Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

T homas sat completely still on the edge of his bed, unable to even consider falling asleep. He still felt the taste of her on his lips, the scent of her on his skin, the fire of her skittering embers through his body, and even his hands were stuck as if embracing an invisible maiden.

He curled his hands into fists and stalked to the mirror. The man staring back at him was not who he had anticipated. His eyes were different. They weren’t his; they were soft. The mask he had spent years putting on had fallen and cracked.

I told her… I told her it would make things complicated. I told her.

He was angry. More than that, he was furious. He wanted to lift his arm and punch the mirror, punch the weak man hiding inside it. The weak man who had given up his values and had undoubtedly hurt his wife. The weak man who… was falling in love with his sworn enemy, despite the warnings he had given himself, and the warnings of a dreadful play.

He had betrayed himself, he had betrayed his wife, and as he kept staring into the softer eyes of his reflection, he didn’t have the slightest notion of how to fix it. Should he go downstairs and burn the note before she saw it, curl up next to her as if no great mistake had been made, or should he endure a restless night, take responsibility, and begin the next day as the duke his father would have wanted him to be?

He closed his eyes, wishing someone could decide for him.

Here I am again. Running away, armed with a valise and no idea how things will turn out.

Sophia and Violetta had reached Rosamund’s house with the dawn—the only place she had been able to think of. The only place that would not send too great a message to Society’s gossipmongers. She wasn’t leaving her marriage, just putting distance between herself and Thomas… and that crushing note.

A note of her own had been left with Penny, but that was all Thomas would receive. If he wanted her to elaborate, he could look at himself or come and find her.

The small country manor stood picturesque amidst a coppice of apple trees, the pretty sandstone wearing a patina of age in its walls. Birds sang their dawn chorus, and a rabbit darted into the undergrowth. The entire picture warmed the chill in Sophia’s chest. It was quaint and quiet, and far enough away from Heathcote Manor—which was precisely what she needed.

The front door opened to her hesitant knock, and Rosamund appeared, steadying herself on a cane and smiling. And then, she let out a gasp.

“Heavens, you came with your own horse?”

Sophia nodded shyly, gesturing back to Violetta, who was content to snatch up tufts of dew-soaked grass. “Yes, Thomas has allowed me to use her for as long as she is with the immediate family.”

I can’t very well tell you that I didn’t pause to ask permission, now, can I?

“I hope you will forgive the intrusion. I meant to send a note, but I was just so excited to learn about embroidery,” she added, realizing just how rude her arrival might seem.

“Oh, that he would trust you so—he must really love you. He has a good heart, that one. And nonsense, I am delighted to have your company.” Rosamund clapped her hands together, so visibly overjoyed that Sophia didn’t have the heart to remark on any mention of love. “Bring her around to the coach house—she will be well looked after there. Afterward, you and I shall have breakfast, and we shall get you just as settled.”

“Ow!” Sophia yelped as the needle pricked her skin. “Ow, I did it again, Your Grace. I am so sorry. I am not so clumsy, usually.” She brought her thumb up to her mouth and sucked the blood away.

“Oh, you poor thing, you need to take it slower. Let me get you another bandage.” Rosamund leaned over and grabbed the bandage box from a nearby shelf as Sophia’s eyes wandered around the room.

Rosamund’s house looked like a witch’s hut from a fairytale if the witch was well put together and preferred order and cleanliness instead of baking children into pies. There were flowers and herbs everywhere—in collections of small pots on shelves and dried bundles hanging from the walls and the ceiling. And, of course, it smelled incredible.

Rosamund held Sophia’s hand and applied the small bandage while Sophia observed something odd—a lone, decorative vase that held no flora of any kind. But most importantly, it was cracked and looked like it had been pieced back together from shards.

“Something piqued your interest, my dear?” asked Rosamund with a smirk.

Sophia felt awkward, wondering if she should ask and risk offending her.

“Go ahead, ask.”

Sophia realized Rosamund was not one to take offense in any serious capacity, so she went ahead. “I just noticed… the vase up there. It looks… different from the others.”

Rosamund cackled with glee. “That one, dear, carries a very old story with it.” Sophia looked at her with interest. “One of my grandsons was visiting and got rowdy with one of his toys. Ended up throwing it up there and knocking the vase off the shelf. It shattered, of course.”

“Was it… William?”

Rosamund shook her head and giggled. “No, no, it was Thomas.”

Sophia gasped at her response. “Really?”

“Oh, he felt so bad—he was my little naughty boy. He’d run around like a little imp every time he visited,” Rosamund said with a smile, and Sophia couldn’t help but smile too. Rosamund had a really kind heart, infectiously sweet at all times. “We sat down together and glued it back up. I have kept it proudly ever since—a reminder of a memory I wouldn’t exchange for anything. Indeed, I think it is even more beautiful now.”

