The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Richard frowned. “Maybe we should have Dr. Sanderson—"

  "No, no. It's nothing. Here, Sarah, we'll try—"

  "You'll do nothing of the sort. I'll do it.” He strode forward and lifted the child into his arms.

  Such a look of joy shone on her face that I had to swallow a huge lump that appeared in my throat. She wrapped one small arm around his neck. “Thank you, Father."

  His stern expression did not fade, but I thought I saw something in his eyes—a warmth that had not been there. He stepped closer to the stallion, and I followed. “First,” he said, “you must let him smell you. Put out your hand like this.” He showed her how to extend her hand, palm up. “Sometimes,” he said, “we give the horse a treat."

  Sarah giggled, and I realized with a pang that this was the first time I had heard her laugh. “Like a tea cake?” she asked.

  Richard nodded. “Yes, only horses prefer carrots. Now, when you give him the treat, you keep your palm flat and your fingers together. That way he will not make a mistake and bite you."

  "He has big teeth,” she said bravely, “but I still like him."

  Toby appeared from out of the stable's recesses. He was carrying a carrot which he presented to Sarah.

  "Like this. Father?"

  "Like that."

  She took her bottom lip between her teeth. Plainly she was frightened, but she did not mean to give in to her fear.

  She put out her hand, and the stallion took the carrot. Sarah looked at her fingers. Then she giggled again. “His nose is soft. It tickles."

  Richard's stern expression was softening. I knew he could love this child. I thought perhaps he already did. At least I could pray so.

  Then, all unaware, Sarah tossed her golden curls. I saw his lips tighten into a thin line. Was he thinking of Caroline and her lie? Or was he using that as an excuse to cover up his real feelings? Perhaps he didn't want to see Sarah because she reminded him of the wife he had so passionately loved—and lost.

  Sarah seemed to sense some change in the man who held her. She cast me an anxious look, but I could not help her.

  "It's time to get down now,” Richard said. ‘Tell the horse good-bye."

  Sarah sighed. “Good-bye, horse.” She turned to Richard. “Father, do you think someday I might have a pony?"

  Richard hesitated only a moment. “When you are big enough,” he said. “Perhaps."

  She looked about to press, but I shook my head, and she did not go on.

  He started to set her down, but she threw both arms around his neck and kissed him. “I am going to be a very good girl,” she announced.

  Richard looked startled. He set her on her feet. “Yes, I'm sure you will be.” He looked at me. “You'll excuse me, Vanessa, but I have some work to attend to.” Then he strode off, leaving us both to sigh loudly.

  "Do you think he likes me any better now?” Sarah asked, peering up at me. “I was very good."

  "Yes, Sarah, you were."

  How sad for the child. I remembered my own childhood. Papa had been strict and sometimes angry, for I had been anything but a model child, but no matter how he yelled, I knew my papa loved me.

  My heart ached for Sarah, but I took her hand in mine and smiled at her. “Come, dear. Let's go look at the other horses. And tomorrow we are going to see about some new dresses."

  Chapter Twelve

  The next few days were busy ones. Every morning Richard took me riding, at first on the black mare, but after a day or so, on the stallion. I came to know the moor—each fallen cairn, each peaked hill, the miles of gorse and scrub, and furze and sedge, the bogs whose quaking surfaces were to be avoided and the clear rippling streams where horse and rider could pause for refreshment. To some the moor might be a barren place, but to me it was heaven on earth.

  I grew ever closer to my new husband. I lived for those golden hours we spent alone together—on the moor and in our marriage bed.

  And every afternoon I spent some time with Sarah, getting to know my new daughter and letting her get to know me.

  Early one afternoon toward the end of the week Richard came into the library bearing a package. He gave me a strange smile as he thrust it toward me. “Here is the doll baby you promised Sarah."

  I hesitated and offered him a smile. “Will you not give it to her yourself?” I asked softly. “It would please her no end to have it from your hand."

  He shook his head. “Vanessa, my dear, I have thought and thought about what you said. But it is no use."

