Chapter 19

Theodore wrestled with his choices, each option carrying its own burden. The decision to distance himself from Agnes was driven by a desire to protect her, yet it filled him with an acute sense of dread. Could physical distance truly safeguard her from the shadows of his history?

"The rains were brutal this year, My Lord," Mr. Stevens remarked, his tone heavy with concern as they surveyed the storm's aftermath. The sight before Theodore was disheartening; several tenant homes bore the scars of nature's wrath.

"I had only just sent a letter regarding the situation when news of your return reached us," the steward added.

Theodore's heart sank. The legacy of his father, now compounded by natural calamity, seemed an insurmountable burden. The debts that loomed large were now joined by the urgent need for repairs. Would this ever end?

"We'll see to their repairs," Theodore affirmed, addressing his tenants with a resolve he scarcely felt. "For now, we may need to relocate you to one of the other properties nearby, temporarily."

"Oh, that is but a small inconvenience, My Lord," a tenant responded, his voice imbued with gratitude. "To see our homes restored will be worth it." He appreciated the understanding of the tenants.

"Are we traveling, Mama?" the tenant's daughter inquired, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Only for a short while, dear," her mother assured her. The little girl squealed in delight.

The scene unfurled before Theodore, stirring a sense of kinship and duty. The child's joy, so reminiscent of his own sister Leslie's in her younger years, coaxed a genuine smile from him—the first since his nuptials.

"Do you enjoy traveling?" he found himself saying to the child, crouching to her level with a warmth he hadn't felt in days.

"I love moving about," she responded, her enthusiasm infectious. "Look, I even have my own carriage," she declared, scampering off to retrieve her prized possession from a corner of their modest living room.

She returned, presenting a miniature wooden carriage to Theodore. Despite its age and the wear visible in the chipped paint, it was a treasured artifact in the eyes of its young owner.

"It's splendid," Theodore commended. "Seems perfectly sized for your little journeys," he added, tapping her nose gently, eliciting a burst of giggles from the child.

As they made their way out of the tenant's dwelling, Mr. Stevens' hesitation caught Theodore's attention. "Is something the matter?" Theodore asked.

"My Lord," Mr. Stevens began, "there's a matter concerning the crops. A blight has taken hold, devastating an entire field—though, thankfully, it's one of the smaller ones."

His steward's attempt to soften the blow of the blight news did little to alleviate the sense of impending doom, and his hands clenched into fists.

"A small field doesn't make it any less of a loss, Stevens," Theodore managed to say, the words heavy with the burden of leadership and the responsibility it entailed.

"I understand, My Lord. It was not my intention to diminish the severity of the situation. I only hoped to offer a slight respite amidst the storm of bad news," Mr. Stevens replied, his voice laced with genuine concern.

Theodore offered a terse nod in acknowledgment, his mind already racing through potential solutions.

Upon his return home, he found his solicitor, Mr. Thompson, waiting for him. "I have made the payments as per your instructions, My Lord," Mr. Thompson announced. "It was a generous dowry, and we were able to pay off more than half of the debts," Mr. Thompson continued.

Theodore couldn't help but reflect on the source of that dowry, and Agnes herself—an unwitting ally. The realization that he had been forced to rely on such means, dictated by the sins of his father, left a sour taste in his mouth.

"We must find a way to secure more funds soon," Theodore stated, sitting behind his desk in his study. "There are repairs in the estate that need to be done immediately."

Mr. Thompson's momentarily buoyed spirits seemed to wane at Theodore's declaration. "Of course, My Lord. I shall endeavor to ascertain the potential earnings from the business ventures we've recently rejuvenated."

Their efforts to mitigate the estate's financial strain had seen them paying off significant portions of debt, while also investing in some promising merchants. Though it was premature to expect returns, the urgency of their circumstances left no room for hesitation.

"The response from Lord Asmont's solicitor has also arrived," Mr. Thompson said, shifting slightly in his seat.

"And?" Theodore prompted, a spark of hope igniting within him, even though Thompson's expression did not look bright.

"The Earl is presently indisposed, unable to schedule any meeting," Mr. Thompson relayed, his tone apologetic. "Despite my persistence, his solicitor could not commit to any future engagements, citing an overly congested schedule."

Theodore's response was a heavy silence. With a curt nod, he rose and excused himself, the confines of the house suddenly suffocating. His steps carried him to the stables. He mounted a horse and spurred it into a gallop.

