“I thought I could also get a good deal more food out of the ground,” Oliver said, waiting for the soup to come around. He was dreadfully hungry.
“There is merit in toil,” Robert said. “But it is God who decides how much we are to harvest.”
Always God who is responsible, Oliver thought. Whenever we starve, it is God we blame instead of ourselves, or even our landlord.
After everyone had taken soup, Robert led the table in grace. Once they had said ‘amen,’ everyone devoured their soup in a matter of minutes.
“Have you all heard?” Aunt Vila said, pushing her empty, wooden bowl aside. “About the goings on up at the manor?”
“I heard only that Mr. Chase got himself sorted again,” Cousin George grinned.
“I heard he found himself a barque of frailty beside the road, but the Duke wanted her for himself! Had he brought up to the house, he did,” Cousin Mark added, grinning. Oliver rolled his eyes.
“You will not speak ill of our landlord in such ways,” Robert said, stilling his sons’ enthusiasm for the conversation. “Shame on either of you to presume such sins on either of them. I happen to know for a fact what transpired, as I have spoken to Mr. Marton this day about the events of last night.”
“Of course, Father,” George bowed his head.
“As it would happen,” Robert went on. “Mr. Chase found a woman in the road, collapsed in the storm, and she was brought into the house for shelter, and to be made warm. That is all the bland truth of it, I am sorry to interrupt your gossips, but that shall be the end of this discussion. It is none of our affair.”
“Yes, Father,” George and Mark chimed and finished their meals in silence.
After supper Oliver sat out behind the cottages, flicking stones into the river, and smoking tobacco from a small lump of pipe clay.
“You look the part of a soldier,” cousin John took him by surprise as he approached, and he nearly dropped his pipe into the creek.
“That was the idea,” Oliver said, turning to talk with his cousin.
“I know you grow tired of this life,” John said, hunching down beside him. “But these farms, rented they may be, are far more pleasant than a life of soldiering.”
“Ay, says you, who has already been away a-soldiering,” Oliver said, rolling his eyes. “I cannot live the rest of my life like this, John.”
“Oh Oliver, my poor young cousin,” John chuckled. “You are only seventeen,” he took the pipe from Oliver’s hands and nursed the fire in its bowl back to fullness.
“One more year, then I can join up,” Oliver said.
“And go where? India? Australia? Africa?” John kicked his feet up and head back, gazing at the emerging stars hanging above them. “You know the recruiters couldn’t care less if you were actually eighteen. Half the lads on deck today are American children. They would take you in a heartbeat, send you off somewhere to die of yellow fever, then forget you ever existed, especially when it comes to paying your back wages.” John handed the pipe back to his younger cousin. “So why haven’t you gone yet?”
“I cannot say,” Oliver said, his spirit sinking. He is right, Oliver thought. I could have left a thousand times, and for some reason, I am still here. “I do not know,” he said.
“What is it you want in this life, little cousin?” John asked him, watching Oliver’s face quizzically. He had always been the odd one out in the house, ever since he had come from Devonshire after the death of his parents.
“Oh, I do not know cousin,” Oliver said, blowing the ash from his pipe clay and wistfully glancing up the hill at the manor house, glowing brightly through the evening. “Something more.”
Chapter 6
Neil was furious about spending another night in London. The sun was beginning to set, and he had already resigned to leaving the next day because of it. However, he made the decision with great contempt.
“We could make it back, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “An extra guinea to the man with the ribbons would see you home before you woke.”
“Come off it, Thomas,” the Duke said. “I do not travel by coach at night. You know this, and yet still you prod at me.”
“I apologize, Your Grace, I only meant that one need not spend the night in the city if one truly detested the notion.”
“The notion I detest, Thomas, is dying by the foxed hand of a coachman in the dead of night.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas said.
The trip had been more strenuous on the Duke than he had hoped, and Thomas was losing patience. Although, even when his patience was at its absolute end, he was still without recourse, and so he was forced to grin and bear all of the Duke’s stresses over travel, the filth of the lower classes, and the smell that he constantly ranted about, which Thomas, having grown up in London, no longer noticed. “So, shall you retire to your apartments here in London? Or shall we find you a boarding house befitting of your stature?”
“The apartments,” Neil groaned. “You should not have to ask.”
They spent the night in the city, and Thomas waited on Neil’s every need since no servants were living there permanently. When the family would take a trip to the city, they would bring the required staff with them from the estate, however, in this instance, it was only Neil and Thomas in the large, high ceiling chambers, watching the city fall into slumber, then wake again with tremendous speed.
As they rolled away from London to the North, Neil looked back to the columns of smoke rising from the city, and how it seemed to hang over the buildings like a low, sad cloud.
A night of rest left Neil feeling better than when he had gone to sleep, but still, he was grumbling about the audacity of Mr. Carter. Thomas politely nodded at everything he said, waiting for the anger to pass, as it always did eventually.