  "But Richard—"

  "No. Don't you see? There is no point in encouraging the child when I have no feeling for her. That is cruel."

  I did not believe that he had no feeling for her, but I knew it would serve no purpose to say so. It is unfortunate, but sometimes a man must be led by devious ways before he is willing to face the truth.

  "May I at least say that you brought the doll for her?” I asked.

  He hesitated.

  "That is actually what happened.” I hurried on before he could give me an outright refusal.

  "All right,” he said finally. “But do not encourage her."

  Richard might have known that the child needed no encouragement from me. Every look from him, every word of his, was precious to her. There was no way I could keep Sarah from being encouraged by any attention from her father, no matter how small. But I did not tell my husband that either, for it was my dearest wish to bring him and his daughter together again, to make us one happy family. And I would do anything I could to make that happen.

  "I shall take it to her now,” I said. “She will be very pleased."

  He nodded. “But do not be too long, my dear. Remember, this is the afternoon the dressmaker is coming."

  The way to the nursery seemed shorter and brighter than usual. Because of my good spirits, I supposed. And because things between Richard and me were now so good.

  Sarah was playing before the fire. When she saw me, she cried, “Nessie!” She sprang to her feet and ran to greet me.

  Then she spied the package I carried. “What is that?"

  "This?” I laughed. “This is for you."

  "A present?"

  "Yes, my dear."

  "A present from Uncle Roland,” she cried.

  I was startled. Was Roland in the habit of bringing her presents? “No. This is from your father."

  Sarah's expression changed to one of awe. “From my father. This is from my father?"

  Clutching the package tightly, she hurried to the hearth rug, but she did not rip into the package as an ordinary child would. Instead, she sat staring at it, repeating over and over, “This is from my father."

  "Why don't you open it, dear?"

  Slowly she removed the string and unwound the wrapping paper. “It's my doll baby,” she cried. “My father remembered. He got me my doll baby."

  I nodded. I was finding it difficult to speak because of the great lump in my throat. I sank down on the rug beside her, and together we examined the doll.

  It was a very good doll, well made, with hair the color of Sarah's, and a sweet smile on its face. It was wearing a nice little dress, too, and had been wrapped in a piece of flannel.

  Finally I had mastered myself well enough to speak again. “Do you like her?"

  Sarah's eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Oh, yes.” She cradled the doll against her breast. “You will teach me how to be a good mama? Like you promised?"

  "Yes, Sarah. What shall you name your baby?"

  Sarah hesitated. “I don't know. What do you think?"

  "She's your baby,” I said. “And you must name her."

  The child hesitated. “My mother did not name me."

  I stared. Sometimes she said the strangest things. “Of course she did. With your father's help."

  Sarah shook her head. “No, Nessie. She turned her back on me.” She repeated the words like a litany. “I heard Grandmother say so. My mother didn't want me."

  Looking up, I met Creighton'
s eyes. The nurse was nodding. I swallowed an oath that would have shocked even Papa. The things Caroline had done to her child were beyond my comprehension. Then and there I decided something must be done about it. And then and there, I made a beginning.

  "Your mother was sick,” I announced.

  Sarah frowned. “No, she was strong. She went riding every day. And then she died."

  I put my arm around her. “Your mama was sick in another way."

  Sarah's eyes widened, and she looked up at me. “She was?"

  "Yes. She had a sickness that kept her from loving anyone. Even her own family."

  The child considered this. “You mean she didn't love my father either?” Evidently Caroline's lack of love was no news to her.

  "No, dear, I'm afraid she didn't."

  Sarah rocked the doll and looked at me. “But you love him. And I love him."

  I hugged her to me. “Yes, Sarah, we do."

  She kissed me on the cheek, and then she kissed the doll baby in the same place. Her eyes were quite serious as she asked, “My father loves you, doesn't he, Nessie?"

  "I think so.” I began to wonder where all this was leading.

