Chapter 42
Jacqueline murmured a quiet word to herself before composing her features into a mask of bright affection to face her mother.
“How has your health been lately, Mother?”
“Is that a genuine inquiry?”
“Of course! You are always in my thoughts—surely you know that?”
“A child like you hasn’t bothered to visit even once since the day you left,” the Countess replied, her tone as biting as a winter gale. “It was as if you couldn’t wait to escape me. I assumed I had been wiped from your memory entirely.”
Jacqueline’s expression clouded with a touch of melancholy. “Mother…”
Beside them, her aunt gave Jacqueline’s hand a brief, supportive squeeze before letting go, a silent plea for her to remain patient.
Jacqueline nodded, forcing another smile to her lips. In a soft, soothing whisper, she asked, “Have you been diligent with your medicine?”
“Medicine?”
The Countess of Somerset’s voice turned dangerously sharp. She snapped an irritable look toward her daughter.
“Medicine! If anyone heard you, they’d think I’d lost my mind! I am perfectly well. I have no need for such things!”
Watching her mother react with such sudden, snarling hostility, Jacqueline realized she had blundered. Her mother viewed sedatives as a mark of shame, a weakness that would invite the world’s ridicule if discovered.
As their eyes met, her aunt shook her head subtly—perhaps a warning that the topic was forbidden, or an admission that the medicine had long been ignored.
Jacqueline looked at her mother’s gaunt, hollow-eyed face and tried a more casual approach. “I’ve sent a letter every week. Did they not reach you?”
“And you believe a few scraps of paper fulfill your daughterly obligations? How convenient for your conscience! This isn’t the edge of the world; it’s only a few hours from the capital. Could you truly not spare a single afternoon to show your face? It wasn’t a lack of time that kept you away, Jacqueline—it was a lack of heart.”
Jacqueline bit back the retort that the journey was still hundreds of miles. Instead, she moved to soothe her. It often felt as though their roles were inverted; the daughter acted as the mother, much in the same way Jacqueline sometimes felt more like a mentor than a mere employee to young Benjamin.
“I cannot simply come and go as I please without the Marquess’s consent. You understand the constraints of being a governess.”
“A convenient shield to hide behind! You have no conception of the nightmare my days have become. Are you forsaking me as well? If even you turn your back on me, Jackie, I shall have no reason left to live.”
The Countess’s voice was thin and wavering, her words carrying the weight of a threat. Jacqueline moved forward, pulling her mother into a gentle, quiet embrace.
“I would never leave you. I am working tirelessly so that I might eventually afford a small place in the capital. When I do, I will come and bring you home with me.”
“Get off me!”
The Countess shoved Jacqueline away with startling force, her eyes turning glacial. Stunned by the sudden rejection, Jacqueline could only stare.
“A small room?” her mother hissed, her voice trembling with indignation. “Do you have any idea what society would say? You seek to drag my name through the mud! You might as well demand I end my life right now!”
“Mother…”
A weary sigh escaped Jacqueline. Her aunt merely shook her head with a look of quiet resignation. Jacqueline looked down at the frail woman before her. Her mother was still desperately clinging to the fantasy of a grand return to high society, dreaming of the day she would be the Countess of Somerset once more. It was that delusion that made her current circumstances feel like an intolerable fever dream.
Stepping back, Jacqueline spoke with a blunt, detached honesty. “We are no longer the illustrious Somerset family. You have to face the truth, Mother. We have no estate, no servants, and no wealth. That life is gone forever.”
“No, it will return,” the Countess insisted with chilling certainty.
Jacqueline, mid-sigh, noticed a strange glint in her mother’s eyes that made her brow furrow. Suddenly, the memory of the forged letter—the lie that had lured her here—resurfaced.
Why go to such lengths? Why lie about a fatal illness just to force my return?
A cold realization began to dawn. Jacqueline’s gaze sharpened as she looked her mother in the eye.
“What is really happening here? Tell me the truth—why did you summon me?”
The Countess met her daughter’s gaze coldly. She lifted her chin with a flicker of her old, haughty pride, and for the first time, a thin smile touched her pale lips.
“There is someone who wishes to see you, Jackie. Someone with the power to restore everything we have lost.”
A shiver of primal dread raced down Jacqueline’s spine. She instinctively recoiled, stepping further away.
The Countess’s smile only widened.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, replaced by a full moon climbing the eastern sky. The hour of the ball had arrived.
Windsor stepped out of his carriage, methodically fastening the buttons of his jacket. Beside him, Roman spoke in a low, tense whisper.
