Chapter Four Heavy is the Head

Meanwhile, Weston Hall, Mayfair

Cursing softly when the butler appeared at his study door with a silver salver laden with white envelopes, Alfred, Duke of Weston, waved him in. "I haven't even finished responding to the ones you brought yesterday," he groused.

"If I may, Your Grace. Lady Weston will see to responding to the invitations," Pritchard said. Earlier that morning, the duchess had pulled him aside and practically ordered him to bring her the invitations. Now that she was out of mourning, it was apparent she wanted out of the house, too. "You need only see to the business correspondence, Your Grace."

Alfred regarded the butler with an expression of relief. "Let her have them all, then," he said.

"Indeed. She will also see to it the household calendar is maintained. It is the responsibility of the lady of the house, after all."

Pulling the envelopes containing what he was sure were invoices from the salver, Alfred nodded. "Then see to it these are delivered to her," he said, piling several invitations he had opened from earlier mail deliveries onto the platter.

"Of course, Your Grace. Will there be anything else?" Pritchard lifted the salver from the desk.

Alfred gave him a beseeching glance. "I don't suppose you know where I might find more stationery? It seems I am down to my last sheet."

Pritchard held up a finger. "I can see to it an order is placed with your stationer right away, Your Grace."

"You can do that?"

Hiding an expression of offense, Pritchard nodded. "I can, Your Grace."

Suspicious, Alfred regarded the servant with an arched brow before he asked, "Did you do that for my father?"

"I did, Your Grace," Pritchard acknowledged, managing to maintain his patience. "Many times."

Apparently satisfied with the response, Alfred said, "Then do so. Oh, and could you send for the duchess? I need a word with her."

"Yes, Your Grace." Pritchard left the study, pulling the door shut behind him. He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as he made his way to the stairs.

How much longer would it take for his young master to learn his responsibilities? To learn how a dukedom was to be run? And why wasn't the Duchess of Weston helping her only son?

Pritchard was about to climb the stairs but stopped short at seeing the lady of the house descending them. "Your Grace," he said, giving a slight bow.

"Pritchard," Helena acknowledged. Her eyes widened slightly. "Were you bringing those to me?" she asked, reaching for one of the envelopes on the salver.

"Indeed. His Grace asked that you respond to social invitations. And he wishes to see you when you've a moment."

Helena scoffed before displaying a wan grin. "Finally," she murmured.

"Your Grace?"

She rolled her eyes. "I fear my son has not been amenable to my… suggestions. About running the dukedom," she remarked. "He never learned much from his father—I'm quite sure Weston thought he would live forever—so now he's having to learn the hard way." She glanced back at the salver. "Did you…?"

"I told him you would respond to the invitations and keep the calendar. He seemed most relieved."

"Oh, thank you. I discovered I missed a soiree last week, and I only learned of it yesterday when Lady Norwick sent a note saying how sorry Lady Torrington was that I was not in attendance," she said, "I'm quite sure Adele feels offended." Although she had still been in mourning—the year since Harcourt's death wasn't quite over—she would have made an exception to attend the soirée.

"I'll put these in your salon, Your Grace."

"Very good. Oh, I'll probably need more stationery."

"I'll order yours right away. I'm about to do the same for His Grace," Pritchard said, arching a graying brow as if he had scored some sort of victory.

"I would say I don't know from where he gets his stubbornness, but that would be a lie," she said. "You didn't hear that from me, Pritchard," she quickly added.

"Of course not, Your Grace." He bowed and hurried up the stairs.

Helena watched him go, wincing when she remembered her last words to the servant. In his role as butler of Weston Hall, Pritchard had probably endured more stubbornness than most.

Her late husband, Harcourt Sheppard, had been the most stubborn man she had ever dealt with in her entire life. Well, except for her father, Bertram. Although it might have served them both well in the House of Lords, it did nothing to endear them to anyone, including family and those that should have been their friends.

Apparently the apple—Harcourt's only son and hers, Alfred—hadn't fallen far from the tree.

She winced at the thought of how he had behaved at the last ball. He had held his nose so high in the air, she had been tempted to pour an entire glass of champagne on him just to see him sputter to keep from drowning.

What an awful mother I am, she thought suddenly. Alfred merely required guidance. A teacher who knew what was expected of him. Someone who wouldn't be afraid to argue with him. Set him straight when he was wrong.

Someone to play the role his father should have.

Thank God their daughter didn't display the same tendencies. At least, not usually. Now that Amelia had been out since the beginning of the last Season and was beginning her second, she made friends easily. She was comfortable in the company of both young men and women. She was considered amiable. Playful. Best of all, Amelia was a diamond of the first water.

Indeed, it was possible that this would be the year Amelia Sheppard, only daughter of Harcourt and sister of Alfred, Duke of Weston, would land a husband.

Grandchildren wouldn't be far behind.

Straightening to her full five-foot, seven-inch height, Helena strode into the study, not bothering to knock.

"Mother," Alfred said, jerking at her sudden entrance. His brows furrowed and he made a sound of protest as a drop of ink fell from a quill onto his last sheet of stationery. "Dammit."

Helena crossed her arms. "You'll apologize at once for cursing in my presence," she stated.

Alfred's eyes widened. "I'm sorry," he said. "I… I didn't mean to—"

Surprised to hear his apology but determined to make her point, she said, "You never do, and yet it happens nearly every time Amelia and I are in the same room with you."

He let out an audible sigh and tossed the quill onto the desk. "I do apologize. It seems I have inherited too much of Father's manner."

Angling her head to one side, Helena regarded him with an expression that changed from annoyance to one of sadness. "Do you miss him?" She moved to the chair opposite his desk and sat.

