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

by Linfield, Emma

  “Good Lord, how terrible.” Julian cared not for the residents of the cottages, but he did take note of property destruction. Unlike the peasants, in Julian’s mind, property had value.

  “Terrible indeed,” the Duke nodded. “Unfortunately, we were forced to delay the construction of the warehouse.”

  “Delay it?” Julian was becoming nauseous at the thought. It seemed as if everything would fall apart, directly in front of him.

  “Yes, at least for the winter. It will begin to snow soon,” the Duke said in a matter of fact manner. “And my labourers are my tenants, you understand. They must first build their homes before they build my warehouse.”

  “The winter,” Julian trailed off, seeing a huge piece of income that he had been relying upon collapse out from under him.

  “Yes, so we will miss the first spring shearing, but we should be on track by next autumn. Of course, I understand this is an inconvenience to you.”

  “Ah yes, well,” Julian tried to seem unphased as if this sort of thing had no impact on his plans. “These things do happen, Your Grace. This is why business is an art, no? It is not a science, despite what others may tell you.”

  “Good man,” the Duke said. “I knew you would understand. Of course, I am willing to make the sum out to you as per our arrangement. I understand it is a good deal less than what you would have made on the market, but then again, you don’t have to buy it from me, do you?”

  “Right, of course, Your Grace,” Julian said, growing angry inside. How like these nobles, these peers, to brush aside a complete collapse with one wave of their billfold.

  “Now,” the Duke said. “Here is a promissory note,” he scribbled something down on paper and dipped it his wax seal. “If you bring that to my solicitor in London, one Mr. Carter, do you recall him?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, of course,” Julian said complacently, taking the check without looking at it. He knew the figure, and he knew it wasn’t enough to supplement the lost warehouse. He had built that clause for the event of a sunken barge or a sudden loss of sheep. Not for the lapse of an entire eighth of his local supply chain. He knew also that he couldn’t ask for a loan after that. It was pointless. He would have to return to London regardless to cash the promissory note, and to ask for money after being handed a check was not an act becoming of a gentleman or a businessman. Both of which, Julian desperately attempted to emulate to his fullest capacity.

  “Now, what is it you wanted to speak to me about?” the Duke asked. “Your letter made it sound of some urgency.”

  “It was nothing, Your Grace,” Julian said, feeling defeat flood through his legs. “A question about the warehouse, which you have just now answered, albeit indirectly.”

  “Well, should you like to see the progress, what little there is? A fine enough excuse for a jostle down the road. The weather is proving fine.”

  “No, Your Grace, it is no use going through any sort of trouble on my account,” Julian said, standing from his seat. “I must hurry my way back to London.”

  “Already? Are you sure you cannot take a tea or bite? Come, man, you have traveled all this way. At least take some respite so that you might sleep on that long and dreary ride. It will give your coachman the rest as well. You must never travel with a tiring coachman. It is the gravest of gentlemanly mistakes.”

  Julian stopped in his tracks. He had to remind himself of his station. Here was a man whom he craved the respect of, not because he admired him or any such rubbish, but because he was one of the richest men in the country and had a seat in the House of Lords. If he walked away from this opportunity, he would be a fool. Depressed or not, he had to make an effort.

  “Well, when you put it that you, Your Grace,” Julian adjusted his sash. “I shall be glad to join you for a bit of respite.”

  “Splendid,” the Duke said. “Thomas!” he called out, ringing a small bell on his desk.

  “Your Grace?” Thomas poked his head in through a servant entrance.

  “Rally Mr. Marton, would you? Mr. Bastable and I are going to take a ride down to the site of the warehouse.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” Thomas nodded and left.

  “A nice thing it is, Your Grace, to have such dedicated servants,” Julian remarked as Thomas left the room. He was envious of the house staff, of the servant corridors, and of the general splendor of the Duke’s manor home. He also wanted to bridge into friendly conversation. In Julian’s mind, the way a person became influential was by conversing with people of higher influence. This was a golden opportunity.

  “Thomas is much more than a servant,” the Duke replied, shuffling shut some papers in a drawer. “He is a vital part of my functioning, as any good valet.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Julian said. He hated saying those words. It was a constant reminder that he was the least powerful in the room, and he hated to be in that situation. “I only meant that it is quite convenient.”

  “Indeed.” The Duke smiled while fishing a large overcoat from the coat stand. “I could not run this house without them, that much is certain. It is not that I could not perform their duties, for the majority of their tasks are simple to the fullest extent of the word. However, on an estate this size, they are simply required to ensure the day-to-day operations.” The Duke spoke as he led Julian through the house back to the entrance, where Thomas waited with Julian’s coat.

  “Simple to the fullest extent of the word,” Julian chuckled, taking his coat. He had heard once in a salon that the Duke of Rutland was averse to common folk, due to some terrible family accident. Perhaps this was the beam he could lean on to gain the Duke’s further support. “You have a clever way with words, Your Grace.”

