The Trouble with Honor

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DEATH HAD CREPT in when the Beckington household had least expected it. The earl had been at breakfast that morning, smiling as the girls talked about their plans for the day, and reminding Augustine, when he grew impatient with Mercy, that she was a girl yet.

A congenial Augustine had agreed and had turned the talk to the reception for Lord Stapleton that afternoon, pondering who might attend. Honor had wondered aloud if Grace was still abed after an evening spent at the Chatham residence. The earl had said she must be exhausted, having endured the unending stream of words from Lady Chatham.

Prudence had recalled a silly story about Mrs. Philpot’s chickens that had gotten loose in Grosvenor Square, and dissolved into giggles as she’d related how the poor woman had run after them, her skirts lifted to her knees. It had made the earl laugh until he couldn’t catch his breath.

After breakfast, Mercy had offered to read to her stepfather—truly the only father she’d ever known—but he’d smiled fondly at her and assured her he’d had quite enough tales of wolves who ate humans.

When Honor thought of that morning, she thought of her mother, not the earl. Her mother had sat beside her husband, quite subdued, staring at her plate. Had she sensed that death was so near them? Or had she slipped into the private world she increasingly inhabited?

There was one more thing Honor remembered about the last time she would see the earl alive. When she’d stood to go, she had leaned down to kiss him goodbye. He’d caught her hand in his and said, “You’re a good girl, my love. Never let anyone convince you otherwise.” And he’d smiled.

Honor had laughed. He’d been telling her she was a good girl since the day she and Monica had slipped out of the back of the church during Sunday services to meet a pair of boys. Not just any boys, mind you, but stable boys who were charged with looking after the parishioners’ horses.

“I think you are the only one who believes it, my lord. But I shall endeavor to remember.”

The earl had patted her hand, then had let it slip from his grip.

Honor wished she was the good girl the earl had always believed her to be. She wished she’d been a better daughter to him, had spent more time with him.

His funeral had been a blur of activity. So many people had come, so many embraces and offers of condolences. So many rituals and so much black.

The day after the funeral, Grace had left for Bath. “Stay,” Honor had begged her.

“I can’t,” Grace had said grimly. “We’ve no time to lose.”

Honor had said goodbye to Grace that morning, holding her sister tightly. She’d told herself that Grace’s plan was just as fraught with opportunities for failure as hers had been, and that by all rights, Grace would be home in a matter of weeks. But Grace’s departure had felt like the final blow, the last door to shut on the life as they’d known it.

Honor had stood on the street, watching Grace’s coach disappear around a corner. And even then, she’d remained standing there, looking down the street. Waiting. Watching.

For what, Honor hadn’t known.

She’d felt great despair that morning. She’d lost the most important people in her life in a matter of days. The earl. Her dear sister Grace. Easton.

Her disappointment was devastating.

Now it had been a fortnight since the earl’s death, a fortnight of grief so deep that Honor had lost her appetite and seemed only to eat when Hardy urged her to do so. It was nonsensical—Honor had known that the earl was not long for this world, had believed herself prepared for his departure. Nothing could have prepared her, however.

His absence was felt throughout the house. Augustine seemed anxious in his new role, and the entire staff seemed to be in the doldrums. Prudence and Mercy whispered to each other, their black clothing making them look tired.

But Honor’s grief ran so much deeper than her stepfather’s death.

She mourned George just as deeply.

Lord, how she missed him. And hated him, too. At least, she tried to convince herself she hated him. With his rejection of her, he’d reopened old, deep-seated wounds. She felt as if she were reliving the nightmare of Lord Rowley all over again. Honor had been destroyed by Easton’s rejection of her, and had it not been for Mr. Cleburne’s kindness in seeing her home, she’d feared she might have collapsed at the reception.

Since that horrible afternoon, she’d not seen George and had heard nothing of him. He hadn’t come to pay his respects, and even at the funeral service, she’d scanned the dozens upon dozens of mourners gathered, certain she would see his reassuring smile. He did not attend.

