One
England, 1815
“Your Grace, the incident has been resolved.” His mother’s nurse spoke succinctly, eyes averted. “Your mother is resting now. The doctor would like to talk to you.”
The fire crackled as the silence stretched into several moments before Rowles Haywind, Duke of Westmore, acknowledged her words with a nod. “I’ll meet with him shortly. You’re dismissed.”
The nurse gave a quick curtsy and took her leave.
When the door to his study closed, Rowles let out a pent-up breath. His mother had grown progressively worse since his older brother’s untimely death. Robert, the late Duke of Westmore, had lost his life with several others in a fire at a party. The loss had cascaded through several powerful families in the Londonton, shifting the mantle of titles to several younger sons—himself included.
His mother, Amelia Haywind, Duchess of Westmore, hadn’t been well even before Robert’s death, and once she learned her favorite son had passed, what was left of her mind fractured into shards like broken glass. It was frustrating to keep her under the watchful eye of her nurses and doctor, but Rowles saw no other way. Left to her own devices, she would run stark naked through Hyde Park.
She’d done it before.
And she’d tried it again today before being thwarted by the footman stationed outside her bedroom door. But unlike earlier times, on this occasion, she wasn’t as easily persuaded to return to her rooms. The doctor had been called and had laced her tea with laudanum to calm her down.
Rowles stood from behind his desk and knocked on the mahogany surface with his knuckles. He released a wry snort of irritation as he looked to the door, then to the crackling fire. It had been hard enough losing his brother. His mother too? Wasn’t that too much? A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips as he thought how condescending he’d been to his students at Cambridge when they posed similar questions.
As a professor of divinity at Christ’s College in Cambridge University, he was expected to have the answers, or at least know how to pray for them. But even with all his knowledge, his study, and his researched answers, he was coming up empty on the questions that plagued his own soul.
A person could be crushed under the weight of it all. Yet maybe that was the unfortunate secret: A person never really broke; they bent till they had nothing left. Was that what was happening to his mother? Her mind hadn’t broken, had only become bent so far it no longer was able to think straight?
Worse yet, the thought he didn’t want to dwell on, the one that haunted his moments of weakness was: Will the same happen to me?
“Your Grace?” Himes, their new butler, bowed low.
Rowles tugged on his shirtsleeves, straightened, and forced the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. “Yes?”
“The doctor asks for you—at your leisure, of course,” the butler finished, then slowly rose from his bow.
Rowles nodded. “I’ll come directly.”
Himes stepped back from the doorway, allowed Rowles to exit first, then followed close behind.
The hall extended to the main entrance and then flowed to the grand staircase. The living quarters were on the second floor, in the western wing of the Elizabethan-era house. Built in an E shape, the house had undergone several renovations to keep it modern. However, the grand staircase and the location of the family apartments had remained unchanged.
Rowles took the stairs slowly, not looking forward to the conversation with the doctor. He was sure it would be a different rendition of the same advice: sedate her, keep her comfortable, post a guard at the door.
The white-haired doctor was frowning at the wooden floor as Rowles approached him. Upon realizing the duke’s presence, the doctor straightened, then bowed.
“Your Grace.”
“Doctor Smithe.” Rowles waited for the doctor to begin.
The doctor’s bushy eyebrows drew together, covering his bespectacled eyes. “I’m afraid it required more laudanum than I usually have to administer, so she will be sleeping for several hours.” The doctor paused, seemed to consider his next words. “The agitation she exhibited was abnormal. Was there perhaps some sort of event that troubled her?”
Rowles shook his head. “Nothing of which I’m aware.” Rowles studied the doctor. “It’s worse, isn’t it?”
The doctor met his look, and Rowles appreciated the lack of pity in his expression as he answered with a directness often absent in others. “Yes. And it will likely continue to progress, Your Grace.”
Rowles bowed his head with the weight of the truth. “Is there nothing to be done, then?”
“At this point, no. Unless you wish to—”
Rowles’s head snapped up, and he met the doctor’s stare, which had shifted to a look of wary concern. “Hell will freeze over before I send my mother to Bedlam. If there’s nothing else?”
Rowles didn’t wait for the doctor’s response, but spun on his heel, gave the doctor his back, and left.