Page 25 of For the Love of Clover (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #4)

CHAPTER 25

E verything Clover had seen of the property was beautiful, warm, welcoming, and she could see why Hugo wished to keep it well for his family. In just a day, she had grown fond of his sisters. The shy, awkward discomfort of meeting her mother-in-law without Hugo by her side dissipated with every delighted smile from the woman. His family was precious.

But like yesterday, Hugo’s father was absent. The word eccentric had been used several times to describe him, but Clover wanted to meet him without additional input. Sometimes, one gets what they expect, and she wanted no other obstacles.

She joined the girls in the music room and listened while Grace played the pianoforte and Emma sang an Irish ballad which Clover had never heard. Phoebe seemed to be assigned for her entertainment and had planned to spend a week away from her husband to visit with Clover. Clover suspected it may have been to keep Grace from asking too many personal questions.

“Phoebe, I understand your father makes music boxes. Hugo has spoken of it on occasion. Is there any way I might see one?”

“Papa builds the most wonderful music contraptions,” Emma said between songs. “Each of us has one.”

“Does Hugo have one, also?” Clover’s curiosity was piqued.

“Oh, he does,” Grace said, with her fingers resting on the piano keys. “We all do.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“That’s because he leaves it here,” Emma said. “He says it’s too delicate to travel with.” Emma’s long brown curls were like polished mahogany. She was bound to have offers her first year. Clover hoped she would wait for the right one.

“But Hugo doesn’t live here. How does he enjoy such a personal gift?”

Emma added, “He comes home at least every other Christmas, except for the time he was absent for several years. But Mama won’t let us ask him about that.”

“He has important business which takes him away sometimes.” Clover felt the need to not only discourage the questions but to defend her husband as well. Hugo’s mother had to know the details of his three-year absence, but it was clear she didn’t want his sisters affected by it. Emma would make a come out next year, and Grace two years after. They didn’t need the worry of a past scandal on their minds while they maneuvered the war zone of matchmakers and husband hunters.

Phoebe had become something of a guide for her, but on the third day of her visit, with no news of Mr. Darrington, Clover decided to broach the subject with Phoebe. She had been married for over a year and was closer to Clover’s age, which meant they had more in common than anyone else in the house.

“You promised to show me the gardens. Might we do that today?” Clover asked Phoebe that morning after breakfast.

They donned their cloaks and gloves, and Phoebe and Clover made their way through the back property, where she was delighted to see a small labyrinth of low-cut hedges. Not one to get lost in, but a work of art. Many of the bushes were cut into shapes, and in the center of the maze, on a rectangle-clipped shrub, stood a topiary of a peacock. It was delightful.

“Hugo and I were almost lost in a hedge maze once.”

“How romantic,” Phoebe said, looping her arm through Clover’s.

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. We were just two people trying to find the way out. I don’t believe he would have ever found his way out had the hostess not given me a map. We traversed it together.”

“Is that where you fell in love?”

Clover’s heart skipped on the word, and she didn’t wish to lie, but neither did she feel the need to share everything. “It was the first time we ever spoke without an audience. I hadn’t anticipated running into him, but I believe he had come to find me to protect me from getting lost. How ironic I was the one with the map.” Then she thought how it must have sounded. “We’ve known each other since my come out.”

“Oh, so it must have been a long courtship.”

“Not in the least. We have mutual friends and were bound to continue running into one another. I guess it was a matter of time.”

“And then you fell in love.”

It was a statement, so Clover let it stand without comment, but she did change the subject. “I was so hoping to meet Hugo’s father. I’ve heard so much about him.” Phoebe’s steps slowed. “Hugo told me he’s unconventionally passionate about his work.”

“Well, that is one way to put it. Papa is a bit of a recluse, I’m afraid.”

“Does he know Hugo married?”

“Oh, yes. He was quite happy about it. I’m sure you’ll have the opportunity to meet him before your visit is over.”

“Phoebe?” Clover stopped and turned toward her new sister-in-law. “Is there any way I might visit with him at his place? Is it nearby?”

“He has a little cottage that he calls his workshop. And in truth, it is a workshop, but Mama has made it as comfortable as a home for him. He’s not always there. There are times when he stays at the main house.” Phoebe swallowed hard, her gaze darting over the ground as if she were considering something. “I wouldn’t ask Mama about him. She’s very protective.”

