Page 48 of Love, the Duke
Ophelia slowly shook her head.
“Don’t worry, dearest.” Maman backed away and brushed her hands down the sides of her skirts. “It doesn’t matter what you said. You were in shock. Totally understandable and acceptable for a lady when she receives a proposal. He should have never asked you first. He should have come to me. I’ll go see him and tell him you didn’t know what you were saying and that you now agree to marriage.” She turned away. “I’ll go right away before he has a chance to ask anyone else.”
“I can’t marry him because I couldn’t remain true to my wedding vows.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard yousay. Of course you can hold fast to your vows. You were raised to do so. You are not thinking clearly, Ophelia. We can’t pass on an opportunity like this.”
“If I marry him, I vow to obey him. He said he wanted me to stop looking for the Chatham’s chalice and I couldn’t do it.”
“Why would he? You said he would help you find it.”
“He says that now, but I don’t know that I trust him to keep his word.”
“Why would you say that, dearest?”
“For one, he never came to see Winston when he said he would. I just don’t want to take the chance he will forbid me to look for the chalice the way I think is best.”
Roberta went still except for her lashes, blinked slowly, and whispered, “But he knows if it isn’t found Winston will be considered responsible because it went missing under his tenure.”
“He’s offered to just make restitution and make sure the authorities don’t place blame on Winston.”
A puzzled expression appeared on Roberta’s face. “Perhaps he could do that, but what about the history of the chalice itself? That can’t be restored by money or just another sacrament. And what about the members of the parish, the neighbors, and townspeople? Could he make sure they won’t place guilt on Winston as well?”
“We both know he can’t. That’s why I can’t turn complete control of this search over to him. I want his help but I’m also fearful.”
Her mother folded her arms over her chest, turned away, and stared out the window.
Ophelia swallowed a lump that had clogged her throat. It hurt to see her mother so distressed.
“Maman, we knew this would be difficult when we started, but we had no choice but to try. Right?”
“Right,” she answered softly without turning around. “He’s probably a scoundrel in duke’s clothing. Far better for my lamb to stay away from a wolf.”
Her mother’s words saddened her more. Roberta had said far too many nice things about Hurst for Ophelia to hear what she was saying now.
“We’re not going to stop searching, Maman. I asked Mr. Mallord to get Mrs. Turner and to wait in the dining room so we can start going through the book. Do you want to join us for a little while?”
She turned and faced Ophelia, a solemn set to her pale lips and sorrowful eyes that seemed to look but not see. “Of course, I do. The sooner we find the family name that belongs to the crest, the sooner we can figure out which relative rides around in a fancy carriage and devise a way to get the chalice from him. We’ll do it even if I must dress as a servant and sneak into the house and do it myself.”
“Please, Maman. You know I would never let you do that,” Ophelia said, smiling that her circumspect mother would even suggest such an option.
“We will do what we must, young lady. As you said, we started this and we will finish it.”
“I’m sure having the book will help us.” It hurt knowing she’d had to pull her mother into her scheme to find the thief, but she was rising to the occasion. “So, no reason for you to worry anymore about this. All right?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, my dear. I haven’t been worrying.” Though her mother’s voice wasn’t much stronger, her words and smile were. “My faith in you hasn’t wavered.”
Ophelia gripped the sketches tighter and inhaled a long deep breath, readying herself for the task at hand. “Neither has mine. Let’s go look at that book and get started.”
But as is so often the case, sometimes things don’t turn out as easily as one thinks they will. Ophelia was smart enough to know this. However, knowing it and being aware of it as it was happening were altogether two different things. In retrospect, she should have done things very differently in her search through Debrett’s book. Especially where it concerned Mrs. Turner.
The book had many pages and, though they started late in the afternoon, Ophelia was determined they would look at every one of them before the night was over. At the time, she didn’t realize that her stamina and excitement were not at equal levels with Maman’s and the maid’s. Along the tedious way, Ophelia made copious notes but only on pages where the crests were similar to what Mrs. Turner remembered.
When Ophelia was finished with the laborious task, the number of possibilities was extensive, so she trimmed down the ones she had doubts about but had added just in case. And then trimmed again. The truth was that the process took much longer than expected.
Later, when Ophelia reflected on this, she realized going through the entire book and working until late in the night was too much for Mrs. Turner—and quite possibly herself too. Only after she’d brought the poor woman to tears and stuttering about how sorry she was had Ophelia realized she was not being sensible about the pressure she’d put on the maid. She probably never had been sensible about the reasonable outcome of her search. How could she be? The stakes of the possible outcomes were too high.
Well after midnight, more than two dozen possibilities remained. Reality hit her hard, and in the cold dark of the midnight hours, the shock of it was disheartening. Mrs. Turner simply hadn’t seen enough of it, and Opheliahad been tempted to throw out the book, her sketches, and all the notes she’d made during the marathon search, with the morning’s rubbish.
She was doing exactly what the duke had told her she would be doing. Looking for her hairpin in a stack of hay.
