Page 78 of When She Was a Governess
Chapter Seventeen
Henry woke toa terrible headache from his flirtation with the whiskey bottle. For a moment, he lay there, remembering all that had transpired the night before, feeling sick in body and soul. But then, he rolled over to look at his sleeping wife. She slept on her side, with her knees bent, golden hair splayed over the pillows. It struck him as it often had in the last few days, how could anyone hurt this angelic soul?
It was still hard for him to believe that she was his, that she had chosen him. He would be good to her. Fight for her. That was his work now, as much as it was to protect the land and his tenants. She was in his care. He must never again succumb to self-pity like he had the night previous.
He continued to watch her sleep for a few more minutes, not wanting to get out of bed and face the world quite yet. As if his scrutiny had wakened her, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” He kissed her forehead. “How did you sleep?”
“Better than I expected.” She shifted to look at him properly. “And you?”
“The same.” Which was true. “You made it so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can sleep as long as you are next to me.”
“Well, then, I intend to stay thus.”
A knock at the door made them both sit up. Mrs. Shaw entered with a breakfast tray. “Good morning, my lady. My lord. I thought you might prefer breakfast here this morning.” She set the tray on the table near the fireplace.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw.” Sophia sat up and begin to braid her hair. “That was very thoughtful.”
“The entire household is at your disposal,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Whatever it is you need, please do ask. We all want to help.”
“I will keep that in mind, Mrs. Shaw,” Henry said. “Thank you.”
“We are grateful,” Sophia said. “And if anyone heard any of the hurtful things that were said by the elder Lady Montrose, please tell them it in no way reflects the feelings of either of us.”
“I will, my lady. Thank you. They will be glad to hear it.” Mrs. Shaw bobbed a curtsy and left them to their breakfast.
They ate chunks of bread and jam, cold ham. The tea was exactly the right temperature and worked exactly as it should, taking away his headache and clearing his mind for the day.
When they were finished, Henry left his wife and went to his own bedchambers where Davies waited for him. After a fortifying bath, Davies assisted in dressing him.
“My lord, may I be so bold as to suggest a solicitor?” Davies asked, as he helped him into his jacket.
“You may, indeed.” Henry took a good look at his valet. “The staff knows, then? About my mother? Her threats?”
“Yes, my lord. We are all quite concerned.”
“Do not worry. I shall take care of this once and for all. Have Mr. Whitmore call upon me at his earliest convenience. He has handled my affairs in the past.”
“At once, my lord.”
He suspected his mother had no legal recourse against him. Instead, she would fight with her tongue, spreading lies throughout society so that his wife never fully felt welcome inthat world. Regardless, he would feel better knowing where he stood legally.
*
Mr. Whitmore, arespected local solicitor who’d handled estate matters for the Montrose family for decades, arrived several hours later and was shown into Henry’s study. He was in his sixties and stoop-shouldered. For whatever reason, he reminded Henry of a basset hound. Perhaps it was his short legs, rotund body and sad, soulful eyes. Be that as it may, the man was as sharp as they came.
“Lord Montrose.” He bowed. “Your message suggested some urgency?”
“Please, sit.” Henry gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I need your professional opinion on a legal matter. Regarding my ward.”
He laid out the situation as concisely as he could. Whitmore was familiar with Rebecca’s will naming him guardian, and the man would need no reminding, but he told him about his mother’s threats, her solicitors, and her stated intention of challenging his fitness based on his time at Dr. Morrison’s sanatorium.
Whitmore listened without interruption, his expression growing increasingly skeptical. When Henry finished, the solicitor sat back with a small shake of his head.
