Page 18 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)
CHAPTER 18
Charity
C harity was still making her rounds around the stable yard, with Ambrose on his lead, when she spied a familiar carriage approaching. The coat of arms—a bear on a blue and white background—was distinct, and she recognized it as her uncle’s at once, aware who was coming to call even before her cousin stepped out.
“Millie!” she called, waving at her cousin as she left the vehicle. Her cousin, a vision in her pretty blue gown that sparkled in the sunshine, waved back at her, the false locks fixed to the front of her head bouncing as she walked a bit too hastily toward Charity.
“My dearest cousin! You are still in one piece,” she exclaimed, embracing her. “And here is your beast,” she added, gently rubbing Ambrose’s muzzle. The horse, who had known Millie from his stay at her family’s country estate, leaned into her hand.
“I was not expecting you,” Charity admitted, though she was, of course, delighted to see Millie.
“I had to come and see you. You were so miserable, I could not bear the thought of you all alone in this grand estate feeling like you have no friend in the world other than your maid.”
“I am grateful,” Charity said, squeezing Millie’s hand while holding onto Ambrose’s lead with the other, “but now I have three friends. You, Jean, and Ambrose. It is just as well, for I shall need all the strength I can muster because I am to dine with Eammon tomorrow.”
Millie let out a faux cry of surprise. “Dinner with your husband! Surely not!” she gasped.
Charity used her free hand, which she had just used to squeeze her cousin in gratitude, to playfully slap her on the shoulder. “Do not make fun of me, or I shall suspect you have come here to gloat rather than to comfort.”
“Never! But you must admit dinner with your husband should not be such a dreadful affair. Has he made any efforts to make you feel comfortable?”
“No,” Charity replied, although as soon as she said it, she knew this was not entirely true. “Well, a little. Yesterday I went to my chamber immediately and had dinner on a tray. Today he was away with his cousin all morning. But this afternoon, he took me to the stable when Ambrose arrived, and he…split an apple for me to give to the horses.” She relived the moment in her head, focusing on how his muscles had flexed as he did it. “With his bare hands.”
“Is that so? How magnificently brutish!” Millie remarked, though her chuckle hinted that she was indeed impressed. “Well, apart from his physically skill at splitting apples, it seems he does care for you if he ensured your horse arrived promptly. Apparently, he sent someone yesterday to Hartford, and the man had to stay overnight at our estate so he could leave this morning to ensure the horse's delivery.”
“He is a confusing man,” Charity admitted. “He is so aloof and speaks in riddles, and is seemingly amused by this entire situation. Yet, on the other hand, I discover things about him that make me think perhaps he isn’t so terrible after all.”
“Things such as what?” Millie asked.
“Having Ambrose brought to me, of course. But also, he takes the horses into the village for the little children to ride once a month. He says it helps him connect with his tenants, and everyone in the household seems quite fond of him.”
“Well, he sounds like a true Mr. Darcy!”
“Mr. Darcy? Who is that? I do not think I know the gentleman,” Charity said. Having grown up mostly up north at Pembroke meant she was not as familiar with the aristocracy as was usually the case for a lady of her breeding and age.
“Oh, my dear cousin! I thought you were well-read! Mr. Darcy is a hero in Jane Austen's novel, Pride and Prejudice . He and the heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, meet, and at first, she finds him terribly proud and aloof. Indeed, he is a prideful sort at the start of the book. However, as our heroine comes to know him, she discovers that while he has done dreadful things—such as interfering in the romance between her sister and his best friend—there is more to him. She ends up at his estate and finds that the servants adore him and eventually sees the righteousness in his actions. They end up happily ever after. Perhaps you are Elizabeth Bennet, and he is Mr. Darcy.”
Charity let out a hearty laugh. “Well, whatever the case, he is a vexing creature! Eammon that is, not Mr. Darcy. As for my reading habits—I have heard of Jane Austen but as you know, I prefer to read gothic romances or tales of faraway lands.”
“I do know that, yes. In any case, I recommend the story—and I would argue they both are vexing. You will agree with me once you read it. But what is vexing about Eammon exactly?”