"You forgot the saddle, My Lord," the groom called behind him. Theodore did not so much as turn to acknowledge him. He had ridden without a saddle many times before, and frankly, he found it quite comfortable.

As he rode, the open fields a blur of greens and browns, Theodore's mind raced as fast as his horse. The missed opportunity with Asmont loomed large, casting a shadow over his already burdened heart. His responsibilities—to his sisters, his tenants, and especially to Agnes—weighed heavily on him. The thought of failing them was intolerable.

He had always known his duty to his sisters, to protect and provide for them. Yet, unexpectedly, the desire not to disappoint Agnes had woven itself into his mind. Despite the pragmatic nature of their marriage, the thought of letting her down stirred an unfamiliar ache within him.

As the horse carried him further from his estate, the prospect of returning home—to face the consequences of his actions, to confront the uncertainties of his future—seemed more daunting than ever.

As Theodore reined his horse to a stop in the clearing, he raised his eyes toward the sky. Dark clouds were gathering, and they appeared to herald a storm. Despite that, an inexplicable reluctance held him back from turning around. The sound of approaching hoofbeats snapped him from his contemplation, and turning, he saw Agnes approaching.

Good heavens! He maneuvered his mount to face her.

Stopping before him, Agnes said, "I thought I should seek out my husband since he is reluctant to see me." The sight of her, with wisps of hair dancing in the breeze and her eyes—so undeniably vibrant—quickened his pulse.

"I was going to return to the manor soon," he found himself saying, though her pointed look told him she was unconvinced.

"I doubt that, given how far out you've ventured," she retorted, one eyebrow arched.

"Ah, you not only came to find me but to challenge the verity of my words," Theodore murmured as a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. "How did you find me?"

"I arrived at the stables shortly after you left, and the groom told me you headed north." His brows furrowed, and she added, "Before that, Quentin told me that you left for the stables."

"Why does that not surprise me?" He recalled how excited Quentin had been about the wedding, and he supposed the butler was already fond of Agnes. Who wouldn't be? She practically looks angelic!

Agnes glanced upward. "We should go if we don't want to be caught in the rain."

Seizing the moment to tease her, Theodore said, "Do not tell me you are afraid of the rain, Lady Gillingham." His use of her title carried a tenderness he did not expect, and he hastily shoved aside.

"Afraid? I merely prefer not to look like a drowned cat, unlike some."

Theodore chuckled, "I assure you, my ability to repel water is second to none. But if we are to talk of cats, I daresay you'd make a rather elegant one, rain-soaked or not."

Her cheeks flushed, and her laughter was warm. He was tempted to reach for her hand, to gain some of the connection he had lost. However, his contemplation was cut short as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, quickly escalating into a deluge. "We should have turned back when I said!" Agnes shouted over the roar of the rain.

"We would never have made it!" Theodore called back. "Follow me!" Urging his horse into a gallop, he led them toward the ruins of an old castle atop a hill.

By the time they reached the shelter of the ruins, both were thoroughly soaked, Agnes visibly shivering. He dismounted swiftly, assisting her down before tying both horses to a post in what used to be a great hall. Taking her hand, they hurried deeper into the structure until they found a large room with a fireplace.

He walked swiftly over to a blanket draped over a chaise and collected it, offering it to her. "You should dry yourself before the cold gets to you," he advised, then turned his attention to kindling a fire.

"You come here often, do you not?" Agnes inquired, her gaze taking in the prepared kindling and the conveniently placed blanket.

"Yes," Theodore responded simply, focusing on the task at hand. The room slowly warmed as the fire took hold.

As he turned away from the fireplace, his gaze fell upon Agnes, who was drying her hair with the blanket, her tresses taking on the appearance of gold ropes. "Come closer to the fire," he said.

"Where is this place?" she asked, curiosity lighting her eyes as she moved to kneel beside him, the glow of the flames casting a soft light upon her features.

"It was the Gillingham ancestral seat during the Tudor era, but it fell to ruin after a fire," Theodore explained.

"It must have been beautiful," Agnes remarked, a note of reverence in her voice.

"The fire?" Theodore chuckled.

"No! The castle," she clarified, smiling in spite of herself.

"It was. There's a painting of it in the gallery back at the manor."

"Will you show me the gallery?" Agnes's request was straightforward, yet it held an undertone of something more—offense perhaps.

