The only thing of any real significance he did during those days was to call upon Norman and Caroline. It went severely against the grain to do so. Norman had never been his favorite person. Indeed, he had probably occupied the place of very least favorite for as far back into their childhood as Duncan had conscious memories. He was a pompous ass who had behaved in typical Norm fashion at Aunt Agatha's soiree. And Caroline was no better in all essential ways than her brother. Which meant that she was a pretty rotten human being.
Nevertheless, Duncan had wronged her. Even though he had written to her before he ran off with Laura and had made sure she would receive the letter as soon as she woke up on their wedding day, abandoning her had been an admittedly dastardly thing to do.
He owed her an apology.
And perhaps he needed to hold out some sort of olive branch to Norman.
Losing Woodbine Park, when he had fully expected that it would be his in a few days' time, must be a severe disappointment to him. Though Duncan was not the one who had played cruel games with him, nevertheless he felt bad for his cousin. He had never wished Norm any real harm, even if he /had/ bloodied his nose on one occasion when they were both boys, and blackened one of his eyes on another.
So he called upon the two of them one afternoon and hoped ignominiously that they would be from home – or that they would pretend to be.
He was no more fortunate on that account than he had been when he had gone to tell Margaret Huxtable about Toby.
He was admitted to a small visitors' parlor on the ground floor and left to kick his heels there and otherwise amuse himself for almost half an hour.
Caroline arrived first, looking not a day older than eighteen and as fragile and lovely as ever, though she had had three children during the past five years, had she not?
Duncan bowed.
She did not curtsy. "Caroline," he said, "I must thank you for receiving me." "I do not believe, Lord Sheringford," she said, "I have given you permission to make free with my given name." She spoke with the light, sweet voice that had once so enchanted him. "Mrs. Pennethorne," he said, "apologies are cheap, as I am well aware.
They cannot set right what has been done wrong. Nevertheless, sometimes an apology is all that is available. I beg you to accept mine for all the humiliation and suffering I caused you five years ago." "You flatter yourself, Lord Sheringford," she said. "What you did was release me from a connection that had grown distasteful to me, though of course good breeding would have forced me to honor it. I am grateful that you felt no such compunction. I am far happier with my dear Mr.
Pennethorne than I could ever have been with you." If she spoke the truth, he was vastly relieved. And why would it not be the truth? She must have grown as unhappy with him as he had with her when he had started trying to enlist her support to plead with her brother to put an end to Laura's sufferings. "I am happy for you," he said. "You will forgive me, then?" Delicate eyebrows arched above large hazel eyes. "Oh, you must never expect /that/ of me, Lord Sheringford," she said as the door opened again to admit Norman. "Certain actions are quite unforgivable. I can certainly be very glad that you left me free to engage in the happiest marriage in the world, but I cannot forgive your behavior. Neither could I /ever/ forgive you for tearing Randolph and Laura asunder and thus destroying a marriage that was made in heaven and that rivaled my own in happiness. Indeed, you might almost be called a murderer. She would very probably still be alive now if you had not dragged her off with you to satisfy your wicked desires." "My love," Norman said, hurrying toward her, taking her by the shoulders, and leading her to a love seat. "You ought to have remained abovestairs and left this unpleasantness to me. But you are always so foolishly brave." "I have never been a moral coward," she said, seating herself. "I even called upon Miss Huxtable at Merton House when I believed her to be the innocent dupe of a scoundrel. It seems I was mistaken in her. She will be sorry she did not listen to me one day soon, but my conscience is clear at least. And she will be getting only what she deserves." The visit went downhill from there. "Norm," Duncan said, "I am sorry about Woodbine. It was just Grandpapa being fiendish, I am afraid. He used you in order to bring me to heel.
But he ought not to have promised you something he was prepared to withdraw at a moment's notice if he succeeded. Will you feel free to visit my wife and me at Woodbine? And to bring Car – Mrs. Pennethorne and your children with you, of course." Norman fixed him with a stern stare – something he had perfected at the age of eight or so. His shirt points waited hopefully a scant inch from his eyeballs. "I am only sorry, Sheringford," he said, "that I felt compelled to admit you today under the same roof that shelters Mrs. Pennethorne and my children. I did it because I have something to say that I will say once only. I wish it were possible to slap a glove in your face and proceed to put a bullet between your eyes. It would give me the greatest satisfaction. It would, however, expose Mrs. Pennethorne to gossip again and cause her unnecessary distress. I deeply regret that my brother-in-law is too mild-mannered and peace-loving a man to challenge you himself. He is a gentleman with a conscience, and I must honor him for that even if I do not like it. I spurn your acquaintance, Sheringford. If you come here again, you will be refused admittance. If we come face-to-face, you will be ignored. If you should try speaking with Mrs. Pennethorne again, I shall punish you like the cur you are. I hesitated about moving my family to Woodbine Park because /you/ once lived there. You are mistaken if you believe I am now disappointed." Dash it all, but the man was a born orator – if one liked bombast and pomposity, that was. "And now," Norman said, "get out, Sheringford." Duncan nodded, bowed to Caroline, and took his leave.
He wondered as he did so if Caroline had ever told Norman any part of the truth of what had happened five years ago – any significant part, that was. He somehow doubted it. And that meant, of course, that Norman's righteous indignation was justified. He had every right to his anger and his fervent desire to put a period to Duncan's existence.
Caroline certainly knew the truth – the /whole/ of it. He had told her himself, and it had not come as a surprise to her. If only Laura would show more wifely loyalty to Randolph and his family, she had said plaintively, blows and bruises would be quite unnecessary. On the contrary, Randolph would love her for the rest of his life – as he already did, of course – and see to it that she had everything that could possibly make her happy. She deserved whatever she was getting instead.
Just as Margaret Huxtable did in marrying him.
Duncan did /not/ call upon Randolph Turner or hold out any sort of olive branch to him. Caroline had been right about one thing. Certain actions /were/ unforgivable. Or if that was not strictly true, then it /was/ true of a man who had never shown any remorse for his unspeakably wicked and cruel actions.
Apart from that one visit, Duncan spent the nine days before his wedding simply avoiding the madness associated with it as much as he was able. A grand wedding was necessary, his mother explained to him at great length the day she arrived home from Merton House with the news that Margaret Huxtable was sending out more than two hundred invitations – or perhaps not quite as many as that since some people were in couples and only one invitation was necessary, it being a foolish waste of paper and ink and time and energy to send two.
He did not argue the point with her in the hope that she would not feel the necessity to share any more of the details with him.
Vain hope! "A grand wedding is very necessary, my love," she went on to explain with her own particular form of logic. "Anyone who attends it can hardly give you the cut direct afterward, as you will realize very clearly for yourself if you stop to think about it. You may still not be society's favorite son, but you will be firmly back in the fold, and that is what really matters." "Society," he said, "can go hang for all I care, Mama." "Oh, men can be so foolish," she said. "But even if you do not care for its regard on your own account, Duncan, you must remember that you are going to be a married man. You are going to have a /wife/ to consider, and if society snubs you, it will snub her too. You owe it to Margaret to do all in your power to ingratiate yourself with the /ton/ again." He sighed audibly. She was quite right, of course.