The Untold Tale of the Winter Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “That you can. In addition, the housekeeper will bring you a luncheon, and I will see to your reckoning at the inn since I know this will keep you longer than anticipated.”

  “Might, might not. Sometimes these things take a while, sometimes they go by easy. If the butler will bring in the staff as I needs ‘em, you can all go about your business as usual. Since it has been nigh on six weeks since the event, there is no need to keep people from talking to each other. They’ve already talked, I’m thinking.”

  “That they have. One thing about a small village. It is very difficult to keep people from talking.”

  “So it is. Well, we shall try to make that work for us. Carry on, guv’nor, carry on.” Constable Michaels waved his hand airily.

  Sebastian stared at the constable for a moment, unused to being so cavalierly dismissed in his own house. Still, he had invited the fellow here and it had taken precious long enough for him to arrive.

  After giving Evans a few words of instruction, Sebastian checked in with Mrs. Blanchard, who had just come down out of the schoolroom suite. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Well as can be expected at this stage, Your Grace. The medicine Dr. Gavril gave her should have her sleeping for several hours. Martha Louisa is with her, and Mr. Stableman has taken over from Mr. Gardener so that he can get some sleep. I’ve had cots set up in the schoolroom for the gentlemen and I’ll look out for two more maids who’ve had measles to help Martha Louisa.”

  Sebastian held up one finger. “Just a thought. But have you and Martha Louisa both had measles?”

  “Fortunately, we have. You need not fear an epidemic raging through your household, Your Grace, for most of us had our bouts as children. But I will ask the housekeeping and kitchen staff, just to be sure.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blanchard. Just so that you are aware, Evans will be calling the staff in one by one to speak with Constable Michaels concerning the attempted abduction of Miss Doyle. He wanted to speak with her, but I explained that she is much too ill at this time.”

  “Quite so, Your Grace, and thank you for your understanding. There are many who would have simply turned her off and left her with nowhere to go.”

  “Now, that would be quite foolish of me. She has been the best instructor for my brothers that we have hired to date. It is my hope that they will all be happily convalescing in a few weeks’ time, and her services will once again be required.”

  “It is as Your Grace says, but there are those who are remarkably short-sighted.”

  “Thank you for that confidence, Mrs. Blanchard. Since there is little I can do here at this time, I am going down to the parsonage to see what might be needed to weather through this time of illness.”

  Chapter 28

  Sebastian paused at the front door, allowing Evans to help him into his greatcoat and hat. He slung a warm scarf about his throat and stepped out into the frigid air. A ray of weak sunlight caught the snow and sparkled like rare jewels. His breath puffed out in a moist cloud. Realizing he had forgotten something, he reached into his pockets and drew out his riding gloves. Even with them on, the cold nipped at his skin.

  The road down to the parsonage, which was located on the village side of the chapel, was running with just enough water to make it slick. But Sebastian was glad of the walk. He felt as if his lungs were clearing out. Could fresh air make the invalids feel better? He toyed with the idea in his mind for a moment, then decided that he did not want to risk those who were dear to him in a rash experiment. Dr. Gavril had said to keep them warm.

  At the parsonage, Sebastian found that the parson’s wife was entertaining the Lady’s Sewing Circle. It was mostly comprised of the older women from the village. These venerable members of the community did a great deal more than sew. They spun and wove much of the cloth that was used in the village. Unlike the city, Parkforton had never developed guilds, so those who were skilled in a craft simply practiced it.

  Many marriages were arranged or suggested in this gathering of inveterate matchmakers. The conversation stilled as he followed the parson through to his study. The parson offered Sebastian a seat in the guest chair, offered him tea, and when both were suitably supplied with a pleasant blend of sage, mint and India tea, seated himself behind the desk.

  “How might I help you, Your Grace?”

  “Parson Jamison, it is more a matter of how might I help you. Dr. Gavril has let me know that there are several cases of measles in the village.”

  “Ah. Oh, yes, there are. It is not unusual in the winter when people are packed in cheek by jowl to stay warm. Miasmas like to collect in warm places. Durin’ the summer the housewives and housekeepers are a-opening the windows and lettin’ it all fly out, don’t ya know.”

  “Indeed, I do know. I noticed just as I was walking down the hill how my head cleared and my chest did not feel so tight as it did when I left the castle.”

  “Ver’ understandable.” The parson sipped his tea, and seemed to think for a minute. “Thing is, folks need kept warm, an’ when you let the stinks of cookin’ and fires out, you let the heat out, too.”

  “I wonder . . .” Sebastian followed the parson’s example and took a sip of tea. For such a frugal mixture, it was remarkably refreshing. “The chapel now. It is heated by a hypocaust.”

  “Yes. Quite remarkable that. Those old Romans surely knew their architecture.”

  “Has anyone tried to imitate it?”

