by Abigail Agar
“Father, where have you been?” she said with a sigh.
It had been several days since they’d had a scheduled dinner with the Duke. Marina watched his face scrunch. He brought his much larger hand around Lottie’s, lifting her fingers to his lips. He kissed them, one by one. “My little lady, I know you don’t need me,” he said. “You’ve got Marina, haven’t you? And Christopher. And Max. And Claudia, of course.”
“Yes, but …” Lottie began.
Christopher perched near his father, his busted leg stretched out in front of him. The bandages had recently been changed, and they were a strange, alien bright white atop the blanket. His little fingers gripped the picnic basket and flung it open, revealing an assortment of snacks: croissants, cheeses, fruits, breads, nuts—even wine, tossed in at the last moment, perhaps, just for Marina herself. She and Margaret had developed a relationship built on their mutual (though not discussed) dislike of Sally Hodgins.
Their intense eye contact across the dining table in the morning and at night, when Sally Hodgins announced herself, was enough to tell Marina that she wasn’t the only one who felt the old maid’s heart of darkness. Unfortunately, she and Margaret were never in the same room alone, and therefore hadn’t had the chance to swap stories or get to the root of the issue. Perhaps, together in the future, they would learn some way to fight back.
Marina separated the picnic for the children and for the Duke, splaying a pad of butter and cheese atop a torn-off bit of baguette and placing it in the Duke’s outstretched palm. When she did it, her finger grazed his skin and again filled her with a bubbly feeling in her stomach. She watched him, almost captivated, as he brought the bread to his lips and took a small bite.
But, immediately, Christopher smashed his fingers into several blueberries, moving his fingers around like a monster—the blueberries connected to the tips. “Look!” he cried, chuckling at his own joke.
“You have to eat your food, Christopher. Not play with it,” the Duke said, laughing himself. “I’ve not a clue what you’re up to. But my imagination is certainly vibrant …”
“He must have gotten it from somewhere,” Marina offered.
Lottie shoved a fistful of blueberries into her mouth, making her lips purple. Claudia ate slowly, in the style of a lady, using her fork and knife to slip through the crater of brie cheese. Around them, the last cropping of late-autumn birds chirped, a reminder that all was not yet dead. Marina’s heart continued to flutter. She wasn’t entirely sure if she could eat a single morsel. Not with the Duke just a foot away.
“Does anyone of you want to tell me what you’ve been up to lately, then?” the Duke began, his words good-natured. “Certainly our governess here has taught you something or other in the few days since I last saw you.”
“Father, I absolutely detest mathematics,” Claudia blurted, a bit of bread still in her mouth.
The Duke chuckled again. “Then you might be after my own heart, my dear. Your mother was quite good at them, you know. She always handled the books for us, and for the business. Whilst I was more of the dreamer, the reader, the musician …”
Claudia nodded her head, making her curls quake around her cheeks. “But Mother, she looked like me?” She sounded eager, wanting this comparison. Her eyes looked glossy.
Marina had the sense that they so rarely spoke of their mother. That, perhaps without words, her memory might become lost.
Of course, there was horrific irony in Claudia’s question, as the Duke could no longer see his daughter, and hadn’t for several months. But when he spoke, he did so with the certainty a daughter required from her father.
“Yes, darling. You have her quick wit and her charm, as well as her good looks. I’ve always known that about you. You were her first, and therefore, her first real love. How could I possibly compete with something as beautiful as a child?” the Duke said.
Max popped up from his seat, rushing towards the Duke’s knee and dropping upon it. Marina hadn’t seen Max so eager for touch since she’d met him. He dropped his chin on his father’s shoulder, murmuring, “And what of me, Father? What do I have that is Mother’s?”
The Duke peered out over Max’s shoulder. He gestured his head back towards Marina, his expression one of apology. Apology, perhaps, that the conversation had driven so far from one of good humour. But Marina felt only an outpouring of love for the situation, and for all of them. For—how could they possibly find time to grieve together, if not then?
One by one, the Duke explained to each child just what about them reminded him most of their mother, of this marvellous-sounding woman, Marybeth. And one by one, they accepted his words, seemingly wrapping them up like gifts to store in their brain for later. They would surely return to this sun-dappled day in late October, this one that seemed outside the possible realm of time. For their father never had picnics with them. He never opened his heart to them. He never spoke the truth.
Perhaps now, he could.