  “Hardly.” The Duke snorted and nodded to Thomas on the way out the door.

  The snort was good, Julian thought. They were approaching more communicable standards. Perhaps this trip was not wasted after all.

  “How many families do you have on your property, Your Grace?” Julian grunted and climbed into the open-air coach with the help of Mr. Marton’s heavy hand.

  “There are twenty-seven in the cottages here,” the Duke said, nodding down the hill as he clamored up across from Julian. “Another ten or so on the south end of the farms.”

  “That is good income,” Julian noted, impressed. One could make a fine shilling on property.

  “It can be.”

  “Can, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, well they don’t always have the money, do they? They are poorer than factory workers.” The coach began to roll down the way, pulled by healthy horses, and Julian noticed a fleck of fear, or was it discomfort, in the Duke’s eyes.

  “You have cause then for eviction, Your Grace,” Julian bobbed along with the carriage. “Find yourself tenants who can pay.”

  “These families have been on the land for generations,” the Duke replied. “I could not uproot them so.”

  “That is noble,” Julian said, shaking his head to himself. “But they will never be more than poor farmers and always in your charge. As the master of this land, is your well-being not of more importance than theirs?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, as it falls to you to ensure the quality of their property, Your Grace, I would argue that it is your duty to evict those who degrade the property value.”

  “That is, perhaps, a way of seeing it,” the Duke said, his eyes washing over the hillside as they rolled along.

  “This fire,” Julian began, looking over the charred marks on the cottages while they moved past. “How did it begin again? Your Grace?”

  “The folly of children,” the Duke answered, shaking his head. “A true stroke of misfortune.”

  “These children, they are of the cottages?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It should reason,” Julian snorted. “They have no respect for property that is not theirs, these peasants, I mean, Your Grace.”

  “How do you mean?” the Duke asked, shuff
ling his legs in the carriage. Julian had to be cautious. He did not want to push too far. It seemed, despite what Julian had heard, that the Duke had some level of respect for the lower classes, even if it was specific to his estate.

  “Well, Your Grace, I only mean that they do not appreciate the true value of your property, and how lucky they are to live here.”

  “Quite.” the Duke nodded. “I try to give them a life worth living.”

  Aha! Julian thought, so he sees himself as a sort of emancipator, a champion of humanity. It made sense, Julian reasoned with himself, that a man withdrawn from society at large would grow a deeper relationship with his immediate surroundings. Especially in such an isolated world like the one the Duke had created, in which everyone around him answered to his commands.

  “Well said, Your Grace,” Julian touched back. “It is all one can do, no? An honest attempt.”

  “Do you not have your own employees in London, Mr. Bastable?”

  “I have yet to hire workers for my warehouse,” Julian said. “But I employ a crew of sailors for my ship,” Julian spoke with pride whenever cataloging personal achievements. “She’s a beauty, took her all the way from Bombay.”

  “How did you find India?” the Duke asked, leaning forward a bit to duck beneath a gust of wind.

  “It is a horribly, filthy place,” Julian shuddered, remembering the sweltering heat and the cacophony of the jungle. “I was lucky to escape with my life. The locals there are savages intent on the destruction of all things Christian and English. But I survived that jungle of deceit and danger, and I arrived home with a ship and ambition.”

  “You found it that depressive, truly?” the Duke leaned back, digesting Julian’s words. “I have only heard of its beauty and riches.”

  “Riches are both the promise of wealth and filth simultaneously,” Julian pressed the issue. This was his chance to assert himself immeasurably in the Duke’s perception of him as a wise man of business. “Have you ever seen a diamond mine, Your Grace?”

  “I have not,” the Duke indulged Julian’s tangent.

  “Once, in Brazil, I paid a small operation a visit,” Julian began. “It was a chaotic scene to be sure. Hundreds of savages running about in scraps of cloth, baskets of rocks on their heads,” Julian was near to spitting with disgust. “They were like ants, working in some organic formation, and the chipping of pick on stone was ceaseless. The coal is kept burning, and the whole sky stunk of blood and sweat.”

  “Good lord,” the Duke remarked.

  “I sat there, on one of the scaffolds, with the operation engineer, he was a good man, you see. And one of the boys comes up to us, a filthy wretch, no more than ten. Those grunts will never elevate themselves,” Julian barked the last bit and had to bring himself around for a moment, taking in a deep breath. “So, the boy holds out his hand, his little, skeletal hand, and holds out a gemstone. That diamond shone through all the dirt and foulness. It radiated wealth and joy from the deepest pit of filth and despair. At that moment I knew it for certain; riches do not come without their filth,” Julian sat back, triumphantly, beaming his confidence towards the Duke.

  “It is quite the story,” the Duke said flatly. Julian worried that he was unimpressed. “When did they begin mining in Brazil?”

