by L G Rollins
Martha spoke first. “How is he, doctor?”
Doctor Lock tried to pull himself up but couldn’t seem to stand up straight fully. “I’ve given him some powders, and he’s sleeping better now.”
“But he will recover?”
It touched Hugh to hear Martha cling to her hopes, even in the simple way she asked the question.
Doctor Lock let out a long, slow breath. The muscles up Hugh’s back tightened with apprehension.
“It is unclear at this point,” Doctor Lock said slowly. “I will be back in a few hours. Perhaps, after he’s been allowed to sleep for a time, I will know more.”
Martha nodded, but Hugh didn’t miss that she blinked several times as well. Doctor Lock excused himself and moved down the hallway and out of sight. No doubt he was off to a few hours of well-deserved sleep himself.
Martha stood in the hallway, her gaze fixed on the bedchamber door, hands pulling on each other.
“I’d hate to go in and disturb him,” she said.
Hugh knew he wouldn’t say the right thing, so instead, he only motioned for her to go in. He couldn’t imagine her little brother thinking Martha’s presence a disturbance in the least.
Martha only shook her head. “If only he hadn’t gotten lost that night.”
Apparently, she needed more encouragement than a wave of the hand, but he didn’t think she’d sleep well anywhere but by her brother’s side. Hugh moved up beside her, resting his hand against the small of her back, and gently encouraged her to go in.
Martha took one reluctant step and then a second. “If only he hadn’t been scared, he wouldn’t have fallen and hurt his good ankle to begin with. None of this would have happened.”
Hugh’s brow dropped as they walked into the room. He’d been scared . . . and then lost? And what did she mean by hurt his good ankle? For all the time they’d spent talking to one another in the church house, Hugh was suddenly reminded of all he didn’t know about her.
The moment they were three steps into the room, Martha hurried forward. She tucked the blanket more tightly around the small form in the bed, her words reassuring, her tone soft and lilting.
Hugh moved up behind her. The small boy smiled, even with his eyes closed.
But . . . it couldn’t be.
Devil take him, it was.
Martha’s younger brother was the little boy he’d frightened on his way home from the church house last week. Hugh cursed himself. He hadn’t any notion that boy had been her brother. He never would have yelled if he had.
Then again, should it have truly mattered? Did any little boy truly deserve the threatening glare he’d given Tim? Probably not. Nonetheless, Hugh had acted like a monster, a bully.
“There, there, my boy,” Martha said as she backed away and sat in the large chair near the bed, completely oblivious to Hugh’s wretchedness. “You rest up and get better for me, all right?”
The boy didn’t answer, already sound asleep.
Hugh took a step back, the floorboard squeaking underneath his weight.
Martha turned his way. She still looked worried, troubled. But there was a bit more calm in her expression, too.
“Thank you,” she said.
Hugh couldn’t answer; this time, it had nothing to do with his struggle to speak. Martha hadn’t the faintest idea it was Hugh’s fault her brother lay there, sick and ailing. She didn’t know it had been him who’d scared the poor lad, caused him to fall, and then get lost.
“I appreciate you having a room readied for me when we first arrived,” she continued, her gaze returning to little Tim. “But if it’s all the same, I think I shall stay here tonight. This chair is plenty comfortable for me.”
Should he tell her? Right now, just admit to what had actually happened that day among the snow-covered trees? A gentleman would. Gentlemen were genteel and affable—two things Hugh had never been.
He probably should at least respond to her request to stay in Tim’s room for the night. But she was already snuggling down in the chair, her head resting against the great wing, her feet pulled up beneath her.
Martha needed honesty and words of encouragement, but Hugh was the last person she’d likely want it from.
She’d spoken of changing the road one was on. He’d no doubt that she could do such a thing for herself and her family. But as for him? Hugh would never change. He’d been who he was for too long. That was why, instead of speaking up, he simply left.
Silently.
Wordlessly.
For that was all Hugh knew how to be.
