Page 128 of Oddity of the Ton
“For permitting the children to remain here.”
Mother stared at her—the girl whose very existence pained her—and Monty braced himself for another onslaught of hysterics. Then she inclined her head.
“You’re welcome, my dear,” she said stiffly. “My son is head of the family, and while I have every right to my opinion, I must bow to his judgment in all things.”
“Whether you agree or not?”
“Yes, Miss”—she hesitated, as if steeling herself—“Miss FitzRoy.”
Evidently as surprised as Monty himself, Olivia drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening at Mother’s address.
“Your Grace, I—” she began, but Mother raised her hand.
“I can never look upon you with a mother’s affection, young lady—you’ll always serve as a reminder of my late husband’s betrayal. But this is the season of goodwill and forgiveness. If you can forgive my bitter words the last time we met, then I’m willing to acknowledge you as a FitzRoy. I cannot promise more than that, for I’d be at risk of breaking my promise. It’s better to make no promise at all than to break faith with another.” She met Monty’s gaze, her expression hardening, and he felt his cheeks warming under her scrutiny.
“Thank you for your kindness and honesty,” Olivia said, dipping into a curtsey once more. “I think Miss Akroyd is in need of assistance. The children always get a little boisterous when they’ve eaten too much sugar.”
She retreated toward the children, leaving Monty alone with his mother.
“That was well done,” he said.
“You left me no choice if I was to avoid banishment from my home of thirty years. But the closer I draw to my final appointment with the Almighty, the more I understand the futility of regret.”
“That which you regret was not ofyourdoing, Mother.”
“Unlikeyou, Montague. I daresay you have much to regret. I’m a woman who has lived her life and is merely waiting for it to draw to a close. Butyouare a man with the power to do, and take, what you wish, without reprobation.”
She nodded toward the decanter. “Aren’t you going to offer me a brandy, at least?”
He reached for a glass and poured a measure before handing it to her. She lifted her glass and took a sip.
“I happened to pass Mrs. Swift on my return from the village yesterday,” she said. “She asked me to pay her respects to Miss Howard when I saw her next.”
“Oh?” Monty took a mouthful of brandy in an attempt to feign nonchalance.
“Even the staff ask about her,” she huffed. “Jenkins had the temerity to note that Miss Howard was the politest young lady he’d ever had occasion to meet, and that he’d have no objection to her being mistress of Rosecombe.”
“Whatever induced Jenkins to say such a thing?”
“Because I asked him.”
“Mother!” Monty cried. “Aren’t you the very last person to believe Miss Howard worthy of me—and of Rosecombe?”
“My dear boy,” she said, “you’re asking the wrong question.”
“Then what is therightquestion?”
“Whether you—and Rosecombe—are worthy ofher.”
Her words served as a wind to dispel the fog of denial shrouding his mind. OfcourseEleanor was worthy of Rosecombe. He had realized that weeks ago when he’d fallen in love with her. He’d pushed it to the recesses of his mind while he continued with their ridiculous charade. But as he’d grown to know her better, her character had emerged. Not the shy, foolish creature scared of looking others in the eye—but the extraordinary woman with a heart as big as any ocean, and a mind intelligent and independent enough to enable her to carve out her own path in life, if only the world would let her.
And he had pushed her into the arms of another.
“Why not invite Miss Howard to Rosecombe again, Montague?” Mother asked.
“And if she refuses to come?”
“Then at least you won’t suffer the regret of not having asked.”
