Forcing herself upright against a pile of pillows, she felt the prick of the end of a feather poking through the fabric and knew that she was still alive.
What happened? Mary-Anne thought, drawing her knees close to her chest. I thought that he had found me, I thought that I was dead, she coupled with these thoughts, fixating on the image of the lantern, bobbing towards her through the rain. He surely would have killed me.
The door opened as Ruth entered, holding in her arms a pile of folded sheets and towels, and almost began turning the room over before noticing that Mary-Anne was awake, sitting up on the bed.
“Bless you,” Ruth exclaimed, rushing to her bedside, and taking one of Mary-Anne’s hands. “You’re awake, poor girl, what happened to you? Wait, never mind me, Her Grace must be alerted at once, for she has taken such an interest in you,” and before Mary-Anne could attempt a reply, Ruth was gone from the room.
If it was not him who found me, then who? Where am I? Mary-Anne thought, peering out of the window. Below she could see extensive grounds, reaching out over shallow wooded hills, spiraling down from the hill-top manor house. Out on the edges of view, she could make out a series of cottages clustered together in small hamlets along a river.
I am on an estate, Mary-Anne realized. The maid had said “Her Grace,” she thought. Just how lost had she gotten, running through those woods?
“Hello,” Kaitlin said, peering her small face into the room curiously. She slipped through the cracked door and took long, goofy steps across the floor, slinking up to a nearby chair and pretended to hide behind it. “Are you an angel?” Kaitlin asked, her face protruding above the chair’s backrest. “I think that you fell out of the sky last night.”
“Kaitlin, leave the poor woman be,” Betsey, Kaitlin’s primary nursemaid and governess, came hurrying after the curious, energetic child.
“Is she an angel?” Kaitlin looked up to Betsey, resting her hands on the top of the chair and sitting on her knees.
“Come along,” Betsey said, whisking Kaitlin away. “It is time for your music lessons, and you know that Mr. Eddington does not appreciate waiting on you.”
“I want to talk to the angel,” Kaitlin protested, but she was escorted down the hall.
Mary-Anne could hear them moving further and further away, then the creaking of stairs. How long was the hallway? How grand was this house? Mary-Anne thought and was swinging her legs out from the sheets when Ruth came in again, followed closely by an elderly, teetering woman. She had a complex, wrinkled face, yet there was a kindness behind her furrowed eyes.
“Oh!” Phyllis called out, happiness pouring from her face. “You are awake, thank you, Lord,” she crossed herself. “Come, you must tell us everything, are you hungry? Where are you from?” Phyllis sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out for Mary-Anne’s hands, but she withdrew them, shrinking into a small ball, away from the boisterous, old lady.
Phyllis seemed heartbroken by Mary-Anne’s hesitation and began to feel her mood souring, quickly as it always did.
“Your Grace,” Ruth said gently, rubbing her hand across Phyllis’ back. “Perhaps she requires more rest.”
Your Grace, Mary-Anne thought. So, this old lady was nobility. But she was so old, she had to be somebody’s mother or even Grandmother?
“More rest,” Phyllis sighed, looking deeply into Mary-Anne’s eyes. There was a darkness there, some sort of unyielding fear. “Yes, yes, perhaps Ruth, perhaps more rest,” she began to mumble, feeling her concentration fading away to the edges of her consciousness.
“Come now, Your Grace,” Ruth said softly, helping Phyllis to her feet. “Little Kaitlin is with Mr. Eddington now, you do like to watch her music lessons?”
“Ah, Mr. Eddington,” Phyllis said, smiling. “Now there is a proper gentleman of good stock and quality. However, perhaps he holds too much respect for French violins,” Phyllis continued to ramble as Ruth steered her to one of the sitting rooms and gave Mary-Anne a patient smile.
She is not all herself, Mary-Anne thought. How sad it could become.
“Her Grace has taken quite the interest in you,” Ruth said, entering again. The faint twinkle of Kaitlin’s piano lesson wafted up through the floorboards. “It is alright, everyone knows that she can be a bit much, herself included. She only wants to see you well again.”
Mary-Anne was thoroughly confused. The last thing she could remember was collapsing in the road, and now she found herself in the shelter of a manor house, taken in by mentally-unstable nobility.
“Oh,” Ruth gasped. “You cannot know anything I say. How foolish of me. Her Grace is grandmother to the Duke.”
Mary-Anne sat blinking at Ruth.
“The Duke of Rutland,” said Ruth. “Your host is the Duke of Rutland, and His Grace has gone to London on business,” Ruth said, laying down a set of clean clothes.
The Duke of Rutland? Mary-Anne thought. How did I come to be here?
“When he returns, he has promised to deliver you wherever you wish,” Ruth continued. “Until then, Her Grace has made it very clear that you are our guest. Can we get you anything else? My name is Ruth, you must call on me. Betsey is far too busy with Kaitlin. Lunch will be served at two o’clock,” Ruth said, standing to leave. “Nothing else? Splendid.”