  “Some hundred years ago, Your Grace,” Julian puzzled.

  “But may we assume that gemstones could be found there before operations began? Since they are ancient in nature, are they not?”

  “It is a fair assumption, Your Grace,” Julian conceded.

  “So, then I postulate,” the Duke cleared his throat. “That a native there may have, at one time, found a diamond in the river before it was ever mined. They looked upon it with wonder, washed clean in the running water, and are endowed with great wealth at no cost. Therein I have exposed an exception to your rule.”

  “Well said, Your Grace,” Julian bowed. “But If I may counter, I would claim that a mining operation is a guarantee of some success, while a chance encounter carries far lower chances of discovery.”

  “And where is the filth in our business? It is the honest trade of wool.”

  “Ah, Your Grace,” Julian said. “It is there,” Julian gestured to the clear foundation of the riverside warehouse.

  “Fair enough”, the Duke remarked. “We have arrived. Hold up here, Mr. Marton!”

  Mr. Marton stayed the horses and helped the two passengers out of the coach. Neil splashed down confidently into the thickening mud, water splashing against his thick leather boots. Julian descended much more cautiously, careful not to stain his sashes with a splatter of soil.

  “As you can see, Your Grace, we made some progress,” Mr. Marton led them to the building frame after tying off the horses.

  “Yes, it is clearly something,” the Duke said. “Something resembling of a warehouse.”

  “There is no roof nor walls,” Julian despaired.

  “As I said before, we will be on schedule for the Spring shearing.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” Julian sighed, looking around. The bricks had been lain well, at the very least. Perhaps these tenant labourers are more capable than the average, Julian thought, trying to rationalize why a landowner would not evict a tenant who forwent payment.

  “Well, I suppose we have seen it,” the Duke laughed a bit. “Would you stay for supper, Mr. Bastable? I feel it growing colder already. Perhaps this ride was a tuft of a thought.”

  “No, no, Your Grace,” Julian tried to appear unaffected by the poor progress. “I really should be getting on back to the city. If I leave before sunset proper, I should return in time for the banks in the morning.”

  “So be it,” the Duke announced. “Mr. Marton! Back around then!”

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Thomas had set Randolph to wiping down the countertops — an easy, ongoing task that kept him occupied.

  “Hello there,” Oliver said, entering. “Who are you?”

  “You scared me half to death,” Randolph said, spinning around. “My master is in a meeting with the Duke,” he said, tossing the rag back and forth in his hands. “Mr. Thomas told me to wipe the counter.”

  “I bet he did,” Oliver said, walking up to Randolph. Randolph was three years younger than Oliver, yet he had a sense of presence about him that reflected a very brief childhood.

  “I’m Oliver,” he said. “Oliver Hanson.”

  “Randolph.” They shook hands.

  “Randolph what?”

  “Don’t know,” Randolph said. “All I know is I was born in Colchester.”

  “Not a bad place,” Oliver said.

  “No, it ain’t,” Randolph replied, and the two smiled at each other. “I ain’t seen better but I sure seen worse.”

  “Randolph!” Julian called from the parlor. “Make yourself useful, we are taking a ride.”

  “Useful?” Randolph asked, but the Duke and Julian had already walked out of the front door.

  “I suppose you could follow me,” Oliver said.

  “I suppose so,” Randolph smiled.

  The pair jolted around the servant hallways, which Oliver confessed he was still learning. This resulted in several wrong turns and retracing of steps, but the two boys enjoyed themselves all the while. Finally, they found their way out to the yard, where piles of planks had been laid out in some kind of corresponding stacks. Randolph didn’t understand them. Randolph had never been in such a place, with such air, sky, and grandeur all around.

  “What are we doing?” Randolph asked.

  “Scaffolds,” Oliver replied. “Got to get all the pieces out of the sheds so me and Mr. Marton can go up on the roof for repairs.”

  “Up on the roof?” Randolph blinked, glancing the two stories up to the tall, sloping roof that reflected the low sun.

  “Aye,” Oliver smiled, moving to lift another board. “Help me with this.”

  “Sure,” Randolph answered, and began to move timber for the majority of the afternoon. The tw
o enjoyed each other’s company. Oliver spoke of how since he had come to work in the house, he rarely saw his young cousins. Randolph talked about the city and his busting tour of the countryside. He couldn’t fully explain Julian’s plan, for he didn’t fully understand it. Finally, Thomas found them and insisted they wash their faces and hands before coming back into the house. Afterward, he left them in the kitchen at the cook staff’s beck and call.

  Randolph was delighted to witness the preparation of a mansion’s meal. He imagined the multitudes of smells that would soon confront his nostrils, and it brought him great joy. Just as he was being brought an apron, and he saw the great ovens being creaked open to stoke, Julian’s voice broke through the room.