It was the only thing he ever could be.
Chapter Twelve
Martha walked down the grand staircase in Stonewell Castle, rested, relaxed, and wholly in awe at the home surrounding her. Partway through the night, Grandfather had come and told her to go to her own bed. He would sit with Tim. She’d hesitated, but by then, her neck had grown frightfully sore, and Tim had been resting comfortably ever since Doctor Lock had left. She’d finally agreed.
Now, as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she couldn’t help but be glad she had. Though the sun clearly showed it as being nearer mid-day than morning, Martha had only risen less than a half-hour before. A maid had helped her dress—a rare treat that reminded her of days long past—and then she’d checked in on Tim. He was still sleeping well, and Grandfather had already enjoyed breakfast in his room.
The thought of breakfast had awoken a hunger in her she hadn’t felt in a long time. Perhaps it was the large, opulent house, or perhaps it was that, for once, she didn’t need to worry about Tim being warm enough or Grandfather and Peter having enough to eat. She was free to search out food for herself and enjoy it without rushing.
She moved down the corridor but paused when she heard female voices. Martha moved up nearer a door off to her right. Hugh’s house guests, she supposed. He’d complained about them quite a bit when last they’d spoken at the church. Were they truly as dull and self-important as the duke made them out to be? The sound of footsteps brought her head around before she could listen long enough to judge for herself.
A footman approached her and bowed. “Pardon me, miss, but His Grace has instructed that you be led to the breakfast room and given a plate of warm food once you awoke. If it is agreeable to you, of course.”
Martha’s stomach growled loudly at the word ‘breakfast.’ She clamped a hand over it. The footman pressed his lips together as if trying to hide a smile.
“Yes,” she said, though it was probably unnecessary now. “I would, indeed, like some breakfast.”
He motioned for her to follow and then led her away. Martha cast one last glance toward the room where the ladies had gathered. Her curiosity would have to wait until after her hunger was appeased.
Breakfast was brought to her already served up on a plate since the differing dishes had already been cleared away. It was warm all the same, just as the footman promised. And delicious, too. Martha had nearly forgotten what a pleasure it was to eat a variety of foods in a single meal.
Soon, though, she was too full to eat the rest. A shame, really. She’d been enjoying it. Martha rested her fork against the edge of her plate. How awful would it be if she ate just a few more bites?
But no. She was already feeling the effects of stuffing herself; her stomach was pressing uncomfortably against her clothing. She had better stop now before she had to be rolled from the room.
Martha made to stand, and a footman hurried to pull the chair out behind her. He then instructed her that the other houseguests were still in the parlor, the room she’d passed earlier. With a quick thank you, Martha hurried in that direction.
As she neared the room, the sound of voices assailed her once more. Mostly, they were female; she picked up a few male voices as well, though she couldn’t hear well enough to know what was being said. She didn’t think she heard the duke’s voice, however. Was he even in the room? Hopefully so. Otherwise, her sudden appearance, when she knew no one else present,
might prove a bit awkward.
Martha pushed open the door. All conversation stopped the moment she peeked into the room. It was quite full, with nearly a dozen finely dressed gentlemen and ladies sitting, standing, and generally lounging about. The men all stood as she walked in. She counted six in total. Three were quite elderly, sporting lined wrinkles and gray hair. Two were younger, one probably close to her own age and another who looked to be only a decade or so older. The last, most unfortunately, was none other than Lord Comerford.
The ladies, who remained seated, seemed a mixture of curious and disapproving. She thought she counted eight, but she could have been wrong by one or two.
No one said a thing. Everyone merely stared at her.
Little wonder; they’d all been present at Stonewell Castle for well over a fortnight with no expectation of the group growing to include the unremarkable Cratchits. In a turn of unexpected good fortune, Lord Comerford did no more than glance her way, affecting the same disinterest the other gentlemen showed her.
Footsteps approached from behind. Martha glanced back and found the duke standing at her elbow.
