“It is sad, My Lady, but I believe not uncommon.” She thought of her own father and realized that she could not give him even that much credit.
After all, he had not been a man who loved his child but could not show it. He had been a man who had paid her little heed because he had thought very little of her.
“Still, Josephine did not suffer for it. She had a brother and a parent in Hamilton and was, as such, a very lucky girl. It was Hamilton I felt for, being old enough to understand the pain of his mother’s loss and to note the lack of support and attention from his father. He must have felt so incredibly alone at times.”
“But he had you, My Lady.”
“Yes, indeed he did, Miss Darrington. I wanted so much to take over where my dear sister had been forced to leave off. I tried to be a mother to him and, I daresay at times, I rather overdid it and got under his skin.” She shrugged and chuckled.
“I believe all good mothers do that, Lady Lyndon. I rather think it is the mark of a good mother, is it not?” she said, wondering, a little sadly, at Lady Lyndon’s lack of children of her own.
Surely, she would have been a wonderful mother, and Georgette could only assume that maternity had simply never been an incident in Lady Lyndon’s life. While she felt incredibly sad for her, she felt pleased also that she’d had her sister’s children as an outlet for the great love she had to give.
In truth, Georgette thought it little wonder that the poor woman now suffered such heartbreak at the ever-widening chasm that was opening up between herself and her much-adored nephew.
“You really are such a kind young woman, Miss Darrington.” Lady Lyndon smiled at her, holding her gaze kindly. “I just wish that Hamilton and I could be a little closer now. Oh, and I wish with all my heart that we had not lost dear Josephine.”
“It must have come as a most terrible shock to you.”
“It did; a great shock and a great sadness. For you see, we had not seen her for some years, and I think it is that, as much as anything else, which torments Hamilton so.”
“But where had Lady Josephine been?” Georgette asked, thinking herself safe to do so. After all, Lady Lyndon was parting with such great confidences that she must trust her entirely.
“She had moved to Wales, my dear. She had been there for more than five years, almost six when she died. And, in all that time, Hamilton had not set eyes upon her once. I had only seen her once myself, having made the journey to Snowdonia not long after the girls were born. I had so wanted to see them, you see, and could not bear the thought that my dear Josephine had become a mother, and yet not one member of her family would be there to celebrate it with her.”
“But why had your nephew not seen his sister for so long? If he had adored her so greatly as she has grown up, what possibly could have kept them apart?”
“Anger and jealousy, my dear. You see when she was but nineteen years, Josephine met Carwyn Thomas.”
“The man she married?” Georgette asked cautiously.
“Yes, the man she married. Oh, she loved him so.”
“But your nephew did not approve?”
“My dear, he did not. He disliked poor Carwyn instantly; the very moment the poor man spoke, my nephew was a changed man.”
“Because Mr. Thomas spoke with a Welsh accent?”
“The very strongest accent, Miss Darrington. And Josephine had never heard anything so wonderful. She thought his accent like music to her and his language like a wonderful poem that she could not understand.”
“But where did they meet?” Georgette said, feeling herself drawn inexorably to the romantic little tragedy.
“Through a mutual friend. They were both at an evening of interest being held by a good woman in Oxford. The sort of woman who often has poets and authors and musicians to surprise and delight her guests. And dear Josephine did so love such amusements. She was a regular attendee to that particular Oxford drawing room, and it was there that she met dear Carwyn. He was in Oxford, you see, visiting his aunt. His aunt had married an Englishman, a man who had done really rather well for himself, and it was she who had secured him an invite to the evening of interest.”
“I wonder what the evening was?” Georgette said a little wistfully.
“Knowing my dear Josephine, it will have been poetry,” Lady Cynthia spoke with warmth and sadness. “And, of course, Carwyn Thomas was rather a lover of poetry himself. And he introduced her to the Welsh poets, buying her book after book and reading to her whenever they met. It was inevitable, really, that the two of them would fall in love. They were both so young and unblemished by the world. They cared nothing for differences or society; they were simply at that wonderful age where everything is fresh, and your heart and mind are filled with the most wonderful ideals.”