Over an hour later, they felt the first drops of rain. They splattered from the fading green leaves (the ones left over from the first weeks of chill), before tumbling atop their heads and arms and legs. Lottie popped up from the blanket, jumping around the clearing so that her wet curls danced. “It’s raining!” she cried, announcing the words to the earth. “It’s raining, can you believe it!”
Marina leapt to action, flinging the foodstuffs into the picnic basket and snapping it closed. The Duke drew himself onto his knees, reaching for his cane. Marina gripped his arm and helped him to his feet, hunting for something to say—something that might bring resolve to such an emotional picnic.
“I think …” she began. “I really think …”
“I don’t think it’s quite time for such conversation, do you?” the Duke said. He flicked his dark hair behind his ear, seemingly looking down on her. Already, the breast of his thick jacket grew damp, spotted with rain.
“Will there be a time for it?” Marina asked, her voice soft.
“Perhaps after you put the children to bed,” the Duke said. “You’ll meet me in my office. I want to discuss something with you, regardless.”
“All right,” Marina said, hardly able to catch her breath. “All right.”
The Duke and Marina guided the children back through the rain, which grew heavier, pounding against their skulls and making their clothes drag along the ground. But each felt in good spirits, with Max leaping ahead of them, Claudia grinning to herself, lost in thoughts of her mother, and Christopher—whose head was tossed back, mouth open to the rain—who decided to sing them wild, chaotic songs of love and loss and pirate ships, most of which he made up himself.
“There’s an old tale of Buckaroo Bill
Who had a wheelchair like me!
He stored treasure beneath
The old coral reef!
And didn’t tell a soul with a plea!”
Chapter 19
The Duke parted from the children and Marina at the foyer, listening as they crept back up the steps to prepare for bed. He paused at the entrance of his separate wing, listening as Marina regained strength of voice as they moved away. She joked with the children, poking fun at them. He heard the unlikely howl of hilarity from Max, a boy who’d kept his lips pressed so tightly shut the previous months …
Why hadn’t Marina been able to act like this at the picnic? How she’d spoken to him had been almost strained and anxious, fluttery, so unlike that volatile, angry woman he’d first encountered during that night in his study. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt his mere presence affected her.
And with the children hopping around them, blurting out their opinions, their stories, the previous few hours had been far livelier than most other days since Marybeth’s passing. It was like, with Marina there, everyone could breathe a bit easier, laugh a little bit harder …
Just discussing Marybeth had acknowledged who they were all missing, whilst crafting a new set of memories …
And all this whe
n the Duke had assumed their family wouldn’t have space or time for more memories. That they would have to continue to borrow from the past, even as the tone of her voice faded in her ear, and memory of her clothing became hazy …
Certainly, he would always remember the way she laughed—wouldn’t he? Although memory was remarkably fickle. Perhaps he’d already constructed a truth of her, one that wasn’t entirely reality.
The Duke walked back towards his study, scratching his thick fingers against his beard. He marched the now-familiar path, knocking his elbow against the staircase railing as he approached his floor. He expected Marina in his study within the next few hours, after she snuck the children into their beds and blew out the light.
Just the image of her doing that—of Lottie curled up on her lap, intently listening to a nighttime story; of Christopher surely juggling several of his balls as he sat upright in bed, his eyes daring Marina to tell him to put them down; of Max, demurely turning his head towards his hands for his prayers, and of Claudia, who was growing to become more and more of a mystery to the Duke as she grew older …
All of them, working their personal magic on this governess. The only governess who’d bothered to remain. The only governess who seemed to truly love them all back.
The Duke slipped the door closed in his study and walked towards the far corner, where his violin sat in perfect velvet. He swung it slowly from its case to his neck, drawing a sharp breath before drawing the bow upon the strings. As he played, the sound soared out through a tight crack in the window. He imagined the purr of it reaching up to the children’s bedrooms as if he was saying a final goodbye, a final sweet dreams.
The previous week had been a sombre one at work. He could hear the mutterings of his craftsmen as he marched past, highlighting the events of the previous few days. “Yes, just fired him out of the blue. Just like that,” one of them scoffed.
While another added, “You know, he was just trying to watch out for him. Show him what was happening right beneath his nose.”
“But do we know it’s Jeffrey for sure?” another demanded.
“It’s not clear. It could be that we’re just losing money, regardless. The Duke’s legacy, faltering, along with his health and his love.”
