The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  At that moment Mary-Anne became vastly more comfortable in her situation. A layer of doubt and insecurity fell away from her, shattering on the marble floor. It was a great weight lifted, not complete security, yet far closer to it than she had been before. Still, she was reserved, still hesitant and nervous for her safety, but more content in her station.

  I knew this was not the worst place to hide, Mary-Anne thought, but it may be a far better one than I had suspected. Mary-Anne moved on to the next grouping of villagers, huddling in the thick winter blankets that had been brought out of storage early for the occasion.

  She looked again to the Duke, whose hair had fallen out of formation in all the commotion. It handsomely hung about him, making him look a bit more like a man of action than of books. This Duke may yet surprise me, for he is not the man I thought.

  Chapter 9

  Julian Bastable was feeling reasonably successful, as he was always feeling of late. The past four years had been nearly a non-stop climb for him, and now found himself thriving in a way he could never have predicted.

  “You know what they say about me, do you, Randolph?” Julian swished his glass of liquor about, looking out his large window as he was apt to do.

  “No, sir, of course not, sir,” Randolph was moving about the office, filing the day’s papers in their appropriate places.

  “Oh, come now, of course you do,” Julian said, dismissively. “Everyone seems to know everything in this town.”

  “I’m not from London, sir,” Randolph said.

  “No? The devil, where then?”

  “Colchester, sir. I told you that when you hired me.”

  “Bugger all if I care,” Julian laughed out. “Well, I dare say you are a Londoner now, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Randolph said. “Whatever you say, sir.”

  “That is correct, master Randolph,” Julian said, glaring at him. “Whatever I say.” Julian took a long, stinking breath, fogging against the glass, mirroring the clouds that hung low outside in the London streets.

  Julian found himself hungry, as he often did, despite the fact that he had breakfasted only an hour and a half before. Julian clomped his heavy boots down the creaking wooden stairs, grasping hard on the railing. He huffed heavily, his face already red when he reached the last of the twelve steps.

  Julian went up or down the stairs only when he absolutely had to, for he much preferred to remain sedentary, since physical movement strained his overly-heavy frame.

  On this occasion, he moved down the steps to pursue satiation, yet again. It was early in the day for a roasted bird, but that was how he liked it. Later in the day, some hours from now, all the lowly workers would break for their luncheon, and the ladies of the country would sit down to lunch. Not he, nay. Julian Bastable was neither a commoner, nor a lady, and he made sure everyone knew it.

  One way he justified this, was by having his mid-day meal much earlier in the day that was accustomed in the city. In fact, those serving him may see it merely as a late breakfast, and that was how Julian preferred it.

  That morning, he found himself on the street and walked, ever so slowly, three doors down to the corner, where he frequented the public house.

  A fine establishment, Julian thought, swinging his waist through the door. Already the smell of rosemary, meat, and ale were wafting through the low ceiling room.

  “Mr. Bastable,” the barkeep called out, coming around to pull out a chair for Julian. “So glad to see you for breakfast again. Will you be having the standard?”

  “Yes, thank you, Franklin,” Julian said, reclining in the wooden chair. Such a respectful man, he thought. Perhaps there is hope for that one yet. Perhaps his children will be born with more ambition.

  Franklin brought him a mug of ale and a roasted hen with tea biscuits on the side, for which Julian reluctantly paid twelve shillings, but then so viciously attacked his meal that is disappeared in a matter of moments.

  He ate quickly so, for at the moment he found the public house empty, save his patronage; he did not feel inclined to encounter a fellow merchantman, who would no doubt talk for much longer than was necessary. Julian had not slept well the night before, on account of his dreams. He was haunted by his single failure, and it distracted him incessantly.

  “I say, Mr. Bastable, how good to see you,” a man said, utterly shattering Julian’s blissful bubble of engorgement.

  “Mr. Seton,” Julian said, standing to shake his hand. “Good of you to remember me.” The irony in his voice was like thick molasses, dribbling its way down his chin.

  “Oh, come now, it is my bushiness to know all the mushrooms in the garden, is it not?” Julian feigned a smile. If there was one thing he utterly detested, it was being called a mushroom. They cannot stand that I am a self-made man, he thought. They are threatened by me. This was how Julian could justify putting up with the constant talking down by merchants from family money. To them, he was an anomaly and a most curious one at that.

  “Anyhow,” Mr. Seton went on. “I have heard that you are entering into business with the Duke of Rutland. Is this true?”

  “And how could you have heard that?” asked.

  “Would you like a coffee? Franklin! Two coffees! Anyhow,” Mr. Seton said. “Where was I? Ah yes, the Duke. So, it must be true then? I was not aware His Grace was still in the markets. The last I had heard, he had shut down his shipping routes.”

  “It is true,” Julian resigned. “That His Grace has sold off much of his land overseas, but he has turned his mind to a much more, local enterprise.”

