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

by Linfield, Emma

  The arrival of the pork had raised Thomas’ spirits considerably; he was overjoyed at the thought of surprising the Duke with a pork roast, for the diet of late had mainly consisted of chicken and duck. Poultry was far more practical for the feeding of the household, for two or three birds would satiate all members, in accompaniment with simple dishes. Between the hounds and the servants, there was never any fear of spoiling leftover chicken.

  Hog, on the other hand, left so much meat behind that it had to be preserved, or else the butchering would be wasted. It would gladden the Duke considerably to eat pork once again.

  Thomas went out of the kitchens, crossing through the lesser of the two dining rooms, and tactfully avoided the drawing room in which Phyllis sat, rattling on about something else that had already happened in her past. He could hear Ruth trying to reason with her and talk her down. Where was that woman, Emily? Thomas thought. If that is even her name.

  There she was, hurrying across the west sitting room. Although I still know nothing about her, she does help a great deal with the old lady. Thomas found her kind enough, to be sure, despite her lacking the ability to speak. Still, there was something about her that nagged at him, less often than it used to, but still occasionally.

  The Duke rounded the corner from the west sitting room and nearly bumped into Thomas while he walked, catching himself with a laugh.

  “Thomas!” he burst out. “I did not see you, man.”

  “Pardon, Your Grace.” Thomas excused himself, bowing his head and backing up a step.

  “It is no worry, no worry at all,” the Duke said, and Thomas saw that he was quite red in the face.

  “Can I serve Your Grace anything for your afternoon tea?”

  “Erm,” The Duke stuttered, bringing his mind back around and flicking his eyes down to Thomas. “Yes, a biscuit or two, on the veranda,” The Duke ordered, and abruptly walked off.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas said, and looked to where the Duke had been staring over his shoulder. Clear in view through the door frame was that woman Emily calmly brushing Phyllis’ hair. Thomas could see a flicker of red in her cheeks.

  Just what is going on there?

  Chapter 24

  Finally, the household was ready for its short-lived migration. The trunks, once packed, were stacked neatly atop the post-chaises and covered with a canvas sheet to further protect against possible weather. Then, all the luggage was fastened down with thick leather straps, firmly attached by Mr. Marton.

  Each carriage was led by two teams of two horses. Two out of the four horses with each coach were saddled by post-boys; these young jockeys drove the horses rather than a single driver, a method Neil much preferred since the accident. He found it near impossible to place his trust in a sole coachman. In fact, it had taken him two years to even set foot in such a vehicle, but in time he settled upon the mode of transport in which he felt the most secure.

  Luggage was also stacked on one of the exterior benches, located on the rear of the first coach, but these were mainly the smaller trunks, not so neatly displayed beneath a sheet. Into this coach climbed Neil, Kaitlin, and Phyllis. Betsey, Ruth, Emily, and Thomas occupied the second. Three servants from the manor sat cramped on the bench of the second carriage, huddled together and holding packages of food. No doubt the pork roast would be used at some point as a pillow, Neil thought, smiling to himself as he sunk into the leather-bound seat, nestling against the window and drawing back the curtains.

  “Are we all set then, Mr. Marton?” Neil called through the open door.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Marton answered, approaching the carriage. “Be at ease, Your Grace, I will keep this place right as rain until you return.”

  “You have my thanks, Mr. Marton,” Neil said, slouching back. “Then let us be off.”

  Mr. Marton swung shut the door, gave the carriage a rap with his fist, and called out to the post-boys for their journey to begin. The four spurred their animals on, and the eight horses began to pull the vehicles forward. Then in a blink, they were off, rattling down the winding road of Neil’s estate.

  “Where are we going?” Phyllis asked, despite having been told only ten minutes previously.

  “To the shore, Grandmother, the old beach cottage,” Neil offered.

  “The cottage!” Phyllis lit up, exactly as she had before. “Oh, how splendid, just simply so splendid,” she clasped her hands in her lap and looked pleasantly out the window.

  Kaitlin seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the ride, ogling at the passing countryside.

  “Look at all the sheep!”

  “Those are all our sheep.”

  “All of them?” Kaitlin asked in awe.

  “All of them.”

  “Can I name them?”

  “Of course, you can,” Neil said, happy to see his daughter enjoying the carriage. It was the first time Kaitlin had ever been on such an excursion since Neil took such trips only out of business necessity and never took his daughter along. She had no need to travel, he had rationalized, since her lessons could take place at the house, and she was too young for social events. Sitting in that rushing coach, Neil realized that his daughter had lived her entire life without leaving the estate, until this trip to the shore. He felt ashamed at this realization but tried to encourage himself that all was changing for the better. This will be the first of many adventures for her, he thought, watching Kaitlin draw shapes on the foggy windows.

  The journey was a long one, however, and Kaitlin soon grew bored. They had left very early that morning, for the ride would take nearly ten hours.