Mary-Anne had not said anything in reply. She sat there, a crumpled ball of nerves, not wanting to move. What is wrong with me? She wondered, rocking back and forth. All she could see was that lone lantern, coming straight towards her, and that indomitable fear that took root deep within.
After several minutes of sweating and rocking, she regained some of her composure, pushing her long hair back and breathing deeply, looking out at the beautiful English countryside. The manor home really did impose a magnificent view from what she assumed was the third floor, based on the height of her window. It is alright, she thought. You are alright. Somehow, someway, you are alive and well. Mary-Anne rose, and tentatively dressed herself in the fresh clothing. She opened her mouth to call for Ruth, but to her astonishment, she found she could not speak.
Chapter 4
Neil gazed out of the moving window, not really looking at anything in particular. Outside, the city of London rolled past, bouncing along the flagstone streets. Neil could see all ranges of life, from other elegant coaches passing him to the barefoot industrial workers, bustling to and fro incessantly.
“People are so dirty,” he remarked, catching the eye of a child through his coal-covered face. In the background, tall smokestack towers blasted dark clouds into the grey sky, blanketing the city. “How one could choose this place over a country home baffles me, Thomas. How could one ever live in such a place?”
“People live in all manner of places, Your Grace” Thomas said, sitting across from Neil in the carriage. “I suppose the city is just another place.”
“I suppose,” Neil said. “Although what a wretched place it is.”
“I remember you used to quite enjoy a time in town, Your Grace,” Thomas said, unsure whether he should finish his thought. “What with the wife.”
“Perhaps ‘enjoy’ is rather far from the shore,” Neil said, his eyes falling down from the window to his lap. “I tolerated it, for her sake,” Neil said as he became suddenly gloomy.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas blushed, looking down. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I only meant that you should not forget the fine times you experienced with her.”
“It is alright, Thomas,” Neil sighed. “You are the only person it seems I can talk to anymore.”
“If I may, Your Grace, Mr. Bastable seemed a jolly gentleman,” Thomas said, changing the subject. He turned his head away for a pause to wipe a small tear from his eye while Neil was not looking. “Perhaps in time, you could find a friend in him.”
“Perhaps,” Neil said, turning again to stare out the window at the factory workers pouring out for their mid-day break, which was only a five-minute interruption to their ten-hour workday. “Although I should
say, he seems rather crass. Like a book that has its spine restored, but the pages are still water damaged.”
“Are you to try your hand at poetry, Your Grace?” Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Come now, Thomas,” Neil said, smiling ever so faintly. “I am not sure my participation in that contest would be all together fair.”
They rolled and bounced for some time as they skirted some of the factories, crossed the river, and arrived finally at the offices of Neil’s solicitor. Thomas paid the coachman to wait for them, and they entered through a grand, marbled room, where they were met by one of the firm’s footmen.
He escorted them to the second floor, where after knocking thrice on a large, oaken door, he showed them to a small waiting room.
“Mr. Carter shall see you shortly, Your Grace. May I offer you anything while you wait? Some tea and sandwiches, perhaps?” the footman asked.
“No, that will be all.” Neil waved the footman away.
After no more than five minutes, another set of large doors swung open into an elegant office, with wide windows overlooking what seemed half of London.
“Your Grace,” a man called out from within. He was a heavy man, thick in the face, arms, legs, and gut. He wore delicate spectacles around his short nose, but his eyes held a glow of warmth and cordiality. He was surrounded by writing desks, scribbling between stacks of papers. “It is so good to see you again, it has been too long.”
“Mr. Carter,” Neil said. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“You have come about the wool contract, have you not? I recall you wrote to me some time ago.”
“Yes,” Neil said, crossing to the solicitor and shaking his hand. “It seems the past few years have treated you rather well,” Neil waved his hands around to encompass the artfully-decorated office, pausing at an ornate, curved knife that rested on a display stand.
“Ah, the prize of my collection,” Mr. Carter said, excitement welling up in his voice. He came around his desks to show Neil the weapon more closely. “It belonged to the Sultan Tipu, or so I must believe, for I spent enough on it,” he said, turning it over in his hands.
“From India?” Neil asked.
“Yes, from Wellington’s campaign.”
“I was not aware you went away to India.”
“Oh no, not I,” Mr. Carter said, placing the dagger back on its stand. “I bought this at an auction house, possessions of a disgraced officer, I believe, around the corner from Whitehall.”
“What was the charge?” Neil asked as they both made their way back to the desks, no longer holding the conversation out of interest, but courtesy.
“Striking a superior, if I am not mistaken.”
“Well,” Neil said, sitting down at the desk. “At least justice was done.”
“At least,” Mr. Carter smiled, planting himself firmly across from the Duke. “So, you have the documents?”
“Thomas, the contract,” Neil said. Thomas revealed the relevant papers and placed them neatly before Mr. Carter.