  “Local? Thank you, Franklin,” said Mr. Seton, taking the coffees.

  “Wool,” Julian said, growing emboldened. The papers were signed. What could anybody do, he thought. I will finally beat their pathetic family at something. “The Duke has grown tired of purchasing wool from a colony and has tripled his estate’s flock.”

  “He means to supply the surrounding regions with wool?” Mr. Seton said, astonished. “He cannot produce nearly enough on his land.”

  “Well, of course not,” Julian said, grinning over his ale. “He means to supply me with wool.”

  Julian drank down the rest of his ale, and followed it with the coffee, leveraging himself out of the chair.

  “But I fear I have said too much, Mr. Seton, and for more information, I would encourage you to read the papers in the coming weeks. You will not take this from me, not like everything else.”

  “Oh, I shall read the papers, Mr. Bastable,” said Mr. Seton. “But I pray you do as well, for one can learn a lot on page seven,” Mr. Seton said, pointedly. Their rivalry had existed for several years and had seen the Seton family regularly trample over Julian’s endeavors, because Mr. Seton’s father detested Julian, and because they were both involved with the bulk distribution of flax and, now, wool.

  Julian stormed, red-faced and puffing, back to his offices. He had purposefully rented space here, close to an establishment that he enjoyed so that he would never have the need to sweat a bead on his walk between a bite and his desk. However, on this occasion, he was sweating a fair amount when he burst back through his own doors.

  “Randolph! Randolph!”

  “Yes, sir, what is it?” Randolph tripped on his own feet answering the unexpected bellowing.

  “Today’s paper, boy, do you have it?”

  “It is on your desk, sir, you told me not to touch it.”

  “Dash that! Fetch it now, ya git!” Julian was pacing, which was terribly abnormal for him.

  He had entered into business the same year as Lawrence Seton, and the two had met when Lawrence and his father came to Julian’s office – a much smaller space then – and offered to buy him out.

  Poor little Lawrence could not have competition, not on his first venture into the global flax market. Julian had refused, red-faced and startled by the request. They had mocked him, told him how he would be bankrupt before the year, and that their miniature offer would be his best chance at breakin
g even.

  He had proved them wrong, one step at a time, although he had done some questionable things to get where he was. He had stolen, cheated, and intimidated his way to financial equality, and still, he was treated as an inferior.

  Of course, they had done the same; there was little honesty in the world of global shipping.

  “The paper, sir,” Randolph said, handing over the folded pages.

  Julian flipped to page seven and paled at what appeared. It was a marriage announcement, declaring the betrothal of one Lawrence Seton to one Sophie Theresa Boulder.

  “I hate him!” Julian screamed. “He has found himself a wife all too plump in the pockets, as well as everywhere else, only to spite me? Is this what it has come to? I am to be treated as a brain-addled nabob, the butt of every lord’s dinner joke? Nay, I shall not have it, Randolph, no longer. He must take the parson’s mousetrap to leverage me out, but not I. I shall do it without his shortcut. Come, Randolph, we must make ready.”

  “Sir? Where are we going, sir?”

  “To the countryside, you git. I have an empire to build!”

  Chapter 10

  Neil stood behind his desk, leaning on it heavily with closed fists, feeling the pressure against the oak turn his knuckles white. The sky outside simmered a low, dazzling blaze of orange, as the sun prepared to set the day after the fire. Several houses had been completely destroyed, but still many others remained mostly intact. Those made homeless by the blaze had been dispersed among the surviving houses and would slowly move back together as the reconstruction progressed.

  “Bring them in, Mr. Marton,” he said.

  The doors swung open and in came Mr. Marton, holding two young boys by the ears, each with their eyes cast directly downwards, avoiding the stare of the statuesque Duke, who radiated cold anger.

  “These are the two responsible for the fire?” The Duke asked coldly.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said. Mr. Marton. “They were running ‘round and kicked over a cookpot, the embers flew up into the rafters.”

  “How could they travel so far?”

  “I do not know, Your Grace,” Mr. Marton shuffled his feet. “Perhaps the window was open, draft got it.”

  “Perhaps,” Neil stood straight, sliding his hands to the edge of his desk, the sound of which dominated the silent room, then let them casually fall to his side with a gentle flap. “But you are of the opinion that it was, in fact, an accident, is that right Mr. Marton?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he said.

  “This is a serious offense,” Neil said, coming with deliberate pace around to face the boys, still being held by their ears. “And it warrants a serious response. You peasants are all the same, are you not? You cannot be trusted with important tasks, nor even houses! I could have your families evicted, young masters, have you thought on that?” The Duke looked down at the boys quivering in fear of a beating. They understood little of what the Duke was saying to them, for they were four and six respectively, and had nowhere near the level of practical and social instruction that Kaitlin did.

  “Stop!” Oliver said, bursting into the office. He had seen Mr. Marton taking the children to the house, and followed, carefully avoided the servants in the parlor and hallway, and stopped to listen outside the door, in fear for Lucy’s little brothers.

