Page 79 of When She Was a Governess
“My lord, I must be frank with you. Your mother has no case. None whatsoever.”
“You are certain?”
“Quite, my lord,” Whitmore said. “A testamentary guardian—one named explicitly in a parent’s will—has extremely strong legal standing. The Court of Chancery could theoreticallyintervene, but only in cases of egregious immorality, criminal activity, or raising a child in atheism.”
“What about mental instability?” Henry drew in a deep breath.
“You needn’t worry.” Whitmore folded his hands. “A temporary stay at a private sanatorium for treatment of melancholia following a tragic loss is not grounds for removing a child from a loving home. If it were, half the aristocracy would lose their children.”
Relief flooded through Henry. “So she can’t take Amelia.”
“Not through legal channels, no. Mrs. Weston’s will is ironclad. She explicitly excluded the Countess of Hartwell from guardianship. No court would override that without extraordinary evidence of harm. Which, from what you’ve described, does not exist.”
“Thank you. That’s a relief. My mother has a way of exploiting my deepest fears.”
“She cannot take Amelia from you.” Whitmore’s expression grew more serious. “What I cannot protect you from is social damage. Reputation. Gossip. Your mother may have no legal case, but she can still wage a campaign of whispers and innuendo. I say this only to prepare you. Your mother strikes me as someone who doesn’t accept defeat gracefully.”
“There is no need. I know exactly what she will do. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to fight against her in that manner.”
“It is best to fight back, I would think. Whatever rumors she spreads, counteract with the truth. And scandal has a way of dissipating once a new situation arises.”
After Whitmore left, Henry sat alone in his study, staring at the cold fireplace. Legal safety but social warfare. It was almost worse in a way—no clear rules, no decisive victory, just a grinding campaign of attrition.
A knock interrupted his brooding. “Come in.”
Mrs. Bromley entered, her expression troubled. “My lord. Forgive the intrusion. But I thought you should know—I’ve just received a letter from a former colleague in London. There are rumors circulating. About you and Lady Montrose.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “Already? My mother has only just arrived back in London.”
“The Countess works quickly.” Mrs. Bromley’s tone was carefully neutral, but he heard the disapproval beneath it. “My lord, might I speak plainly?”
“Please.”
“The Countess will not take this loss of control lightly. I’ve known her for many years. Since before her marriage.” She hesitated. “I was a junior maid at Montrose Manor when she was young. Before she became Countess of Hartwell.”
Henry sat forward. “I am aware. Is there something I should know about that time?”
“She has always been troubled.”
“Do you mean trouble?” Henry asked, with a wry smile.
“Yes, that too.” Mrs. Bromley’s eyes grew distant. “She was barely seventeen when she married your father. Beautiful, accomplished, proud. But deeply unhappy about the match.”
“Why?”
“Because this was her home. She loved Montrose Manor with a fierce, desperate love. She was as wild as the sea back then, roaming the shore, collecting shells. But then, her parents arranged her marriage to your father. It was as if a light turned off i her eyes. She became listless and dull. She begged her parents to change their minds about the match, but they would not budge. To them, he was a good choice. Wealthy. Titled. They could not understand her reticence. What they did not know—your mother loved another. An untitled man from the village.”
“What? That cannot be.”
“But it is, my lord. It is my belief that because she was denied her own love, she does not want anyone else to have it either.” Mrs. Bromley’s voice softened. “The day they came for her—to take her to London to marry your father, she stood at the bottom of the main staircase, clutching the banister. Refusing to let go.”
Henry could picture it with painful clarity. A young woman, terrified, clinging to the only home she knew.
“Her mother had to pry her fingers away, one by one,” Mrs. Bromley said. “She was crying—not sobbing, just tears streaming down her face. My lord, it was one of the saddest things I’ve ever witnessed. Her brother stood nearby, looking helpless. And when they finally got her into the carriage, she pressed her face to the window, staring back at the house until it disappeared from view.”
“Good God.”
“The next time she visited—years later, as Countess of Hartwell—she was different. Harder. Colder. The marriage to your father broke her spirit and took her away from her home and the man she loved. And the sea, which seemed to be part of her when she was a child. I do not claim to understand why she does what she does, other than to say she has never had control of her own life. As most women do not.”