  "Then he doesn't have the sickness.” She turned hopeful eyes to me. “And maybe he will love me? Someday?"

  "We will pray so,” I told her, fighting the urge to take her in my arms and weep. Tears would gain us nothing. It was action we needed. Action, and time. “Now, let us wrap up your baby. You must rock her to sleep. The dressmaker is coming to measure for our new gowns, and I'll be sending for you."

  Sarah nodded and began to rock there on the rug, crooning a wordless little song to the doll baby in her arms.

  Creighton followed me to the door.

  "Tis the song he used to sing her,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “I haven't heard it these many years."

  The dressmaker arrived in the middle of the afternoon. I sent a servant to inform the dowager and another to tell Rosamund and Penrose. The dowager sent back a terse refusal. Her gowns, she said, were more than adequate, and her presence would not be helpful to Rosamund. In truth, I was just as glad to be without her icy gaze on me.

  But Penrose soon came in, bringing his mother with him. “Sit here,” he said. “You're going to be so pretty."

  "Jeffrey must like them,” she told her son. “I cannot get anything he would not like. You know how particular he is."

  Penrose patted her hand. I had never seen him wear such a tender expression. “Yes, Mother. I know Father likes to see you dressed well."

  Rosamund nodded. “Yes, Penrose. Thank you. You're a good boy."

  "Now,” Penrose said. “Remember, you must not talk to Father while the dressmaker is here."

  Rosamund's bottom lip protruded like a surly child's. “I don't see—"

  "You know how Father is. He doesn't like too many people about.” He patted her hand again, and she seemed appeased and smiled at him. There was no denying it—Penrose was very good with his mother. My estimation of him was beginning to change.

  Looking at mother and son, I wondered what kind of story the dressmaker would take with her when she left us. Penrose and Rosamund were both wearing unrelieved black, and the circles under Rosamund's great eyes were big and dark. It was obvious the full moon had been hard on her.

  But I had Mrs. Brewster sent in anyway. No doubt stories about this household were already rife in the parish. The dressmaker was a small plump woman, with the ever ready smile of those who make their living from the public. She was followed by three stout young fellows carrying bolts of cloth. The young men sent covert glances at Penrose and his mother and shuffled their feet nervously.

  I indicated a sofa where they could put down their bundles. “You may go to the kitchen,” I said. “Cook will fix you something."

  Bobbing their heads in thanks, they hurried out.

  All went well at first. Rosamund stood docilely while her measurements were taken. Then she sat again to examine the materials.

  On my instructions there were no blacks, no browns, no grays. There were only cheerful colors, in lighter shades.

  Rosamund smiled often. She chose a pale green, a medium blue, a yellow that would not go well with her sallow complexion, but which I prudently said nothing about, and then, just as I thought everything was going to finish satisfactorily, she found an orange silk. The yellow would be bad enough, but Rosamund sat, rubbing the silk between her thumb and forefinger. “I like this,” she said. “I want a ball gown made of this."

  "Yes, it's lovely,” agreed Penrose. “Still, don't you think the rose is nicer?"

  Try as he might—and he did try—Penrose could not dissuade her. She wanted a ball gown of orange silk, and because we could not afford to agitate her, we were forced to let her order it.

  Penrose led her away then, and I was left alone with Mrs. Brewster. “A sad case,” she said, shaking her head.

  I had already made up my mind that I would tolerate no more people like the vicar's sister. Therefore I put on my sternest look. “I beg your pardon?"

  Mrs. Brewster had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Nothing, Your Grace. Will you be wanting some gowns for yourself?"

  "Yes,” I said. “And for Sarah.” I rang for Gerson and told him to send for the child. “I should like some warm gowns,” I said. “I find the castle very drafty."

  "She said you wouldn't last long here."

  "She?"

  The little dressmaker's mouth pursed as though she had tasted something sour. “Cressadine Varish. She came to order a gown the other day."