The anger indeed did fade as they rattled up the long estate road, crossing the bridge where the rain-soaked woman had been found, and passing the village that he rented to farmers. Some of the residents waved at the carriage as it passed, and Thomas returned the greetings from his window.
They came finally to the manor, where a small greeting party had been assembled, as was customary. Unless it was pitch dark, and a carriage traveled with no lights, one could always see when someone was approaching the house up the long, winding road.
Mr. Marton took the horse’s reins as they arrived and exchanged some light pleasantries with the coachman while Thomas exited, unfolding the steps and holding the door open for Neil.
“Papa!” Kaitlin exclaimed, running to her father and grabbing his leg tightly.
“Hello, sweet daughter,” he said, and Thomas could see all happiness returned to the Duke’s face. “Tell me, did you behave for Betsey and Grandmother?”
“Yes, I did!” Kaitlin said proudly, standing up straight. “They said that if I was good, you would come home.”
“They were right,” Neil said, hoisting Kaitlin up into his arms. “And I have returned, so you must have behaved splendidly.”
“That’s right!” She burrowed her head in the shoulder of his greatcoat.
“And your music lesson?” he asked her, beginning to walk inside. As he asked his daughter, he looked to Betsey, her governess.
“Mr. Eddington wanted me to play the piano,” she said, her voice falling a little. “But the piano is hard.” Betsey smiled at him, and shook her head, indicating the progress of Kaitlin’s expensive music tutor.
“Yes, well,” Neil said. “It will only become easier,” he set Kaitlin down at Betsey’s feet. “Run along now.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, swinging herself from left to right, and went with her governess.
“Are you home, Neil?” he could hear Phyllis’ voice floating through the house from one of the sitting rooms.
“Yes, Grandmother, back at last,” he said as he moved through his house.
“Two days hardly merits an at last,” she said as he entered the room. He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the myster
ious woman, sitting by his Grandmother’s side. She wore the dress of a simple housemaid and held a ball of yarn between her hands while Phyllis slowly prodded away at her knitting.
The woman looked up as the Duke entered the room. She was nervous, for she knew that his arrival marked the end of her stay on the estate. In the past two days, she had found some utility in the service of Phyllis, whose mind seemed so weak at times that Mary-Anne grew sad. Thus, she took great joy in helping Phyllis with simple tasks, such as her knitting or brushing her hair.
“So, our guest is awake,” Neil said, crossing the sitting room the crystal decanter, and taking a shallow drink. “Tell me, miss, um, ma’am,” Neil faltered. “What shall I call you then? Who are you and what is your name? Where are your people? These are the answers I was agreed to have upon return.”
The girl looked anxiously between Phyllis and the Duke. “Well come on then,” Neil said, brandishing his glass in the air. “Out with it.”
“Oh Neil,” Phyllis said. “You must understand, she has no voice. She is mute.”
“No voice?” Neil asked, astonished. “Mute?” He looked to the woman, who hung her head, blushing.
“How can this be?” Neil said. “And you have her helping in the house? How can we trust her? This judgment is in error, Grandmother, and I will not allow it to pass,” as Neil lectured Phyllis, he avoided the silent woman’s eyes. Something within him ached against the idea of sending her away, but a much larger part of him distrusted this seemingly common woman, who had no voice, who had appeared during a thunderstorm, and who had been found by a drunk whom he hated.
As he spoke his voice grew louder, and Phyllis shrank into her armchair, feeling overwhelmed by Neil’s attitude. She forgot what it was he was yelling about, and even forgot where she was. She forgot her knitting in her lap and her tea beside her, and she began to cry.
“I am sorry,” she sobbed. “I am sorry, Arthur,” she cried, drawing her face into her hands.
Neil’s heart dropped, and he felt tears welling up inside him as Phyllis confused him for her very late husband, who often had yelled at her in that very room. He ran immediately to find Ruth calling for her, and the two of them hurried back to comfort the old lady.
When they approached her, however, she was no longer crying. Instead, she was laughing at herself in a small hand mirror. The mute woman held the mirror aloft, gently combing back parts of Phyllis’ scattered hair. Standing in awe beside Betsey, Neil whispered, “How did you do that?” The woman just looked up at him briefly, and then turned back to Phyllis’ attention.
“Your Grace,” Ruth whispered. “It takes me an hour to stop her crying like so.”
Neil looked to his suffering Grandmother, and while he distrusted this speechless woman, he cared for Phyllis more.
“Find her a space in the house,” he said to Ruth. “She can stay.”
Chapter 7
Kaitlin ran around the grounds of the estate, hiding from Betsey. It was Wednesday again, and so that badgering old Mr. Eddington had some to the house for her music lessons.
