “Where is she? What condition is she in? I must go to her at once,” as she marched across the room.
“Mrs. Weatherby has taken her to the duchess’s sitting room,” Lawrence said. “She is still suffering the remnants of a particularly bad head cold, but she will tell you that she is well.”
Lady Katherine made a noise that might have been thanks, but her attention was already elsewhere entirely, and within seconds, she had fled the room to be with her friend.
That left Lawrence to face his father, brother, and cousin alone.
“We had your letter,” Dunstan said as he got up to join them as they crossed to the fireplace.
“You said that Lady Minerva was on death’s door,” Lawrence’s father called out to him even before their group made it to the sacred space where his favorite chair was located. Lord Gerald did not, of course, deign to rise to greet his son. “You wrote that it was not likely she would recover.”
“Hello, Father,” Lawrence said, smiling as genuinely as he could, under the circumstances, and leaning over to kiss Lord Gerald’s cheek.
“Do not ‘hello’ me,” Lord Gerald said gruffly, though he hugged Lawrence and patted his back as he did. “A maid has just told us you have arrived with a very much alive Lady Minerva Llewellyn. Explain yourself.”
Lawrence sighed as he straightened. He glanced to Waldorf, then Dunstan, then focused on his father.
“Lady Minerva was, indeed, taken ill along our journey. She was quite ill indeed with a fever for days. I was deeply worried about her.”
“So that is why you wrote that she was dying,” Dunstan said, seemingly satisfied with the explanation.
“Er, I did not write the letter,” Lawrence confessed, lowering his head.
The three other men suddenly seemed to understand. They had known Lawrence for most of his life and theirs. They were all well aware of his struggles with the written word.
“Did you not think to have whomever penned the letter for you read it aloud so that you were aware of its contents?” Waldorf asked, frowning at Lawrence as if he were a dolt.
Then again, for most of their lives, Waldorf actually did think he was a dolt. More so than the others, at least. But then, Waldorf had never been very good at expressing his affection, which Lawrence knew was there, or holding his tongue when the words coming out of his mouth were sharp.
“I was distressed over Lady Minerva’s health,” Lawrence explained, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was necessary when he glanced to Waldorf. He then added, “I love her.”
That caused another round of surprise and incredulity from the others.
“Do you hear that, Dunstan?” Lord Gerald asked with a broad smile. “It seems as though you are to be the heir to this castle after all.”
Dunstan sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I suppose I always knew my fate would be a terrible one,” he said.
Lawrence wanted to console his cousin, but at that moment, Silas and one of the castle footmen came through the door, carrying the statue.
“Good God. What is that?” Waldorf asked, breaking away from their group to investigate.
Lawrence jumped after him, pointing to one of the tables in the room as a repository for the statue. Dunstan followed, and even Lord Gerald stood, cane supporting him, and shuffled over to see what all the fuss was about.
“Lawrence!” Waldorf huffed once the statue was put down and they all gathered around it. “What have you done?”
“That’s not…that’s not Lady Jessica Wimpole, is it?” Dunstan asked, trying not to snort with laughter.
“She’s Lady Jessica Bellinger, wife of Lord Otho Bellinger now,” Lawrence said, his face heating to ridiculous degrees.
“You stupid man,” Waldorf said, shaking his head.
“I beg your pardon, brother,” Lawrence snapped, suddenly feeling the urge to stand up for himself against his unthinking brother. “I am not stupid. I am an artist. This work came from the heart a long, long time ago. And it is currently wanted for an exhibition of my work to take place in Hamburg. I have brought it inside so that it might be packed into a crate and shipped to my art broker, Mr. Loesser, in London.”
Waldorf and Dunstan both turned surprised looks to him. Even Waldorf looked impressed.
“If it’s supposed to be in the German Confederation, why is it here in Godwin Castle?” Lord Gerald asked.
“It needed rescuing,” Lawrence said. “Just as Lady Minerva needed, or should I say needs rescuing.”
The abrupt change in conversation did precisely what Lawrence intended for it to do. The lurid statue was forgotten, and his male kinsmen turned to him in surprise once again.
“From whom or what does Lady Minerva need rescuing?” Dunstan asked.
“Probably from this one,” Waldorf said with a sly smirk.
Lawrence sent his brother a withering look, then cleared his throat and said, “Lady Minerva recently escaped an unwanted marriage. Her parents attempted to force her into what would essentially have been a cold business alliance with a friend of her father’s son. Minerva fled Wales for London to avoid it, but it seems as though her intended, Lord Owen Scurloch, is determined to track her down and force the marriage to continue.”
“Ah. So Dunstan here still stands a chance of marrying before you after all,” Lord Gerald said with a lopsided grin, slapping Dunstan’s back.
“No, Father,” Lawrence said, losing patience. “Minerva does not wish to marry Lord Owen. But the blackguard has been chasing her, and he almost caught up with her. Despite my best efforts, there is a fair chance that he may appear at Godwin Castle, demanding that Minerva continue with the marriage.”
“Then you’d best wed and bed her as soon as possible,” Lord Gerald said.
As much as he loved the man and was amused by his wily ways, in that moment, Lawrence could only roll his eyes.
“I have every intention of marrying Minerva,” he said. “But we have not discussed the matter yet. We had a…a small falling out in the last few days. The subject has not been broached yet. And I should like to give Minerva the sort of wedding she deserves rather than snatching her from another man and marrying her too quickly for anyone to do anything about it.”
“And what’s wrong with grabbing the prize and running with it?” Lord Gerald asked.
“Minerva is not a prize,” Lawrence said. “She is a woman. A bright, clever, self-possessed woman. I’ve no wish to insult her by treating her as an object I’ve outsmarted another man to claim.”
“Good for you,” Dunstan said with a smile. “I’m certain she would be happy to have you that way.”
“Yes, well, there is one small problem with your noble intentions,” Waldorf said, looking suddenly grave.
“What is that?” Lawrence asked.
“After receiving your letter, Father here wrote immediately to Lord Dilwyn Llewellyn, apprising him of the situation and inviting him and his wife to Godwin Castle so that we all might discover more together,” Waldorf said.
“He did what?”
The gasped question came from Minerva herself as she walked into the great hall, flanked by Lady Katherine and Mrs. Weatherby.
“Oh. Good afternoon, my dear,” Lord Gerald said, breaking away from the others with a smile to greet the woman he believed would be his newest daughter-in-law. “I invited your parents to join us here at Godwin Castle.”
“Please say you did not, my lord,” Minerva said, sending Lord Gerald a dire look, then appealing to Lawrence.
“There is no need to worry,” Lawrence reassured her, crossing the room to her so he could take her hand. “The Kingdom of Wales is miles away. Surely, in this weather, it will take weeks for them to arrive.”
“It would,” Waldorf said, looking guilty, “except that I had received news the Llewellyns were staying with friends in Salisbury. And the letter was sent days ago. It is very likely that they could arrive here at any moment.”