The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [9]
“But I like Sinjun, Mother,” she said, feeling her mother’s fingers tighten painfully on her shirtsleeve. “Ryder named me that when I was ten years old.”
“Hush,” said the unknowing soon-to-be Dowager Countess of Northcliffe. “You aren’t Saint John nor are you Saint Joan—Sinjun is a man’s nickname. Dear me, you have that preposterous name all because Tysen decided you were Joan of Arc—”
“And then,” Douglas continued, “he decided to martyr her and thus she became Saint Joan or Sinjun.”
“In any case, I won’t have it!”
Douglas said nothing. Since he could scarce even remember his sister’s name was really Joan, he doubted not that their mother would have to hear Sinjun for many years to come.
Douglas took himself to the library to write and send off his letter to the Duke of Beresford. He wouldn’t say anything about his plans until the duke had shown his approval of the scheme. And Melissande too, of course. He knew he could trust Sinjun to keep quiet about it. He realized he trusted his little sister more than his own brothers. After all, she never got drunk. He also liked the name Sinjun, but he hesitated to go against his mother’s wishes. She was tied to many notions that appalled him, was occasionally mean and spiteful with both servants and her children and her neighbors. She was blessed with an intellect as bland as cook’s turtle soup, was plump and pink-cheeked with sausage curls tight around her face, and carried at least three chins. She spoke constantly of her duty, of the rigors of bearing four children. He wasn’t certain he loved her for she was vastly annoying at times. He knew that his father had endured her for he had told Douglas so before he’d died.
Was Sinjun right? Had his mother remained quiet in the eye of the marriage storm because she didn’t want the wife to wrest the reins of control over the household from her? He tried to picture Melissande wanting to oversee Northcliffe, demanding that his mother hand over the chatelaine keys, but such an image wouldn’t form in his mind. He shrugged; it didn’t matter.
And what was wrong with a simple nickname like Sinjun?
CHAPTER
3
Claybourn Hall, Wetberby
Near Harrogate, England
“THIS IS DIFFICULT to believe, Papa,” Alexandra said finally, her voice strained and paper-thin. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off that single sheet of paper her father calmly replaced on his desktop. “Are you certain it is the Earl of Northcliffe who wants to marry Melissande? Douglas Sherbrooke?”
“Yes, no doubt about it,” said Lord Edouard, Duke of Beresford. “Poor fool.” He smoothed his long fingers over the letter surface, then read it aloud again to his youngest daughter. When he finished and looked over at her, he thought for a moment that she was somehow distressed. She seemed pale, but it was probably only the bright sunlight coming through the wide library windows. He said, “Your sister will probably be ecstatic, particularly after Oglethorpe didn’t come up to scratch four months ago. This should be a great balm to her wounded pride. As for me, why, I should like to throw my arms about Northcliffe and cry on his shoulder. Good Gad, the money he offers will save me, not to mention the handsome settlement he’ll provide.”
Alexandra looked down at the roughened nail on her thumb. “Melissande told me she refused Douglas Sherbrooke three years ago. He begged and begged to have her, she said, but she felt his future was too uncertain, that even though he was the earl’s heir, it wasn’t enough since his father was, after all, still alive, and that since he insisted on remaining in the army and fighting, he could be killed and then she wouldn’t have anything, for his brother