“I am well aware of your distaste for these affairs, my lord, but could you at least attempt a pleasant expression? Unless, of course, your goal is to provoke a quarrel with our host, Baron Haines.”
Windsor didn’t bother to answer. He moved forward, pulling a gold watch from his pocket to check the time.
“They ought to have arrived by now.”
“I beg your pardon? Who? Are you expecting a guest?” Roman asked, hurrying to keep pace.
Windsor remained silent, his mind occupied only by the arrival schedule of the train bound for Southfield.
“I’ll be waiting in the carriage. Do try to enjoy yourself!”
Ignoring Roman’s parting words, Windsor entered the manor. A liveried servant directed him toward the drawing room.
“Ah, the Marquess of Preston!” Baron Haines cried out, his face lighting up with genuine surprise. The surrounding noblemen turned to stare, their whispers rippling through the room.
“Is that truly Lord Preston?”
“Him, at a ball? Has the world turned upside down?”
Unmoved by the scrutiny, Windsor offered a curt greeting and a brief handshake to his host. “My congratulations on Thunderbolt’s victory, Baron.”
“Thank you! Ha! With a horse like that, the season championship is within my grasp. Come, come this way, my lord. I had no idea you followed the races. I could introduce you to several fine specimens—impeccable bloodlines, I assure you.”
The Baron was clearly in high spirits, his face flushed from several celebratory toasts.
Windsor, however, had no interest in the festivities, the dancing, or the spirits. He was here only because Baron Haines possessed a formidable network within the legal profession. Cultivating this connection was a means to secure a top-tier legal recommendation.
One hour should suffice, Windsor calculated, engaging in the expected pleasantries with the men nearby. He didn’t need to dominate the conversation; he merely followed the advice Jacqueline had once given him: a simple nod was often enough.
“Don’t just sit there like a statue,” she had scolded him. “Offer a compliment here and there. People love to be praised. Everyone has something they want to brag about—you just have to give them the opening.”
Recalling her voice, Windsor turned to Viscount Jeffman. “I understand your merchant fleet recently saw record-breaking returns. My congratulations.”
The Viscount blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected flattery from the normally distant Marquess. He quickly beamed, eager to share his success. “You are too kind, my lord! It was a stroke of luck, truly. I brought in a new line of imports, and the demand has been quite extraordinary…”
As Jeffman delved into his tale, a servant announced the commencement of the ball.
“The festivities are beginning. Please, make your way to the ballroom.”
The gentlemen abandoned their cigars and rose. Those with ladies waiting in the tea room went to escort them, while Windsor walked the long hallway alone. Even in solitude, his presence was commanding, drawing a sea of astonished glances.
Inside the ballroom, Windsor retreated to a quiet corner. Baron Haines delivered a brief welcoming speech, and as the final words left his lips, the orchestra began to play.
The room became a whirl of activity as partners were sought and dances began. Windsor stood still, a glass of champagne in hand, watching the guests move like silver fish in a stream. He was profoundly bored. The appeal of such events remained a mystery to him.
His thoughts drifted back to Jacqueline. He wondered if she had reached her destination safely and if her mother’s condition had truly improved. He imagined her there, perhaps struggling through a difficult conversation, her jaw set in that stubborn way she had when she was trying not to cry.
She’ll need a handkerchief.
He remembered the gift sitting in his desk drawer and felt a pang of regret for not giving it to her sooner. The memory of her smiling at Evan Knox caused a cold knot to tighten in his stomach—a reaction that defied his usual logic. He felt the same strange, suffocating sensation when he saw her suffering in silence.
What was this impulse he couldn’t name?
Windsor watched the dancers with an indifferent gaze, lost in his internal conflict. He was not a man of sentiment, yet she had a way of stirring his emotions—both the dark and the light.
“Good evening, Lord Preston.”
The cheerful greeting broke his concentration. He turned to find a striking woman with vibrant auburn hair styled to perfection, smiling up at him.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Windsor said, his voice cool and detached. “Have we met?”
The woman’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning with even more warmth. “I am Elizabeth Greenwood, daughter of Count Greenwood.”
“A pleasure, Miss Greenwood.”
Elizabeth’s brow twitched, her eyebrows knitting together briefly. “This isn’t exactly our first encounter. I was at Master Benjamin’s birthday celebration recently. I saw you there, though we didn’t have the opportunity for a formal introduction.”
“I see. I appreciate your attendance. I shall pass along your regards to Benjamin.”
Elizabeth blinked in surprise. The rumors suggested the Marquess was a man of zero social graces, yet his manner was perfectly civil. It was a reminder that society gossip was rarely accurate.
