She tensed, her red curls dancing over shoulders as she glanced to the left, to the small doorway leading to the parlor. “Coming, Mama.”
Without a word, she strode into the small room.
He stood silently, then pursued. What else could he do, unless he remained like some errant fixture in the hall?
He had no idea what he would find, but the small faded woman taking up so little space upon a worn chaise lounge tucked by the fire was not it. The woman appeared old. Far too old to be Ophelia’s mother. She seemed to be folded in on herself, a doll of a woman wrapped up in a thick quilt. Soft silvery curls framed her wrinkled face. But the wrinkles and slightly hard look to the older woman’s features didn’t seem like the wear of a long life.
Instead, it seemed illness and the cruel hand of ever-present pain had engraved itself upon her face.
Her blue eyes peered at him, the pupils pinpricks. She smiled softly, trusting. “Who is this?” Her voice whispered through the room, as frail as her small body.
She didn’t even notice Ophelia’s strange dress.
Ophelia knelt beside her and cupped her mother’s folded hands in her own. “Viscount Stark, Mama.”
The older woman blinked down at her daughter, not understanding, but she was clearly pleased by her daughter’s presence. Those eyes of hers looked about, but were in a state of waking dreaming.
Poppy.
There was no question. The woman was consuming large quantities of laudanum, which of course meant she was indeed in a great deal of pain. If he was correct, it certainly explained the tension in her face and the withered state of her body.
He shifted on his feet, suddenly realizing that his quest to shove into Ophelia’s life might have been truly ill-advised. His own throat was closing in the tiny space. He’d told her he wished to help shoulder her burdens. Suddenly, he felt unwilling, afraid of slipping back into memories of a different room, of a different ill mother. He swallowed. A mother who had not cared for him at all.
Ophelia smiled gently. “I was walking by the river and tripped in. Of course, I got quite wet. Very silly of me, but Viscount Stark happened along and offered assistance.”
“Ah.” Her mother nodded, finding nothing particularly odd in her daughter’s unorthodox activities. “Introduce us, my dear.”
Ophelia turned her glance from her mother up to Andrew. “Lord Stark, may I present my mother, the Dowager Countess Lady Darlington.”
Anything witty he might have had to say to the older lady— and he was known for his ability to charm such creatures—disappeared. Dowager countess? That made Ophelia Lady Ophelia. What the devil was a dowager countess doing in such a hovel?
Darlington? He had heard of the earl but had never come face-to-face with him or taken an interest in the affairs of that family.
Clearly, the present earl was not interested in caring for the last earl’s family. He bowed, determined to show respect, and stretched out his hand toward Ophelia’s mother.
Lady Darlington placed her papery thin fingers in his and allowed him to bow over her hand. “My lady, it is a pleasure to meet the mother of such a charming and beautiful young woman. You must be the origin of such blessings.”
Lady Darlington beamed at his compliment, apparently capable of fairly sharp observation despite the laudanum. “Terrible young man. I know what a sight I am. But I appreciate your kindness all the same.” She held on to his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “Ophelia, my love. Tea for the viscount.”
“Mama, I am sure. . .”
“I should like nothing better,” he said quickly.
Ophelia sent him another quick scowl before standing and heading for the door. She raised a brow at him. “Now don’t tire her out.”
“Don’t fuss, my dear. I’ve done nothing but nap all morning as it is.”
Ophelia’s terse expression softened into a genuine, soft smile at her mother, changing her emerald gaze into a sort of gentle embrace. “Yes, Mama.”
Ophelia disappeared, and he was left standing with the decided impression that there were no servants in this small house to look after these women. Which meant his Ophelia worked like a scullery maid. It hardly seemed possible as he began to go down the list of things she likely accomplished in a day to keep the little cottage clean and her mother in as much comfort as possible.
“Now, sit down.” Lady Darlington tugged lightly at his hand, indicating the dark blue stuffed chair only a few feet opposite herself. “You are a veritable tower of masculinity, far too overwhelming for an old lady such as myself.”
He eyed Lady Darlington, receiving the distinct impression that she was not only
not
overwhelmed, but that she was on a mission of sorts. “Do forgive me.”
He took his seat, bending his knees a bit more than he usually would in the hopes he might fit in the toy-like room, then waited for her to begin.
Lady Darlington reached forward slightly and patted his hand. “My daughter is very beautiful.”
“She is,” he admitted carefully. “Though she is not classically so, very few are as beautiful as she.”
Lady Darlington nodded, perhaps to herself. Her fingers lay lightly on his. “She has a particular dream.”
“She does?” Andrew adjusted his position, wondering what tack the dowager was taking. Surely she was not about to propose some sort of sudden alliance. Though, given their obviously poor financial state—
She cleared her throat, pulled back her hand, then folded her fingers primly in her lap. “It is obvious you are a gentleman of means.”
“My lady—”
“Hush now,” she reprimanded gently. “I must say this. Lord knows when I should get the chance again. My daughter’s dreams. They have been crushed by my illness and the earl, her half-brother’s, hate of me. She deserves far more than to be my care-taker and to live out her life in this back of beyond with no one to recognize her.”
Andrew paused and couldn’t help taking in the small room. With Ophelia in the skirts of today’s fashion, the three of them would barely fit in the parlor. The chaise lounge, the chair he sat upon by the minuscule fireplace, a stool in the corner, and a miniature round table of polished walnut were the only real pieces of furniture that the room could bear. Imagination didn’t allow for how austere the rest of the house must be since, traditionally, the parlor was the best room. “I’m sure she does not see her care of you a burden—”
“She may not, but that is what it is. When I fell ill, Ophelia had been in London. She’d begun work with Mr. Ruskin, and there was some talk of her working as a model whilst she studied drawing.”