  “Are we there yet?” Kaitlin asked for the eighth time.

  “No, the answer is still no,” Neil remarked. Phyllis snored with her head tipped back, oblivious to the past four hours of travel, and likely the next four as well.

  “When will we be?” she persisted. “I do not like it in here any longer.”

  “We are halfway there,” Neil said. “It is not so bad, not as long as going to London.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “About thirteen hours from our estate,” he said. “Sometimes it is better to make the trip in two days, so to have a rest and a meal. Other times, it feels better just to simply arrive at your destination, no matter how long you must travel.”

  “That is a long time.”

  “Yes, Kaitlin,” Neil smiled back to her, enjoying her curious nature. “It is a long time.”

  On they drove, crossing onto one of the metalled roads heading east to the sea. These roads, regularly maintained with the fees by toll booths, were made for much smoother travel than the slow-going road of the estate. Neil felt the carriage’s speed pick up with the new terrain and leaned back for the duration of the ride.

  The sun was going down when they reached the Norfolk coast and rolled into the town of Hunstanton. It was a sleepy place, set against the sea at such a spot on the coast that is was completely surrounded by water, and despite laying on the east coast of England, Neil could clearly see the sun setting over the water, sending off brilliant rays in radiant ripples.

  “Kaitlin, wake up.” He nudged his daughter, and she rubbed her eyes. “Look at the sea.”

  Kaitlin sat straight up, and pressed her face to the glass, seeming to marvel in the unprovoked display of natural majesty. Neil could only guess that she had no words to match the view of the rising waves, and he silently watched the sea as they made their way to the Arnold’s cottage.

  Neil had always thought of it as a cottage and called it as such, but in truth, it was much more of a mansion built atop a hill overlooking sand dunes and tufts of grass, a few miles just west of the town. The manor was surrounded by a large, expansive porch, that melted flawlessly into the top of the dunes. The home stretched up a respectable two stories and was crowned with a fine roof and observational parapet facing the sea.

  Light shone from the windows, and Neil felt glad to have sent servants to prepare the house, for it was late and ever
yone likely felt tired from travel. Neil certainly did; his back and legs ached from the tight space and its constant jostle.

  Emerging from the coach was like a rebirth. The strong sea breeze struck Neil square in the jaw as he clambered forth, nearly knocking him to the ground. His overcoat flared up around him dramatically, and he shot his hand upward to hold fast his hat.

  The wind knocked at him gust after gust, and he laughed out in excitement, waving his hand to Kaitlin and the other coach.

  “Come on, it is wonderful,” he called out over the gale. Servants had started to emerge from the house to help with the luggage and stabling of the horses.

  The people in the second post-chaise disembarked, and all occupants braced against the heavy wind. They collectively agreed to pull the coach closer to the house for Phyllis, and then gingerly moved her to the sitting room that faced out to the sea through marvelously large windows.

  Neil walked into the house, drinking in the memories of his past visits to the cottage. His grandfather, Phyllis’ husband, had bought the property many years ago, making visits every summer. Neil had abruptly closed the manor five years ago after concluding decisively that he had no need to travel off his Rutland estate.

  He had set about to sell his overseas properties, wondering why his family even owned them in the first place. Of what good was a house and farm in Australia? Or on the South coast of Africa? Or in the jungles of India?

  Neil’s father had been a collector of sorts, buying up property everywhere he managed to visit in his life, and Neil had sold off nearly all of it, save the cottage on the shore.

  He had almost sold it to the Earl of Norfolk, but in the last week of the transaction, he had changed his mind, feeling a strange connection to the house.

  Now, walking into the empty corridors, Neil knew why he had kept the property. There were memories there — good memories —untainted by the disaster that had later befallen his family. The smell of the salty sea air filled every corner as the servants hauled in trunk after trunk. Neil took in a deep breath. The combined scents of the sea and the house filled up his senses. He lifted up his heels with his breath, clicking down on the exhale.

  “It is good to be back,” he said to Kaitlin, who had come up beside him.

  “This is your house, Father?” Kaitlin was looking around.

  “No, Kaitlin,” Neil smiled. “It is your house.”

  “My house?” Kaitlin’s eyes widened, and she held her hands together at her chest.

  “That’s right,” Neil chuckled. “Now go pick out a room! Hurry now!”

  Kaitlin ran off, squealing with excitement, poking her head around door frames and corners.

  “Lady Kaitlin seems to have taken to the travel well enough,” Thomas said, approaching Neil with heavy trunks in tow.

  “Yes,” Neil remarked. “It really is not at all that bad.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Thomas said gladly. “Not bad at all. Shall I bring these to the master chambers?”

  “Very well, Thomas, I think perhaps we should have a bite, everyone must be hungry.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “Will it be the roast?”