Alfred shook his head. "Only because I wish he was doing all of this instead of me," he said, waving a hand over the desk.

"What's giving you trouble?"

He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. "They don't teach any of this at Cambridge," he said. "At least, if they do, I missed it."

"Are you referring to the ledgers, because if you are—"

"That's the one thing I can do," he interrupted. "It's simple arithmetic. It's all this other… business. All these questions that need answers." He picked up a letter. "Did you know we have coal mines in York?"

"Three of them, yes," she replied, arching an elegant brow. "Along with two gypsum mines in Sussex and a copper mine somewhere on the west coast."

Alfred's eyes widened. "We have a copper mine?"

Helena gave him a quelling glance. "Quite a profitable one, yes. Because your father employed a very good foreman there, so be sure you don't do anything to offend the man."

Alfred huffed. "What if he offends me?"

The query was met by silence, although Helena's arched brow had him backing down.

"I'll do my best not to offend him."

Helena allowed a wan grin. "Pritchard said you wanted to see me."

Alfred's eyes widened. "Oh. Yes. Is it true you'll see to the social correspondence?"

"Yes, of course. The calendar as well. You needn't give it a second thought," she replied.

"All right. That's good." He nodded, his hands clasped together at his middle, fingers tapping his waistcoat buttons. He had obviously picked up the mannerism from his father, for Harcourt had done it whenever he was perplexed.

"What is it, darling?" she asked gently.

"I need… I need help," he whispered.

Helena blinked. "Help from a man of business, perhaps? Or a secretary? Or mayhap a clerk?"

He seemed about to pounce on her first suggestion, but glanced to the side, as if he couldn't meet her gaze. "All of them?" He straightened. "There are times I feel as if I'm being played. As if everyone knows I am new at this, so they're trying to pull the wool over my eyes."

Scoffing softly, she leaned back in her chair. "Whoever you hire will need to be taught how you want things run. Which is why your father didn't employ anyone other than foremen for the mines and farms. He thought it would take more effort to train someone on how he wished things to be done than to simply do it himself."

"That's because he was stubborn," Alfred countered.

Helena couldn't help the grin that lightened her face. "Look who's calling the kettle black."

"Mother," he complained.

She paused a moment before putting forth her next suggestion. "Have you considered you might require help of a different sort?"

Alfred displayed an expression of suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"A duchess, perhaps."

His eyes narrowing, he shook his head. "Are you suggesting I take a wife?"

"You're seven-and-twenty," she stated. "The same age Weston was when he married me."

"You honestly think I have time to court someone?" he countered, his annoyance once again apparent.

Helena winced, well aware he had a good point. The young man spent his days from breakfast until nearly dinner in the study, attempting to complete all the business of the Weston dukedom. He rarely went out at night. Even now that the Season was underway, he only made short appearances at balls and soirées. He hadn't even attended Lady Morganfield's garden party, and that had at one time been his favorite spring entertainment.

"How long did Father court you before you married?" Alfred asked.

Blinking several times, Helena considered how to respond. "He… he didn't."

It was Alfred's turn to blink. "What?"

Helena sighed. "Ours was an arranged marriage. Which I was only told about a few months before the wedding."

He frowned. "Was that even legal?"

She gave him a quelling glance. "Apparently it was, since we were both present for the signing of the contract. Not that I remember having been there."

He stared at her for several seconds before he said, "And if it hadn't been arranged? Would you still have married Father?"

Helena swallowed. "I don't see how," she admitted. "I barely knew who he was." She dipped her head. "But I did marry him, and that's all that counts."

"So, duty first," Alfred said with contempt. Although he seemed bothered by the idea of a forced marriage, something else simmered below the surface. His attitude towards her the day before seemed about to return.

"Indeed," Helena replied before her eyes rounded. "But that doesn't mean you have to marry someone for whom you don't feel affection. Nothing has been arranged on your behalf. You're free to marry a young lady of your choosing."

"Thank God," he murmured. He seemed to stew for a moment before asking, "What about you?"

Helena blinked. "What about me?"

"Are you going to remarry? Now that you're free to do so?" The sound of annoyance was clear in his tone of voice.

Giving a start, she seemed at a loss for words. "I… I hadn't given it any thought."

Alfred let out a snort. "Liar," he accused.

"Weston," she scolded. "It's only been a year." The longest year of her life given she'd had to play the grieving widow. She hadn't been able to attend any Society events. Worse were the widow's weeds she'd had to wear, even around the house. "I'd rather see to it you and your sister are settled before I consider what I will do for the rest of my life." When her son didn't say anything in response, she asked, "So… is there someone who might have caught your eye?"

"I don't seem to attract the attention of the young ladies at balls," Alfred blurted.

About to say he couldn't when his nose was so high in the air, Helena pretended sympathy. "Perhaps if you make yourself more… approachable. Take on a friendly countenance," she suggested. "Maybe ask a young lady to dance instead of your sister and me."

Alfred's face reddened. "Perhaps I shall try," he managed. He glanced about his desk and leaned forward. "About that administrative help?" he hinted.

"I'll have Pritchard contact an agency to have a secretary sent over. Save you from having to write the letters," she offered.

"Pritchard?" he repeated. "What can he do?"

"He's been a butler here since before you were born. He knows everything there is to know about running a household and a whole lot more. Trust him, darling, and let him help you where he can."

Alfred finally nodded. "All right," he responded.

"In the meantime, I have responses to write to all those invitations," Helena said, rising from the chair. "And a calendar to complete. I'm determined we shan't miss another event."

Alfred stood and gave her a nod as she took her leave.

Once she was out in the hall, the study door closed behind her, Helena let out a long sigh.

Perhaps there was hope for her son after all.