“An artist’s model?” he echoed. Some ladies did model. The socially powerful and influential art critic Mr. Ruskin allowed his wife, a fixture at court, to model, but so often prostitutes were used. Still, Ophelia had a look that one might wish to immortalize.
“You needn’t sound shocked at her desires. Ophelia has a sensibility, a soul which few young women her age have.” A shadow crossed over Lady Darlington’s face. “She feels my illness very deeply. For many reasons. You see, she is trapped by it, and I think that hurts her more than anything.”
Ophelia’s captivating melancholy made all too much sense now.
Andrew drew in a slow breath, unable to fathom what the dowager might propose, but it was undeniable that a hunger to make Ophelia feel anything but that sorrow he’d seen within her was building inside him. And it just so happened that not only was he a patron of the arts in his own right, he knew almost all the artists in London quite well, including the infamous critic Ruskin. “What is it you suggest?”
She leveled him with a serious stare. “Take her to London with you.”
Andrew blinked. “That is hardly appropriate.”
“Bugger appropriate.” Lady Darlington shook her head, as if disappointed in him. “I can see that you are hardly an appropriate man, despite your title. And though my sight may be failing me, I do see the way you look at her.”
“And seeing this, you would still have me take her?” he scoffed. “You are asking for your daughter’s ruination?”
“No,” she corrected. “I am asking for her liberation from this poor prison. When I die, she will have nothing.” Her hands worried at the blanket on her lap, betraying the fear she felt for her daughter. “Not even the money to pay for this cottage. Her half-brother, the earl, ensured that. He hates me so much, poor man. What will befall her then?”
The words and bizarre logic coming from Lady Darlington could hardly be countenanced. He was not familiar with their circumstances, but it was clear they were dire and that Ophelia’s mother most likely had a disease from which she would not recover. And, apparently, the half-brother who did have the means to rescue them did not care or, worse, purposefully meant them to live thus.
It had to be so, for what mother would thrust her daughter so quickly, so assuredly into the hands of a man who might use her ill? “Madam, you do not know me—”
“I do.”
“I beg your pardon?” That stopped him. The surety of her voice had cut through the room as confidently as any well-tested blade might.
“I see inside you, my lord.” A soft smile played at her lips, one that bore all too much knowledge. No crushed flower was this woman. In that smile, in her withering gaze was an understanding of the world not many ever obtained. “I see that you would not hurt my daughter any more than you would destroy a butterfly that settled upon your sleeve. You have the heart of a good man.”
And the soul of one who’d left that good heart behind long, long ago. Yet he couldn’t find the strength to dash her plea. “This is madness.”
“You look a trifle touched by lunacy’s brush. Given such, I do not think a mad venture will deter you.” A silver brow arched in challenge. “In fact, it appeals to you.”
Was he that transparent? Was it so clear that he searched for anything to fill the void that had become his life? He glanced to the open door, half-expecting to see Ophelia there.
Before he could allow himself to think, to weigh the consequences, he spoke. “I will do as you ask.”
A deep sigh passed Lady Darlington’s thin lips, her whole body easing from the tension that had held it so rigidly. “Thank you, my lord. My gratitude is so great, I don’t think I could ever convey it.”
“Do not thank me too quickly,” he warned. “We have no idea how this scheme will play out. Or whether she will accept.”
“Oh, she will. If it’s the last thing I do, my daughter will not die here with me, in this forgotten corner of the world.”
And at those words, he knew he couldn’t let either of them die here. Not while he, too, had breath in his body.
Things were about to change.
For all of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
Salvation always comes at a cost.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Ophelia gripped the tea tray with both hands, staring down at the cake that was only slightly larger than a crumb. She’d been looking forward to her Lilliputian-sized slice, but she’d give it over to the lord, as he was their guest. Still, it irked. She wanted him to leave and to leave quickly. Surely, when he departed, her strange feeling of unease, that spark of a traitorous longing for something different, would disappear.
And she wanted her cake.
But one couldn’t have everything they wanted. She’d learned such things the very hard way. Why, a few moments in their tatty home, and he’d no doubt depart without any urging on her part.
She’d seen it among the members of their old life, gentlemen and ladies who’d known them when they lived in a grand manor house in Devon, hosting balls, fetes, and hunting parties. All those lords and ladies had taken one look at their horrid little run-down cottage, twitched their noses, murmured condolences at their reduced circumstances, then departed, never to be seen again.
This one would be the same.
For some silly reason, she glanced down at her plain, pale-blue frock that she’d quickly shrugged on while waiting for the water to boil. The cloth, drape, and cut were so ridiculously simple it pained her. The stitching was also slightly askew. . . Because she’d made it herself, and she had always loathed sewing.
Still, they hadn’t had the funds for ample cake, let alone a seamstress, this year. Swallowing back her embarrassment, she turned the corner with the tea tray and nearly stumbled at the sight of her mother and the scandalous-looking viscount in seemingly secretive discourse.
Lady Darlington seemed positively invigorated.
She gave her mother a careful look. “You two look as if you are planning to overthrow the crown.”
Her mother grinned. “Well, forgive me, but Victoria Regina is a bit tedious.”
Ophelia sucked in a sharp breath, unable to find such a comment amusing. Certain things might be expressed in the privacy of one’s home, but hardly before a peer of the realm. No matter how radical he appeared. “Mama,” she chided gently.
Viscount Stark let out a bellow of a laugh and stomped his foot against the frayed rug.
The small porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses adorning the mantel trembled as he claimed, “My God, but your mother is correct.”
Ophelia threw him a relieved glance at his approval of her frank mama. While her mother had spent her youth at court, Ophelia had never met the queen. Ophelia’s father had died before she’d been old enough to be presented, then Prince Albert had died and Victoria had retreated from society. “I’ll have to take you at your word.”