Theodore instinctively retreated behind the formality of their arrangement. "I am sure Mrs. Davis will be happy to?—"

"I will not accept that from you, Theodore. It is your manor, not Mrs. Davis's, and I expect you to show me around it," Agnes interrupted, her tone firm yet not unkind.

His chest constricted with a mix of surprise and unease. He had his reasons for avoiding the gallery, reasons deeply intertwined with the pains and shadows of his past. Yet the thought of dragging Agnes in those dark threads felt wrong. "Forgive me," he murmured. "I will show you the gallery."

"And we will dine together tonight," she added, as though stating a fact rather than making a request.

"This is not a conventional marriage, Agnes," Theodore reminded her gently.

"Yes, but the goal remains, even when we are alone. Who is to say word will not travel to London that we barely see each other?"

Theodore found himself at a loss for words. Her argument was very strong. Still, he countered with, "I trust my servants."

Agnes was too clever to be satisfied with such a flimsy excuse. "Yes, but do you trust everyone else in your realm?"

"The tenants and villagers live further away from the manor." Theodore smiled as he said that, enjoying their verbal spar.

She wagged a slender finger at him. "Do you mean to tell me that no one visits the manor? Are they afraid of you?"

Theodore had to laugh. "On the contrary, they are fond of visiting the manor, especially when my mother was alive."

Her smile was soft and lovely, and her pale blue eyes seemed to dance in the firelight. "If our marriage were real, I would have proposed we host a ball for them."

"My mother hosted many balls. The county was especially fond of her winter ball."

Agnes inched closer, seemingly very interested. "Did your sister love the balls, as well?"

Theodore realized that he was not ready to talk in detail about his mother, and his wife was a very curious soul. "She died when Leslie was five," he said simply.

"My condolences." Agnes lowered her eyes, and the air between them grew tense. %Where is the ease with which we'd been conversing earlier? Theodore knew all of this was his fault, and he wished he could give her the comfort and reassurance she needed.

She stood and walked to a broken window, peering out at the storm. "I never knew my mother," she said after a while.

Theodore removed his coat and spread it near the fire to dry before slowly walking over and standing beside her. He wrapped the blanket around her trembling shoulders, murmuring, "It is damp."

"It will do. Thank you." She smiled up at him, and he once more struggled to breathe.

Theodore watched the rain with her as he contemplated the question he wanted to ask her. Feeling somewhat braver than before, he ventured.

"You did not mention your father," he said.

"I think you already know the answer to that question, Theodore," she replied, her expression impassive. He did know. "Does it bother you?"

"Would I have chosen you to be my wife if it did?"

She chuckled—the sound lacking humor. "You did not choose me. You were?—"

"I chose you, Agnes," he said without allowing her to finish. Their marriage might have been unplanned, but if he could choose anyone to be his wife, it would be her.

Agnes' features softened, and so did something inside him that he was reluctant to examine. Without allowing himself to reason, he reached for her hand and simply held it in his.

"The Duchess always said that if my father weren't a duke, I would have truly been scorned by society," she continued, her gaze faraway. "No one would dare challenge him about me, and the bravest of them would merely whisper behind closed doors that I was left at his doorstep."

"Were you?"

She shook her head. "No. I was brought home by him after my mother died. She lived only for three days after my birth."

As the rain dwindled to a faint drizzle, Theodore pondered Agnes's revelation. "How did the Duchess take to the news, when you were brought to her?" he inquired.

Agnes's eyes softened, reflecting a mixture of gratitude and respect. "It wasn't easy for her, I imagine. But she took me in and raised me as her own. Caroline is the only mother I've ever truly known. She means the world to me."

Moved by her admission, Theodore reached for Agnes"s hand, holding it gently in his own. He raised it to his lips, placing a soft, reverent kiss on her knuckles. He did not expect to feel this depth of emotion at learning her story. After a moment, he spoke, his voice slightly hoarse. "I'm glad you had someone like her in your life, Agnes."

The clearing skies beckoned a change of scene, and Theodore peered in the distance. "The rain seems to be giving us some respite. Shall we return to the manor?" He was not eager to return, but he did not want to remain here with Agnes longer—lest he reveal more about himself than he was ready or willing to.

Agnes nodded, squeezing his hand slightly. "Yes, let us return," she said, her voice carrying a note of reluctance as well, perhaps not eager to leave the seclusion that the ruins provided.