Page 13 of The Duke's Return
With the door closed, he turned back to his house. Chests were beginning to be piled up so they might be taken by carriage to Southwick. It was a crowded space but appeared somewhat organized. Voices sounded around the house with steady movement, everyone abuzz with the work.
The laughter died inside him. Julian ran a hand through his hair with nervous energy. He didn’t know what was going to happen next. He didn’t know if his plans would work. If Genevieve would help him. If she would even want to.
But I suppose if everything is this awful, then the only way to go is up. I hope.
CHAPTER 5
“Your Grace, welcome.”
Genevieve forced a smile for her old family’s butler, Mr. Grant, who stepped back into the hall to provide her entry. “Thank you. How good it is to see you again. How fares your wife since winter?”
“Much improved, thank you.” His scraggly face broadened into a fond smile. “She still speaks highly of you and your tinctures.”
She shook her head. “She is too kind. If she ever desires more, then you know just where to find me. Well, that is… You know where to send correspondence.” She wondered if the post would slow down with her out of town. Was she supposed to tell all of London she was leaving? “Is my mother here?”
“Indeed. She is not at home for guests, but I am sure she shall make an exception for you,” he added hastily. “She’s just in the front parlor. I’ll check with her if you like?”
We can only hope she’ll like to see me. But I can’t leave London without talking to my family.
“Don’t bother. I shall see to her myself,” Genevieve reassured the poor butler. She patted his arm before delivering her summer pelisse and umbrella. Once they were set aside, she inhaled deeply and climbed the stairs to the grand parlor overlooking the street.
How fortunate they were that the latest Viscount of Richester, her distant uncle, was bedridden out in the countryside. He hadn’t made any request for her mother and sisters to take their leave, though everyone knew the threat lingered overhead.
The door to the parlor was cracked open. On the other side, Genevieve could hear Tessa, her youngest sister, singing off at the piano. The instrument was slightly out of tune, but their mother would have never noticed nor believed it to be an issue, tone deaf as she had always been.
“I think you should use yellow thread,” Marianne was saying.
“I don’t want yellow, I want pink,” Eliza argued. “No one wants yellow roses. You only want the thread for yourself. Mama, please, tell Marianne to share the thread.”
“You were never any good at embroidery, Eliza. Can’t you focus more on your penmanship? Now that is beautiful,” their mother said diplomatically.
Nothing ever changes around here overmuch, it would appear.
Genevieve inhaled deeply to brace herself one last time before sweeping the door open. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Shrieks abounded alongside the plonking of the piano, followed by a modest groan as her sisters excitedly raced to their feet and their mother sunk lower in her seat.
“Gen, you’re here!”
“You have freckles! Aren’t you using lemon juice?”
“Did you hear me playing? I think I’ve improved.”
“No, you should hear me play––”
The merriment and playful arguments made Genevieve laugh. She hadn’t realized how badly she missed them. Gathering the girls in her arms, she gave them tight squeezes until all three were protesting with pokes and chuckles and complaints.
“Really,” scolded Eliza who was the next oldest, “you should come here more often. Then your arrivals would be less dramatic.”
“Oh posh,” said Tessa, the youngest. She and Eliza shared the tawny brown hair of their mother. “You adore drama. Mama thinks that’s why she won’t accept any matches this year,” she added.
As those two began to elbow one another, Marianne sighed. She brushed back her unruly black hair she shared with Genevieve. The middle of the three girls often made her forgotten, so she had to fight to be heard and noticed. Which exhausted her, from what Genevieve could see. “She had two offers but won’t sign the papers.”
“No one told me,” Genevieve said in disbelief, glancing at her mother who was focused on her nails. “Who are they? Does she like them?”
“I like neither of them,” Eliza overheard and huffed. “It’s Mr. Petrey, the Russian merchant, and I cannot understand a word he says. He also smells of fish which I cannot stomach. And Lord Quinter, who has such long nose hairs I could braid them.”
Forcing back a laugh, Genevieve gave a short nod. Lord Quinter had been widowed only a month after her own marriage, for which she had spent three weeks grateful that he had never been an option. The older gentleman was three times her age, still without a child, and had hair spurting everywhere it shouldn’t.
