“They’ve done it!” Frederick remarked. “Good dogs!”
“So, they have,” Neil said, dismounting. “An extra bone for each of them tonight, Mr. Marton.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, huffing. He proceeded to round up the dogs, tethering them one at a time, waiting for the footmen behind them to catch up.
Neil crunched through the fallen leaves and knelt down beside the fox. The riding had been a thrill; the feeling of adrenaline accompanied by the barking dogs and the rapidly-changing landscape made for great sport. Yet now, as he looked at the lifeless animal, killed by his pack of dogs, he felt sorrow for it, and for all things that were dead before their time.
Then he took his index finger and dipped it in the fox’s blood. Slowly he smeared a streak of it over his forehead. Mr. Marton nodded at him approvingly.
“What have you done that for?” Frederick asked.
“It is a sign of respect,” Neil said, then turned to Lord Tamworth. “Tamworth, you never taught him to blood the quarry?”
“Well,” Lord Tamworth shifted uneasily in his saddle. “It is an old tradition.”
“Most traditions are old traditions, sir,” Neil said, getting back on his horse. “Gather that up, Mr. Marton, we will return to the house.”
“Already?” Lord Tamworth asked. “The day is only half done, and I would very much like to try my hand with one of your rifles. Perhaps we can shoot for a few birds?”
“A splendid idea, Father,” Frederick said.
“Very well,” Neil said slightly annoyed. “Mr. Marton, we shall try the south ridge.”
“Better to try the west meadows, Your Grace,” Mr. Marton said. “I’ve seen a flock of geese down that way when we come back through.”
“So be it.” Neil had thought to spare the geese but he knew all too well of, but his groundskeeper had seen that idea ruined by demonstrating his utmost competence as a groundsman.
They rode off that way, and left from the tree line into a striking, rolling field, lain fallow. There the geese were immediately spotted from afar, and Lord Tamworth eagerly dismounted to take aim with the rifle.
The shot rang out with a great cloud of smoke, and the geese took immediate flight.
Frederick was already aiming, and fired at the flying birds, felling one from a great distance.
“Ha!” he shouted. “I’ve got it! A fine weapon this is indeed! What accuracy!”
“Yes,” Neil said, watching the bird tumble out of the sky. “The grooves in the barrel do wonders for it.”
“I’ll say,” Lord Tamworth said.
“Are you satisfied, sir?” Neil asked. “Let us return to the house.” Neil had been enjoying himself, as well as he could have, but the dead fox and bird had twisted the morning. He had not been hunting in years, and he saw it now through a different lens. These creatures never had a chance.
It took an hour to cover the array of ground they had rode back to the stables, where Mr. Marton caught up to them and took their reins. A day of hunting was a long day for a groundskeeper, but Mr. Marton seemed to have enjoyed it all well enough. Neil knew that Mr. Marton had an affinity for the sport.
He took their guns and their muddy ponchos, and they went up the stairs to meet Thomas at the door. Evening was falling upon them, and the house had been lit up, glowing like a low set of stars atop the hill.
“Successful hunt, Your Grace?” Thomas asked.
“It went well enough,” Neil said.
“Oh! They’re back!” he heard Phyllis call from back in the manor. She had obviously settled on something to wear, although who knew how long it had taken.
“Let us see what we have missed, shall we?” Lord Tamworth said, waddling down the hallway after Thomas.
* * *
Mary-Anne had helped Phyllis into her third outfit after Ruth reminded the old lady for the fifth time what the occasion was. Finally, they descended the stairs and joined the company in the west sitting room, and Mary-Anne was surprised to find a young, beautiful lady playing piano beside Kaitlin.
“Oh!” Evelyn jumped when she noticed Phyllis’ old frame settling into a chair.
“Go on dear, you play beautifully,” Phyllis said.
“Doesn’t she?” the Countess said, shining at her daughter.
“You could teach little Kaitlin a thing or two,” Phyllis said. “Come here, let me see you.”
Evelyn walked up to Phyllis nervously, but full of proper poise, conscious of every move she made.
“How old are you?” Phyllis asked.
“Eighteen, Your Grace,” Evelyn said, curtsying.
“Oh come, none of that.” Phyllis waved her hand in the air. “Call me Phyllis; otherwise I may forget and think you are a servant.”
Evelyn smiled nervously, darting her eyes to her mother, who looked at her expectantly.
“I am glad to know you, Phyllis,” she said. “And your grandson as well.”
“Well done,” Phyllis said, leaning over to the Countess. “But we must not play any games, must we? Neil needs to marry again, and soon! This is as proper a match as any other. I appreciate you stopping by before entering London for the Season, for I am sure she will find many suitors there.”
