Chapter 17

"H ow long have you been trying to do this by yourself?" Sylvia, the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, asked.

Lady Tuttle, who was a beautiful woman, though her face was strained and lined with wrinkles that had come too soon, stared at her, uncomprehending.

Sylvia sat on the edge of the mint-green chair and cocked her head to the side. The lady was clearly stunned. She knew that she and her children had that effect on those who lived brittle lives.

And she didn't wish to shove the woman over the edge, and so she smiled and tried again. "Let me rephrase the question, my dear. Has anyone been there for you over the years since your husband died, or have you been alone?"

Much to Lady Tuttle's clear surprise, tears suddenly filled her eyes.

Sylvia was not at all astonished by the reaction. She had seen it over and over again in women. She did not understand why ladies were forced into such a great deal of isolation, of feeling as though they could not extend their hands and admit their struggles, but the truth was that was often the case. Women were left alone to deal with the carnage left behind by men. Now of course, Lady Tuttle's husband had simply died, but she had been left behind nonetheless, and it seemed she'd had little recourse or support or emotional help. And so she had done the only thing that a woman could. She had shored herself up and become hard.

"No," Lady Tuttle said, her voice rasping as if she was trying desperately not to cry. "There has been no one. I considered remarrying at one point, but I could not bear the idea of being with another man. I loved my husband so much."

Sylvia smiled gently again. "As I did mine. I have no desire to remarry either, though I know that love could come again if I let it. I hold my husband in my heart. He was not perfect. As a matter of fact, he could be very difficult, but he was a wonder."

Lady Tuttle gaped at her and a tear slipped down her cheek. "You almost described my relationship. I loved him desperately, but he drove me mad. He left me to do so many things, you know. To organize everything, but he knew how to handle the children. He could make them laugh and they adored him. They went to him with all their problems, you see? He knew how to bounce them on his knee, to tickle them, to make them feel safe and loved. I never knew how to do those things. I knew that I had to make them secure, so I did."

Sylvia nodded, her heart aching for the woman who had tried and failed with her children. But failure was not permanent, thank heaven. "Of course. Of course, you tried everything you could, but may I ask you something, my dear?"

Lady Tuttle winced. She clearly did not care for this sudden intimacy. Generally, people did not speak like this in England. Sylvia had been born in a gutter. Well not entirely a gutter, that was an exaggeration, but she had been born into poverty and a family of actors. Actors who had struggled, but Sylvia had risen up like her sister and become a star of the London scene. She'd caught the eye of a duke, and she'd never looked back. She was a successful duchess because she did not look back or apologize for who she was. She wished more people could do that, but in her experience, most people were far too caught up in the opinions of others to be themselves, and so they were constantly trying to be whoever the ton wanted them to be.

It was a tragedy. Perhaps the greatest tragedy.

Lady Tuttle inclined her head. "I suppose you may ask."

Sylvia paused, drew in a breath, and infused her voice and face with kindness. "Do you think perhaps you've tried too hard?"

"Can one try too hard with their children?" Lady Tuttle demanded.

"Yes," Sylvia replied easily and without judgement, for the lady did not need more judgement. She needed help. "They can. May I ask you another question?"

Lady Tuttle winced anew. "If you must, and it seems that you must."

"What did you want for your children?"

"I wanted them to be happy," Lady Tuttle bit out, her voice harsh as if a wound was opening inside her.

"Did you?" Sylvia asked, trying to keep any sort of challenging note from her tone.

She'd learned a long time ago that if she judged one, the other person would retreat immediately. And so she tried to approach all things with a certain sense of curiosity.

"Of course," Lady Tuttle said.

"Or did you wish to keep them secure instead of being happy?" Sylvia offered. "You already said it, didn't you? Are your children happy?"

Lady Tuttle paled. "No, not a one of them," she confessed. "And I have tried so hard."

"Yes, you have," Sylvia replied. "And you must be admired for your dedication to that. But I think that you have been so concerned with doing what you think will make them happy that you have not considered what actually will."

Lady Tuttle frowned.

Sylvia then dared to reach across the short distance to take one of the other lady's hands in her own. "And there's the fact that you have done nothing for yourself in a very long time, and I think that has harmed you."

"My goodness," Lady Tuttle replied, her eyes twin shadows of pain, but she did not pull away. "You are bold."

"I am a duchess," Sylvia replied with an easy shrug. "Of course I am. And not only am I a duchess," she said. "I am a duchess who does not care what society has to say about me."

Lady Tuttle's eyes widened. "I cannot even imagine such a thing."

"Yes, you can," Sylvia affirmed. "You can because I am your friend."

Lady Tuttle's jaw dropped. "My friend?" she murmured. "But we are so different."

