Page 54 of Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
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Two days later,he sat in his office and stared at the marriage license his estate manager had acquired for him from the church. Now was the time to write to Fifi and tell her when he would arrive in Bath to bring her here.
He had waited these past two days for his mother to admit him to her presence. But she'd refused. Now he could no longer wait.
Would no longer wait.
For the past two days, he'd argued with himself and argued with God, to be frank. He'd also talked with his sister, Annalise. She was twenty-two, a sprite, a lovely young lady whose beau had died in the battle of Nivelle nearly three years ago. She lived here with their mother, tutoring children in the village, teaching them to read and write. Since her beau's death, she'd not gone to London, nor attended many social events in the country. In fact, she'd lived a secluded life.
Since his arrival home, his mother had not come down to partake of meals or conversation in the parlors. So he and Annalise had renewed their former fondness for each other in their hours together.
"Mama will not tell me what disturbs her, Rory," she'd told him that first night at supper. "I asked after your letter arrived a few days ago and announced your intention to marry Lady Fiona. But she read your letter and turned hysterical. I've never seen her so and I had trouble calming her. But the next day, I asked her if she wished to talk and she rebuffed me with such caustic words, I had to abandon any attempts to draw her out. I wish I knew what the cause was. Then I might help you two come to terms. But I don't have any clues."
"She's never mentioned the Countess of Marlton?"
"No."
"Nor her husband?"
"Not even their names." Annalise shook her head. But her charming green gaze grew dark with worry. "Whatever this is, it's nothing that can be wished away."
He hadn't asked his sister for more. But neither had he slept. Instead, he walked his land at night taking his favorite old hound Star with him for company. During the days, he rode out to gaze upon the fields. He spoke with a few of his tenants about the cool weather and what they might do to ensure better crops. Twice, he met with his estate manager.
At night, he'd walked the old halls of this house. His ancestors' home was precious to him. Those who had lived and prospered here seemed to live within him. Those who had nurtured those within its walls and those without had always provided hours of speculation for the curious boy he'd been. The family, like many, had tales of this one or that who'd accomplished deeds both bold and brave, funny and solemn. He turned down hallways to view items on the walls, the plot of this field in 1516 or the sketch of the house in 1756. He'd contemplated the tiny portrait of the first Fletcher, the wealthy miller, who'd built his half-timbered house here. He'd been stocky with a jolly look about him. Rory compared him to the portrait of the man who'd served Elizabeth during her glory. That silver-haired gentleman appeared self-impressed, all trussed up in his tight-fitting doublet and jerkin, his huge white ruff and his pride. As a child, Rory had imagined they'd all accomplished fabulous feats to gain the wealth and power that were now in his own hands. But he wondered, what had they done to persevere?
Last night, he’d ended his midnight walk in the oldest parlor, paneled in dark and gloomy wood. He lit two candles and poured over a diary he'd found years ago but never had time to read thoroughly. It was the record of the first earl of Charlton, and a tale of his attempt to save his wife and son after they collapsed from the plague during the reign of Charles the Second. The earl had nursed both of them, night and day, falling ill himself as his two loved ones recovered. Their turn to save their husband and father, they labored and saved him. Weakened from this as he was for the rest of his life, he praised his family for their diligence and devotion to him.
His last line in his journal account of that epidemic struck Rory. "'They labored over me for love. I do the same for them and ours, and hope all our tomorrows that our descendants do.'"
Of course.
Who would not nurse one's loved ones from sickness and keep death away?
Loyalty was paramount. But love had played its own vital part.
He fingered the marriage license.
He could tear himself apart with loyalty. Whom should he honor? His mother? Or his fiancée?
But love inspired its own devotion.
Loyalty was based on allegiance. He'd fought years of battles with thousands of men who'd given their life's blood to an indefinable cause based on allegiance alone.
Love was based on fealty, too. But it was a different kind. It was ground in respect and affection, tenderness and affinity to another human. A man might claim his loyalty to country was based on duty. But his love for another was based on affection and desire.
One could fight for both and die for both. Only one could offer heaven as its just reward.
He stood and ran his hands through his hair, then donned his frock coat.
The time was now to end this misery.
