Freedom

by Jenn LeBlanc

  ***

  After supper, Mrs. Weston asked Meggie to fetch the slipper tub and prepare a bath. It had been a long day. Mrs. Weston was ready to be done with it, and she hoped that Miss Francine would feel the same. A nice warm bath would ease her muscles and ready their guest for bed—she was sure of it.

  As Dr. Walcott examined Francine, Mrs. Weston turned the bed down and placed a warm brick at the foot. It wasn’t quite summer yet, but her grandmother had always said that warm feet made a sleepy head, and what she needed right now was for Miss Francine to sleep so she could retire to her own bed. She’d arranged for Meggie and Carole to watch over her in shifts, sleeping in the adjoining servants’ room and keeping an eye on her from the passageways whenever she wandered.

  The doctor nodded when he finished, and Mrs. Weston let out a hearty sigh as he left.

  ***

  Dr. Walcott knocked at Roxleigh’s study before leaving the manor.

  “Enter.”

  The doctor opened the door and Roxleigh stood, motioning him to the desk.

  “You have already attended my guest.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Her physical wounds seem to be healing nicely, but she isn’t speaking, and that concerns me, considering her reaction—”

  Roxleigh cut him off with a gesture. “I have heard, listened to, and understand your concern, Dr. Walcott—but we will not, again, discuss sending her to Bedlam. Is that understood?”

  Dr. Walcott cringed, then nodded. “I have removed her bandages. I will return again at a later time to check on her—wounds,” he said stiffly.

  “As you see necessary, Doctor.”

  “Your Grace.” And with that Dr. Walcott left.

  Francine was in a daze as the next days drifted slowly by. She awoke with the sun from the windows, breakfasted in her room, then sat in the private parlor watching the breeze stirring the trees, where she was currently. The most exciting moments were when Roxleigh left on his afternoon ride, though it never seemed as vigorous and fervent as the first time she saw him. She didn’t dare venture outside on the balcony again.

  He was infuriating. So pious in his demand for propriety. The fact that his wishes were constantly conveyed to her through Mrs. Weston was equally annoying.

  I should run through the house screaming like a banshee simply to get a rise out of him. Force him to confront me personally. She let her mind’s eye take him in—the soft dark brown of his hair; the beautiful deep green of his smoldering eyes; the straight, broad shoulders that cut off the sun behind him; the narrow waist tucked into the fine weave of his trousers. She gasped, catching her train of thought as it barreled down the wrong track. That was not exactly the kind of rise she should be considering.

  She slapped her hands over her eyes and shook her head. Maybe if he never opened his mouth—no, actually his mouth was irrelevant, less than irrelevant. She shook her head. But those wide solid lips that more often curved down than up, the arc of his mouth—

  She grunted and lay down, turning her face into the soft cushion of the settee. Who was she kidding? He couldn’t possibly be more attractive. Her eyes glazed over and there he was again, standing before her. She desperately needed something else to occupy her addled brain.

  ***

  Mrs. Weston felt terrible keeping Francine hidden away with nothing to keep her. She poked her head in the private parlor to see how the poor girl was doing and saw her lying on the settee, hitting the back with her fist. “Humph,” Mrs. Weston mumbled. She closed the door quietly and descended to Roxleigh’s study.

  “Enter,” he said gruffly.

  He was in a mood; she could tell from that single word. She straightened her drab woolen skirts and opened the door.

  “Your Grace,” Mrs. Weston said.

  He looked up at her warily, one eyebrow cocked.

  She approached his desk, suddenly a bit nervous. These days he always seemed to be in a mood, but there wasn’t much to do about that. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, she thought. She panicked like a rat in a trap, the problem being he had her by the tail.

  Roxleigh watched. “Out with it,” he said finally.

  “Your Grace, it’s Miss Francine, she’s— She’s a might bored. She can’t go anywhere, and the days are a trifle long.”

  He leaned back in his chair, holding her gaze.

  “I thought, Your Grace, mayhap I can take her to the library, through the passages, so she can select a few books? I think if she’d a book to read it might be—”

  “No,” he cut in without hesitation.

  Mrs. Weston’s eyelids fluttered at his asperity. “But—but, Your Grace, she has naught to do, can you just imagine? All sh—”

  “What I meant was, you may escort her to the library, but you will take her down the main stair. I do not wish her in the passages. I prefer she never see them. You have one hour.”