  "Indeed.” It took very little to suppose what kind of lies Miss Varish had served up—no doubt at every opportunity. “I hesitate to say it, since Miss Varish is the vicar's sister—” I lowered my voice to a conspirator's tone—"but I do think she has a rather active imagination."

  The dressmaker's smile became more genuine, and she did not bother to mask her feelings. “That she does, Your Grace. ‘Tis the most active thing about her, I fear.” And like two school girls we giggled.

  By the time Sarah skipped in, I was confident that the dressmaker was on our side.

  "Nessie!” Sarah skidded to a halt and turned suddenly shy. “I've come to be measured,” she said primly, crossing the room to my side.

  "Well,” said Mrs. Brewster, indicating the bolts of cloth. “What colors do you like?"

  "Colors?” The child's eyes lit up. “Not black?"

  "No,” I said, wondering how I could have forgotten to tell her this most important thing. “Your black gowns are too small. We shall give them to the poor."

  Sarah made a face. “The poor will not like them. They are ugly things. Oh, Nessie. Do look at the pretty colors!"

  I crossed to the sofa that held the stacked bolts of material. “Tell me, which do you like best?"

  "You mean I get to choose?"

  "Yes, Sarah."

  To my surprise she frowned.

  "What is it, dear?"

  "What colors will your gowns be?” she asked.

  "I haven't chosen yet."

  Her forehead puckered. “I want—Nessie, I want mine to be the same colors as yours. That way everyone will know."

  I waited for the rest of the sentence, but nothing more was forthcoming. I sensed the dressmaker's eyes upon me, but I had to ask. “What will they know, Sarah?"

  Sarah's smile was angelic. “That I am your little girl."

  The familiar lump rose in my throat. “Thank you, Sarah. But that is not—"

  "Your Grace—” the dressmaker looked apologetic for interrupting me, but she went on—"I can make the child's gowns from the same bolts as yours. Like as not it'll save on material, and it'll be no bother for me. None at all."

  I hesitated. How would the others feel if Sarah began wearing gowns of the same material as mine? Would Penrose be provoked into saying more hateful things about Caroline? I already knew that the dowager would say something cutting, and what of Roland? I had not seen much of
him in the last few days, and in my happiness with Richard I had not thought about him either, but I did value his good opinion of me. Would he think I was meddling where I meant only to help?

  Sarah's little face was still turned up to me. Her eyes begged, and her bottom lip quivered. “Oh, please, Nessie."

  The child needed this evidence of my affection, and so I nodded. “Very well. And save the scraps for us, please, Mrs. Brewster. Sarah has a new doll baby, and we shall use them to make her some clothes."

  Mrs. Brewster smiled at Sarah. “Of course, Your Grace. ‘Tis a lucky child the young lady is, to be having such a mama."

  Sarah's smile lit the room. She turned and threw herself into my arms. “It shows already,” she cried, and I could only hug her to me and swallow hastily.

  Later, with Sarah in tow, I went in search of Richard, but it was Roland we found. “Uncle Roland,” Sarah cried, running to him. “Wait till you see!"

  "See what?” he asked, scooping her up and swinging her around.

  "My new dresses,” she cried. “So many colors. And all like Nessie's."

  Roland's eyes went to mine, and there was a question in them.

  "Sarah could not decide—” I began.

  "Nessie!” The child hugged her uncle. “Nessie is teasing me. I want my gowns to be like hers. Because—” she paused and sent me a smile—"that way everyone will know."

  Roland was no quicker than I had been at divining her meaning. Something happened in his eyes—a flash of something that I could not read. I thought perhaps he was upset over someone else getting Sarah's affection, but then I realized that I was being ridiculous. A man as kind and friendly as Roland had been to me would be glad to see the child have someone to love her.

  "That's wonderful,” he said. “You will be the prettiest little girl for miles around."

  Sarah laughed. It did my heart good to hear her so merry.

  "And,” she said, giving him a strange look, “my father brought me a present."

  Another peculiar expression crossed his face, and his eyes came again to me. “It's true,” I said. “Richard brought Sarah a doll."