“Exactly what?”
“The picture of health.”
“How do you know this?”
“Doctor Gibbens told me.”
It took several seconds for the meaning of the words to sink in. Then, with an incredulous smile, Philip erased the distance between them and clasped his father on the shoulder. “This is joyous, miraculous news, Father! To what does Doctor Gibbens credit your recovery?”
“There has been no recovery, Philip. I was never ill.”
Philip went still, then his hand slowly slid from his father’s shoulder, as a jumble of emotions assaulted him. Amazement. Anger. Disappointment. They stood facing each other, as tension thickened the air between them.
“You lied because you thought I would not keep my word to you.” He was unable to disguise the bitterness in his voice.
“I lied because I wanted you to keep your word to me while I was still alive,” Father countered. “I wanted you home, and after a decade abroad it was time for you to return. I’d wanted you home three years ago, but in spite of having arranged a marriage for you, you refused to obliged me.”
“So this time you claimed to be dying.”
“Yes.”
Philip’s jaw tightened at the lack of remorse in his father’s eyes and the defiant angle of his chin. “Surely you realize how despicable your actions were, Father. Not only toward me, but toward Catherine as well. Underneath her brave front, she’s been extremely distraught over your impending death.”
“I made my apologies to Catherine earlier this morning. Gave me quite the dressing-down, but we’ve made our peace. She neither likes nor condones what I did, but she understands why I did it. I did not believe you would come home otherwise. Indeed, I wasn’t certain that even news of my impending death would drag you back to England.”
“Your faith in me never fails to astound, Father. Tell me, how did you achieve your sickly look?”
“I severely cut back on my eating.”
“And your pasty complexion?”
“A dusting of flour.” Before Philip could say anything further, Father continued, “You have every right to be angry, but I hope you will understand that while my actions were dishonorable, my intentions were not. Although my health thankfully remains good, that of many of my peers does not. I wanted us to have the chance to repair our relationship before it was too late, and you were not showing any signs of returning.” Father lifted his brows. “If I’d not lied, would you have come home?”
Philip’s hands clenched. “Most likely no,” he admitted.
“I sensed as much. I hope you’ll forgive me for resorting to trickery, but I felt I had no choice. I’m sorry I lied to you. However, I am not sorry you are home. I missed you, Philip. We once had a good relationship…”
Memories of days spent walking the grounds at Ravensly Manor, afternoons spent reading together in the library, evenings spent bent over the chessboard, swept through Philip, leaving sadness and regret in their wake. “Yes.” Philip pushed the word past his tight throat. “Before I failed to keep my word. Before I failed Mother. And you.”
A muscle jerked in his father’s jaw. “I’ve waited years to say this, Philip, and now that the moment is upon me, the words are still difficult…” He exhaled a long breath. “I did us both a great disservice that day when your mother was caught in the rain, then fell so ill. Yes, I was upset and distraught, but not at you. At the fates that were robbing me of her. She’d been so fragile for so long, and we’d known for months me end was near. That day, I said things to you in anger. Hurtful things impinging your honor that I did not mean. But things which, once said, erected an ever-growing wall between us I did not know how to scale… a wall I hope we can, as adults, somehow climb over. You’re a fine man, son. I should have apologized to you years ago. As I did not, I can only pray that it is not too late. I’m sorry.”
His father extended his hand. Philip stared at the gesture of sorrow, friendship, and respect, and swallowed to dislodge the lump in his throat. Feeling as if a huge weight had lifted from his shoulders, he reached out and clasped his father’s hand in a firm grip. Philip wasn’t certain who made the first move, but seconds later they were embracing in a back-thumping hug. When they stepped apart, both pulled linen handkerchiefs from their pockets. Dabbing at his eyes, Father said, “Blast it, Philip, this place is bloody dusty. You simply must hire more servants. Especially now that you’re taking a wife.” He slipped his handkerchief back into his pocket. “You said there was something you wished to discuss with me?”
“Yes. Actually, I wished to thank you. It was your efforts to secure me a bride that set into motion the series of events that led me to this moment: anticipating taking Meredith as my bride.”
Father’s brows rose. “I see. Does that mean you forgive me for deceiving you in order to get you home?”
“I suppose it must, for if you hadn’t, I would not have returned. And if I hadn’t returned, I would not have met Meredith. So indeed, it would appear that I am grateful for your deceit.”
“About Miss Chilton-Grizedale, Philip… although she is not of the peerage, I quite like her. And Catherine assures me she will lend her support to your wife and that she has the makings of a fine viscountess.”
“She does, Father. On my word of honor, she does.”
“Well, that is good enough for me.”
Standing next to Andrew, Philip watched Meredith enter the drawing room, and his breath hitched. She wore a pale blue muslin gown, exquisite in its simplicity, the unadorned column highlighting her extraordinary eyes and vibrant coloring. Her midnight hair was gathered into a classic Greek knot, and strands of lustrous pearls, his wedding gift to her, were wound through the shiny tresses. Her gaze locked onto his, and a smile filled with pure love and happiness trembled on her lips.
She walked slowly toward him, her gloved fingers resting lightly on Albert’s sleeve. Albert, who beamed with pride at his “Miss Merrie,” and who would be marrying Charlotte Carlyle early next month.
Albert delivered Meredith to Philip’s side with a solemn nod, to which Philip responded with an equally grave bow of the head. Then he looked down at the woman who owned his heart. “You look beautiful,” he whispered.
“Thank you. So do you,” she whispered back. “Your father told me about your conversation.”
“Quite the trickster, is he not?”
The vicar cleared his throat and frowned at them.
“Yes,” Meredith whispered with a smile, blithely ignoring the vicar. “I thanked him profusely.”
He smiled in return. “As did I.”
“I think the vicar is growing impatient with you two,”
Andrew whispered into the fray. “His face resembles a thundercloud.” He nodded toward Meredith. “You look lovely, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”
She beamed at him. “Thank you, Mr. Stanton, as do you. So lovely, in fact, I’m certain that it won’t be long before
Andrew shot Philip a pointed look, to which Philip shrugged. “She
“You look happy,” he whispered.
A slow, beautiful smile lit her face. “Happy? I prefer to call it unequivocal, indubitable, flagrant, euphoric joy.”
He laughed, earning him a stern glare from the vicar. “Yes, I’m certain you do. And this time, my darling Meredith, I completely agree with you.”
Author’s Note