Kaitlin disliked Mr. Eddington, not because he was a bad man in any right, but specifically because she disliked the piano. He could tell, of course, that she disliked it. Kaitlin was only one of his young pupils that had difficulty sitting at the bench with a straight back and resting their hands in the correct positions.
What was unique to the Rutland estate, was Kaitlin’s proclivity to run and hide from her music instructor. He found this behaviour quite disturbing, and undoubtedly unfitting to the daughter of a Duke. But then again, every other estate he visited also had a mother, as well as siblings, to help keep the children in check.
It is an unfortunate business, to be sure, thought Mr. Eddington, while pacing back and forth in the parlour. The sudden loss of one’s mother and grandparents at such a young age no doubt made young Kaitlin’s life vastly different than all of his other pupils.
Still, he thought, he should not have to wait half the day for the governess to drag Kaitlin back to the house. Once the child was recovered, Betsey would change her from the dress she would have no doubt filled with grass stains, and only then could the lesson begin.
This game of hide and seek lasted most of the morning, and Thomas, the Duke’s efficient valet, made sure that Mr. Eddington was never want for a spot of tea or even a bite to eat.
“Mr. Eddington,” the Duke said, coming into the parlor, shaking his head.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Eddington bowed. “I take it she cannot be found.”
“Only until she wants to, my good man,” the Duke sighed. “Listen, I must apologize for Kaitlin’s behaviour. It seems your visit today is all but wasted, and nobody’s fault but my own.”
“Your Grace, Lady Kaitlin has the makings of a promising musician, should you want the path for her,” Mr. Eddington said. “However, respectfully, if she will not take to my lessons, then I would rather fill my Wednesdays with the attention of a pupil who would.”
“Come, Mr. Eddington,” the Duke challenged. “You would not think of abandoning my daughter. Least of all, since you are paid so well.”
“Of course,” Mr. Eddington stammered. “I only meant, Your Grace, that all would be happier if she took to her lessons like any young lady should.”
“She is still a child, maestro,” the Duke shot back. “And it would do the world well to remember the distinction. I have alerted Mr. Marton to find Mr. Chase, and so I shall see you in a week’s time. Good day, Mr. Eddington.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Eddington fumed inside. All these aristocrats treated him the same, as some bumbling musician with no value beyond that of teaching children how to read music. He detested it, and yet he had grown fond of a number of his students, and he was paid incredulously well. “Until next week then, Your Grace.”
Neil watched the musician leave and shook his head.
“He is right, you know,” Phyllis said, waddling up to her grandson. “She behaves like a hoyden, and it will not change unless you make it so.”
“Thank you, Grandmother, as always for your insights,” Neil breathed. He looked past Phyllis to Ruth and said, “where is the new girl? And what was it she has taken to calling her?”
“Sent her down for eggs, Your Grace,” Ruth said. “Her Grace calls the woman Emily.”
“Oh! Emily!” Phyllis shot out. “Where is my dear Emily? We have so much to discuss.”
“Ruth sent her out for eggs, Grandmother,” Neil said.
“Eggs?” Phyllis seemed to gasp. “Oh, how Arthur and I love fresh eggs for breakfast.” Neil and Ruth gave each other a grin, which had become their moment of solidarity when dancing around Phyllis’ confusion of past, and present.
* * *
Mary-Anne walked down from the manor to the chicken coups. It was the first time she had left the house since her arrival, three days before. Mostly she had followed Ruth and Phyllis around, hurrying to do small tasks that Ruth gave her, and trying most of all to keep out of the way.
She was fairly clueless about the operations of the hill-top mansion, having never before worked as a servant, and took nearly all of her cues from Ruth’s pointing looks. At first, the other servants had not believed that she had no voice, but they soon came to accept that whether she was genuinely mute or not, she would not speak to them.
But sure enough, they grudgingly accepted her into the servants’ quarters and hierarchy. Resistance to her presence sharply decreased when the rest of the servants realized that she would do near any task she was asked. They assumed this was due to her attempts of a good first impression, which they appreciated. However, in truth, Mary-Anne simply did not want to be left idle. For when she lay in her bed at night, with nothing else distracting her, she would float back to that thundering forest, running for her life, and fearing the worst as she fell into a puddle.
It took her some time to locate the chickens, for she had taken the wrong fork on the garden path and walked for some
time towards the creek rather than the hen houses.
Finally, she gathered eggs into a basket, stooping through the straw, when cracking of twigs caused her to freeze. Mary-Anne studied the bushes beside the hen houses, searching with every instinct for signs of danger. Reaching out behind her, she bumped against a pitchfork that leaned against the fence and brought it around like a spear.
“What are you doing?” Kaitlin asked, walking out of the bushes.
Mary-Anne gasped then instantly realized that she was clearly in no danger. She crouched down to Kaitlin’s eye level and held up one of the eggs from her basket.
The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 4