Go to Hell.
Your Son’s Mistake
She pondered the signature. The note was clearly written by Gwendolyn Smith, it had all her thorns and abrasiveness. But the marquess did not know that woman, and she hoped he never would. She had instinctively shied away from writing her new name. ButLady Maryhad seemed wrong, too, andMrs. Bartletthad never been right, always a lie.
She’d leave it. He’d know whom she meant.
Now to send it. She could not ask Lord Eaden to frank it and give away her safe haven. She’d have to post it herself. Fine. First thing tomorrow.
She called herself from six years ago dead, and this letter was the proof of it. Lady Mary hadn’t had the spine. Gwendolyn did. She had the spine for that and the other part of her plan.
She’d leave the Cavendishes and reinvent herself once more. She’d bring Marianne with her, save her friend from the loss of her eyesight to a needle’s point, support her as she’d always supported Gwendolyn. She’d saved up most of the money she’d earned while in Lord Eaden’s employ, and they could rent a small cottage anywhere they liked. On the Continent preferably, as far from the marquess as possible. Her sketches had often graced the pages of Lord Eaden’s books. She could sell her skill to other scholars.
A lonely life, but the only future she could imagine where she saved herself and did not sully the happiness the Cavendishes had earned for themselves. But first she’d visit Jackson’s home, help him finish his father’s work. A parting gift, a thank you for having given her a heart she could not keep. She’d say proper goodbyes to the others as well, give them her gratitude for their acceptance instead of her thorns. They deserved it, and they deserved to, finally, be free of the powder keg that was her past.
Five
The closer the traveling coach rolled toward Seastorm, the further Jackson lowered his nose into his book. And the louder his brothers became. If he’d been truly reading, they would have proved a distraction, but Jackson had been staring blankly at page 136 for two hours. At least. His thoughts traveling faster than the coach; memory upon memory he usually kept at bay flooded him. His father teaching him to swim in the pond and walking barefoot together on the rocky beach a short ride from the manor. His mother clipping headlines from the papers and nestling them in her journal beside pressed flowers and her own thoughts inked with splatters in uneven lines.
Good memories that laid him flat.
He tried to remember his goals for the next fortnight or so—find the manuscript, spend time with his brothers, make up for his past sins any way he could, and steer clear of Gwendolyn. It was what she wanted, and he could give her that. He should, after all, focus on his father’s research, locating it and shining it up. He’d give her the distance she desired and dive into his own work.
He sighed.
The coach slowed, and he put the book aside to look out the window. Thomas and Nicholas looked, too, their curly blond heads curved together over identically sloped shoulders and wiry frames. Still boys at eleven years old, but soon enough, those shoulders would broaden, and their voices would fall deep, and Jackson wanted to betherefor them, as his parents were for him. He wanted to watch them grow into men, guide them. Well, as much as he could between trips and traveling abroad.
A silence fell over them. A house, no, a castle true to its name rose into view, the red-tiled roof of a small stone turret.
“Is that it?” Nicholas asked, bouncing to his feet to see better over Thomas’s shoulder, his brown eyes glowing darker in the coach shadows.
Jackson laughed. “Sit, Nick. That’s the old castle. It’s not livable, but it’s well-preserved, particularly the gardens. There’s a newer manor house further in. It will soon come into view.”
“Newer?” Thomas’s nose wrinkled. “I like the castle better.”
Jackson winked. “Me too. But I promise you you’d not like to sleep there. New beds are better than moldy ones.”
“Moldy?” The boys spoke the same word in identical tones of disgust.
Jackson nodded, and they settled back into their seats. Nick held a hand out, palm up, to his brother, and Thomas placed his hand, palm down, atop it. They continued the game that had been making them howl with laughter all morning, one pulling his hand from underneath to slap the hand above and either hitting his target, if he was fast enough, or missing it, if he proved too slow.
Then the manor appeared. Jackson’s stomach flipped end over end as they rounded the top of a slight hill and sailed down a long drive toward the manor that was only a quarter of a century old. It always did. The joy of returning to the manor his parents had loved, the slice of finding that house empty. A difficult confusion of emotion that always discomposed him. But this time he returned not to sulk in grief, but to do some good—honor his father’s work and show his brothers their legacy.
The house his father designed and had built from local sandstone, the rooms his mother had made cozy with her own hands—all his, and he wished it wasn’t. The Cavendish family had never wanted. Due to their own talents and their wise investments, they’d accumulated more wealth than rank, and though Jackson’s father had not acquired a title like his older brother, he’d been well enough off, past comfortable. Rank had never mattered but providing for their own had. It was a heritage Jackson was proud of, though he’d not appreciated it in his youth.
The drive rolled up to the very door where a line of servants stood waiting. Behind them, the house rose three floors into the sky, windows glinting in the sunlight, ivy climbing up its corners. Was Gwendolyn looking at it, too? What did she think?
The house gave his soul a tiny tug, reminding him it owned a bit of him. He shoved at that bit, pushed it down. He lived a traveler’s life, and while he gladly took on the familial goals of the next few weeks, the filial obligations he should have discharged years ago, he did not wish to stay, to plant his roots deep.
The coach rolled to a stop and the boys shot out the door before Jackson could corral them into better manners. He followed at a more sedate pace, unfolding into the sunshine, his chest full. Sorrow and joy pressed tight together there, uncomfortable partners.
The second coach stopped behind his own, Uncle Henry, Aunt Sarah, and Gwendolyn descended like ducks in a row.
“Do be careful, boys!” Aunt Sarah called.
Another body popped out of the coach—Henry’s youngest daughter, Pansy.
She blinked once in the sun before running after her cousins. She looked like a miniature version of her older sisters, all wild dark curls and sharp green eyes, exactly what Ada and Nora had looked like at nine years old.