“We can only hope,” the Countess said. “But as our estates neighbor one another, this is a fine place to start. And the Duke is such a fine man and has distinguished himself in the army. It would make much sense; I think it is a good match.”
“He has his qualities,” Phyllis said. “And his faults. But if he ever hopes to solve them, then he will need a wife.”
Mary-Anne watched the scene unfold, waiting nearby Phyllis in case she was suddenly needed. She understood that the discussion was not out of the ordinary, but she had not completely adjusted to the concept. What’s more, an unfamiliar bubbling of jealousy surged through her as she watched the young, beautiful Evelyn compose herself at the piano. She had come here for the Duke, that much was clear. It might well have been written on the invitations, for all Mary-Anne could tell.
Stop it. She closed her eyes and clenched a fist. Go away. He will not want you. She could practically feel Ruth’s eyes on her and dared not look back to betray her rosy face. Luckily, nobody else seemed to pay her any mind. She then realized how foolish she was, playing with these thoughts, harboring jealousy for no good reason, and cultivating a feeling of attraction to a man she could never hope to attain.
Evelyn was playing her part, Mary-Anne decided and tried to not give it any further thought as the day went on. It is not my place. Yet, she constantly had to check herself against pangs of heat when she saw Lady Evelyn do anything that she couldn’t. All the proper body language, domestic skills, and her ability to speak, all shouted together that she was born to marry a Duke, and Mary-Anne was not.
She began to despair in her feelings for the Duke, convincing herself that she could never compete with the proper ladies of his class. Where had the feelings come from anyhow? A few secret looks over time? There was nothing substantial there, nothing real, just a floundering of confusion in the wake of a near run with disaster.
I must go away…soon as I can.
* * *
Oliver was toiling in the yard as it became dark, finishing up with a set of winter shutters along the manor’s east wall. The rich folk were eating a grand dinner, and he could hear them making their boring small talk between bites of food that Oliver considered far too small to be of any true sustenance.
The food smelled incredibly good, however, and gave him cause to linger by the windows as he attached the last of the clamps. It brought him joy to know that he would have fourth pick of whatever leftovers there were among the kitchens.
He greatly enjoyed working up in the house rather than in the village. Now more often than not he wore clean clothes, ate well, and was warm most nights. He also slept on a bed in the servant quarters, rather than on a straw palate that was often damp with morning dew.
All things considered, his
life had dramatically improved, and for the first time in a long while he felt confident about his future.
“All right, Master Hanson?” Mr. Marton said, approaching with a field-dressed goose under his arm.
“All right, Mr. Marton,” Oliver said, “the day’s catch?”
“Half of it,” Mr. Marton said. “The hounds got a fox as well.”
“Did they?” Oliver said, only half interested. His mind was on the smell of roasted duck.
“Not much of a hunter, are you?”
“Never got the chance,” Oliver said.
“Aye, I suppose you’re right,” Mr. Marton said. “Are you about finished here?”
“Yes sir,” Oliver said, “sounds like they are in there, as well.” The sound of chairs being pushed back, and the final dishes being cleared could be heard, muffled through the walls.
“Well, just put the tools back where they belong,” Mr. Marton said, waking on. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Mr. Marton,” Oliver said.
He finished his work and collected the tools, walking off towards one of the yard sheds tucked out of sight. As he strolled down the darkened path, he heard the rustle of leaves up ahead and caught a glimpse of a figure darting past one of the sheds.
“Wait!” he shouted, alarmed. “Hold there!” he scrambled the rest of the way, casting the tools aside, and jumped around the corner.
* * *
Mary-Anne, although he knew her as Emily, jumped with fright at his appearance, stumbling backward against the shed.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Oliver said. “What are you doing down here?”
Mary-Anne looked at him, catching her breath, and tried to conceal her small bundle of food.
“You’re running away?” he asked, a confused, innocent look on his face. “Out there?” he gestured to the tree line beyond. “Oh, come now, you can’t do that. It’s freezing out there.”
Mary-Anne shook her head a bit, biting her lip. She felt ashamed of her actions and knew deep down that it was foolish, even dangerous, to run off in such a manner. What am I doing? I am such a fool. She began to tear up, but quickly wiped them away and hardened her appearance. She nodded to Oliver, affirming his convictions.
“Good,” Oliver said, as she started walking back to the manor. As she moved further away from him, he called out for her to pause a moment. “Hey, Emily, listen,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re running from, but whatever it is, it won’t find you here.”
Mary-Anne lingered a breath but then turned away, giving Oliver a goodbye wave in deflection. While she was walking to the servant quarters, she was stopped in her tracks by the Duke’s voice. He was talking to someone. He was talking to Evelyn! Mary-Anne knew she should continue on, yet this young lady’s presence upset her, and she resolved to know the extent of it.