  Her feet stuttered. She wasn’t sure whether to run straightaway, or thank him profusely first. She finally decided she ought to express her gratitude, lest he regret the decision. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll see to it immediately.”

  “Mrs. Weston,” he said, catching her before she could leave.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” She turned back nervously.

  “I will not find a nightgown-clad girl in any of the common areas of Eildon Manor. She is not to think that she can traipse around here simply because I allowed this one excursion. She should collect enough books to keep herself occupied. For a while.”

  “Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said as she scurried for the door.

  ***

  Francine was still daydreaming when Mrs. Weston entered the private parlor. “Oh, Miss Francine, come. We’ve not much time, come, come!” Francine stood and Mrs. Weston shuffled her out of the room.

  Francine panicked and turned away, but Mrs. Weston simply grasped her wrist and pulled her down the stairs, looking around as if to ensure they were alone. “His Grace said I can take you to the library. Come, we’ve only got one hour, miss.”

  Francine heard the words and stopped fighting Mrs. Weston, instead running down ahead of her. When she reached the bottom she looked at the circle of doors she was met with, wondering which was the library. Mrs. Weston caught up to her and took her hand.

  “This way,” she said.

  At the first door Francine halted, pulling Mrs. Weston back. Her gaze drifted toward it as she rested a hand on the seam of the double door. Mrs. Weston went pale.

  “Oh, miss, no. That’s his study. His Grace is in there. Come away, please!” she whispered violently.

  Francine looked at the door, hearing the panic in Mrs. Weston’s voice. She couldn’t help herself, though, she felt— What did she feel? She felt something, a connection, the feeling of him holding her as she collapsed, the shock of his hard muscles against her, the tremble of his voice against her body. She quietly exhaled, placing both hands against the door, listening.

  Mrs. Weston grabbed her forearm and pulled her away and into the library, shutting the doors solidly. She peered through the crack between the double doors before she turned on Francine.

  “Look here, miss! I took a great risk to even ask this favor for you, and you need to heed my warnings! Please don’t tempt him. He’s in an awful state, one you cannot imagine.”

  Francine turned to Mrs. Weston and placed her fist against her chest, sweeping it in a circle around her heart before looking back to the room. If she couldn’t speak, she would sign, and they would learn.

  Tall bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling on two levels. Francine marveled at the collection, though she supposed if she lived in the middle of nowhere she might have such a wonderful library as well. She scanned the bookshelves, trying to determine the organization. She came upon a set of shelves with Byron, Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, and Thackeray.

  She had become used to searching titles on the Denver Public Library website, checking them out and downloading them to her ebook reader. She pulled a well-
worn book off one shelf and smoothed her hand over the leather cover. She had forgotten what the weight of a book felt like, the smell of the fiber, the turn of the page. She smiled broadly and replaced it.

  She pulled several familiar titles from the shelf and handed them off to Mrs. Weston, then reached for more. The Taming of the Shrew, Vanity Fair, The Book of the Duchess, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Pride and Prejudice, Emma, The Charge of the Light Brigade, Moby Dick, Candide.

  She opened the covers of first editions with personal inscriptions written by the authors. She added to her giant stack and roamed farther into the library. Then she saw it, up high on a shelf: Madame Bovary. She smiled, climbing the bookshelves to reach it.

  “Miss Francine! You cannot do that! There’s a ladder!”

  Francine clutched the book and fell back to the floor with a quiet thud, then turned apologetically to Mrs. Weston who tugged on her sleeve, begging her to follow. “Come, miss, this must be enough for now. We need get back upstairs.” Francine nodded and followed. They ascended the stairs quickly, Francine staring at the books in her arms, smiling. As they reached the top of the staircase Mrs. Weston pushed Francine into the private parlor.

  Francine grinned from ear to ear as she sank into the settee and spilled books all around her. She looked back to the door, expecting to see Mrs. Weston right behind her, but instead she heard him. He was close. She tiptoed to the doorway as quickly as she could, peering through the crack behind the door to see him inspecting the books in Mrs. Weston’s arms.

  “I assume the outing was successful?” the duke asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace. She seemed quite satisfied.”

  He looked at her armload and picked a couple of books off the top. “Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights.” He grunted, then picked up the third book. “The Divine Comedy?”

