Deceiving the Viscount

Chapter 18

Yet, she could only sit there, helplessly mired in her own tangled thoughts and fears.

"Do I have the right of it, Mrs Brookfield?" She nearly jumped at the hand on her back. Their faces were turned to hers, expectant.

She felt heat creep up her neck. "I...I beg your pardon, my lords. I was woolgathering. You were saying?"

Brackley's lips curved slightly as he picked up his cup. "Eleanor used to get that look on her face too whenever I talked about fishing during mealtimes." He sipped. "I called it her 'escape from fishing' face."

"You must have loved her for you seem to miss her," Frederica said. But something in her voice must have given her true emotions away because Garrett pressed his knee against her leg. She cleared her throat. "My condolences, my lord, on her passing."

"Thank you, Mrs Brookfield. I suppose in some sense I do miss her." He looked at them. "One cannot spend many years living together without getting used to the other person's presence."

"If...If I may be so bold as to ask, how did Lady Brackley pass on?"

"Consumption." Sorrow coloured his grey eyes. "She had it for about three years. But her health took a turn for the worse after returning from visiting her mother and brother who were residing somewhere in Devon. After about a month in the sickbed, she passed on."

An awkward silence descended after that, with Frederica not knowing how else to carry on the conversation. Everything would sound like a platitude, an insincere inanity. On top of that, she was starting to regret her decision of coming here. She'd thought that her courage would rise up when she saw her father in the flesh, that she'd be able to demand answers.

But now, the fear of being rejected, of realising that she and her mother might've not been romantic heroines in this story as she'd always thought they were, that they may even be villains grabbed ahold of her and wouldn't let go.

Her gaze flitted to Garrett because she felt his eyes on her. She could see the puzzlement as to why she hadn't yet touched on the topic of her mother. Drawing strength from him, she opened her mouth, but found the words stuck in her throat. Swallowing, she tried again, but not a sound emerged.

Understanding dawned and he gently touched the back of her hand before he turned to Brackley. "My lord, if we could beg for a chance to take a tour of your house and grounds, would you be able to oblige us?"

"Yes, most certainly." They all stood and Garrett took her hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly before looping it through the crook of his arm.

While Brackley led the way to the wing opened to visitors, he leaned down to whisper into her ear, "Are you well?"

"Yes, but...but I can't seem to bring myself to say what I need to."

"There is no rush to. If you'd like me to broach the subject, I can."

It would the easy way, certainly, but it would also be the coward's way. She needed to do this for herself. "Thank you for the offer, but I will find a way to be brave to venture upon this topic on my own."

"As you wish." They reached the hall where the family portraits were and Frederica gazed upon the men and women whom she'd descended from while Brackley detailed their deeds and accomplishments for the nearby villages. Then she saw the portrait of the recently deceased Lady Eleanor Brackley, a woman whose looks were as ordinary as anyone else, the air of nobility coming only from the finery she was draped in.

"This painting of Eleanor was done to celebrate her five and thirtieth birthday some three, no four, years ago now."

"She looks lovely, as if she were someone's mother," Garrett commented.