“I appreciate the warning.”

“But if you’d like to see him, I can take you there.”

“Oh, I don’t wish to cause you trouble.”

Phoebe gave her a thoughtful look. “I believe he would want to meet you, and he’s much better when company is at a minimum.”

“Was he always that way?” Clover hurriedly clarified, “I don’t mean to pry, but Hugo gets uncomfortable when I ask, and I do want to know you all.”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I believe it may have started with the late-century wars. Hugo was born during them, as well as our late brother, William who did not survive. I came along after Papa returned from his obligation. That’s Papa’s word.” Phoebe looked behind her and then back. “Since you are family, let me just say Mama worries someone will try to have him sent to an asylum. I believe that’s Hugo’s fear as well.”

Clover now understood why Hugo worried and why he didn’t say much. It didn’t sound to her like his father was a lunatic. The importance of meeting him multiplied her need to know. She persevered. “Can you take me there today?”

“I can take you there right now.”

Clover followed Phoebe to a cottage built not more than a ten-minute walk from the back lawns. The path was well tended and shored up against the weather with finely ground sandstone and measured stepping stones. The facade matched the brick and windows of the manor house, except it was one story with five windows. Indeed, a large workshop if that’s what it was. It looked like a retreat, a painting, with a large oak shading the west side.

She urged Phoebe to speak with Mr. Darrington first and ask permission to visit, which he agreed upon. Then, her remarkably wise sister-in-law made tea and left her alone with Hugo’s father. The quaint room looked like any well-furnished English salon decorated in shades of blue. She didn’t see a workshop anywhere in sight, although the house was big enough for one and more.

“I always thought Hugo would marry well someday, you know. And such a pretty one he found.” Mr. Philip Darrington said as he and Clover settled in for tea.

Clover felt the heat of a blush in her cheeks. But the reaction was more for his features than for his words because Hugo looked a great deal like his father. Even in some of his movements, the way his lip curled when he smiled and the slight dimple at the center of his chin. Although the entire family sported brown hair, Mr. Darrington’s and Hugo’s were a shade lighter. She began to wonder if their similarities scared Hugo. It stood to reason Hugo might feel uncomfortable if he thought his father’s condition was a hereditary mental ailment. Just that simple insight made the trip worth it.

“Thank you, Mr. Darrington. That’s very kind of you. Your son is a handsome devil.”

Mr. Darrington laughed. “He is. Isn’t he? I’ve always said so, you know.”

Even the way he ended a sentence with, you know, reminded her of Hugo. “And it was meant as a compliment for you because the two of you look remarkably alike.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that. You do an old man well.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know of whom you speak. I see no old man here.” She looked over each shoulder for emphasis. In truth, he couldn’t be any older than fifty-six, but she had to admit he looked a trifle more. Like a man who worried. A man who had survived something. “I’ve heard a rumor that you have a fancy workshop here.” The tone was playful and unthreatening.

“If that’s the only gossip you’ve heard about me, then I count myself lucky. You must wonder why I haven’t been to the house since you arrived.” He sighed, the only sign that this was more than an innocent conversation but one that perhaps weighed on him. “Catherine told me you were here, and she described you to me. I wanted to be there. I really did, you know.”

“It’s of no concern. Hugo has told me many grand things about his wonderful, inventive father.”

“Eccentric father. Now that I would believe.” He held up an index finger.

“He means well.”

“He means what he means, my dear lady. I’ve no delusions about my relationship with my son. He has never had it easy.” She saw his throat bobble as he turned his head away, his gaze vacantly wandering.

Clover had seen this behavior before. The fading out. The heightened joy was followed by what seemed like confusion but certainly was not. She had felt it in herself days after losing her parents. “Mr. Darrington, would it be too forward to request a tour of your workshop?”

His eyes lit up, and his smile radiated warmth and life into the room. Hugo had inherited his passion from the man. “Oh, I thought you’d never ask.”

He showed her to a large room filled with unending projects. Several tables lined the walls, with one high enough to stand and work at in the middle. Most of the surfaces had scattered bits and pieces of tiny screws, metal cylinders, sheets of flattened brass, small boxes, and watch cases. There were gears that reminded her of the belly of a clock, along with beautifully polished pieces of wood and snuff boxes.