At the gathering after the funeral, she happened to overhear two gentlemen speaking of the war. One of them mentioned that Easton’s ship was missing and presumed captured or sunk, and with a chuckle added that his fortune had sunk along with it. Honor wondered if he’d truly lost his fortune, if he would be reduced to mean circumstances. She hated him...but she wished she could help him, too.

Her heart was whittled away by her hurt, and it had turned to dust. She could feel it—a powdery, insubstantial thing in her chest.

One gloomy, damp afternoon, as Honor and Prudence strolled about the square—they were desperate to be out of doors—Prudence reported that she’d heard Monica saying that she might wed within the next few weeks, but her mother had corrected her to say that likely she would wait another year, given the prescribed period of mourning for the earl.

“Perhaps in theory,” Honor said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t believe Augustine can do without her for a full year,” Honor said. “He’ll think of some way. Even if it were to take a year, how long will it be before Mamma begins to speak again and the words coming out of her mouth are as mad as her appearance? Her madness will affect us all, Pru. The only thing that has truly changed for us is that the rituals of mourning have added another complication to our lives.”

“I don’t want to say it, but...”

“But what?” Honor urged her sister.

Prudence shook her head. “I am quite worried for Mamma. I overheard Mrs. Hargrove and Augustine talking.”

A slight shiver of fear ran through Honor. “Mrs. Hargrove? Or Monica?”

“Mrs. Hargrove,” Prudence repeated, and glanced across the square to Beckington House. “She said that she worried for Mamma’s health, and, naturally, Augustine agreed. But then Mrs. Hargrove said there was a place in St. Asaph that could provide care for people like Mamma.”

“St. Asaph?” Honor said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Mercy and I hadn’t, either. We looked for it in the pages of the atlas. Oh, Honor—it’s in Wales! It is very far from London—it’s far from everything!”

Honor’s heart skipped a few beats.

“Miss Cabot!”

Prudence and Honor both started and glanced around. Mr. Cleburne was striding across the square toward them.

“God help me,” Honor muttered.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Cleburne said as he reached them. “I hope I’m not imposing. I happened to see the two of you here and thought perhaps you might like some company.”

“I was just saying to Honor that perhaps we ought to turn back. Mamma might need us,” Prudence said.

“But surely you might use a bit of fresh air,” he said hopefully, forgetting, perhaps, that London air was the farthest thing from fresh.

“Go and see after Mamma, Pru,” Honor suggested.

Prudence looked at her uncertainly, but Honor winked. “Mr. Cleburne and I will be along shortly.”

When Prudence had left them, Cleburne smiled at Honor and gestured to the walk. “Thank you, Miss Cabot.” He fell in beside her, his hands at his back. “I am grateful for this opportunity to be alone in your company, in truth,” he said. “Your family’s tragedy has necessitated my stay in London, but I really must return to Longmeadow and my flock there. I plan to take my leave a week from Saturday.”

“I’m certain your parishioners have missed you terribly,” Honor agreed.

He smiled sheepishly. “May I compliment you, Miss Cabot? I have admired your strength during this time of great sorrow. You’ve been a true pillar of comfort for your family.”

She hadn’t been a pillar of comfort in the least. She’d been stumbling about, completely lost in her grief.

“Miss Cabot, I...” He paused midstride. “Miss Cabot, I have come to esteem you,” he blurted.

Honor swallowed down a sudden lump of terror. “Thank you for that, Mr. Cleburne, but I beg you not to say more, as I am in mourning—”

“But that is precisely why I must,” he said earnestly, and reached for her hand. Honor looked at his hand. “I beg your pardon, am I too forward?” he asked.

She blinked. Were he any other gentleman, she would have laughed, for that question would have been a jest. But Cleburne mistook her hesitation for fear, and smiled reassuringly. “You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Cabot. I would protect your virtue as my own. Think of this as a touch of comfort.”

What Honor thought of was her night with George. In comparison to him, Cleburne was an unswaddled babe left in the woods.

