Page 23 of My Darling Mr. Darling

At least Mr. Darling had left the reprimanding to her, though hehadsnorted his amusement when she had finally taken Mr. Mitchell to task, only to widen his eyes in a bizarre parody of what he must have assumed to be an innocent expression, blandly begged her pardon, and declared that he must have gotten a bit of biscuit lodged in his throat.

The deepening night cast shadows along the walls, barely nudged back by the flickering candles. The corona of light that surrounded her felt less like a comforting halo and more like a prison. It was times like this, when it was too quiet and too dark, and there was altogether too much time to think, that anxiety settled over her like a winter cloak, heavy and oppressive. She pushed her chair back from the table and reached for the nearest drawer handle—the one that Serena had had refilled with a massive stock of candles—and fished out a handful. Lighting the wicks off the still-burning candles on the table, she plunked them down onto candle holders and felt the edge of that terrible anxiety recede. Not all the way, but enough.

But the renewed light had not battered away her thoughts along with the darkness. They raced still in her brain without anything else to occupy her. Each day brought with it new complications, and a pervasive sense that she was letting slip her hold on her class—because Mr. Darling’s very presence rattled her to the core. The success of this school was paramount to her aspirations, to her security—and to Serena’s hopes, as well. If it failed due to her inattention…

She couldn’t let it happen. Shewouldn’tlet it happen. There were enough things on her conscience already without the weight of crushing Serena’s lovely, small dream added to them.

One of the candles guttered out, leaving a wisp of smoke that looked just as fragile and delicate at the last breath leaving the body, and for a moment when she inhaled, she smelled turnips and onions and the musty, dank air of the cellar—

Violet slapped her hands on the table top and pushed back her chair so quickly that the legs shrieked an alarm upon the floor.

A maid poked her head into the room. “All done, miss? Shall I remove your plate?” she inquired brightly.

Violet took two quick breaths, and a third slow, even one, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace. “No, Meg,” she said, and was proud of the smooth cadence of her voice. “I’ll do it.”

She needed something to do with her hands anyway.

∞∞∞

“My darling Darling,” the duchess said, with patently false sweetness, “how fortunate we are that you have chosen to grace us with your presence. Foronce.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he stabbed viciously at the slab of beef upon his plate—since it would be exceptionally poor manners to stab the duchess at her own table. “Your Grace, I wish you would not call me by that ridiculous moniker.” God help him if she ever used it outside this room. He would never live it down.

“Hmph,” she replied, her disapproval clear. “John, then—so long as it pleases me. You have been shirking your obligations.”

A frisson of alarm slipped up his spine. How could she possibly know?No onehad known. He’d gone to extraordinarily great lengths to keep his marriage a secret—

“It has beenweekssince you have joined us.Weeks, John!” She wagged her index finger at him, the picture of a disappointed mother. “Family dinners arenotnegotiable.”

John felt himself relax once more. Of course, he was not strictly family—but she had, more or less, raised him. His grandfather had taken custody of him after his parents had passed on, but it had been merely an obligation which he had been more or less forced to fulfill. It was the duchess—whose estate had bordered his grandfather’s—who had taken him under her wing when confronted with the reality of his grandfather’s neglect. The best years of his life had been spent beneath her watchful eye, growing up alongside her own son. Until that, too, had been stripped away from him.

Still, he owed her a great deal. More than he could ever repay. And all she had asked of him was the occasional dinner—which he had let slip his mind more often than usual just lately.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he found himself murmuring.

“Mother,” Alex sighed, “It’s a wonder John chooses to join us at all, what with your badgering.”

“Bite your tongue,” the duchess returned to her son. “I do notbadger. I merely encourage.” She said this with a little flutter of her fingers, and a casual shrug of her elegant shoulders which were neatly encased in a vivid emerald silk which set off the glowing blond of her hair. At Alex’s incredulous snort, she narrowed her eyes briefly upon her son, and then shifted her attention to Serena, presumably in an attempt to capture for herself a bit of feminine solidarity. “I ask you, my dear—do Ibadger?”

“Oh, no, Your Grace,” Serena said, staunchly loyal. But then, she and the duchess had quickly become like two peas in a pod. John supposed the duchess had had her dinner table dominated by men for far too long—and at least Grey had had the good grace to bring his wife to it; another lady to balance their numbers, and for the duchess to fuss over like a mother hen.

“There, you see?” The duchess said, as if she considered the matter settled. “I only wish you would join us more frequently, John,” she added. “Perhaps I am growing unbearably sentimental in my old age, but—I do miss having you about. Even Alex has only so much time for his poor, neglected mother. Though I notice he does not otherwise use his time to—”

“Secure the ducal line of succession,” Alex bit off. “Yes, I know. If you didn’t try to marry me off at every turn, perhaps I’d have more time for you, Mother.”

John tried—unsuccessfully—to disguise a laugh as a cough, earning himself a glower from the duchess in the process.

“Don’t tempt me, John,” she said. “I am not unaware that you also require a wife. You’re getting a bit long in the tooth.”

“Long in the tooth?” he echoed, incredulous. “Your Grace—”

“Now, now, if a woman is on the shelf by four-and-twenty, then surely a gentleman is on…somethingby thirty.” She tilted her head speculatively. “Perhaps the desk?”

“I rather like the sound ofon the mantel, Your Grace,” Grey offered, the picture of innocence—which didn’t suit him in the slightest.

“On the mantel,” the duchess repeated, testing it out. “Yes; I like that. You areon the mantel, John.” She sipped her wine, looking quite pleased with herself. “You and Alex both—can you truly blame me for endeavoring to tip you off of it?”

“Ican,” Alex said. “I’m quite comfortable here. On themantel.” He cleared his throat. “If we might—justonce, Mother,please—steer the conversation away from marriage? It is putting me off my digestion.” A claim that John thought was rather bold, given that Alex had polished off everything on his plate.