"I certainly hope our family fortune paid off. Did you learn a lot? What did you see, out there in the world past the manor?" he asked, and she could hear even through the hoarse whistling the coy playfulness in his tone.
"Wild ideas, father, about the world, and about life," she chuckled; she could feel Ms. Mulwray's eyes burning through her from the doorway. "Women with their own families, women teaching, women as hunters, women as equals... such pernicious ideas," Nadia joked.
"Women hunting? Come now, is that truly what you want to do? Lady Havenshire, a gameskeep?" her father laughed.
"Not a job for me, though I think a woman as a hunter, and a leader, is a curious, and useful, thought," Nadia smiled.
"I suppose that quite starkly brings into focus what I obviously need to address. Nadia, my daughter," her father sighed, and she felt her breaths wobble, nervous and weak. "I'm... certain, you can see, you're a smart young woman, as smart as ever have there been in all of England, my darling. You've no doubt already seen something awry in the household. The doctors haven't a clue of what's afflicting my head, but it's worsened and worsened until... well," he exhaled gravely. "There are matters that need tending to before... this situation worsens."
"Worsens? Father..." Nadia's voice trailed away, shaking, a tear stinging the corner of her eyes. "What's... what's happened to you?" she finally asked flatly.
"I can feel myself at the end of this journey, Nadia, but I need to get into order the matters of my household - and my daughter - after death takes me," her father stated bluntly. She swallowed, fighting away tears, her fists tightened.
"Death? Certainly... you're exaggerating, father," Nadia stated with a muted hopefulness in her tone.
"I'm not certain, darling girl, we can never be. But the taste in my mouth and the pain in my head, as every expert in England comes to my bedside, have brought into stark importance the necessity of pressing into you the importance of your inheritance, Nadia."
"My inheritance?" she asked weakly. She had an inkling of what the inheritance meant, but denial took her mind more than any other thought. She couldn't dare think of parting with her father... not so early into her adult life. "Father, we only need worry about your health."
"Your inheritance... Nadia," he said with a sigh. "I'm certain you're not terribly amenable to this idea. But the way our world works, is the way it works, and as smart and free and capable a woman as I've watch you grow in to... there are things not even you can change, my darling." Nadia fought away the tears, unsuccessfully, as they ran across her cheeks in stuttering streams. "I have to be certain of our family's future... of your future, my daughter."
"Father, you know me capable of taking care of the estate," Nadia chimed. "You know you can trust myself and the servants to—"
"I have full faith in you, my daughter," the stricken lord coughed hoarsely. "That's... not what concerns me. You know the world that you live in. And you know that to inherit the estate and to carry on the family legacy... you need to be married, Nadia," he added gravely. "I'm old, and hurting. I'm dying, Nadia. I need to know that you'll be safe. That our name, our manor - that it will live past me."
"Father..." Nadia's voice trailed, her thoughts clashing in scattered directions. Indignant was she at the fabric of society that forced this onto her; the world where men controlled wealth, men controlled lands; men controlled names. It opposed everything she had learned, everything she had thought whifle traveling the world; more than anything, it made no sense. "I'm the person most capable—I know this land, our people, our name..."
"I understand your trepidation, my dear, but... I can't bear to see my only daughter stand alone, unwed, should I die," her father said. A coughing flurry filled the air as he held his hand over his mouth; it seemed almost skeletal, skin stretched tight against each finger. "There are fine men, Nadia, across all of England, you know... fine men more than deserving of your attention," he tried to convince her. Nadia looked away; sighed. S
he could scarcely bear to see her father so weak and wracked with these concerns, but she hated the thought of giving her life away to be another trophy on some sleazy 'gentleman's' shelf.
"Father, I'll..." Nadia closed her eyes. She hated lying. "I haven't returned from my travels simply to settle in to an existence that goes against who I am. On my way back here, I spoke with Egan, and he reminisced on you in your younger days, commenting on how strong-willed you had been. If you had been a woman, as I am... do you think you would rejoice in the thought of consigning yourself to subordination? To a life as a symbol, and not as a person, father?..." a feeling of guilt crept into her knotted stomach; she hated to bring such philosophy to her clearly ailing father, but she knew what his answer would be - if he answered honestly, at least.
