Page 34 of The Viscount's Reluctant Bride
With that at least settled, Silverton made his way over the lawn towards the front door of Silver Hall. There was a carefree swing to his movements as he dwelt on what he was going to say to Walsh. With her father’s insight, he would gain clarity on Maeve and what she wanted most. She may not feel precisely as he did about her, but he knew she desired him physically and that surely was a start. Hell, she had dashed to London to warn him of the poison, so she must care at least a little for him.
This recently acquired attitude of Silverton’s lasted all of ten minutes in his mother’s presence before he was feeling quite the same level of annoyance, frustration, and fury as he normally did around the dowager. His mother’s rooms were dirty and smelt of burnt books and stale food. His demands of where the funds had gone was dismissed airily, and based on her flushed face and nervous eyes, Silverton was becoming increasingly sure his mother was spending it all on alcohol.
Lady Silverton did not present the typical image of a dowager viscountess. Her pale brown hair was straggling loose and matted around her shoulders, her dress was stained and in places looked as if it might have been ripped. Parts of it were hanging off her, implying she must have lost weight recently. The one-time, sophisticated viscountess that Silverton had known growing up, watching as she had dashed off to local suppers, balls, and court visits, had disappeared, worn down and aged before her time. His mother was a woman of only fifty-five but looked closer to seventy. Love had broken her, and his affection had not been enough to save her.
“I did not expect you back here so soon.” Her tone might have been that of a queen despite the state of her rooms and person. She sank farther back into her armchair, as if she might be able to avoid his judgement if she could only avoid his gaze.
“Where is Mrs. Bowen?” Unable to think of anything better to do, Silverton started cleaning, lifting items off the floor, and picking up discarded cups and broken plates. He had already rung the bell twice and not heard any sound of servants. In a gothic turn, as he placed everything he carried on a nearby tray, Silverton wondered if his mother might have murdered Mrs. Bowen or locked the poor housekeeper away somewhere.
“She had to be dismissed,” his mother said vaguely. She was clutching her glass of whisky tightly to her chest, and when Silverton opened the final curtain, exposing Lady Silverton to the light, she blinked at the brightness and shuddered. A fresh wave of guilt washed through him to see her so. Yet another thing he had let slip when so much time had been spent chasing after Charles.
Crouching down next to his mother’s chair, he considered embracing her. Maeve had brought out an affectionate, tactile side to him, but with one look at his mother’s harsh face, he second guessed himself. Silverton knew full well that she did not want a caring reunion with him. To her mind, Charles’s status as a criminal was Silverton’s fault, and therefore, it was because of him that his brother could never return and visit her.
“I think it would be wise for us to go to London.” All his earlier plans for visiting Mr. Walsh would need to wait; his mother was in far worse a condition than he had imagined. “If I gather some of your clothes, that will give the horses a chance for some rest, and we can set off this evening. If needs be, we will change them at Tunbridge Wells.”
His mother did not reply. Instead, she lifted the glass unsteadily to her lips and took a large gulp, her grey gimlet eyes unblinking as they watched him.
“You look different.” She lowered her glass, her thin lips wet with the stain of wine. A small amount of colour briefly brightened her cheeks unnaturally before it vanished.
“I cut my beard off.”
“Not that.” She took another sip. “There is something about you that has changed.”
“I saw a different doctor,” he said. That was an understatement.
“No. You, yourself, are different.” She waved her hand erratically in the air. “Altogether not as you used to be.”
Unable to help himself, Silverton smiled. Perhaps the changes brought about by his relief at not dying were visible. Or it might well be something else entirely, something in the form of an auburn-haired spirit that warmed his soul.
“I don’t want to go to London. What business I have there?” she continued.
“We could see a doctor.”
“I saw Sprot at the start of the year.”
“When exactly did you last see Dr. Sprot?” He tried to sound gentle, but his fury must have exhibited itself as his mother looked at him more closely, aware suddenly she had something he wanted.
“Let me think.” There was an edge of calculation to Lady Silverton’s tone, seemingly as if she were playing with him. “I suppose I would have seen him when he saw you last.”
Moving away from her side, Silverton continued to tidy, lifting her discarded pieces of clothing from the floor. It was as if fighting against a barrage; when one item was seized upon, Silverton saw another. “What happened to the money I sent for your care?”
“What happens to all money? It is spent.”
“On what?”
But Lady Silverton was on her feet, moving towards him with a pace that belied her groggy state. She snatched her belongings from his hands and stared up at him accusingly. “Just because you have ignored me for the best part of a decade does not mean I should immediately feel the need to explain myself to you.”
“I did not ask you to, I merely wished to know—”
“I will make some food. There will be supplies downstairs.”
“You?” Silverton had never been so high in his instep that preparing his own meals had been beyond him, nor cleaning up, nor any basic task. After all, he had slept rough as needed and waded through mud or worse, hurting those who turned against the British empire. But his mother, well, it just seemed unlikely for someone like her.
Lady Silverton took the pile of clothes from him and dumped them on her bed. “Yes, I am full of surprises. Come, we must get something in our bellies besides the drink.”
Following her out of the room, Silverton listened to her complain about Mrs. Bowen, her nearest neighbour, until they were in the kitchen. Again, the state of the place reared its head and a lashing of guilt rumbled through him. It was cold, despite the relatively spring-like day. Moving over to the grate, he set about making a fire, pleased to find some freshly cut wood. Clearly, someone was keeping at least half an eye on his mother.
He set about making the fire. Once it was roaring, he looked back at Lady Silverton. She had gathered a small collection of foodstuffs on the largest of the tables, along with another bottle of what appeared to be stout. A more unlikely fare for a dowager viscountess he struggled to imagine.
