Seven Years to Sin(38)
Hester felt a sharp pang in her chest at her friend’s dreamy tone. She told herself it was a symptom of increasing, not something far more complicated and impossible … like jealousy.
“You wished to see me?”
Michael looked up from his desk as his mother entered his study. Despite the not-inconsiderable size of the room, the Countess of Pennington’s slender frame seemed to dominate the space. It was the force of Elspeth Sinclair’s will and the command of her bearing that made her so formidable. Her strength of character was complemented by her physical beauty and elegance.
“Yes.” He set his quill aside and stood. Rounding the mahogany desk, he gestured to one of the settees and waited for her to be seated. Then he settled across from her with a slight smile. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
His mother studied him with a keen gaze. The recent loss of a beloved son was reflected in the depths of her dark eyes, and sadness clung to her like a shroud. “You know you have only to ask. If it is within my power to see it done, it will be.”
“Thank you.” He collected his thoughts, pondering the best way to phrase his request.
“How are you?” Elspeth linked her fingers in her lap and lifted her chin. Strands of silver hair lined her temples, but her face showed few signs of aging. She remained beautiful and faultlessly composed. “I have tried to give you as much privacy as I am able, but I confess, I worry over you. You have not been yourself since Benedict passed on.”
“None of us have been.” He deflated into the seatback with a harsh exhalation.
This conversation had been a long time coming. His mother had shown remarkable restraint in waiting so long, considering her usual need to be kept apprised of every minute detail affecting the members of her immediate family. While Pennington grieved in the country, Elspeth had arrived weeks ago, hovering on the fringes of Michael’s new life in the most unobtrusive way possible. She appeared to occupy herself with friends and social activities, but he knew the true reason why she had come—to be there as support for her remaining son as he tried, and failed, to fill the void left by his brother’s death.
“In the most well-meaning and innocent of ways,” Michael said wearily, “we took Benedict for granted. It never occurred to any of us that he might one day leave us floundering without him.”
“You are not floundering,” Elspeth argued. “You are more than capable of carrying your new responsibilities in your own fashion. It isn’t required that you should proceed in the same manner Benedict did. You can forge your own path.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re expending great effort to squeeze yourself into the mold shaped by your brother. I pray you do not believe your father and I want you to do so.”
Michael’s mouth twisted. “There is no finer man to emulate.”
Her hand lifted and gestured at him, flowing gracefully and encompassing his form from his boots to his cravat. “I hardly recognized you when I first arrived. The somber hues of your new wardrobe and the sparseness of embellishment … It isn’t you.”
“I am not simply a Sinclair any longer,” he retorted, somewhat defensively. “I am Tarley and one day—God willing, a faraway day—I will be Pennington. A certain restraint and decorum is required.”
“Stuff and nonsense. What is required is your sanity and happiness. Your unique abilities and viewpoints are more valuable to the title than slavish adoption of your brother’s sensibilities.”
“Sanity is a luxury I must earn. Presently, I am barely keeping pace. I have no notion how Benedict met all his obligations, but by God, the amount of work to be done seems overwhelming at times.”
“You should rely on the estate stewards more. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“Yes, I do, until I know enough to allow someone else to manage. I cannot place the responsibility for our family’s financial stability in the hands of hired employees simply because it simplifies my life and saves me the trouble of rectifying my ignorance.” Michael looked around the room, feeling like a fraud in the space that was imbued with the very essence of his brother. The somber reds and browns were not what he would have chosen for himself, but he’d changed nothing since taking over the space. He felt as if he lacked the right to do so, as well as the will. “And unlike Benedict, I don’t even have Calypso to worry over, yet I still feel as if I am hanging on by the tips of my fingers.”
Elspeth shook her head. “I remain ambivalent about your brother’s bequeathment of such a large obligation to Jessica.”
“She will want for nothing for the rest of her life.”
“Her per annum stipend alone is sufficient to make her a very wealthy widow. That plantation was the bulk of your brother’s personal income for good reason—it consumed a great deal of his time and attention. The burden of maintaining the property will likely be too great for her to bear. The mere thought of facing such a challenge is daunting to me.”
“He discussed it with me prior to finalizing his will, and I understood his mind.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“He loved her,” he said simply. “He claimed there was something about the island that affected her; an alteration to her countenance and personality he wished to foster. He wanted her to feel the power of self-sufficient affluence, if she should ever have to go on without him. Something about her being restrained and needing absolute freedom, or some such.”