"Please... consider, for my own sake, Nadia," he implored. She swallowed, looked away. Her pride bristling, her emotions on a wire, she at least needed to put his heart at ease... even if hers was afire.
"I'm sorry, father," she exhaled deeply, spinning away on her heels and, eyes closed and tears on her cheeks, hastily retreated into the hall.
CHAPTER THREE
"M'lord Beckham, your dinner's about to be served," the chipper old man in the white waistcoat announced, peering quizzically into the darkened study of his master, lit only by the dying crackle of a sooty fireplace. No response came at first; its walls arrayed with shelves upon shelves of books and scholarly work, with a grand armchair facing the fireplace, the butler strode through the doorway, bowing his head as he came to see his master, shrouded in shadow, glinting, fiery embers reflected in his striking, deep green eyes; his garb colored in tones of earth and midnight, he cupped his chin in his hand, focused deeply in a myriad of contentious thoughts; his frame tall and strong, he nonetheless seemed a ghost of a man, vexed by a thousand scattered worldly concerns.
"M'lord," the voice repeated, quieter this time. The man in the chair appeared unmoved; he watched the flames lick and and listened to the cool crackle of searing embers, pondering a great many, endless things. Lord Marshall Beckham, the Duke of Berrewithe, had a lot to think about - and not just the nature of the world and the title that bore down on his shoulders.
He thought, far too often, about her. About the woman he had loved - about the woman he had lost. And he thought about what he had done to lose her. He thought about his endless failures; about what was expected of a true gentleman of his era. And how he'd failed to live up to every expectation with her. With the woman who still haunted his dreams - Anna.
"M'lord... Ms. Cauthfield has prepared your favorite meal for tonight. It's taken her all too to properly braise the beef," the butler implored, his voice quiet, almost conspiratorial. "She'd be quite cross should you choose to spend your eve alone in the study once more."
"I'll attend to the emotional needs of Ms. Cauthfield in time, James," the man draped across his darkened throne boomed, his voice resounding; his voice deep, powerful, and almost haunting in its own way, with a tint of broken at its tips. The butler sighed, peering into the fire with his master, as if seeking the sight of whatever broken memories and disturbed thoughts had brought him to this point in the first place.
"Have you been thinking again on the affair at Delshire Moors, Lord Beckham?" the butler asked, as if he already knew the answer.
"I'll not need to hear your lecture on the matter again, James," Lord Beckham groaned wearily, hoping to avoid a conversation his servants had offered him countless times since he left that dark place - alone, unwed, in a carriage of black, with rain raging across the hills, with the lord convinced he'd never find a heart to love him again.
"It's not a lecture Ms. Cauthfield and I offer, simply concern, m'lord. The both of us have served the family for more than a generation. We grew up with you, m'lord," the butler confesses, emotion sneaking into a voice tailored meticulously to appear blase and professional.
"My concern, is for why the headmistress of my house staff is in the kitchen, and not my cook," the vexed lord responded, clasping his hands in his lap idly. The thoughts wouldn't rush away - he heard the patter of the rain; he saw the flowered wedding bouquet he'd offered his dearest love, so long ago, trampled under the wheel of a carriage. He saw the letter she'd left him. The house staff had called her callous; cruel. He knew that it had been his own fault - for failing to live up to what he knew was expected of him. He'd never make the proper gentleman. Anna knew that. And now he'd spent night after night after night, rethinking all that he'd done - retracing every step, to see just where he'd failed. Why he'd lost himself, and why he'd never earn a woman's love again.
"No one makes the honey-braised loins just the way you like, except for her, m'lord," James insisted meekly. "Ms. Roth makes excellent stews and foods, of course. But no one does your favorites like Ms. Cauthfield."