  Neil looked up at Oliver’s entry, quite honestly shocked by the intrusion.

  “Who are you?” he asked, blinking and shifting his stance to stare Oliver down.

  “Hanson,” Mr. Marton snarled. “You would do well to remove yourself immediately!”

  “They are not at fault! I am to blame,” Oliver said. “I left a candle burning in my loft.”

  “Is this true?” the Duke asked, looking between Oliver and the two embarrassed boys.

  “No, Your Grace,” Mr. Marton said, staring intensely at Oliver, who was now becoming very nervous. He had not thought this action through in its entirety, and now he found himself in uncharted territory. “We know now, for a fact, these boys started the fire accidentally. There are witnesses.”

  “What are these boys to you, Master Hanson?” Neil asked. “That you would risk your family’s renting rights on my land?”

  “He is in love with their sister, Your Grace - the baker’s daughter, Lucy,” Mr. Marton said.

  “Truly?” Neil asked Oliver, cocking his head. It had been so long since he had even touched the edges of love, or even considered its active role in others’ lives.

  “Truly, Your Grace,” Oliver said, gulping back fear in his voice.

  “To save her brothers, you would have faced eviction freely? Where would you have gone?”

  “I had not thought it through, in honestly, Your Grace,” Oliver stuttered, swinging his cap back and forth in his left hand. “Likely to the army.”

  “How old are you?” Neil asked. The young man’s mention of the army had flared something in him, something that had sparked during the fire and had since been secretly smoldering deep within him.

  “Seventeen, Your Grace.”

  “Seventeen,” the Duke repeated, letting his word trail off. He had joined the Army when he was twenty, but he had been afforded a comfortable command by means of his father’s purse. He had been kept out of harm’s way, that is until he put himself there purposefully, some two years after his original enlistment.

  In those battles he had seen much violence, but never the way this young man would experience it; he would likely be chewed to nothing by fever or shrapnel. The British army survived off of the disposable poor, the hundreds of thousands that they were, and Oliver was ripe for the recruiter’s drum.

  “Seventeen, and in love,” Neil sighed, leaning back to sit on his desk, resting his fists on either side of him. “Tell me, Mr. Hanson,” the Duke said, shifting his tone to one of light pleasantries. “Was your house destroyed in the fire?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Then how, my good man, could you have started it?” Neil raised one of his eyebrows and even cracked a tiny grin.

  “I-” Oliver was at a loss, and Mr. Marton smiled a bit, letting go of the boy’s ears.

  “How many live in your cottage, Mr. Hanson?” The Duke asked.

  “Eight, all told, Your Grace,” Oliver said.

  “Well it would seem a bit crowded, I gather, does it not?” the Duke asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Master Hanson, I find your character to be that above the average farmhand,” The Duke began. “If you wish it, you will have a place in my household staff. The hen houses always seem to need a slightly more tending. You are dismissed, all of you,” Neil waved his hands, and Mr. Marton led the boys away. Oliver nodded to the Duke, with a mixture of nervousness and gratitude, and followed the groundskeeper.

  Once they were gone from the room, Neil looked over to Thomas who, as always, stood patiently by his side.

  “Should I have been harder on them, Thomas? I could have been far harsher.”

  “On the contrary, Your Grace, I found your decisions very admirable.”

  “Doesn’t seem right, does it, punishing children so young?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “What do you think of Mr. Hanson, Thomas?”

  “I think that Your Grace enjoys his company, limited though it may be,” Thomas said. “Perhaps he reminds Your Grace of himself?”

  “Perhaps,” Neil said, chewing on his lower lip. “Though by what right?”

  “I cannot speak for Your Grace,” Thomas said, knowingly dancing around the subject of love, not wanting to send the Duke into one of his states of lingering anger.

  “But you can endeavor to, go on then,” Neil snapped.

  “Well,” Thomas said, treading carefully. “Perhaps Your Grace remembers when he was first married.”

  “Yes,” Neil said, gazing absently out his wide window at the fluttering sunset. “Perhaps that is just it. I have not thought on it in some time, and yet, something is different around this
house. Something has shifted within me.”

  Thomas was impressed and gleeful that the Duke was capable of even mentioning love without filling with rage, which would be blindly directed at the nearest person of a lower class he could find.

  Perhaps, Thomas thought. Perhaps the Duke was beginning to face his past, instead of hiding from it. Thomas shuddered as he turned away. This would either resurrect the Duke from his despair or utterly destroy him.

  * * *

  Mary-Anne walked down the servant corridor with a large basket of blankets, taking them for washing. The laundering of all the blankets used the night of the fire was an enormous task. Many of the house staff were already at the cauldrons, boiling up huge vats of water. Others were filling rinse pots from the well in the yard. The operation spanned a huge expanse, with five boiling vats and twice as many basins of cool water.