Her silence made him nervous, she could see that. “Do you think that perhaps we might—after a suitable period of mourning, naturally—come to an understanding with one another? I’ll be frank—Sommerfield is perfectly satisfied with the idea. I know I am not a London dandy, or...or any of the men you might have consorted with prior to our acquaintance, but I am a good man, an honest man and I would cherish you all our days.”

Honor didn’t know what to say to him. She didn’t dare speak her heart for fear of angering Augustine or hurting Mr. Cleburne. But neither could she encourage him. She thought frantically as she pulled her hand free. “I can’t say that this...conversation comes as a surprise,” she said, and the poor man actually blushed. “There is much to consider, Mr. Cleburne. My sisters and my mother not the least of them.”

“Of course. They are welcome at Longmeadow.”

“You may have noted that my mother is unwell,” she said bluntly.

He smiled. “I would consider it my Christian duty to help in any way that I might.”

Of course he would. She nodded, her mind spinning, her thoughts on George, who had told her flatly that her love for him was “impossible.” She should accept Cleburne’s offer, should accept the truth of her life as George had so boldly told her to do, and yet...yet she couldn’t seem to shake the thoughts of George from her mind. “May I have a day or two before...we talk?”

Cleburne seemed a bit disappointed by her request but rallied gamely and said, “Yes, of course. One must thoroughly consider all aspects.”

Cleburne accompanied her to the house, but he did not come in, claiming he had some calls he must make.

She made her way upstairs, feeling heavy in her limbs and her heart, and walked down the long hall to her mother’s suite of rooms. She knocked lightly on the door; Hannah opened it instantly. Just behind Hannah, Honor could see Mercy, her arms outstretched, practicing dance steps as she hummed a tune.

“How is Mamma?” Honor whispered.

“The same, miss. Says little and hasn’t an appetite.”

Honor nodded and stepped inside. Her mother was dressed in her widow’s weeds, standing at the window, looking out over the square. “Mamma?” Honor said.

“She’s not listening today,” Mercy said, sinking into a deep curtsy.

Honor walked across the room and touched her mother’s arm. She started, then looked at Honor and smiled. “Darling,” she said.

“Are you all right? May I get you something?”

Her mother didn’t answer, just turned her gaze to the window again.

“Mercy, you’ll stay with Mamma?” Honor asked as Mercy twirled again, the black ribbons of her mourning dress flying out behind her.

“When might I have my dance lessons again?” Mercy asked, dipping and swaying to one side.

“When we have properly mourned our stepfather,” Honor said. “Where is Pru?”

“Playing another dirge on the pianoforte.” Mercy sighed.

Just as Mercy had said, Prudence was playing a lugubrious song when Honor found her.

“Have you come, too?” Prudence asked. “Mercy has already tried to persuade me to leave off.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Honor lied. “But I need your help. Will you keep an eye on Mamma this evening?”

Prudence stopped playing. “Why? Where will you be?”

“I have something I must do.”

“What is it?” Prudence pressed.

Honor really didn’t know the answer to that. She only knew she’d not accept Easton’s rejection of her. Unlike her experience with Rowley, this time Honor was certain of the feelings Easton had shown her, and she wasn’t going to walk away as if she had no say in it. “Darling, bear with me. I shall return by nightfall.”

“All right,” Prudence said lightly, and began to play again. “Do remember what the earl always said of you, Honor—you’re a good girl.”

Honor looked at her sister with surprise.

Prudence smiled a little. “You think me a child, but I’m not,” she said, and played a heavy chord.

Honor smiled fondly. “No, Pru, you’re not. You’ve grown up far too quickly.”

“Grace warned me. She said someone must remind you that you’re a good girl, or you will forget it entirely.”

Honor laughed. She missed Grace so! “I shall remember. But this afternoon, you really must bear with me.”

“I will,” Prudence said lightly. “I always do.” She smiled playfully at her sister and resumed her playing. “Have a care, Honor.”

As she went out, it was not lost on Honor that even the children were telling her to be careful now.