He doubted the doctor would suggest such a preposterous idea again. As if he could relegate his mother to within the stone walls of that institution legendary for harboring insanity. His mother wasn’t herself, but she wasn’t a danger. And she would be prey in a place such as that. Never had he been so grateful for the privilege of his rank. Because of it, he wasn’t forced to consign his mother to Bedlam, but could provide a better way to care for her needs.
A shudder racked his body as he thought about the implications that would course throughout the Londontonshould he make such a move. His mother’s infirmities were whispered and laughed about, but he didn’t begrudge the murmurings. They were all accurate, or at least mostly. It would be like a tiger without stripes if the Londontondidn’t gossip about a widowed duchess who had a bent mind.
But that didn’t mean he found it easy to deal with the furtive peeks in his direction from people wondering if the infirmity was in his blood. Though apparently that wasn’t enough of a threat to keep the mamas of thetonat bay when it came to throwing their daughters in his direction. How his late brother had dealt with such officious attention was beyond comprehension.
Rowles descended the stairs and returned to the quiet solitude of his study, welcoming the sight of shelves of books all well-worn with use and appreciation. Life had been so much simpler when his brother carried the mantle of the family title. Rowles missed teaching; missed it with an intensity that was too similar to resentment to be healthy. He would be a better professor now, he was certain. Life had taught him some harsh lessons, and humility had been one of the most powerful lessons.
If he’d learned anything, it was that he truly didn’t have all the answers. And maybe that was the greatest lesson of all. Knowing how little one knew. But damn and blast, it was a difficult lesson to swallow. His eyes drifted to the hearth, the embers glowing in the evening light, and he felt a kinship with the charred wood. Could anything be made from ashes?
He struggled with the answer that rose from his long study of the Bible.
Beauty. Beauty came from ashes. Perhaps his and God’s interpretations of beauty were vastly different. It wouldn’t be the first time. And unfortunately, it likely wouldn’t be the last either.
Two
Every man gives his life for what he believes. Every woman gives her life for what she believes.
—Joan of Arc, from “Joan of Lorraine” by Maxwell Anderson
Joan Morgan studied the two pieces of linen paper on her brother’s desk as she considered his question. One missive was written in broad, feminine penmanship with little care for efficient space usage on the expensive linen paper. The writing on the other was more linear, with clean lines and perfect flicks across thet’s and evenly spaced dots above eachi.
“Well?” Morgan, her elder brother and the Earl of Penderdale, asked impatiently. His Christian name was Collin, but she’d only ever called him Morgan. It suited him better, she thought, and he apparently agreed.
“Left. The one on the left,” Joan answered, then lifted her eyes to meet her brother’s gaze.
“You’re sure?” he demanded. He was so temperamental these days, like an irritated stallion constantly snorting and pawing the earth as if restless deep in his soul.
“Yes.” Joan nodded, then clasped her hands in front of her, willing a peaceful demeanor against her brother’s irksome one.
Morgan held her gaze for several moments before looking down at the papers and collecting each one carefully. “I’ll let them know.”
Joan nodded, not that her brother was looking at her, but out of habit as he slid the papers into the leather folder from which they had come. After closing the folder, he took a deep breath through his nose and met her scrutiny.
Joan sighed. She knew that look. Dear Lord, she’d dealt with that expression her whole life, and was certain she knew the lecture that was about to follow.
Holding up a hand, she tipped her head and met his look with a frank stare of her own. “Before you break into the ‘Joan, we’re playing a dangerous game’ lecture, please remember that I’m the one who’s anonymous, and you’re the one who takes the risk. So if anyone should be lecturing, it would be me giving the speech to you. And so help me, if you begin one sentence with anything regarding me being of the feminine sex, I will take this letter opener and—”
“There’s no need to threaten me, Joan.” Morgan’s look shifted into one of amusement as he deftly slid the gilded letter opener away from her reach. “You’re right—”
“Say it again,” Joan demanded.
“I don’t think I will.” Morgan lifted the leather folder and smirked. “I’ll be back this afternoon, long before we need to prepare for the ball.”
Joan folded her arms across her chest. “You better not be late. You think my warning with the letter opener was hostile, but I will do far worse—I’ll find you a wife.”
Morgan stilled. “Don’t remind me. But, since you did mention thew-word, I do believe it would be wise to remind you that since tonight is your come-out, less is more.”
Joan narrowed her eyes and tipped her chin lower, as if bracing for a verbal fight. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
Morgan shrugged. “I think you know very well. As it is, I wanted to wait a year, maybe two before you started this whole debacle—”
“I’d be on the shelf before I even had a chance!” Joan retorted. “Nineteen is late enough. There are ladies married at nineteen!”
“Other ladies are not you, Joan.” Morgan’s voice sliced through her argument.
She froze, then slowly nodded. “Exactly. Which is why I will be a sensation. Don’t you think? After all, I’m not simpering, limpid, and boring. I fancy myself to be fascinating, really. And I think others might as well. Having a secret always makes a person more interesting, don’t you think?”
Morgan sighed. “I know. Believe me, more than anyone else in the world, I know. Which is why I’m taking this seriously, as should you. Just…do me a favor, please?” He turned his brown eyes imploringly to her, and some of her bravado faded into affection for her now only brother. They’d lost Percy; all they had was each other now. She might fight Morgan, but in the end, she knew he had her best interests at heart, so with a nod, she waited.