Relief flooded over her, and she felt herself smiling. At least there was one person here she already knew. It made a rather large difference in her estimation. Taking her arm, his grace walked her over to an elderly lady sitting near the end of a long sofa.
In as few words as possible, he introduced Martha and the woman, one Lady Fitzroy. Without another syllable, he bowed and moved off, back toward the corner he must have been in when Martha had first entered the room.
Lady Fitzroy stood and moved a bit closer to Martha. “We had not expected anyone else to be joining us this Christmas. But I always find making new friends to be a pleasure.”
“Yes,” Martha muttered, “I quite agree.” Her gaze, however, was still on the duke. She knew a moment of unease; what with the way he so quickly picked up a book, sat heavily in a small chair, and seemed to quite effectively ignore everything that was taking place in his own parlor, how could she not? His current behavior seemed rather at odds with the man she had begun to believe he was.
“Will you be staying through the holidays?”
Martha pulled herself back to the present conversation; she’d hate for Lady Fitzroy to consider her rude or ungracious. “That is uncertain for the moment.”
Lady Fitzroy’s forehead creased in confusion, her gaze moving from Martha to the duke. The elderly lady shook her head, her white-streaked curls bouncing slightly. “Well, either way, I will introduce you to everyone else.”
Was it not rather an imposition on his grace’s part to assume someone else would introduce her?
Lady Fitzroy must have read her thoughts, for she gave Martha a half shrug. “The late duchess was my dearest friend; as such, I am certain she would like for me to see you comfortable in her home.” She looped her arm around Martha’s, bringing their heads closer together and whispering, “And don’t let the duke’s cold manners offend you. He’s like that to everyone.”
Lady Fitzroy pulled her about the room for over a quarter of an hour. Martha met everyone—including Lady Fitzroy’s husband—though her head was swimming so, she could hardly remember anyone’s name. When they reached Lord Comerford, he surprised Martha yet further by acting quite as though this was the first time they’d met. Offering little in the way of excuses, he almost immediately pardoned himself and moved off to another part of the room.
Martha wasn’t at all sure what to make of his complete change in demeanor, but neither could she find it within herself to mind. The whole time, though she tried not to, her gaze repeatedly returned to the duke. He didn’t so much as glance her way once.
Eventually, about the time Martha was beginning to wonder if she were truly a woman or perhaps an elephant being paraded at a menagerie, Lady Fitzroy led her back to the sofa and they sat. The gentleman who looked to be no more than a handful of years her senior walked their way, standing directly before them. It wasn’t until he did so that Martha realized Lady Fitzroy hadn’t introduced him.
“Come, Mother,” he said, “what do you mean by denying me the pleasure of being introduced to this beautiful lady?”
“Well,” Lady Fitzroy responded blithely, “I have not known her long enough to understand if she likes the gentlemen of her acquaintance to be as stubborn as you.”
“La,” he said, his eyes still on Martha, “then you ought not to have introduced her to any of the men here. Moreover,” he bent over, dropping his voice so that only they could hear, “she ought not to have been an acquaintance of the Duke of Pembroke’s for certain. Not a more stubborn man on all the earth than he.”
Martha felt her face scowl a bit before she caught herself and smoothed her features. She wouldn’t call the duke stubborn, per se. Determined, for sure. She had no doubt that once he set his mind to something, he saw it through to the end. But that wasn’t exactly the same as being stubborn.
“True,” Lady Fitzroy said, smiling at her son. “I suppose there is no harm in introducing you two. If she can manage to handle His Grace, my own son won’t be much of a challenge. Miss Cratchit, this is Lord Birks.”
They exchanged greetings and Lord Birks took the seat directly across from Martha and his mother.
“Tell me, Miss Cratchit,” he said, “how long have you been acquainted with the Silent Duke?”
