“How did I never hear of this?” Lord Newton said, pacing up and down in the cramped quarters of Mr. Marchand’s library. He tripped over a heap of books and they slid sideways with a soft thump; he glared at them for a moment, then scowled down at his son. “How did I never hear that the Marchands gather every cripple, every dying old man or woman, every . . . every idiot into their household?”
Bert, sitting where he had to speak with Mr. Marchand the night before, gazed up at his father but didn’t respond. What was there to say? Over his life Lord Newton had dominated him, he knew, but the viscount was an overwhelming obstacle when once his ire was raised, and it had just been easier to go along with his father than fight him every inch of the way.
But something had changed. Anger was building in Bert at the way his father was characterizing the Marchands, whom he had found to be charming, if eccentric, and welcoming in an oddly heartwarming way. Though their life was perhaps not one he would choose for himself every day, he respected their decisions and disliked hearing his father’s demeaning assessment of their work.
He took a deep, steadying breath. “Father, the Marchands are kind people and have dedicated their lives to helping people others ignore. I was . . . well, I was surprised at first myself, but I’m sure after you have spoken to some of the people and—”
“Nothing will change my mind,” the viscount roared. “I am sorry now that I ever thought of Miss Marchand for you.”
“And I’m ashamed that I didn’t find her myself,” Bert retorted, rising. “For though I had seen her, I paid her no mind until you pointed out that she was nearing one-and-twenty, of a tolerably good family and single still. I’m a fortunate man that fate seems to have conspired to bring us together. That the Marchands rescued her mother and adopted her twenty years ago, and then that—”
“Adopted her? She is adopted?”
“Yes. Her mother died bearing her, and the Marchands adopted her when she was just days old.”
Lord Newton covered his heart with his hand and leaned against the desk. “This is a blow. Why is this not common knowledge? Is she trying to hide her antecedents? That is likely it; she’s of low birth and does not want anyone to know. Are the . . .” He paled. “The Marchands . . . they are trying to ally themselves with our family. Of course; why did I not see it before?”
“What? How can you . . . ?”
“Our name, our title, our family history!” Lord Newton, his smooth cheeks pale but with a sheen of perspiration, trembled visibly. “Oh, that I have brought this shame down upon our family name! There is only one solution, of course.”
Bert, stunned by the quicksilver shifts in his father’s mood and reasoning, stood staring at the man. “What are you talking about, Father?”
“You must find a way out of this engagement . . . or . . . or I shall do it for you. That will serve. I will go now and tell the Marchands that it has been a mistake, and that you shouldn’t suit after all.”
His stomach wrenched as if squeezed by an invisible fist. Bert cried, “You will do nothing of the kind! Father, I want to marry Miss Marchand!”
“But you can’t!” The viscount frowned and twisted his mouth in a grimace. “They may sue for breach of promise, but if they do we’ll find a way to keep it quiet. We’ll offer money. Or I will merely point out to Mr. Marchand that our family’s reputation will certainly stand up better than his, and that no monetary settlement can ever regain the girl’s reputation once it is bandied about that she has done something that makes her unfit for—”
“Father!” Bert roared and glared at him, clenched fists at his sides. If he ever felt like hitting his father, it was in that moment. “Hear me, and hear me well. You will say nothing to Sorrow, nor to her parents.” His voice trembled, but he took a gulp of air and steadied himself. “And you will leave this house and not come back until the day before the wedding. Plead some emergency or something, but I will not have you speaking to my fiancée the way you just have been speaking of her.”
“How dare you speak to me in that manner? I’ll . . . I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
Lord Newton’s face was a portrait of indecision, his eyes narrowed. “I won’t go. And unless you wish to enlighten the Marchands as to our subject this half hour, I don’t think they’ll see me ejected from their home when my son is marrying their daughter.”
“You have to leave! I won’t have Sorrow subjected to your venom.”
“Bertram, it is not venom. And I wouldn’t be rude to the girl. It’s not her fault, after all. This is as much for her sake as it is for yours. I should have done more research before I pointed her out to you. But just listen, she will not be happy in London nor at Newton Castle, not once it is known—”
“Father, we won’t be living either in London or at Newton Castle. Have you forgotten? Upon marriage, Hambelden Manor is mine. We’ll live there.”
There was silence in the library for a long few minutes. Bert could see that his father had indeed forgotten about his receipt, upon marriage, of his inheritance from his mother’s parents. He could do nothing about it. It was one of the reasons Bert had been looking forward to marriage.
“You will defy me in this, I suppose.”
“Don’t think of it as defiance, for that means that I should listen to you but won’t. In this case, Father, I think I’m in the right and you are wrong.”
“But the Marchands . . . our family name . . .”