“I’ve heard tell of a governess watching his children …”
But at that, the Duke had ducked too far away to hear anything. He had tugged at the skin of his ear, a bit too hard, with pain rippling up near his forehead. What the hell was going on, right beneath his nose?
The Duke toiled over his violin, that night, as the dusk grew heavy over the moors and the clouds firmed over the trees and the rain continued its radiant pattering atop the roof. He shoved all thoughts of this horrific reality at work from his mind, waiting instead for the small rap at the door which would alert him to her arrival.
And the moment it did—when the light rap stirred from the other side of the door, causing him to spring his bow from his strings—he spun towards it, his heart hammering. He placed his violin back in its case, lining his fingers across the velvet to ensure it was properly positioned, before striding back to the door. He sprung it open, casting a wave of Marina’s smell over him. It was a combination of the children’s bath soap—a lavender, chosen by Marybeth herself—and something else. Something husky and mysterious; of dusk and of indulgence; of desire.
He stepped back, allowing her entrance. She still hadn’t made a peep.
“Marina Blackwater,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m grateful you made the decision to come see me this evening.”
“I couldn’t deny your invitation,” Marina returned. She stepped towards the violin. The Duke heard a light gasp—perhaps she’d seen it.
Indeed, she had.
“I heard you playing from upstairs,” she offered. “I stopped short in the middle of reading Lottie a story, craning to hear. She was already sleeping on my chest within minutes. As if we both lulled her to sleep. With the music. And of course …”
“The words,” the Duke interrupted.
She didn’t answer. How was it that the Duke could feel the tension between them, even in the silence? He inhaled that delicious scent again, marvelling at the way it stirred him. He remembered showing her those flowers weeks before—flowers now on the brink of death, ready to filter to the ground at first sign of winter. Would Marina still be here when spring returned again?
The mere fact that she might ever go, might seek a husband or another life, filled him with dread.
“It’s been remarkable, having you here,” the Duke stated. “I notice a sincere shift in the children. They’re brighter and happier than they’ve been in the previous year, since they lost their mother. They look to you for the jokes.”
“No, no. They’re the funny ones,” Marina murmured. “They fill my light up more than I could ever express. Back at the farm …” She paused as if she sensed she’d gone too far.
“No. Please. I know so very little …” the Duke offered.
“It’s just. I’ve always felt very alone. Very unwanted. And when I enter a room, their little faces light up to see me. Of course, they do the same when they see you.”
“I would give anything to see that again,” the Duke said.
Marina spun towards him. Her voice fluttered as she spoke. “You know, I can hardly see anything. Would it be all right if I lit a candle in here while we speak? The sun has just set completely. And it’s awfully strange speaking to nothing. Although, I know this is how your existence is all the time, sir.”
“Please, please,” the Duke said, waving his hand. He was oddly embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of it. “There should be a matchbox in the side cabinet, over there.”
Marina took light steps towards it, fumbling to find the matchbox. The strike of the match snapped up; then, there was the opening of the flame. She sighed. “Wonderful. I can see the violin in greater detail, now. It’s not the one you were playing that first night …”
“No. It’s not,” the Duke said, for he remembered what each of his violins felt like by touch.
“It’s older,” Marina offered. “Incredibly so.”
“It’s nearly two hundred years old,” the Duke affirmed. “It belonged to my grandfather, who received it from the man who taught him to make violins. He was an apprentice as a boy. Probably, he learned to play the violin on it. Such a religious vessel, this violin is …”
“It’s seen so much.”
“You said you can play?” the Duke said.
“Well, I haven’t had much of an opportunity since I arrived here,” Marina said. “My violin that I packed is just twigs compared to this beautiful thing. And I’ve been so busy that I haven’t put a bow to string.”
“Why don’t you borrow this one?” the Duke heard himself say, surprising himself.
“What? No … No, I couldn’t possibly,” Marina stuttered. “This is absolutely priceless. I’ve played only on little nobody violins. They’ll have to do for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Duke stated. “I’ll be retiring for the night shortly and tied up with work the next several days. Why don’t you take it, practice, fall back in love with your tone again?”
“That’s so generous, Duke.” Marina paused.
During this moment of tension, the Duke blinked several times, tilting his head. For some reason—it was a thing he couldn’t quite describe—he’d begun to think he might see some sort of shadow around her head. Some sort of outline. Was that … Was that the violin in its velvet case? He blinked once more, seeing only red and purple spots. But the colours were vibrant, brought, perhaps, from the flickering candle he knew was just beyond the governess.