  “Yes, fine,” Neil said. “Ring me when it is ready. I need to rest my eyes.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas said, and clicked his toes to the stairs with a bow of his head, gesturing furiously to the house servants to help with the trunks.

  The evening progressed quickly, for the sun was already shrinking upon their arrival. By the time that the trunks were sorted into each one’s rooms, the horses and post-chaises stabled, and food set out for the Duke’s family, it was well into the night. They ate sleepily, feeling the fatigue of a long day of travel.

  By all rights, the horses should complain more than I, Neil thought, chewing on a piece of pork.

  After dinner, they all retired swiftly and slept soundly, awaking the next day to a glorious sunrise that poured into the wide windows like the molten iron of a blacksmith’s mold spreading brightly out into its vessel.

  Chapter 25

  It was a golden sun, bringing in not only the new day but the new Neil, as he saw it rising from his bed. The tide had gone down, and the long beach glittered against the shadows of the last of the seabirds to make their journey south.

  Neil was refreshed by the sight. Every morning for the past five years, save those very few nights spent in London, had greeted him with the same sight of his estate’s rolling hills. He had come to know it well, studying every rise and fall of the distant tree line, every dip in the grass, and where the sunlight struck at what time, according to the season.

  Now he stared out into the vast North Sea, lit beautifully, impressing upon him a sight the likes of which he had not taken in for years. This musing nearly brought Neil to tears. He held his head in his hands while the sun streamed in on him, feeling the warm embrace of the day.

  “Your Grace?” Thomas poked his head in after a brief rap of his gloved hand on the door. “Is anything the matter?”

  Neil shook his posture straight, wiping the tip of a tear from the corner of his eyes. Bending down, the sound off spiralling cracks resounded with a great limbering of his back and shoulders.

  “I am excellent, Thomas,” Neil said. “For the first time in years, I feel truly excellent.”

  “I am glad to hear it, Your Grace,” Thomas said, sliding all the way into the room. “You look very well.”

  “I feel well, Thomas!” Neil laughed, flapping his arms up and down. “Look at all that!” He gestured broadly to the view, nearly blinding from the sun’s many reflections.

  “It is, marvellous, Your Grace,” Thomas replied, stepping up beside the Duke to take in the view. “Shall we be showing Her Grace the ships today?”

  “Yes, yes,” Neil said, remembering suddenly why they had come to the sea in the first place. “We should go visit the pier after breakfast.”

  “Very well, Your Grace,” Thomas nodded. “Breakfast is ready for you.”

  “Ready?” Neil blinked, taken aback. “For how long have I slept? The sun is only just rising.”

  “The time is a quarter past nine o’clock, Your Grace,” Thomas answered, checking his timepiece.

  “I have not slept past seven in years,” Neil gaped. “Is everyone else awake?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, Betsey is with the young lady, and Her Grace is changing clothes.”

  “Very well,” Neil said, giving his head a quick shake and his cheeks a quick slap. “I am up now. Let us take some coffee and bacon, and then we shall visit the pier. Now come on, let’s get me dressed.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas bowed. “I thought it best you wear your uniform — for Her Grace’s sake.”

  “You are right,” Neil said. “One must fit the part to play it.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” Thomas smiled, and shuffled to prepare Neil’s outfit.

  It had been ages since Neil slipped into his military uniform. Thomas had seen it cleaned and pressed, and it looked nearly brand new; nothing like Neil remembered it when he waded through the mud and smoke of both peninsular campaigns.

  The crisp fit of the outfit gave Neil a surge of confidence as he ran his hands down the gilded sleeves and bright buttons.

  “There you are, Your Grace, Major Arnold,” Thomas said, his face shining brightly.

  “I have not heard that in some time,” Neil muttered, looking at his reflection in the decorated mirror.

  “It suits you, Your Grace,” Thomas praised. “You could still find employ within Whitehall, should you choose it.”

  “Perhaps,” Neil said. “But I had already withdrawn before Waterloo, and after such a battle, the positions of power changed favorably to those who were there. I am not sure there would be a place for someone like me.”

  “Of course, Your Grace, I only meant that you do look the part.”

  “That I do.” Neil grinned, admiring himself. He cared not much for his personal appearance, and he often
forgot that he was considered a handsome man. There, however standing tall in his Major’s uniform, he appreciated his own reflection and thought himself not too shabby in the least.

  Neil bounced down the stairs to breakfast and found Phyllis patiently working at her boiled egg with a delicate silver spoon. When she looked up to see Neil entering the room, in full army dress, she forcibly dropped her utensil.

  “Oh!” she wailed. “You cannot take him away! The army will make mincemeat out of him! Arthur, stop him!”

  “Everything will be well,” Neil declared, taking his seat. “The army will not make mincemeat out of me.”

  “They make mincemeat of everybody,” Phyllis gripped, reaching again for her spoon. “You remember the Boucliff boys? Do you? Both of them! Dead within a week of each other!”