Reeve knew all of this. Because he would rather keep his sanity as well as his word, he had given all three, regardless of who was in the right or wrong, a dressing-down which he hoped would put a firm end to their unreasonable, destructive disagreements. Duckie had acknowledged his directive, but the two sisters had yet to respond. He wasn’t surprised; they were a disagreeable lot. But he wasn’t going to let them ignore him.
“I will have your agreement on the matter, Miss Ball and Mrs. Humphrey,” Reeve said, his irritation clear in his voice. “Is this understood?”
The women didn’t answer right away, making it obvious they had little respect for him. Therein lay the problem: they’d never had any respect for him. The only person they’d showed any regard for had taken her own life four months ago upon her husband’s return from the war.
That only further exacerbated an already melancholy issue. They put the blame squarely upon Reeve for Lady Malliston’s suicide.
They’d even spread rumors that he was to blame. He knew they had.
Therefore, showing the duke the esteem he was due was something of a struggle for them.
But, thought Reeve with perverse satisfaction, they have little choice.
If they wanted a roof over their heads and some position of respect, then the abject resentment they held for him would have to be cast aside at some point. He would settle for less antagonism, even if he couldn’t get true respect. Neither old woman wanted to be thrown out into the streets. After several moments, it was their pragmatism that won.
“We would not dare to displease you, my lord,” Mrs. Humphrey finally said. She looked away from him as she added, under her breath, “At least not within your hearing, which leaves us plenty of room to conduct ourselves how we wish.”
Reeve could not hear her at all, which in and of itself left him furious. But it was Duckie’s deeply offended scowl that told him Mrs. Humphrey had mumbled something unsavory about him.
He shook his head slightly at the cook, though he appreciated her loyalty.
“Would you care to repeat yourself, Mrs. Humphrey?” he asked her. “I thought I had made myself quite plain, but if you are having trouble understanding my wishes, I am happy to repeat what I expect of you.”
“No, my lord, I do not care to repeat myself and I require no further explanations.”
Reeve leveled her with a cool glare. He took a breath, about to speak again, but she muttered, “Little wonder my lady couldn’t bear such a husband. You are hardly a whole man, are you?”
Again, he couldn’t hear her words, only the viperous tone with which she murmured them, but dear Duckie appeared ready to launch herself at Mrs. Humphrey.
“How frightfully rude you are, Mrs. Humphrey,” spat Duckie. “And unkind—”
Reeve brought up a hand to stay the women, who were clearly itching for more confrontation.
It was the wrong hand. Unfortunately, he had always been rather ambidextrous before suffering his injuries and, in conversation as well as daily life, he’d often used his left as much as his right. It was a hard habit to break.
Miss Ball pounced on the opportunity to insult him further and said in a soft, malicious way, “No, Sister, he is hardly whole, is he?”
Reeve would have liked to have given both women a sound verbal lashing – had he the energy for it – but he didn’t. Wishing to avert a continued crisis, he said crisply, “You know as well as I, Miss Ball, that I have no idea what you have just said. However, I understand what you are doing. While you may do so at your leisure and behind closed doors, you will not subject me to your petty barbs when I have better things to do. This discussion is about my children.”
These two were taxing what was left of his already compromised patience.
“Please give me your word, such as it is, that neither of you will lift a finger against either Phoebe or Sophie. It is strictly out of the question.”
He barely waited for the sisters to nod crisply, reluctantly, and dismissed them with another imperious wave of his hand. This time, he purposefully used the ruined one. He refused to feel shame just because these harpies wished him to feel inferior.
Before Duckie reached the door, she turned and gave him an apologetic look. He did not smile, but he inclined his head in thanks.
Even after they were gone, he continued to stand where they had left him, pondering the situation he found himself in. It could not continue unchecked. Looking around his lavish library, which smelled of old leather and mellow tobacco, he should have found comfort in the familial surroundings. It had been his father’s library, and his father’s before him. But Reeve found no comfort. All he could think of was the havoc of this place. Chaos and bad fortune had stalked him like a hunter for the last four months. He was tired to the bone of it.
But the two sisters his wife had brought with her to The Thornlands caused so much of the trouble. If only he could dismiss them and employ others in their stead. As much as he wished he could, it simply wasn’t feasible. They had nowhere to go, it would cause even more upheaval for his daughters, and – this was far less of a priority, if he was being as honest with himself as he ought to be – Lady Malliston had once made him promise to keep them at the manor.
Although she was gone, Reeve found the idea of going back on his word repulsive, not because he still cultivated any love for Daisy, but because he knew people would talk.
Bitterly, he thought, They already speak so ill of you… remember?
Reeve felt obliged to retain the women in his household unless they would go voluntarily. That was as likely to happen as his hearing healing itself. And as a result, he would continue to suffer their petty agendas and squabbles.
There was so much more to everything than the whispered rumors and deep misconceptions. Still, they dominated Reeve’s life. There wasn’t a person in the entirety of York or the whole of England, probably, who did not think they knew Reeve’s honorable reputation had ended with his service in the war.