“Right then.” Mr. Carter grumbled with a grunt, leaning over the fine print and adjusting his glasses. “Let us take an amble, shall we?”
They sat together and reviewed the contracts for some time, while Thomas sat idly, yet always at attention. Finally, it seemed as if Mr. Carter had made all the necessary footnotes and scribbles, and he handed the papers to the Duke.
“Well his paperwork seems to be in order,” Mr. Carter said. “If I may, Your Grace, on paper this has the makings of a great enterprise; the wool market worldwide is a large one, and we both know that there is great demand for wool locally since it seems every bale comes from Australia today, but are you sure you can trust this man? I have never worked with him before, nor even heard of his business until a year or two ago.”
“He is of new money, ‘tis true,” the Duke said, shuffling the papers. “But he has raised himself up from nothing, and I have much respect for that. What’s more, I cannot find any instance of his betrayal of contracts. In fact, when inquiring about his former practices, it seems everyone speaks very highly of him, and of his ability to generate income.”
“Well, it is inevitably, your decision, Your Grace, Mr. Carter said, sucking in air through his nose. “Although it seems a lucrative avenue.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carter, for your time as always,” Neil said, signing on the appropriate lines and handing the papers back to the solicitor. “I presume you capable of filing these?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Very well,” Neil rose to his feet. “I shall wait to hear news of its confirmation.”
“Your Grace, you are leaving already?” Mr. Carter jumped to his feet after the Duke. “I had hoped to speak to you somewhat further.”
The Duke lowered his voice an octave. “About what, Mr. Carter?” He already knew what it was his solicitor would tell him, and he would have none of it.
“How is your daughter, Kaitlin? She must be at least four years old by now.”
“She is well, five years old now, in fact.”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Carter came around the desk. “I implore you to listen to me on these matters. Your Grace is now a man of three and thirty, surely with a long and fruitful life ahead of you, but we must take attention to your will. You have not revised it since the accident and as it stands now—”
“Mr. Carter,” Neil snapped back, anger flooding into his voice and heat to his temples. “I thought that I had made it very clear that you were never to speak to me of such matters. If I wish to address it, then I will notify you, or even perhaps, a new solicitor. Good day,” and with a final stomp of his boot, Neil turned and left the law office, wringing his hands together as he rushed down the stairs.
“Your Grace!” Thomas called out after him. “Your Grace!” he caught up to him at the carriage, huffing a bit from the sprint.
“Say nothing Thomas,” Neil growled. “Or I shall leave you here among the crawling foulness of poverty. Driver! Onward!” Neil slammed against the roof of the carriage with his fist, and it began to roll; Thomas slunk silently into his seat, feeling dreadfully sorry for the Duke, but wishing desperately that Neil could face the events of his past.
Chapter 5
Oliver Hanson was a wiry young man, with a full head of hair that danced about his bony shoulders and deep brown eyes that seemed to gleam with a certain sharpness about them. He wore tattered, burlap clothes, and splashed himself with mud after each powerful swing of the hoe.
He was much stronger than he looked; his hands were long calloused from years in the fields, and his collarbones stuck out at a peculiar angle, giving his neck the impression of being much longer than it actually was.
He was working on a potato plot, digging rut after rut with sharp blows to the earth, and panted from the labor. Oliver leaned back for a moment, resting on his tool, and looked out over the estate where he worked. The cottages were old, worn down by rain, fog, and wind, but still, they stood in their semi circles, nestled beside the creek, far down in the shadow of the Duke of Rutland’s manor home.
Oliver flicked his tongue back and forth between his teeth staring up at the house. All his life he had stared up at it, especially on the nights when there were balls or galas, and the house seemed to burn brightly like a beacon on the cold, dark sea.
One day, Oliver thought, twisting his hoe back into the muddy earth. One day I’ll have me a house like that.
“Oliver!” a voice called from behind him, and he realized that the sun was beginning to set. “Oliver Hanson, come and get your supper!”
“Coming, Aunt Vila,” he called back, drinking in one last look at the house before the reds and oranges of sunset washed over the countryside.
“You better come on a lot faster,” she shouted. “Or the food will all be eaten.”
“Here I am.” He smiled at his aunt. “What has John made for us tonight?”
“What do you think?” she asked with a smile, joyfully driving h
er elbow into his side.
“Let me guess.” He grinned. “Pea and potato soup?”
“Oh my, you are the sharp one,” she said, and led him by the arm into the small cottage where their makeshift family was situated.
It was a massive family for such a small space; at the head of the table sat his Uncle Robert, whose wife Vila took her seat across the table opposite him. Between them on one side of the table perched Oliver’s three male cousins, Thompson, George, and Mark. Opposite the brothers were their sisters, Lisa and Susan. Everyone smiled and hailed Oliver’s entry as he took his place, and their cousin John entered with a large steaming pot.
“Always the last in the field, eh Oliver?” his uncle Robert commented, taking the first serving of soup, then passing it along. “You won’t get anything for it besides a broken back.”
The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 3