"Oh, most certainly," Sylvia agreed. "I'm sure you think that I am quite a tricky character, having been an actress. But you can go on as you are doing and things will become difficult for you, and even more hard, and you'll become more alone and more isolated and more angry, and your children shall drift from you."

Lady Tuttle looked as if she was about to revolt at this, but then her face creased and her shoulders sank. "How do you know my circumstances so well?"

The lady was beginning to tremble, and Lady Tuttle now unknowingly clutched at Sylvia's hand, like a child who had become lost and longed for their mama.

"For someone like me, it is not hard to see," Sylvia replied gently. "I met your daughter at that ball when you were so displeased that she danced with Ajax. And she'd just found the love of her life and yet…it angered you so."

"You don't understand," Lady Tuttle protested, her voice full of fear. "She was about to destroy the family."

"Did she destroy it or has she made it?" countered Sylvia. "You're about to be related to a duke, after all. One of the most powerful men in the land. It wasn't exactly what you expected from her, was it?"

Lady Tuttle sucked in a shocked breath, and much to Sylvia's relief, for it did not always happen this way, realization hit Lady Tuttle.

"Dear God in heaven. You are right."

Sylvia laughed. "Of course I am. I am almost always right and, my dear, if you but realize that the rigidity with which you have seen the world has limited your life so entirely, you can learn to be right too."

"I thought she was going to destroy our family," Lady Tuttle whispered with horror, "but she is the one who's made the great match, hasn't she?"

Sylvia nodded and squeezed her hand. "Some might say the younger son of a duke is not a great match."

"But it is," Lady Tuttle cut it in, "when it is a Briarwood."

"You realize this," the duchess dowager said, her brows rising. "I am surprised and I applaud you."

"How can one not realize that being welcomed into such a powerful, old, and moneyed family is not a good thing?"

"Then you are learning already," Sylvia said. "Brava. For a moment, I feared you were going to keep her from us."

Lady Tuttle looked away, her entire body radiating self-revulsion. "I was going to keep her from everyone because I did not know how to handle her."

Lady Tuttle sucked in a breath and then let out a sob as if she had held in her pain for years. As if she had never let herself express her great grief. "I have made such terrible mistakes and said such terrible things because I thought I was doing the right thing. Because I thought…"

"You thought you were protecting her from more pain, didn't you?"

"You don't know what I threatened," Lady Tuttle said, turning back, her face twisted with pain. "She'll never forgive me."

"No," the dowager replied honestly, her own heart aching for all the pain done. "She might never forgive you. You are correct, especially if you did say terrible things. And you don't need to tell me what they were, but you can start right now with the realization that it is actually Winifred who is the one who is the diamond."

Lady Tuttle blinked and let out another sob before she nodded. Tears coursed down her cheeks. "What I have I done?"

"Pain has twisted your reason and your child defied you when, in your mind, you were keeping your children safe. You were cruel. I saw it often when I was a girl in the East End. Those poor parents loved their children, but they did terrible things to them—out of fear, out of poverty, and out of their own pain. Any of us, if on the wrong path, can go too far and twist our love into a poisonous thing. Shakespeare shows us that in many of his plays."

Lady Tuttle let the tears flow then, as if her wound had been opened and she would not cover it up again. "I made Alison such a—"

"I'm sure Alison would be a jewel," Sylvia cut in gently, lest the lady punish herself too harshly, "but diamonds, my dear, are unique. They are special. They are without parallel. And Winifred? There is no one like her. She is the greatest jewel in your crown, and I hope you can see that."

Lady Tuttle's face creased with her suffering, and she looked away again as if she could not bear herself. "I never did see it. I thought she was too much like her father. I thought…"

"And your husband. Did he not like society?" Sylvia offered.

"He wasn't an outcast, but he cut himself off and he was lonely. He liked to be alone, but he was still lonely."

"And you did not wish that for Winifred," Sylvia surmised.

"Oh, God in heaven." Lady Tuttle began to sob. "Oh God, I did not wish her to be lonely like her father. But what was I doing to her? I was going to force her to be alone in Suffolk. So entirely alone."

"To protect your other children," Sylvia concluded softly. "So they wouldn't be alone either. So they would be secure."

Lady Tuttle nodded, whipped out a handkerchief, and pressed it to her face.

"Then let this be a new beginning if you will allow it," Sylvia urged. "The beginning of something different, but you have to allow it. If you don't, it shall go on like this. It shall only grow more poisonous, and your wound will never close. Or you can embrace this life and the fact that you were wrong and let the Briarwoods welcome you into a new home. And a new way of living."

Lady Tuttle sucked in a breath. "I don't know what to do."

"Don't worry," Sylvia said, beaming. "You're already on the right path with that one simple phrase."