Page 50 of Worth Any Price
Nick grinned. “You promised to obey me, didn’t you? Well, do as I say, or face the consequences.”
“Which are?”
He unfastened her robe, dropped it to the floor, and proceeded to demonstrate exactly what he meant.
The Howard family lived in a hamlet two miles west of fashionable London, a residential outgrowth surrounded by farming land. Nick remembered the well-structured but shabby house from his much earlier visit, at the beginning of his search for Lottie. The irony of returning to them as their new, very much unwanted son-in-law would have made him smile, as the situation contained strong elements of farce. However,his private amusement was tamped down by Lottie’s impenetrable silence. He wished he could spare her the difficulty of seeing her family. On the other hand, it was necessary for Lottie to face them and at least try to make peace.
The small Tudor-style home was one in a row of architecturally similar houses. It was fronted with small, overgrown garden plots, its red brick exterior sadly dilapidated. The front door was raised four steps from the ground, the narrow entrance leading to two downstairs rooms that served as parlors. Beside the entrance, another set of stone steps led to the cellar below, which contained a kitchen and a water-storage tank filled from the main in the road.
Three children played in the garden plots, brandishing sticks and running in circles. Like Lottie, they were flaxen blond, fair skinned, and slim of build. Having seen the children before, Nick had been told their names, but he could not recall them. The carriage stopped on the paved coachway, and the small faces appeared at the front gate, staring through the peeling slats as Nick helped Lottie descend from the carriage.
Lottie’s face was outwardly calm, but Nick saw how tightly clenched her gloved fingers were, and he experienced something he had never known before—concern for someone else’s feelings. He didn’t like it.
Lottie stopped at the gate, her face pale. “Hullo,” she murmured. “Is that you, Charles? Oh, you’ve grown so, I can scarcely recognize you. And Eliza, and—good gracious, is that baby Albert?”
“I’m not a baby!” piped the toddler indignantly.
Lottie flushed, poised on the verge between tears and laughter. “Why, no indeed. You must be three years old by now.”
“You’re our sister Charlotte,” Eliza said. Her serious little face was sided by two long braids. “The one who ran away.”
“Yes.” Lottie’s mouth was touched with sudden melancholy. “I don’t wish to stay away any longer, Eliza. I have missed all of you so very much.”
“You were supposed to marry Lord Radnor,” Charles said, regarding her with round blue eyes. “He was very angry that you wouldn’t, and now he’s going to—”
“Charles!” A woman’s agitated voice came from the doorway. “Hush and come away from the gate at once.”
“But it’sCharlotte,” the boy protested.
“Yes, I’m aware of that. Come now, children, all of you. Tell the cookmaid to make you some toast with jam.”
The speaker was Lottie’s mother, a breakably slender woman in her early forties, with an unusually narrow face and light blond hair. Nick recalled that her husband was of stocky build with full cheeks. Neither of the pair was particularly handsome, but by some trick of nature Lottie had inherited the best features of each.
“Mama,” Lottie said softly, gripping the top of the gate. The children promptly fled, eager for the promised treat.
Mrs. Howard regarded her daughter with adull gaze, harsh lines scored between her nose and mouth, and across her forehead. “Lord Radnor came not two days ago,” she said. The simple sentence contained both an accusation and indictment.
Bereft of words, Lottie looked back over her shoulder at Nick. He went into action immediately, joining her at the gate and unlatching it himself. “May we come in, Mrs. Howard?” he asked. He ushered Lottie toward the house without waiting for permission. Some devil prompted him to add, “Or shall I call you Mama?” He put a mocking emphasis on the last syllable of the word, as Lottie had.
For his effrontery, Lottie surreptitiously knocked an elbow into his ribs as they entered the house, and he grinned.
The interior of the house smelled musty. The drapes at the windows had been turned many times, until both sides were unevenly sun-bleached, while the aged carpets had been worn so thin that no regular pattern was discernable. Everything from the chipped porcelain figures on the mantel to the grimy paper on the walls contributed to the picture of decayed gentility. Mrs. Howard herself gave the same impression, moving with the weary grace and self-consciousness of someone who had once been accustomed to a far better life.
“Where is Father?” Lottie asked, standing in the center of the parlor, which was hardly bigger than a closet.
“Visiting your uncle, in town.”
The three of them stood in the center of theroom, while awkward silence thickened the air. “Why have you come, Charlotte?” her mother finally asked.
“I’ve missed you, I—” Lottie paused at the resolute blankness she saw on her mother’s face. Nick sensed his wife’s struggle between stubborn pride and remorse as she continued carefully. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for what I did.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Mrs. Howard replied crisply. “However, I do not. You do not regret abandoning your responsibilities, nor are you sorry for placing your own needs above everyone else’s.”
Nick made the discovery that it was not easy for him to listen to someone criticizing his wife—even if that person happened to be her own mother. For Lottie’s sake, however, he concentrated on keeping his mouth shut. Clasping his hands behind his back, he focused on the indistinct design of the ancient carpet.
“I regret causing you so much pain and worry, Mama,” Lottie said. “I am also sorry for the two years of silence that have passed between us.”
Finally Mrs. Howard displayed some sign of emotion, her voice edged with anger. “That was your fault—not ours.”