The bon ton that had once embraced him now refused to accept him. He used to be considered handsome, gregarious, and a pleasure to have at any ball or gathering. Before he’d married, he was one of the most eligible and badgered bachelors.
In spite of everything he’d been before, he’d returned from the battlefield a man in turmoil. He could neither navigate his mind, nor his newfound disabilities.
From the ton’s perspective, his darling wife had only killed herself as a result of his black moods, his inability to make peace with himself.
She was hardly to blame, people said, when she lacked a sane, hardy husband.
That’s what was largely believed. Although it was painful to do so, Reeve could admit that, perhaps, he was responsible for some of that opinion. He had come home in the middle of what should have been his most defining victory. His term of service was finished for him by irrevocable injury.
Then his wife died by suicide scarcely a month after his return. The gossipmongers had run absolutely mad with it and, back then, he hadn’t cared enough to change their minds.
If he wasn’t feeling as though he was containing a tempest within his very skull, he felt numb, encased by ice. He couldn’t explain it to anyone, whether surgeon or layman. None of them knew what it was like to be whole, to have your dreams within your reach, then to have it all compromised.
It wasn’t just Lady Malliston’s ghost that lingered within The Thornlands: the phantom of his ruined reputation, fueled by the fervent belief of the ton who spoke so eagerly of his troubles, lurked around every corner.
Daisy’s death had been a shocking event. But in keeping with the public’s voracious appetite for sensational events, they fell over one another not to understand, but instead to discuss and relish the matter.
Suicide was always worthy of inspection, and tongues wagged at a steady pace, all thanks to fodder provided by the opportunistic and malicious sisters, Miss Ball and Mrs. Humphrey.
Without their interference, things could ha
ve settled to a calmer state.
It might have taken time; it might have taken months or years.
But Reeve might not be in such dismal circumstances now.
He had known all of this at the time, but he hadn’t cared. His mind, which was as shattered as his hearing, simply wouldn’t allow for it. He sealed his own fate by doing the unforgivable: he held himself aloof, sequestered in his manor house, depriving people of more fuel for the gossip they sought with their self-serving invitations and calls to visit him in the loss of his wife.
He had ignored them.
Quickly enough, they tired of waiting for him. So they told the story however they deemed fit, with as many differing embellishments as there were colors of paint. Reeve could well imagine that his former peers, but especially anybody who was beneath his own station, like Miss Ball and Mrs. Humphrey, found great satisfaction in spreading tales of his madness.
He was certain his social equals spoke of how the war drove him mad, so irredeemably mad that his lady wife killed herself simply to end the torment of being subjected to it, and how he now lived a life of debauchery.
To them, he was a killer. At least the murmurings about his lascivious tastes were true.
But all of that condemnation eventually bred fear, which was, in its way, useful.
There were not many who would venture to cross him when it came to matters of politics. He was richer than most and everyone knew he had the ear of the Duke of Wellington.
And they further knew better than to seek trouble from the Duke of Havoc. Reeve supposed his detractors did not realize he knew the derogatory sobriquet they’d given him.
Everything he touched, it was said, became mired in madness.
But back when I should have been airing the truth, I was barely retaining my sanity, he thought.
Lost in his dark remembrances, Reeve left the library, finally in search of his bed. There would be no time for him to bathe now. Making his way to his chamber, he slunk into the room and closed its heavy velvet drapes, shutting out the glaring winter sunlight that filtered through the windows.
As he fell into bed at last, a possible solution occurred to him.
Heavens above, he wanted sleep. But his thoughts lingered on his children. Sophie had insisted that she and her sister did not like Miss Ball. Reeve had to admit that she was a cruel feline of a woman. He had never liked her and could not blame his daughters for how they felt.
If he couldn’t get rid of her… perhaps he might have peace if someone else took the position as a tutor and governess for his girls.
It was Miss Ball they feared most, when all was said and done.
He could give her other duties, far away from Phoebe and Sophie, and far away from him. Perhaps what the girls really needed was a new face, someone who wasn’t connected to the terrifying thought of a paddling. Perhaps a new tutor could change the dynamics of the household enough for Reeve to be left alone.
On the wings of that particular idea came another thought, which proposed an outlandish, yet ideal, if he could arrange it, solution to his predicament.
Reeve had realized what he could try.
A friend from his battlefield days, a mild-mannered music teacher who’d been called to serve under him, had spoken very highly of his daughter’s quick mind. It might be difficult to convince her to come to The Thornlands, given Reeve’s reputation. Impossible, even.
You do not have anything to lose in trying, though.
With a grumble, Reeve rolled out of bed, clothes rumpled, hair mussed, head still pounding, and reluctantly returned to his library. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t quite rest while a potential resolution was in sight. Anyway, closing his eyes did nothing to abate his headache.
Besides, there was a gaming tryst tonight at his friend’s hunting cottage just outside town, and Jonathan Polk, Earl of Flemminghall, often threw the best parties. They were really just an excuse for nights of gaming and decadence. Reeve knew he had to be somewhat rested if he was to attend.
