December 25th, 1921, Henford-on-Bagley, England
There were many things Rebecca thought she would never do. One of them was having sex with a man other than Peter. Another was having sex with the man whose title her son would inherit. Yet there she was, lying in the bed of Thomas Walsh, Duke of Feldsbury, on Christmas morning after a night of passion. She was 55. He was 76, old enough to be her father. He was only a year younger than Rose. In the aftermath, she felt nothing more than like a common harlot. Still, she couldn’t deny the pleasure she’d derived from it.
“Happy Christmas,” a voice said behind her, and she turned to see Thomas with his eyes open.
“Happy Christmas, Thomas,” she muttered.
Rebecca frowned. “You’re the first man I’ve laid with other than Peter. We were each other’s firsts. I thought we would be our last too.”
Thomas sat up. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” she muttered. “I only feel guilty that I enjoyed it.”
“Don’t. There is nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. You’re a good, kind woman who’s had an unusual life situation thrown at her. You’ve handled your son’s marriage better than I think most mothers would.”
“Byron likes to make statements. I am sure he’s done things I would have a heart attack if I knew of them. He’s stubborn. He would ruin the title merely out of spite, ignore the duties you’ve tried so hard to teach. Sometimes I feel ashamed of him because he has no shame. He doesn’t care. I first thought it was because of his time in America, but… I know he’s always been like that, since he went off to boarding school.”
“Much of his generation is like that. Disillusioned with the world, finding no point in keeping the intricate societal rituals we keep to heart. The war changed things. A part of it is a reaction. I have only seen a small part of the war, but it was enough. Your son has seen things too horrible to put into words. He can’t talk about it, so he finds ways to make himself forget. Truthfully, I pity him. He has been through much these last eight years.”
“You pity Byron? I know you don’t like him.”
“I don’t have to like him to pity him. He and I are in a situation where no one wins, and I can understand his anger. He reminds me of myself in my youth. Now I am just a cynical old man.”
Rebecca chuckled. “Age makes cynics of us all.
Thomas coughed. “If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? We can keep it a secret, have a scandal of our own. Not even your children would know.”
The offer tempted Rebecca. She would never have to worry about money again. Thomas was kind to her, and he made her laugh. But he wasn’t Peter. “No,” she said after a minute. “I don’t think I can marry again.”
He nodded. “I understand.”