Page 14 of Inventing Vivian

“It’s not a duty to be taken lightly, giving back—contributing to society,” the duke said. “Your patronage is expected.” He motioned toward the mounted heads behind him. “I, myself, have been very involved in establishing a hunting preserve just north of Edinburgh. A man of your standing should hope to leave behind a legacy.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Mr. Wilson said.

“I understand,” Benedict said.

“Very good.” The duke stood, causing everyone else in the room to rise as well. “I thank you all for your time. And I’m sure you will each hear from Lord Covington soon.”

The men said their farewells and departed.

The duke remained standing. “Come along, son. Your mother is expecting us for tea.”

Benedict walked with his father back to the main floor. His head was spinning with all the new information. All his new responsibilities. He felt inadequate and frustrated and discouraged. He could never manage the duchy the way his father and Maxwell had. And he dreaded returning to his old life, his old lifestyle.

The duchess rose when they entered the conservatory. She wore black mourning weeds and a necklace of shiny jet stone. Over her face was a heavy veil, which she pushed back as soon as she saw them. She took Benedict’s hands. “Oh, there you are at last. Surely you’re ready for some tea after such a long council.” She motioned to a servant, who hurried away.

Benedict kissed his mother’s cheek and took a seat at the wrought-iron table. Behind him, an orange tree blossomed, its fragrance wafting through the heated air, reminding him of the citrus flavoring in his favorite Chinese dishes.

The duke sat on the other side of his wife.

“How are you today, Mother?” Benedict asked. His mother looked pale, the bags under her eyes darker. Maxwell’s death had been especially difficult for her.

“Well enough, dear.” She batted away a corner of her veil with a sweep of her hand. “I’ve had a letter from Mariah this morning.”

Benedict felt a jolt of sadness at the mention of his brother’s wife. “How is she? And little Rose?”

“As well as can be expected,” his mother said. “They remain in Somerset for now, and they’ve promised to visit at Christmastide.” She shot a look at her husband. “If only your father could leave his business affairs alone, we’d be home in Somerset as well.”

Benedict realized he was also responsible for his brother’s widow and their daughter. Each new duty felt like another brick loaded onto his shoulders. How could he possibly do it all?

“And tell me, how do you enjoy the house in Marylebone?” his mother asked. “A common little place, isn’t it? And so far away from high Society.”

“The house is perfect for me,” he said, thinking that his entire village in China could live inside it comfortably. “And it is less than a mile away.”

“Well, when you decide to return, we will be very pleased to welcome you home, won’t we, dear?”

“Certainly,” the duke said. He moved his hands from the table while Humphries set out the tea.

“And your little servant man as well, if you’d like.” The duchess sniffed and glanced toward the doorway as if checking to see if Zhang Wei were there. Benedict’s mother made no secret of her distrust of foreigners, and her snide references to his friend were one of the reasons Benedict had chosen to set up his own house in the first place.

“Thank you, Humphries,” the duchess said, dismissing the butler. She offered a plate of cakes to her husband and Benedict.

Benedict took one and set it on his plate.

The butler bowed and left.

The duke took a bite of cake, swallowed, then cleared his throat. “There is something of a delicate matter to discuss, Benedict. And I thought your mother should be part of the conversation.”

The duchess set down her teaspoon. She looked at her husband and nodded, then turned to Benedict. “My dear, you must marry. And soon.”

“Marry?” Benedict set his teacup down with a clank. The thought of marriage hadn’t even entered his mind. “Whom do you suggest I marry? I don’t know anyone. I’ve been out of the country for almost three years.”

“You must produce an heir,” his father said, impatience in his voice. “Life is unpredictable, as we’ve seen these last months. And I’ll not have this title fall to some daft cousin.” He leaned his arm on the table, causing it to wobble. “You must do what your brother was unable to and father a son.”

The duchess nodded. “Your father is quite right.”

Benedict stared at his parents, feeling like he’d stepped back in time and become Henry VIII. Discussing marriage this way felt so calculated and... medieval. He rubbed his temples. He’d hardly given a thought to marriage, but he did hope to one day fall in love, not just find a woman for the sake of the family line. The thought made him cringe.

“There are many lovely young ladies to choose from,” the duchess said. “Let me see... Helen Rothschild and Charlotte Grey, and what is Lord Mather’s younger daughter named? Priscilla, I think.” She spoke as if she were selecting a pastry.

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