A Dangerous Nativity

Chapter 7, Scene 3

For the most part, it went well, Will thought later. Sylvia, fortified by two weeks of dinners with the marquess, and mindful of Will's orders to be welcoming, had behaved. It didn't hurt that her new lady's maid had been watering her 'tonic,' gradually decreasing the drug's effect. Will determined to give the woman a bonus.

The evening began well. Randy and Freddy, scrubbed and dressed in their church clothes, followed a footman to the nursery floor, where Charles had planned more War of the Roses. Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy soldiers he had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.

Catherine made proper curtsey to the marquess and the duchess. The dress she wore, a lovely green muslin, flattered her curves and brought out the gold in her auburn hair. She would look spectacular in green watered silk. Will would see to it. He no longer had any doubts that Catherine would be his countess, her origins and Sylvia's nerves be damned.

Lord Arthur worried him at first. Stowe had stiffened showing him in, but Lord Arthur managed a sardonic twinkle. "It has been many years, Stowe. The prodigal has returned." He bowed to Sylvia, who seemed utterly bemused to discover her uncomfortable neighbor was, in fact, her brother-in-law. That she didn't know Will put down to Emery's pure negligence, if not spite. Sylvia eyed Catherine speculatively, but said nothing. God be praised.

"Is it as you remember, Papa?" Catherine asked.

"Oh, yes," the old man said. "You've made few changes, Your Grace." He looked at Sylvia sympathetically. Will suspected the old man must guess what it had been like for her, living with his father and brother. "Perhaps now ..." Lord Arthur's voice trailed away while his eyes scanned the gilt and ornate foyer.

Glenaire put his diplomatic and social polish to use, keeping the conversation flowing over dinner. When politics failed, literature worked. When the social season proved no interest to the company, Glenaire spoke of education. He and Will told stories of their boyhood at Harrow, and their successes, along with their friends Jamie Heyworth and Andrew Mallet, in keeping the worst of the bullying at bay. Lord Arthur seemed to find that reassuring. Catherine provided no input at all.

"Heyworth—a baron, if I recall correctly," Lord Arthur said.

"His father, yes. But the son is nothing like the father," Will told him.

"Thank goodness," Glenaire said. "Jamie lives on half-pay since Waterloo, but he served in the cavalry like Will for seven years, by all accounts, with distinction."

"You were in the army?" Catherine asked, suddenly alert. She searched him, as if assessing damage.

"Neither as long, nor as well, as Jamie," Will answered. "I sold out three years ago to take over for my father. He died six months after I came home."

"Did you miss it?"

"The mud and the horror of it? No. But I should have been in Belgium."

"Nonsense, Chadbourn," Glenaire said. "Andrew and Jamie were enough of a contribution to the wretched Corsican."

"Were they wounded?" Catherine asked. The compassion in her expression warmed Will's heart.

"Andrew was badly damaged," Glenaire told her. "He has gone home to Cambridge to heal. Jamie came through unscathed."

"In body, perhaps. Not all wounds are visible," Will said sadly. He caught his friend's eye. When he looked away, he found Catherine looking at him speculatively. Could he tell her about war? Most men would not; most women wouldn't want to hear. Somehow, he thought this woman strong enough to bear whatever burdens he chose to share.

Glenaire skillfully moved the conversation to the weather, always a safe choice. The impact of weather on agriculture drew knowledgeable comments from Catherine. A brief discussion about her father's work put color in her cheeks. She understood the publishing business as well as she knew wheat cultivation. She'll succeed at whatever she tries, Will thought proudly.

When Sylvia rose, the panic on Catherine's face brought Will to his feet. "We needn't be formal among family, gentlemen. I suggest we join the ladies for after-dinner refreshment." And buffer Catherine from Sylvia's company.

Conversation in the withdrawing room did not go as well. Sylvia's control started to slip, and something in the room bothered Lord Arthur.

"You were right, Chadbourn. Sometimes, a man has to face his demons," the old man said. "But if this room were mine, I would strip it of its furnishings and change it completely."

Catherine looked suddenly wary. She put a hand on her father's arm. Lord Arthur, however, appeared lost in his own thoughts. "This is where I told m'father I planned to wed my Mary."

Stunned silence greeted that announcement.

"He disapproved," Will said, and immediately regretted it, when Lord Arthur went on as if he hadn't heard.

"Beat me over the head." He pointed to a finely carved side chair next to the folded card table. "There used to be two of those. He broke one over my shoulder. Dislocated it. I never saw him again."

Lord Arthur looked around at the company and blinked. "I am sorry, Your Grace," he said to Sylvia, who had gone pale as a ghost. "Old history."

"Chadbourn, I... I feel poorly. I need to lie down," the duchess said, rising unsteadily to her feet. Will wondered, fleetingly, what ghost Lord Arthur's description of violence had resurrected, but he took her elbow to assist her.

He stopped and addressed Lord Arthur. They had come this far; he couldn't let it drop.

"Why? What did he have against your lady?" he asked.

Perhaps it was his use of "lady" to describe Mary, but Lord Arthur seemed to stand a bit straighter. "Believed the disgrace would 'taint' the family, as if we didn't have worse blots on our family escutcheon, as if my Mary weren't a treasure that would enrich any family."

Will opened his mouth to ask more, but Sylvia sagged against him.

"Come, girl, we'd best leave," Lord Arthur said to Catherine. "I hope you feel better, Your Grace. I'm sorry I upset your evening." Lord Arthur bowed correctly, but left the room without pausing.

Catherine looked at Will, perplexity and sorrow in her expression.

"We'll talk later," he said.