  “B’lieve so. In fact, I think there was a farmer burned his house down tryin’. Tain’t like setting up a fireplace. The fire goes under the floor, ya see. The farmer din’ have enough stone ta make tha floor of it. Set it alight, just about midwinter. They wuz lucky to get out with ther lives.”

  “With enough stone, do you think it could be done?”

  “I’m not a builder, Your Grace, an’ neither were he. Mayhap you should talk to a mason, him as does the fireplaces round about. But that’s not somethin’ can be done with snow on the ground.”

  “Sadly, no. That will have to wait for summer. I’ve come to see if the families that have illness have enough to care for their invalids.”

  “Well that you should ask, Your Grace. Most has enough. But the Widow Marsh has nine younglings, the oldest being but eleven. Her husband went with the king’s army in the spring, hopin’ to save enough for a bit of extra land. She and the little ‘uns labored mightily this summer, an’ the neighbors helped, o’ course, but you know the crops din’ do well for anyone this summer.”

  “I know. She and her brood are in need?”

  “Aye, that they are. Especially since it is the oldest girl an’ the next boy that has come down with the measles. An’ it seems likely that the rest of the little ‘uns will follow. The oldest boy had ‘em when he was a little ‘un his ownself.”

  “So she is likely to be caring for eight children by herself, with limited supplies?”

  “Aye, that she is. An’ no money for doctorin’. The Widow Holcombe has been slippin’ over an’ helpin’ now and again. You wouldn’t think it, but that old lady has a way with herbs (he pronounced the H) that just about cain’t be beat. But the Widow hasn’t got all that much her ownself.”

  Sebastian nodded. “This is the kind of thing I have come to find out. My mother used to do it, I think. But then I was away, and then there were my brothers. . .”

  “Aye, you’ve had yer plate full. We all know. But don’t be thinkin’ that there hasn’t been help, Your Grace. Your Mr. Evans and Mrs. Blanchard knows what’s right. But it has been a powerfully hard winter, that it has.”

  “Go on…tell me who else is in dire straits.”

  Parson Jamison ran through the list of a baker’s dozen families. Some were widows or widowers who had no one to do for them, or whose children had fallen on hard times. Some were couples who struggled in any season.

  “I’ll talk with Mr. Evans and Mrs. Blanchard. I do not wish to intrude upon any arrangements they have already made. But let me ask you something,
Parson Jamison. Does the hypocaust ever fail to warm the church?”

  “Only if no fuel is fed the fires. We let it die down during the week to save on wood and peat. There is little need to heat a space where there are no people.”

  Sebastian thought that over. “Has it ever been used as an emergency building?”

  “Now and again, when there is a fire or when there are too many guests from other regions. Most o’ the families won’t want to leave their own home, Your Grace, if you are thinkin’ ta lump ‘em all in together.”

  “I’m just looking over what we have and what we do not have. As you say, harvest was slender this summer and we are now faced with a bitter winter.”

  “That is true, Your Grace. I am relieved to know that you are looking to the well-being of your people.”

  “Sadly, I cannot make more wood grow in the forest than there is, nor multiply our supplies like the story of the loaves and fishes. But what I can do, I will do.”

  Chapter 29

  Lillian awoke to a stuffy, darkened room. The curtains around her bed were drawn. Her head was clear, but her skin itched abominably. “Hello?” she called out. Her voice was scarcely a whisper, her throat was dry and scratchy. She swallowed and called again, “Hello?”

  Martha Louisa opened the curtain just a little on the backside of the bed. “You are awake! That was quite a sleeping draft the physician gave you. How are you feeling?”

  “Water? Please?”

  “Right away, Miss Doyle.” Martha Louisa brought a cup with a reed straw stuck in it. “Suck on that and we won’t have to lift you up much.”

  Lillian sucked on the reed. Water that was so cold it made her teeth ache wicked up through the straw. It had a faint cherry flavor. “Oh! That is so good!”

  “A little cherry cordial to chase out the little devils that can lurk in fresh water. Dr. Gavril says that he learned the trick from a Moorish physician when he was in London. And, of course, all sailors know of it. That is why they always have a bit of grog with their water.”

  “Little devils? Are we resorting to witchcraft?”

  “Shhh! Even in these modern times ‘tis too easy for someone to mistake science for witchery. Dr. Gavril is a methodical man of medicine. He says that the ancients had odd names for things, but that often what they did worked.”

  “Is that why he is a country physician instead of a medical fellow in London?”

  “Truly, Miss, I have no idea. You would have to ask him that. But we do know that some of his reasons involve Mrs. Gavril, who is as fine a woman as ever walked.”

  “You think highly of her.”

  “That I do. Now, you take another sip of this. Do you think you could take some broth? You spewed up everything in you just before the physician came and gave you the sleeping draught.”

  Lillian realized that part of the gnawing sensation in her middle was hunger. “That sounds wonderful.”