“He still has not told me what he supposedly protected me from, other than a dreadful marriage to Markham. Clearly, there is something there—he's hiding something. I thought perhaps I was needed to prop up his estate, but I do not think that is the case.”
“It is not,” Millie replied. “I told you he is one of the richest lords in the realm. I agree there must be some reason why he married you, but it may be as simple as him wishing to start a family to put the rumors to rest.”
At this, Charity stopped and turned. Ambrose, who had been quietly trotting beside her, halted and let out a disgruntled sound. She switched hands, holding his lead with her left hand instead and petting him gently with her right.
“Beg your pardon, Ambrose. We shall go in a moment,” she said before turning back to Millie. “But what are these rumors?”
Millie sighed. “You know how the older peers are. They must always have something to complain about. In this instance, it is the fact that your husband’s mother was Irish.”
“Irish?” she repeated, puzzled. “But I met her, and she did not sound Irish at all. It seems she may have had flaming red hair at one point, but?—”
“No, that is not what I mean. That is Lydia Hayward; she is Eammon’s stepmother. His father, the Duke of Leith, was married before, when he was in Ireland. Eammon is a product of that marriage. The woman to whom he was wed was Irish and died in childbirth, and for the first few years, Eammon was raised there. When his father returned to England, he initially left him behind to be brought up by friends of his.”
“But why?” Charity asked, puzzled that a father would leave his child behind.
“In those days, it was shameful to be wed to a Catholic, worse than what it is now. I assume he wanted to establish himself first,” Millie explained.
“Why did you not tell me all of this before?” Charity asked, still confused by this onslaught of information.
“Because I forgot all about it. Mother returned this morning and, on hearing of your match, she told me,” Millie explained. “She says people gossip about him due to his Irish-Catholic heritage.”
“But there are Catholics in the House of Lords!” Charity exclaimed. She pondered this detail. Could it be that he wished to marry in a registry office because he was secretly Catholic? She had never been particularly religious and therefore not overly concerned with the faith of her husband, believing that as long as one was a good person, they were destined for heaven, no matter if they identified as Catholic or Anglican. English history, in her view, had seen far too much bloodshed over such matters.
“Catholics have not always been able to sit in the House of Lords in the past. You know this. So if Eammon was indeed Catholic, it would have caused him issues in the past, but no longer. In any case, Mother says when he came here from Ireland, his father had him baptized Anglican and raised him in the Church of England. But you know how these men are—people do talk.”
Charity nodded. “Now I understand why he was so upset.” Millie frowned as they resumed their pace, the clip-clop of Ambrose’s hooves accompanying their walk. “Earlier, I was in his study. I will admit I was looking for secrets of some sort, and he surprised me.”
“Oh, Charity!” Millie exclaimed. “If you are going to spy, you must be far more careful!”
Charity chuckled, knowing her cousin was more concerned with her potential to be caught than with her actual espionage.
“Anyway, there was a portrait hanging there of his parents and his sisters with Eammon, and I remarked to him that he did not look like his family. He seemed concerned, even put out. I did not understand why, but now I do.”
“Indeed. He must take after his Irish relations and be sensitive about it. It would be best not to bring it up again. But anyhow, perhaps that is the secret he is keeping.”
“But why would a secret that is not a secret at all, since you know it, compel him to marry me?”
“To create a new generation, of course. A wife and a child raised here—a generation further removed from his origins in Ireland. And I assume his mother is giving him a hard time for it. He ought to have been married with a child by now.”
Charity considered this new information as they completed their rounds. Perhaps this was what Eammon had kept from her, though it seemed foolish. It still did not sit right with her that he had tricked her into this marriage. Not that she was as angry about it now, for thinking about what life would have been like with Markham—whom she would have been wed to any day now if her mother had had her way—made her shudder. He did not possess a beautiful estate like this one, nor would he have brought Ambrose.
Perhaps it was time she set aside some of her resentment, at least for the moment, considering the man she would spend the rest of her life with.