Martha opened her mouth to respond, but her answer caught. She very well couldn’t go about telling people they’d met while she had been working as a maid, cleaning the church. Nor did she believe the duke would appreciate anyone knowing he retreated there often for peace and solitude.
“Not very long,” she muttered, lamely.
If Lord Birks thought her non-specific reply strange, he didn’t show it.
“It must be quite an honor, then,” he said, “to be invited to one of the Christmas house parties his mother and mine have made famous.”
Martha looked from son to mother. “Forgive me, but I had no idea this was a long-standing tradition.”
Lord Birks laughed, the sound loud enough to fill the whole room, and jarred Martha slightly. “You had no idea? Surely not. Anyone even the least bit acquainted in any manner with the Duke of Pembroke must certainly know. Do you not agree, Mother?”
Lady Fitzroy still smiled. “The Duchess has been gone many years now, so perhaps it is not quite so strange that Miss Cratchit has not heard of our gatherings.” She appeared to want to justify Martha’s ignorance, but her tone indicated she couldn’t quite understand it herself.
“I disagree,” Lord Birks said firmly. “Even Lord Comerford, who is not but a distant relation of Father’s, knows of this gathering.” He leaned in toward Martha. “Wormed his way into joining at the last minute. Nothing definitive has been brought to light, yet, but rumors are he’s come for a purpose.”
Martha searched for something to say, something to prove she wasn’t a brainless ninny. But nothing came. Even before her family’s circumstances took a harsh reversal, her family had not been so highly esteemed as to run in the same circles as a duke.
Lady Fitzroy hit her son lightly on the arm. “You gossip like an old hag.”
Far from being offended, Lord Birks only laughed.
With a shake of her head and a “tut-tut” of disapproval, Lady Fitzroy turned back toward Martha and changed the topic to her trip into the “quaint town of Dunwell” the day before.
Lord Birks quickly chimed in. They went on and on about the small shops they’d visited, the humbly dressed folk they’d passed on their way, the country cant they’d heard.
Martha felt herself sinking lower and lower into the sofa. She’d never put on airs, never assumed she was equal to a gathering such as this. However, to be sitting among those whose lives had seen so little struggle and hear them call her town and the people she’d grown up with “cute” and “curious” and “picturesque” was nothing short of mortifying.
The doors to the parlor opened, and
Martha contemplated making a run for it. Most likely, if she leapt to her feet and bolted from the room, no one would stop her. They’d stare, and perhaps a jaw or two would drop open, but surely no one would truly care.
Of course, the moment she left the room in such a state, they’d take to talking about her. She would be labeled “curious” and “peculiar” and who knew what else. Martha remained seated, her hands in her lap and her eyes slightly cast down.
“Good day to you, Miss Cratchit.”
Martha’s gaze darted up and landed on none other than Lady Wilmington herself. Beside the bitter old woman was her daughter, Lady Harriet.
“Good day to both of you,” Martha managed to say without sounding particularly daft. The women had not been in the room when she had been introduced.
Lady Wilmington’s brow lifted. She made what seemed to be very little effort at keeping the derision from her voice. “I had no notion we were to expect you.”
“It was rather unexpected on my part as well.” Martha left it at that. She was feeling less comfortable here and, consequently, felt far less willing to tell everyone about her ailing brother.
“I see,” Lady Wilmington said. She turned toward Lord Birks, her smile spreading easily across her lips. “You missed a most entertaining reading last night, sir. My daughter was exquisite.”
Far from seeming pleased with the attention, Lord Birks appeared rather bored. “Such is life.”
“Perhaps she might recite for you now, sir. Just a few of her favorite passages. She has memorized so many, you know.”
Lord Birks looked as though he might protest but then thought better of it. “Very well,” he muttered and pushed to a stand. “Everyone,” he called to the room, “Lady Harriet has chosen to recite a few of her favorite poems . . . again. I am decided that I not be the only one—”
His mother not-so-subtly kicked his shin.
Lord Birks words caught, and he ground his teeth and sucked in a breath.