Page 80 of When She Was a Governess
“And when my uncle died,” Henry said slowly. “The estate passed to me. Reminding her of her powerlessness.”
“Yes, my lord. The home she’d loved and lost went to her second son. The sensitive one. The one who reminded her most of the girl she once was.” Mrs. Bromley met his eyes. “I’m not excusing what she did to Miss Eleanor or to you. Her actions were unforgivable. But she was young once. In love with a man she could not have. You might not be able to imagine what she was like then. This girl with romantic notions. Perhaps the forced marriage, losing her freedom and this house and the seamade her cruel. I do not know with certainty, but that is my guess.”
Henry sat back, processing this. The image of his mother as a terrified girl, being pried away from her home and forced to marry his father, didn’t excuse what she’d become. But it explained it. The need for control. The viciousness toward anyone who had what she had desperately wanted. A love match. The particular hatred she’d shown Sophia—another woman now mistress of the house Constance wanted for herself. And to see Henry and Sophia together? The obvious affection? Perhaps it had made everything worse. She did not particularly want Amelia, but she knew it was a way to make Sophia and Henry suffer.
“Thank you for telling me this,” he said. “It helps me understand her better.”
“Understanding doesn’t mean forgiving, my lord. And it doesn’t mean you will be able to stop her from destroying your reputation. And Lady Montrose’s.” Mrs. Bromley’s expression hardened. “She’s dangerous. I am frightened of what she is setting into motion this very moment.”
“I confess to feeling the same,” Henry said. “Do you know what happened to the man from the village? The one she loved?”
Mrs. Bromley looked down at her hands, her forehead creasing. “He was a tenant farmer’s son. Owen Bannister. I didn’t know him but he was considered a decent man. Hard-working. But coarse. Uneducated.” She paused. “When her parents discovered the attachment, they were horrified. A baronet’s daughter in love with a farmer’s son? Unthinkable.”
“What did they do?”
“They gave him a choice. Accept one hundred pounds and leave the county immediately, or they’d see him transported on false charges. They had the power to do it—everyone knew that. He would have ended up in a prison hulk or worse.”
Henry felt sick. “And he took the money.”
“That’s right. Left for America within the week. Never even said goodbye to her—her parents made sure of that. She didn’t know he was gone until it was too late.” Mrs. Bromley met his eyes. “I suspect she never forgave him for choosing money over her. And she never forgave her parents for offering it. I think it changed her forever. Showed her that everyone has a price. That love means nothing against power and money.”
“Dear God.” Henry leaned back in his chair. “No wonder she tried to run Eleanor off. It’s the same thing her parents did.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Henry’s hands clenched into fists. “She recreated her own tragedy. Used the same tactics her parents used on her.”
“People who’ve been broken often break others, my lord. It’s not an excuse, but it is an explanation.” Mrs. Bromley stood. “The Countess has spent her entire adult life powerless—married to a man she didn’t choose, living in a place she didn’t want to be, watching the home she loved go to someone else. Now she sees you—her son—married to a woman you chose for love. Living in the house that should have been hers. Happy in a way she never was.”
“So she’ll destroy it.” Henry’s voice was flat. “Because if she can’t have it, no one can.”
“I believe so, my lord. And I wanted you to understand what you’re facing. She’s not just cruel. She’s wounded and bitter and determined to make everyone else as miserable as she is.” Mrs. Bromley moved toward the door, then paused. “Protect Lady Montrose, my lord. Don’t let your mother do to her what she did to Miss Eleanor.”
“I won’t.” Henry’s voice was hard with resolve. “I swear it.”
After Mrs. Bromley left, Henry sat in the growing darkness, thinking about the young Constance being dragged from this house. About Owen Bannister, a farmer’s son who’d lovedher and been driven away with blood money. About Eleanor, destroyed because she represented everything Constance had been denied.
And about Sophia—his wife, the woman he loved, now in his mother’s crosshairs.
Understanding his mother’s pain didn’t change what he had to do. If anything, it made it clearer. Constance Montrose was a wounded animal, lashing out at anyone who reminded her of the life she had been denied. She would never stop. Never forgive. Never let them be happy.
Which meant he had to fight her with everything he had. Not just for Sophia. Not just for Amelia. But to break the cycle of cruelty that had started when a frightened seventeen-year-old girl was torn from her home and forced into a loveless marriage. He wouldn’t let that legacy destroy another generation.
After she left, Henry found Sophia in the library pacing from one end of the room to the other.
“Ah, there you are,” Sophia said. “Please, tell me about your meeting with the solicitor.”
He converted the details of his meeting with Whitmore and Mrs. Bromley’s story.
“So she can’t take Amelia legally,” Sophia said when he finished. “But she can destroy us socially.”
“Yes.”
“By spreading lies about both of us.”
“Yes.”
Sophia sat in a chair by the fire, her jaw set with determination. “We cannot simply sit back and let her destroy us. We must fight. Not in court, but in drawing rooms and ballrooms and dinner parties. We play her game.”