  The broth had a delicious garlicky flavor and flooded the aching void in her middle with a delightful warmth. But after scarcely a cup of it, Lillian lay back upon the pillows that Martha Louisa had plumped up for her. “I don’t think I could take even another sip,” she declared.

  “A sip of this, then no more,” Martha Louisa waved a spoon at her.

  Obediently, Lillian opened her mouth. Something with a bitter cherry flavor slid over her tongue, leaving it feeling a little numb.

  “Now just a little more water,” Martha Louisa coaxed.

  Lillian sipped, and felt herself growing drowsy. She cuddled down into the blankets. She scarcely felt Martha Louisa adjusting the pillows for her, or when she tucked her in. Her last thought was “more sleeping draught,” then the world went to blackness.

  Chapter 30

  “How is she?” Sebastian asked. It was December 29th, by the calendar, but he felt as if he had aged a hundred years. Nearly half the village was down with measles, and the chapel had been pressed into service as a hospital ward.

  “Doing well,” Martha Louisa said. “She took a little blanc mange today, and her spots are well broken out. Her thoughts wander a little in her sleep. She keeps saying, ‘Charles, I didn’t do it. I swear I did not.’ I do wonder who Charles might have been.”

  “It is hard to say. Perhaps when she is feeling a little better, she will be able to tell us.”

  “You look worn to a thread, Your Grace. Does the spread of the disease show any signs of stopping?”

  “I think everyone who has not had them before is down with them now. I never thought I’d be grateful to Widow Holcomb, but she and Mrs. Gavril have taken over directing the nursing. That has freed up Dr. Gavril to tend to those who are most ill.”

  “That crazy old stick of a woman?”

  “Yes, indeed. Since Miss Doyle’s visit with her and with other widows on St. Thomas day, the villagers have taken a bit more notice of those among them who aren’t able to do for themselves. It seems she’s become much livelier with a steady influx of hares and the occasional chicken into her soup pot.”

  “She was starving.” Martha Louisa didn’t look surprised.

  “Aye. In our midst, in a supposedly civilized community. I had no idea, and neither did her neighbors it seems. She has her pride, that one.”

  “Well, we all know what pride goes in front of. What a marvel that just that one visit could turn the tide after all these years of ill-temper and shouting.”

  “How is she? Really?” Sebastian asked again.

  “Miss Doyle? At the worst and hardest part, I think. We’ve kept her warm and filled her as full of fluids as we can each time she wakes. She asks about Charles. She asks about you and your brothers. She fusses about slow worms chasing her. Frankly, Your Grace, she isn’t in her right mind most of the time, and Dr. Gavril is worried about brain fever.”

  Sebastian turned away for a moment. It would not do for Martha Louisa to see him crying. But he was so mortally weary. Already there were three new graves dug in the churchyard, and likely to be more. Dr. Gavril was catching naps where he could, and if it were not for his able nurses, he would be in a sad way indeed.

  “I’ll just go feed the mice,” he said. “No need to add something more for Miss Doyle and the boys to worry over.”

  “How are your brothers?” Martha Louisa asked.

  “Recovering nicely, and driving Mr. Stableman and Mr. Gardener out of their minds with impossible requests. It is likely they will be up and about by Twelfth Night, but I think the rest of the village will be abed when the Christmas greens are burned.”

  “You will burn them on Twelfth Night?”

  “Call me superstitious if you will, Martha Louisa, but we have enough bad luck on our hands. I do not wish to tempt fate.”

  Martha Louisa regarded him steadily for a moment. “It is well thought on, Your Grace. It will give the people hope to have such an ordinary special event.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Sebastian turned away then, leaving Martha Louisa to go back to her duties. She had scarcely left Lillian’s side since the beginning of the illness, although she fretted over not being able to tend the boys as well.

  Mrs. Blanchard had assigned two maids to help with Lillian, but Martha Louisa would scarcely allow them to do anything other than clean and take the laundry down to the washroom. The kitchen scullion was doing the laundry because both laundry maids had measles. They had been removed to the chapel, along with two other maids and the undercook, none of whom had contracted measles as children.

  Sebastian watched the mice. Since Lillian had commissioned the second cage and the little beasts were divided by gender, they no longer multiplied. He wondered if it caused them grief to be so close together yet not allowed whatever passed for affection between mice. Mr. Fusty Britches and Emmy Sue often sniffed noses through the grates of their cage. Then the senior male would chase his juniors around for a while as if that would accomplish a reunion with his mate. Emmy Sue’s daughters seemed oblivious to the entire routine. They seemed to spend
most of their days grooming.

  After giving the mice fresh water, bread crusts and peelings from the kitchen, Sebastian sat down at the scarred old schoolroom table and opened his big ledger. He had brought it up from his office along with basic writing supplies. He could not bear to be so far away from the invalids.

  Sebastian frowned at the basket of tally reports, and pulled out the top one. Hay they had in plenty, and a reasonable amount of grain. His father had taught him the value of keeping some put by, even if the older stores were beginning to age a bit.