“They neither sought the alliance nor planned it. Remember, it was all our doing; you first pointed Sorrow out to me, and I courted her and asked her to marry me.”
“Her odd name ought to have informed me there was something not quite right about the family.”
“So, will you be leaving?”
“No.”
“Then you must behave in a proper manner to Sorrow, her parents and the inhabitants of this household.”
“I am who I am, Bertram,” Lord Newton said, with the first glint of humor in his eyes that Bert had seen in a long time. “Have I ever, in your opinion, behaved in a proper manner? I think we define the word differently.”
Against his conscience, Bert smiled, but then sobered immediately. “I’m serious, though, Father. I will not have you embarrassing me with any rudeness toward folks the Marchands consider their family.”
“Fam . . . does that mean they will be coming to . . .” Lord Newton stopped talking. He shook his head. “I promise to behave in a proper manner, Bertram. But I will not leave. How would it look if I did?”
Hearing something in his father’s voice that he didn’t like, Bertram nonetheless knew his father enough to know that he would do as he said, to the letter. He examined the words for any subterfuge, any loophole that could be used to justify bad behavior, but gave up finally. He would have to handle what happened when it happened. Perhaps his father would be as good as his word, but he couldn’t help feeling that Lord Newton was not completely done with any interference.
“Let’s join the others, then,” Bert said. “The family gathers before dinner for a cup of tea, and it is a chance for you to meet some of the others.”
• • •
Sorrow, in the act of handing a cup of tea to Margaret, watched Bert and Lord Newton come into the parlor. From the expression on both of their faces, she would guess it had not been a pacific meeting, and in fact Margaret said she had overheard shouting when she passed the library.
In London Lord Newton had been very polite to her, if chilly in his behavior. Since that seemed to be his perpetual demeanor, though, she didn’t take it personally.
Bert crossed to her immediately, nodded a polite greeting to Margaret, and took Sorrow’s hand. “May I speak to you privately?”
Margaret curtseyed and moved away, considerately.
“I can’t leave the tea table, Bert, but sit by me here and talk to me.”
Her fiancés gaze followed his father’s perambulation of the room, she noticed. What was wrong between them? In London they had seemed to be at least polite to each other, but there was a tension here, like a wire pulled taut between them.
He took her hand in his and squeezed it. Just then Mr. William shuffled into the room and took a cup from the table, holding it out for Sorrow to fill. She did so and he ambled away to find a chair out of sight of the others in the room. Sorrow’s mother and father were engaging Lord Newton in conversation, but the viscount stared at Mr. William with an odd look on his handsome face.
Sorrow turned back to her husband-to-be, though, and examined his eyes. “What’s wrong, Bert? You seem overset.”
“Sorrow,” he said, turning to her. “If my father says or does anything to upset you, I want you to tell me.”
Alarmed, she examined his expression, still searching his eyes to try to understand his worry. They were dark gray now, and his brows were drawn down, shadowing their depths. “What did you and your father talk about? Is anything wrong? Is your father all right?”
Bert laughed, a short, bitter bark of sound that drew attention. He turned away from the others and said, “He’s fine, he’s just being his usual impossible self.”
“What does that mean?”
Shaking his head, Bert didn’t answer.
Sorrow watched Lord Newton. He appeared to be acting perfectly polite, but his gaze kept returning to Mr. William, who shrank from the piercing gaze of the viscount. That changed the moment Mrs. Liston entered.
Sorrow happened to be staring at Lord Newton and so saw him start, and his attention rivet. She glanced over and saw Mrs. Liston sweep in gracefully. She greeted Mr. William kindly, embraced Margaret, who gravitated to Mrs. Liston, often, as to a second mother, and then made her way to the Marchands.
Sorrow turned and said to Bert, “Do you see your fa . . .” She didn’t finish because he clearly had seen his father.
Lord Newton became a different man. He bowed before Mrs. Liston and his expression brightened from wintry to warmer, more like Bertram’s. Sorrow could see the resemblance between father and son now. In pantomime, from across the room, it appeared almost like a dance. He bowed, then he took the lady’s hand and kissed the air about an inch above it as introductions were performed. He then set himself to be charming with an almost physical zeal.
“Apparently it takes an attractive woman to enter to make my father behave in a civil manner,” Bert said dryly.
“He appears much more than civil,” Sorrow said with a giggle.
Margaret approached them and Sorrow tugged at her sleeve. “What are they saying?”
“Lord Newton was talking about some people he knows in London, but then Mrs. Liston came in and he just stopped in mid-word! It was the funniest thing!” She darted a glance at Bert and stuttered back into speech. “N-not that he was f-funny.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Margaret,” Bertram said kindly. “You may smile at his behavior all you like, for I have never seen the like, either. It is . . . interesting.”
Sorrow nodded and chimed in, “Fascinating!”