Page 28 of Claiming His Lost Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #8)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“ G ood night, Mama,” Sophia whispered to her mother tiredly.
Joan smiled, amazed at how just a look at her daughter managed to render her free from her worries.
It had taken a lot, but when Joan finally excused herself to retire after dinner, pleading fatigue from the long day on Sophia’s behalf, she hoped desperately that there would be no argument.
Thankfully, Graham simply beckoned them closer, pressing a kiss to Sophia’s forehead and whispering to her something that made her smile.
To Joan, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, whispering against her skin, “Good night, darling.”
Joan felt her heart flutter in her chest, suddenly lighter after all the stress the evening had brought, her lips parting to return the sentiment softly.
As she left the dining hall after bidding the guests a good night as well, she hoped desperately that she might find some peace in the solitude of her chamber.
After she had seen to Sophia’s preparations for bed, she retired as well, eager to put the day behind her.
“Sweet dreams, my love,” Joan bid her daughter, pressing a kiss to both of her cheeks, before finally resting her lips on her daughter’s forehead.
After ensuring that Sophia had been tucked in beneath the covers securely, she retired to her room, finally.
She had barely begun brushing out her hair, the familiar ritual usually so soothing after a difficult day, when a soft knock came at her door.
The sound was hesitant, almost apologetic, so different from Graham's usual confident rap that Joan knew immediately it was not her husband seeking entrance.
Expecting perhaps one of the maids with some household matter, she was genuinely surprised to find Mary Lennox standing in the hallway. The older woman's earlier coldness seemed to have melted away like frost in morning sun, replaced by something akin to uncertainty, or perhaps even regret.
“Might I come in?” Mary asked quietly, her voice carrying none of the edge that had characterized her dinner conversation. “I'd like to speak with you, if you're willing to listen to what I have to say.”
Joan stepped aside wordlessly, gesturing for her mother-in-law to enter.
Mary moved to the window that overlooked the moonlit grounds, her silhouette elegant against the silver light that streamed through the glass.
For a long moment, she simply stood there gazing out at the gardens, and Joan could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands trembled slightly where they rested on the windowsill.
“I owe ye a sincere apology,” Mary said finally, her voice softer than Joan had heard it all day, weighed by genuine remorse. “My behavior at dinner was inexcusable, and I'm ashamed of myself for allowing my own... concerns to manifest in such unkindness toward you and your daughter.”
Joan remained silent, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected change in her mother-in-law's demeanor. She moved to the small settee near the fireplace and waited for Mary to continue.
Mary turned from the window, her eyes meeting Joan's across the room, and Joan could see the grief that had carved lines around her eyes, the sorrow that seemed to live permanently in the set of her shoulders.
“Would ye... would ye mind if I told ye about my husband?” Mary asked hesitantly, her voice carrying a vulnerability that hadn't been present before. “About Fergus, and what his loss did to our family?”
Joan gestured to the space beside her on the settee, her heart softening despite the evening's tensions. “Please, tell me about him. I should very much like to know about the man who raised Graham to be the extraordinary person he is.”
Mary settled beside Joan with visible relief, her hands smoothing her skirts in a nervous gesture that reminded Joan painfully of a similar habit she and Sophia shared, executed when they were uncertain.
“He died a little over five years ago,” Mary began, her voice taking on the distant quality of someone revisiting painful memories.
“Quite suddenly, without any warning at all.
He had been a little ill, but it did not seem serious.
The doctors said it was nothing to worry about, and we believed he was on the path to recovery.
And then one day he was there – planning improvements to the estate, teaching Graham about managing the tenants, discussing Isobel's education – and the next morning I woke to find him cold beside me in our bed.”
Joan watched the older woman's face, seeing the grief still etched clearly in every line on her fair skin.
“The shock of it nearly destroyed me completely,” Mary continued, her voice growing thicker with emotion.
“I had been so dependent on him, you see.
He had been my anchor, my guide in life.
Without him, I felt as though I was drowning in an ocean of responsibilities I didn't understand and grief I couldn't escape.”