Sophia stared at the vase afresh, trying to picture Thomas as a boy, running wild and hurling things around the room, living the sort of carefree life that she and her brothers had enjoyed. It was hard to reconcile that boy with the man she had married, the man who had dismissed her with a note.

Evidently, he didn’t begin life that way—so cold and emotionless. What a pity he had to change.

It was an even greater pity that she couldn’t see the beauty in that smashed vase. All she saw was her own heart, carelessly shattered, with no hope of it being glued back together.

Both women returned quietly to their needles as Sophia struggled to read the instructions in the handbook that Rosamund gave her. She felt incompetent next to the old lady, whose fingers worked with incredible speed, showing decades of experience. But Sophia couldn’t let her down either.

After around half an hour, they took a break.

“I don’t like to bother my housekeeper with trivial things that I can do perfectly well by myself, so we’ll have to pour tea ourselves. I hope you don’t mind,” Rosamund said.

“Of course not, Your Grace.”

Sophia found she rather liked that independent spirit, making her wonder how she would fare without the aid of servants.

“And please, stop calling me that. I haven’t felt like a duchess in two decades,” Rosamund insisted with a chuckle. “My daughter-in-law would certainly prefer it if I didn’t exist.”

“I don’t feel much like a duchess either,” responded Sophia, uncertain whether or not to pick at the obvious daughter-in-law wound.

“You won’t find me disagreeing there. In my youth, I would have abandoned the title altogether if I could. Being a dowager only made it worse—all that bowing and scraping for no good reason,” Rosamund complained as she slowly poured the lovely-smelling tea into two cups.

“It has been that bad?” asked Sophia, a bit of concern in her voice.

“Honestly, no, not that bad… It was just that I was never interested in that sort of life and the weight that came with it. I don’t envy you, but I’m not afraid for you either, Sophia. I can tell you have a good heart. I know you’ll be a worthy duchess for years to come.”

Sophia looked down at her tea, wondering if she should speak her mind. She decided that if there was anyone that she could open her heart to, it was this woman.

“I have something to confess, Rosamund…” she ended up saying.

“Nothing better than a cup of tea to open one’s soul.”

A short silence followed as Sophia sipped a bit of her tea.

“I… I am not actually in love with your grandson. I’m sorry. We have been… keeping up this charade that we were in love all along, and we are finally bringing the families together and ending the feud—which is nothing to be sniffed at… But it’s all a lie. It is still a marriage of convenience. I know you only treat me like this because you think I’m in love with him, but?—”

“Oh, hold on a minute now. What was that?” asked Rosamund, interrupting her. Sophia was confused, not expecting that reaction at all. “What did you say there at the end?”

“That… you only treat me like this… because you think I’m in love with him?”

Rosamund tutted, wagging a crooked finger. “Oh no, my dear. No, no. Who told you that?” She reached out and cupped Sophia’s cheek in her hand. “That’s not at all the case, my dear!”

“But… but I thought… I thought you only tolerated me because of that,” Sophia stammered, confused.

“Why would you think that?!”

“Because… because of the feud?—”

If Rosamund had had feathers, they would have been truly ruffled. “Oh, feud this, feud that. Pish posh! A load of balderdash , I say. Always has been!”

Sophia blinked in astonishment, her mouth agape.

“I treat you like this because you have a kind heart. I knew it the moment you knelt and helped me, and were generous in the face of my confusion,” Rosamund continued. “And nothing can change that. I couldn’t give a rat’s tail about this so-called feud. It should have died along with the ones who caused it.”

Rosamund poured herself more tea, and Sophia noticed now that her old hands were trembling. Sophia was afraid she had upset her and felt a pang of guilt in her chest.

“I am so sorry, Rosamund. I never intended to?—”

“There’s no need to apologize, my dear. It’s not your fault. You have been raised to believe in the perpetuation of this stupid, stupid feud. Both the Pratts and the Kendalls are taught only to hate and despise and see each other as less than human. But…” Rosamund paused dramatically. “I know better than everyone, my dear. And no one believes me.” She left the words hanging in the air for a while. “They’ll tell you that I have an addled mind, that my memory is faulty, but it’s their memory that is faulty. I know!”

“You know? What do you know?” asked Sophia, curious.

“You see, my dear, I was there. Actually there. I am the last remaining Pratt who remembers how the feud started. It was my poor great-aunt, you see.”

Rosamund paused and placed a hand over her mouth. It looked like she was wiping tea away, or she was struggling not to choke.

“Eliza Pratt was her name…”