“My word, look at this room.”

“It’s chaos. But it’s my chaos,” he said with unabashed happiness.

“Oh, no, I see the workings of a very talented, meticulous inventor.”

“You flatter me. I did not invent the carillon, which was the original name of such a device. But I like to think I’ve perfected it on some level.”

“May I hear one?”

He jumped into action as if he’d known her for years. The energy in his step could be measured by his smile. “Here is a new cylinder I’m working on with an aria from Mozart’s opera, Le Nozze Di Figaro. The opening in the last act, where the lovers and cast meet in the garden, is perfect. The notes are clear, distinct enough for a good go, and few enough to make sense.”

The pieces scattered on the table didn’t look very musical, but then Clover had never seen the inside of a music box.

“The cylinder rolls like this”—he turned the brass cylinder between his fingers—“and the comb pops against the pins that stick out through the little hammered holes.” He placed the pronged comb over the top of the cylinder. “And there you are, music.” He looked at her as if that said everything. As if it was as easy as all that. The sheer number of gizmos, gadgets, and gears told her otherwise.

“How do you know where to place the holes and what notes the teeth will play?”

“It’s like a piano. When you discover where middle C is, the music comes.”

She chuckled her response, “It’s that easy, is it?”

He made a thoughtful frown, tapping the cylinder against his chin. “I suppose I’ve been at this long enough to believe my own musings.”

“I love it. I think it’s wonderful, and I hope you’ll play it for me someday.”

“It would be a pleasure, my dear. Perhaps you’ll come for a long visit. This place is Hugo’s, for all intents and purposes. He sees to its care now. He could live here if he wished.”

She was under the impression Hugo’s father did not know the details of the finances surrounding the estate. It was clear those around him underestimated him. A plague that seemed to infect the misunderstood like a disease.

“Hugo has talked of living here on occasion.”

Mr. Darrington cocked a brow, and for a moment, it was as if she were looking into the cynical eyes of her husband. It was the first time she’d missed Hugo since arriving. “He’s never said so. How well do you know him?”

“I’m married to him. I suppose I know him well enough.”

“Well enough to know his peccadilloes?” The atmosphere was palpable enough to fog the view of cogs and wheels and even the excitement of this place.

“Yes. Our acquaintance goes back a long time, but our friendship is more recent, meeting again after his long absence from London.”

Mr. Darrington turned away with a nod, hiding a look of pained disappointment.

“I know he’s paid heartily for his mistakes,” she hurried to say.

“Too much so.” Mr. Darrington surprised her with that comment. “Does he think I’m still upset with him?” He sounded almost desperate. The back of his shoulders stiffened. His head at a questioning tilt.

“Oh, no. I think any resentment or anger he has is aimed at himself.”

“It shouldn’t be.” He turned to face her again. “He takes care of us all, you know.”

She smiled at his phrasing. “Mr. Darrington, you remind me so much of Hugo. His speech pattern is the same as yours. His smile, when it comes, is as bright. I believe it would be good for his soul if you told him you’re not angry or disappointed with him. He feels his failure so deeply. He’s not a man who likes to lose.”

“How well I know that.” He winked at her. “Neither do I. But Hugo knows. I’ve told him a hundred times. Or it seems that way. In truth, his visits are short and far between. Hugo saved us. Especially me. And I fight my own demons and guilt every day for it.”

There was more to this than either son or father was saying. Mr. Darrington idly picked up a tiny gear, rubbing it between his fingers and examining it as if he’d gone somewhere else.

She took a cleansing breath and soldiered on. “Five years ago, my parents’ carriage took a tumble on the highway, and they were both lost to us. Stratford, my brother, was old enough to take over the duties of a duke, but it cut his carefree years with his friends short. Friends he doesn’t have anymore. I don’t think it had to be that way, but Stratford is very methodical and takes his responsibilities perhaps too seriously. Which I can tell you was not good for a girl at her come out.” She ran a finger along the edge of the finely sanded table. From the corner of her eye, she saw him glance her way. “Neither was it good for the girl to be without her mother when she needed her most of all.” She looked across the table, her mouth twitched in a wan smile. Not quite there. Not quite a frown. “Everything changed for me then.”