And he certainly did not wish to remain here on the coattails of such a spectacular spat in his parlor. While he trusted Duckie, he suspected that Mrs. Humphrey and Miss Ball would not be contrite enough to hold the peace. Therefore, it was best to get household matters out of the way if he wanted to leave Sophie and Phoebe for another night without feeling guiltier than he already did at the prospect.
It could be several nights, he reminded himself.
Reeve sat heavily at his desk in his favorite armchair. Pulling forth paper from a lacquered box, he began to write a missive in his surprisingly beautiful handwriting. It was the one thing his father had praised about his schooling. Somehow, along the path to adulthood, Reeve had perfected exquisite penmanship. He had also mastered a way with words that told the complete truth, but couched it in more desirable terms than the actual reality did. He described his daughters as “most charming” when, truly, he had met few other children to compare them to and they grated on him. But he reasoned that, in their own unique ways, Phoebe and Sophie could be quite ingratiating. At the very least, they were well behaved.
The more he wrote, the more hope he possessed in this tenuous plan.
Already, he could imagine his household becoming more peaceful.
There was still the lingering question of how it would really come to pass, but he squirrelled it to the back of his mind.
When Reeve sought his bed again, it was only after the missive was properly bound to be sent out early in the morning. He cautiously congratulated himself; he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. His daughters simply needed a new governess. A warmer, kinder woman to look after them. He was reasonably confident that if it could be arranged, this solution would finally allow him a respite from the household madness.
With some luck, this will change things at The Thornlands, he thought.
Chapter Three
Dear Arthur,
I trust that you have been well.
I fear that you have forgotten all about me now that you are home. I, on the other hand, still remember your camaraderie during those dark days. Remember the night when we both had to journey on foot to the village just for a bottle of ale? My memory dwells upon that night in particular. You told me of your daughter, of whom you were very proud, and you declared her the one reason you would not die in battle. You so fondly recounted that her knowledge covered a wide array of topics and would put many a man to shame – this has rendered her the perfect candidate for my purpose.
I am in need of a tutor for my two daughters. You must have heard about the death of my lady wife shortly after I returned home. Given the state of my return, and following such a deep loss, my daughters need feminine guidance in their educations. Barring the possibility that your daughter may already be married – for my own selfish reasons, I hope that this is not the case – would she be willing to come to The Thornlands in my employ as a tutor for my daughters? Sophie is six, while Phoebe is only just five – both are the most charming children. I daresay that coaching them would be a delight for your clever daughter.
I am willing to offer her a handsome sum per year for her services, half of which I will have sent to you upon her arrival at The Thornlands should you agree to my terms. I am also willing to meet any conditions you might have – if, of course, they are reasonable.
If you are in agreement, you must send me a response immediately, stating your approval and hers alongside your conditions, if any. I would prefer your daughter begin her duties as soon as possible.
I shall await word from you.
Your friend,
Reeve Malliston
For the second time, Caroline Sedgwyck read the letter, which was stamped with the Duke of Nidderdale’s seal, and her eyes scanned the page with interest.
“Oh, Papa,” she said. “This is a stroke of good fortune.”
Arthur Sedgwyck sat across the table from his daughter as the morning sun streamed through dirty windows into thei
r little dining room. The papered walls were peeling in the corners, and the sadly scuffed furniture had seen better days. Everything, in fact, had seen better days, including both Caroline and Arthur’s attire.
But the old man beamed with joy as his daughter spoke, as though they were wearing and surrounded by the greatest of fineries.
“Indeed, it is,” he said. “It could be an answer to prayer.”
Arthur was a quiet man of few words, but Caroline had learned to understand the meanings and emotions behind what little he said. Further, she knew that this letter from his former comrade-in-arms could well be the answer to their troubles.
Even if that old comrade was the infamous Duke of Nidderdale.
The Duke of Havoc, she thought. They’d heard the rumors. Everyone had.
But Caroline was in possession of more practicality than fancifulness and it was not in her nature to believe gossip or hearsay. Amongst her small but intimate group of friends, she was always the voice of reason when one became too carried away by fantasy or disgruntlement.
There was much-needed money involved here and she was in no position to allow either fear or potential untruths to rule her head.
A music teacher living in York with his only daughter, Arthur had possessed the easiest of dispositions and sunniest of smiles before the war. He had been solidly positioned within the middle of York society, respectably viewed in the same way as a favored merchant or tailor or modiste. The Sedgwycks lived comfortably, if not lavishly. As a child, Caroline lacked for nothing and their house was clean and warm. It was full of books, Arthur’s musical instruments, and even some paintings. They did not have servants who lived with them, but they had one maid. If anything needed to be fixed or mended, it did not cause dismay or panic.
But then Arthur had heeded the call of battle and gone to fight around Arapiles.
The little teacher had come back a changed man; the light in his eyes was gone and the song in his voice was all but silenced. He’d resumed his old occupation only for the sake of survival, without any true gusto.
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