Mary-Anne glanced up to see that the two stood on the south patio and not far at all from where she was concealed by a wall of hedges. Nervously, she sucked in her breath and listened intently to their conversation, not feeling the freezing air past the butterflies in her stomach. They were incessant, batting their paper-thin wings against the walls of her insides.
“Surely, you must not misunderstand me, My Lady,” said the Duke. “You know that I do not give offence. It is in no way that I discredit your beauty, your wit, or charm, no, no. It is just that I feel we have been played into a corner.”
Mary-Anne’s heart was beating so loud she thought that it might give her away. In fact, she could hardly hear their words over the rapid thumping. There was nervous excitement in the eavesdropping alone; the act in itself was scandalous enough. The reason for her listening, however, threatened a greater rush.
“It is just that I am not seeking a wife, despite what you may have heard from your mother, or more likely, from my grandmother. I wish you all the success with the gentlemen of London, however, for I guarantee they shall not disappoint you such as I have.”
With the Duke’s final nail impeding Evelyn’s advances, Mary-Anne hurried away as stealthily as she could. Her heart was fluttering like a flock of butterflies. Gone was the foolish jealousy she had of this young lady. Of course, he wasn’t going to marry her. Marry her? Why on earth would he marry her when he only really met her today? Mary-Anne felt foolish at her rapid escalation of thoughts.
Whatever it was that forced these feelings, it was new, and it was powerful. It was then Mary-Anne realized fully her feelings for the Duke and accepted the fact that he would haunt her thoughts until the attraction either faded or was materialized.
Chapter 16
“I hate that man,” Lawrence lashed out in the carriage. The week on the road was getting to him, and he had become extremely irritable since the incident at the lodging house.
“Yes, Lawrence, you’ve said that.” Morris rolled his eyes. “What good does it do to say it again?”
“It does me good,” Lawrence said. Morris looked at him sternly, folding his hands over the top of his cane. “Sorry, Father,” Lawrence eventually offered, turning to look back out the window.
“It was you who made an enemy of him,” Morris said. “That was foolish of you. But we are here now and must resolve the situation.”
“How? He is going to beat us in the wool contracts.”
“So, it seems,” Morris said. “But the contracts are not everything.”
“Not everything?” Lawrence pressed. “Then what have we been doing out here for weeks?”
“When fighting a battle, a general must know when to call a retreat. It is the same now. But instead of retreating all the way, we shall circle round and hit him where he doesn’t expect it.”
“And where is that?”
“The law,” Morris growled. “We know him for a criminal on countless crimes. We must ensnare him.”
“I ask again, Father, how?” Now it was Lawrence rolling his eyes.
“Have you no patience?” Morris scolded. “What was the business you mentioned of his coachman?”
“His coachman went missing about a month ago,” Lawrence said. “Same time as that Barnes girl.”
“That cannot be coincidence,” Morris said. “Why do I know that name?”
“Barnes? I haven’t a clue. She’s nobody, just a shop assistant.”
“Nevertheless,” Morris said, “she may hold valuable answers.”
“If she is alive…”
“Indeed,” Morris mulled it all over in his head. There had to be a way of destroying this no good, criminal mushroom, who pretended to belong to the upper merchant class. He had just not found it yet.
“I should like to challenge him with barking irons,” Lawrence said.
“You will do no such thing,” Morris snapped back. “He is dangerous, do not think he cannot use a pistol. He may be better than you, in fact. What have you ever shot at?”
“Plenty of birds.”
“Birds are far different than an opponent with a loaded gun,” Morris said. “No, we will have no need to get our hands dirty. We must provoke him into action and entrap him by way of a runner.”
“Provoke him how?”
“He is easily provoked, as we both already know. You know the property he owns down on the wharf?”
“The one he’s waiting to load with wool, yes I know it,” Lawrence said.
“If it should meet with a fire and burn to the ground, people would be quick to suspect him of fraud.”
“Or us of arson,” Lawrence argued. “Everyone knows we have an ongoing quarrel.”
“Everyone also knows very little of his character and recognize us as the utmost of respectable. With the right money to the right people, the investigation might not even make it to Bow Street; it may, in fact, rest with the solicitors.”
“The insurance money,” Lawrence caught on. “If he is denied it, it will bring him close to ruin. Dished up and set on the counter.”
“Yes, and he will be bound to strike back. Again, with a light bribe, the Runners
will be watching and waiting for his misstep.”
“So, what of the girl? This Barnes?”
“Forget her,” Morris said. “There is a mystery there, but we need not solve it. What we need, is a meeting with a certain sergeant, and contact with someone much closer to Mr. Bastable than a missing girl.”
Lawrence smiled to see his father’s crooked brain kick into action.
“Driver!” Morris slammed his cane against the roof of the carriage loudly. “Back to London!”
The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 10