He put down the gear and watched her intently but said nothing.

“My friends noticed it, too. I had been cheerful, taking such goodness for granted. As for Stratford, he went from being a brother to being the duke. I lost more than Mama and Papa. I lost my brother, my confidant, my friend. We are almost as strangers in some ways now. I rather retreated after that without even thinking about it. Of course, my friends, my real friends, stayed close. But the rest.” She shook her head. “The ideals of the ton and the tediousness of the Season made me feel detached, and I realize now how it was too much to expect everyone to understand something I didn’t understand myself.”

“Like pain.” His eyes were full of concern, shiny with unshed tears, piercing her with such careful intensity as if she were like glass.

“I could hardly eat for months after. All the precepts I’d learned were suddenly enforced, and the pudding had to be perfect before it was proved. I did a good job of it if I say so myself. But also at the expense of myself.” She laid her hands flat on the table and leaned into the conversation. “Mr. Darrington, pain is pain. Hurt is hurt. Trauma is trauma. Or am I wrong and just being a child?”

“You said that so well but missed it for yourself. You’re not wrong, dear girl.” He licked his lips. “I know some of this, too.”

She felt a unique connection to him. Something she saw in his eyes. Something familiar.

“I married the woman I loved. We had several months to write our happily ever after story. And we were na?ve enough to believe it would always be so. The love remains, I assure you. But I have seen things I cannot forget, even in my sleep. It’s why I stay here. It disturbs the only woman who could ever love such a soul. I don’t know what it is about you, but I am inclined to tell you some truths.”

She didn’t answer because she knew sharing such painful memories was something that should not be overly processed. Especially by others.

“I will say of all the men I saved during the revolution, I remember the ones I lost the most.” Silent tears lapped his cheeks. He swallowed hard. “And I cannot forgive that. Even my failure here does not touch that.”

“My pain cannot be compared, except to say you are not misunderstood. You have found a safe haven here.” She spread her arms. “And with your family as well. They adore you.”

“Oh, sweet girl, you’re not hearing me. You’ve yet to accept the lesson, so let me teach you.”

She thought he was going to admonish her for daring to say he was safe or to know anything about him at all. Much less to say it out loud. Her behavior was questionable. But also desperate.

“You already said pain is pain, but you don’t take that within you. Do you think the pain I experienced was more than yours? I ask you, what loss is great enough to claim then? There is always worse out there, and if that’s so, then no one has a right to suffer, do they? The truth is in the question. How much hurt, pain, suffering does it take to validate its reality? My answer is all that you feel. Every bit of your own circumstances is the full limit. That measure belongs to an individual heart. It should not be put on trial, but the world does it daily. People will always weigh pain and hurt, except those who have seen it. And you, my dear girl, have seen it.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. She had not thought to learn something about herself. She had accepted her life and plight and rarely talked of it because he was right. She had compared herself to others.

“You are stronger than you think. Remember, the king may need to be conquered, but his movements are few. You are a queen with the freedom to move anywhere. To keep safe, to make safe, and to sacrifice when necessary. Don’t ever stand still. Don’t ever forget that.”

She brandished a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, thankful she had left her spectacles in her room. “Do you play the royal game, Mr. Darrington?”

He smiled wide then. “Yes, I do.”

“Would you grant me a game sometime?”

“You come back, and I will have the board set.” He walked around the table and took her hand. “How did you know about me?”

“I didn’t until I saw your eyes. You’re right. I know the look, vacant and in pain.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “How can I help you? Can I do something to make it easier for you to visit the house before I leave? If not, that’s all right, I understand. I just want you to know you are welcome with all your feelings.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “As well you are. Hugo is a fortunate man. You are precious. I’ll come to the house soon, and we’ll visit more.”

“Another thing. I’m afraid I did not ask Mrs. Darrington for permission to see you.”

“Phoebe told me. Not to worry.”

As she left him to his life’s hobby and therapy, she said, “I must warn you that I am not very good at chess. I had mostly played by myself before I married Hugo. His game is superior to mine.”

“I will tell you a secret.” His eyes softened. “Hugo is better than us all.”

The meaning was clear. Hugo’s father was proud of him and thought him to be a better man than Hugo would ever accept.

She was beginning to miss her husband. Did she dare hope he missed her too?