Page 6 of A Foreign Crown
Hayes spoke again. “You know Father is hoping to wed us off to the great thrones in Europe. I suspect another reason this plan appeals to him is the thought of you meeting someone. Perhaps there is an Englishwoman who will catch your eye.”
“Not likely. That is not a throne for us to meddle with. Prince George’s daughter is young—perhaps not too young for some but certainly for me. And Queen Charlotte keeps her daughters sequestered off. I doubt very much if any of them will ever marry.”
Hayes laughed. “Don’t worry, Brother. You do have a choice in the matter, of course.”
“I’ve made my choice. Hear me now. I’m going for one reason only: to save our nation and rescue our navy before we willfully hand over more of our ships to pirates. Getting married has nothing to do with it.”
Chapter Four
Two weeks after her fatherreceived the letter from Lord Percival Bartholomew, Lady Aribella tried to be as gracious as possible as she led her cousin down the portrait gallery. As she showed him each man and woman in her direct line of ancestry—all dukes and duchesses, all highly revered, all noble in their own right—she felt their eyes, though long gone.
“And so you can see the illustrious history of each duke and the legacy each has left.” She swallowed the sharpness in her throat that appeared as she considered what kind of estate they were passing down. “We have not always been so destitute here.”
“Perhaps we can build up the estate once more, grow the reputation to what it once was.” While this lord might not have much to recommend him as far as general handsomeness, he had said “we.”
She searched his face. His sharp nose could be viewed as appealing to some. His smallish eyes would do well to open broader and to meet hers instead of flitting about all over the place. He avoided her eyes, except once or twice to flick a gaze in her direction. Then he shuffled his feet.
“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “About the entailment. I would will it not to be if I could.”
She looked away. What could she say? She didn’t blame him, but she certainly didn’t think it right that she should be stripped of her family’s estate to this stranger only fractionally related to her. But his sincerity touched her, so she didn’t respond at all. Instead, she pointed out the portrait just ahead. “This is my mother.” Her mother’s eyes shone down on the two of them from her portrait as if she were present.
He was quiet. They both stood with chins lifted, staring at the portrait of the Duchess of Sumter.
After many moments, a soft voice behind said, “She was remarkable.”
Aribella turned around. “Father.” She rushed to his side and linked her arm with his. “Are you well?”
The hand he placed over hers felt stronger every day. “I’m well, daughter.” He smiled at Lord Bartholomew. “How do you like our gallery?”
Lord Bartholomew’s hair fell across his face. He ran a hand over it to send it back. “It’s humbling to think of the incredible line of dukes on these walls.” Then he turned to Aribella. “And their wives, their families.”
They continued to walk to the end of the gallery and out the door to meet in the gathering room outside the dining hall. Aribella’s throat tightened. They had used the last of their pheasants, caught by James, the footman-turned-hunter, before the weather became cold and scared off the game. She had asked that an extra fish be purchased. It pained her to think of how much they would have to conserve in the coming weeks in order to afford the cost of these meals.
As soon as they entered the gathering room, Lord Bartholomew’s mother, Lady Bartholomew, came forward. The overexuberance of her expression and body mannerisms immediately left Aribella feeling drained, lacking, and ridiculously tired. The woman and her daughter, Lady Bridgette, were trying to even the strongest constitutions. At least, Aribella thought so.
Lady Bartholomew offered her hand to Aribella’s father. “You have such a lovely situation here. This room, the wood. You’d never know we were within the cold stone of a castle.”
Indeed, the deep wooden walls around them covered the stone of the castle walls. The family generational tapestry covered one wall, each line of their family from the current day back to Norman times and before represented.
Aribella’s father bowed before Lady Bartholomew, and Aribella was pleased to see that some of his strength had returned. He seemed as charming and commanding as ever a presence he’d presented as the Duke of Sumter. “I’m happy you find much to admire in our home. May I escort you in?”
He offered his arm to Lady Bartholomew, and they entered the dining room first. Lord Bartholomew held one arm out for Aribella and the other for his sister to take.
Lady Bridgette sniffed. “Our numbers are uneven.”
Aribella burned with the shame of it. They hadn’t been able to afford a dinner party in their guests’ honor, nor even another guest to round out the numbers.
But Lord Bartholomew shook his head. “This is nice. We are a cozy group, and we have things to discuss we might not wish others to be a part of.”
Did they? Aribella searched his face, and his cheeks turned pink. Curious.
She was pleased to see that their footman looked as smart as he once had and the place settings were as lovely as they had ever been. She hadn’t been able to sell off the family’s things, not yet.
Dinner progressed, and she was embarrassed at the simplicity of the fare. But her father kept up engaging conversation, and for the most part, it was pleasant. Still, she missed the parties their family used to have—the dinners, the balls, the events at Christmastide.
Then Lady Bartholomew eyed them all over her glass. “The rooms are dark here. The tapestries dark, the furniture dark.”
“Pardon me?” Aribella tried not to bristle.