Mary paused, staring into the dying fire as though she could see her past in the glowing coals.
“In the chaos that followed his death,” she said slowly, “I'm afraid I lost myself entirely for a time. I was so consumed by my own overwhelming pain, so focused on keeping Isobel from falling apart completely – she had just become a woman at the age of twenty, you see, but the way she was devastated by the loss of her father… It made her seem like she was just a child who needed her mother – that I left Graham to fend for himself when he needed guidance more than ever.”
Joan felt her chest tighten with sympathy as she began to understand the source of the distance she had sensed between Graham and his mother.
“He might’ve been old enough, but he was inexperienced in handling the weight of life.
More importantly, he was also mourning,” Mary's voice grew thick with regret, “But he stepped up without a single complaint to take care of all of us. He managed the estate, handled the finances, made decisions that should have been mine to make, all while dealing with his own grief over losing the father he adored.”
Mary's hands twisted in her lap, and Joan could see the way guilt had eaten away at her over the years.
“By the time I emerged from my grief enough to truly see him again,” Mary continued, “He had become this completely self–sufficient man I barely recognized. Strong, capable, independent, but distant from me in ways that broke what was left of my shattered heart. The sweet boy who used to come to me with his troubles and dreams had become a man who handled everything alone.”
Joan felt tears prick her eyes as she recalled the Graham she had mentioned at the inn years ago, the gentle way he had confided in her about his loss and the expectations now put upon him, wondering how he had managed to carry such enormous burdens while his mother retreated into her own sorrow.
“Grief changes us all in different ways,” Joan said gently, understanding all too well how loss could reshape a person's entire world.
“Aye, it does,” Mary agreed, her accent growing thicker with the weight of emotions consuming her. “But I let my grief steal precious years with my son. Years of closeness and connection that I can never reclaim, no matter how much I might wish otherwise.”
Mary turned to meet Joan's eyes directly, and Joan could see the sincerity burning in her gaze like a flame.
“Fergus made Graham promise him something before he died,” Mary said quietly. “Made him swear on his honor to find real love in his life. Not just duty or convenience or social advantage, but genuine, deep, abiding love – the kind that makes life worth living.”
Joan felt her stomach twist with guilt that was almost nauseating in its intensity. If only Mary knew the truth – that Graham had married her not from love but from obligation, to provide for his daughter and offer Joan protection from her desperate circumstances.
“When I heard that he had married so suddenly, without any of his family present,” Mary continued, “I assumed the worst. I thought perhaps he had been trapped somehow, or had made an impulsive decision based on convenience rather than affection. But I was wrong – so terribly, completely wrong.”
Joan struggled to find words that would be truthful without revealing the painful reality of their situation.
“Graham is a wonderful husband and an even better father,” she said carefully, the words absolutely true even if the foundation of their marriage was not what Mary hoped.
“Something he learned from his father, I'm certain.”
She took a deep breath, feeling compelled to add, despite her doubts, “This might not be my place to say, but Graham is such a spectacular man – so honorable and kind and devoted to those he cares for. I feel absolutely certain his father would be proud beyond measure. . I know…. That it seemed as though I was a mere widow who was lucky enough to find a man who would care deeply enough for her and her child. But truthfully… that is not the case. I have never been married — not before I met Graham. And Sophia is his daughter. She really is. I really hope that you will not longer worry about us or our circumstances”
“I appreciate you being so forthcoming about this. It means a lot that you would trust me with the truth. And I am sure his father is proud of him,” Mary said softly, her voice warm with maternal love and genuine admiration.
“As am I. And I am immensely grateful that he has found such a lovely family to share his life with.
You and Sophia have brought such light to his eyes – I can see it even in the short time I've been here.”
After Mary left, her parting embrace warm with newfound affection and acceptance, Joan remained by the dying fire long into the night.
Her mother-in-law's words echoed in her mind like a refrain that would not be silenced.
Mary believed Graham had found love, believed their marriage was the fulfillment of his father's dying wish for his son's happiness.