“I shall add it to my to-do list,” he assured her before he gestured for her to return to her seat and took the one opposite. “How are you?”
“Well, well,” she said, nodding firmly. “As well as can be expected.”
Feeling a little guilty, George leaned over the table and laid his hand on hers. “I am sorry I was not here when—”
He broke off, unable to say the words.
With a sad smile, she laid her lace-gloved hand atop his. “There was nothing you could have done. Nobody could have.”
Though George knew that had been true – only God might have prevented his father's death – he still felt guilt at having not allowed himself to attend the funeral nor the house afterwards.
“Be that as it may—” he started, but his mother slipped her hand away and straightened in her seat.
“We shall not think on the past,” she declared firmly, once more the emotionless, strict duchess he had always remembered her to be. “We must think to the future. I have had my trunks taken upstairs.”
George struggled to hide his surprise. “You intend to reside here then?”
“For the time being, yes,” she said, her brow furrowing. “If that is acceptable to you,Your Grace.”
George bit his lip. He could tell how hard it was for his mother not to be the joint head of their family anymore. Not that she had had any real power with his father around. In fact, in a way, he believed she had more power now than she had ever had then. Now, she was a dowager duchess in her own right with her own assets and connections. She had worked hard to make it so over the years. And in truth, there was very little George could deny her. For though she was strict and sometimes even cruel, she was his mother, and he would always love her.
“I shall have your room made up at once,” George assured her, but she shook her head.
“I have already taken the liberty of asking Mrs Weems to make up a guest room,” she told him.
At that, he leaned back, shocked. “What of your rooms?”
It was then that a maid arrived with a tray of tea.
His mother occupied herself with instructing her to pour the tea before she turned back to George and pointed out, “It is high time I made room for the next duchess.”
Bile rose in the back of George's throat. With all he had been doing towards the estate, and with what had happened the day before, the very last thing on his mind was marriage.
“Yes, well, there are much more important things to be considered before any of that,” he said firmly, hoping she would let the matter rest.
The dowager duchess tilted her head gracefully. “Is there anything I might assist with?”
George thought for a second. There was truly nothing she might help with, bar one thing.
Yet could he really voice the situation to her? He had no idea how she might react to the absurdity of Lord Flannery's last wish.
“Georgie, what is it?”
George felt suddenly thrown back in time, back to the days when he had been a boy and in lieu of being able to talk with his father, he had always turned to his mother for advice.
He watched her pick up her teacup and take a sip before he admitted, “A proposal has been brought to my attention.”
Interest sparked in his mother's clear blue gaze, and he took a moment to look at her more closely.
Though her hair was still glossy and black, flecks of white were beginning to appear at her roots. She clearly still cared for herself well, but at almost forty-five, the cracks were beginning to show. Perhaps he ought not to trouble her with this. After all, it was his decision to make.
“Whatever it is, I am certain we shall manage it,” his mother assured him, and George prepared himself to admit the truth.
“Mr Jones called me to Fernworth Manor for the reading of Lord Flannery's will yesterday.”
“Whatever for?” his mother exclaimed. “Surely that is family business?”
“Indeed,” George said, nodding. “I had believed so, too, but it appears Lord Flannery had a clause in the will stipulating that he wished me to chaperone Lady Cecelia for the Season this year.”
