Page 95 of A Match Made in London
Without stopping to wonder if he was the greatest fool in Christendom for even considering going to her, he hurled himself from his chair, striding from his study and down the hall. “Danielson,” he called, his voice echoing through the empty house.
The butler materialized as if out of the ether. “Yes, Sir Tristan?”
“I’m heading out. Have my horse saddled and readied before I change my bloody mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
• • •
Within a half hour he was standing in front of the little house on Green Street. The entire ride here he had not thought twice about his hasty decision. Now that he was faced with seeing Josephine, however, he found himself frozen, unable to even lift his hand to knock.
He did not have time to change his mind, however, for the front door was thrown wide. And there was Josephine, staring at him as if he was a ghost.
“Tristan,” she breathed, her hands clasped before her breast. “How you’ve changed. I almost did not recognize you.”
He could only stare at her, this woman he had hated for so long. She was much older than he remembered. How long had it been since he’d been home? Arthur’s funeral? No, his father’s, shortly after. That had to be eight years ago. He had not been back to Sainsly since.
Her hair had grayed and thinned from the thick mass of curls he remembered. She had lost weight, too, and her face was heavily lined. She no longer resembled the woman who had taken his mother’s place, the elegant creature he had despised.
“Oh, but how rude of me,” she said, her hands fluttering in agitation. “Please come in. My friend is out and so we may talk at our leisure.”
Hesitating only a moment, he followed her into the house. His mind whirled. She was nothing like he expected, nothing like he remembered. She even moved differently, more nervous than before.
“Rose,” she called to a maid who was hovering in the front hall, “please bring a tea tray in.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and disappeared, and Josephine showed him into a small front parlor done up in a riot of flowery fabrics and dainty furniture.
“Please, sit,” she said, motioning to an overstuffed sofa. She perched nearby, barely resting her backside on the cushion, as if she might take flight at any moment.
She stayed silent as he settled himself, simply watching him with eyes that were full of all manner of emotion. He cleared his throat, shifted, and said, “I did not expect you to come to London.”
“Nor did I.” She laughed, a tentative, nervous thing. “Mrs. Curtis is an old school friend. Her goddaughter is marrying in a week’s time. She asked me to come. I would not have presumed to otherwise.”
He nodded, feeling more awkward than he had in his life. Where was that confident mask he was so used to showing to the world? Had Rosalind’s ability to see through him pierced it beyond repair?
But no, it had always been thus with Josephine. He’d been only nine when she’d come into his life. His mother had become a distant memory, though he’d tried his damnedest to hold onto her. As much as his father would allow, anyway, having erased her from his home and life as much as he was able.
He had not wanted anyone to replace his mother. And that was how he saw Josephine, as a replacement, the final act of his father to eradicate the first Lady Crosby’s very existence.
He could have been kinder to her, he knew now. But at the time he had been full of rage and thought that by denying Josephine’s half-hearted initial attempts at befriending him, he was honoring his mother. Those attempts had not lasted long, and soon she ignored Tristan almost as totally as his father did. And then Arthur had come, and his feeling of being an outsider was made complete.
He was tired of it all in that moment, of the constant anger in his breast, of his battered confidence that kept him pretending that nothing was amiss. “What do you want, Josephine?” he asked, weariness coating the words.
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I have asked you again and again to leave me be. Yet you will not honor my wishes. Why? What do you want from me?”
She swallowed hard, her throat working. To his shock her eyes filled with tears.
“I thought, perhaps, we might…”
“Might what, Josephine?” Tristan sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Might put the past behind us, have a relationship? Mother and son?”
“I wanted that from the very beginning,” she whispered.
He narrowed his eyes. “Did you? I have very different memories of that time. I recall a woman who came into the home of a very hurt, very scared little boy and, after a very lukewarm attempt at making him feel at ease, she turned her back on him.”
She appeared as if he’d struck her. “Is that what you think? Truly?”