  Francine took the opportunity to appraise him. He wore dark grey trousers that strapped around his shoes, creating a sharp line to his leg; a crisp white shirt; a rumpled neck cloth; and a black waistcoat. The muscles of his thighs strained the fabric of his trousers, and as he leaned forward—reading the titles of the books—a lock of hair fell across his forehead, begging her to smooth it back.

  He glanced toward the doorway and she jerked back and held her breath, feeling his gaze sweep the opening before refocusing on Mrs. Weston. He placed the books back on the stack and turned on his heel.

  “Thank you again, Your Grace,” Mrs. Weston called after him.

  The duke simply waved a hand behind his head at her thanks and ducked swiftly through a doorway. As he walked away Francine marveled at the cocky way he didn’t turn back. The only word that came to mind was dashing. No—stunning. Mrs. Weston, on the other hand, appeared frazzled.

  Francine walked back to the settee and started organizing the books on the table, trying to calm her speeding heart rate.

  “Miss, I have to see that supper is started. Will you be all right?” Mrs. Weston asked as she made her way over and put the books down.

  Francine nodded and sat back, examining her treasure. She giggled and felt her throat catch slightly, then lifted a hand to massage it. She carefully rearranged the order with the addition of the new books, deciding to start with Vanity Fair since she had meant to reread that book ever since the movie came out.

  She set Madame Bovary aside; she would read that one later. She suddenly realized she had been quite lucky to have had that particular novel in her stack instead of Mrs. Weston. If the duke had seen Madame Bovary she would have died of embarrassment. She sighed and looked out over the gardens before settling back to start reading.

  She was disappearing into Vanity Fair when she heard it: the steady, powerful hoof-beats of the beautiful black horse and the infuriating—and striking—rider he carried. She stood and walked to the French doors, placing her hands lightly on the handles.

  She wouldn’t go outside—there was no way she would test the duke’s patience again—but she did open the door a smidge to let the air in. He soon disappeared into the trees and she threw the door wide to feel the spring breeze before going back to her book. She needed someone else’s conflict to occupy her mind for a while.

  ***

  Roxleigh rode for the clearing. He wasn’t getting any work done with her around. Today was the first time he’d ever used the passages for a nefarious purpose. He’d watched her in his library. She knew the titles, clapping her hands and pulling the books off the shelves to add to her stack.

  He watched her read the pages, inspecting the personal inscriptions that were written to his father, grandsire, mother, grandmother, and others, delicately running her fingers over the pages as if each one was a precious treasure. He’d wondered what it felt like to be those pages, handled so delicately and with such care, then realized with his recent behavior that she might actually be wondering which circle of hell she found herself to be dwelling in here, at his manor.

  He exhaled sharply as he entered the clearing. He truly needed to find some measure of calm. He was scaring the wits out of Mrs. Weston; he could see it in her eyes. He was ashamed by his behavior as of late, but he didn’t know how to be around this woman. He climbed up on his rock and sat down, high and away from the water’s edge.

  All he could think about was the day she’d arrived. He’d cut her dress and corset loose and managed to revive her somewhat. Then he’d carried her from the edge of the clearing up to the manor and to the guest suite. He’d stayed with her, removing the remaining tatters of her bright satin dress while Mrs. Weston sent for the doctor and gathered supplies.

  He’d watched her closely, trying to bring her around with gentle hands. He’d loosed her hair and tried to smooth the brambles from it. He’d massaged her back in slow gaining circles to calm her speeding heartbeat. Finally when her eyelashes fluttered, he’d soothed her with hushed words, caressing her face and her hair. When the doctor arrived and she began to come around in earnest, he’d reluctantly stepped out.

  He didn’t go far, pacing the hallway outside the room nervously until Mrs. Weston came out bearing news. He’d felt an extreme flood of concern for her, unlike he had for anyone before that day, but when he came back into the room and she was railing about being kidnapped and mistreated and him, he’d lost his wits.

  Roxleigh shook his head, laying on the rock with his knees bent, his boots flat, well above the gently breaking water of the pond. He listened to Samson’s quiet huffing and snickering as he grazed nearby, the sun warm and welcoming. He was tempted to slumber, but knew he needed to return to the manor. It was getting late, and he was exhausted from his sleepless nights, thick with dreams.

  Dr. Walcott had departed the duke’s manor only to be caught by a messenger with a dispatch from Kelso. A town smaller than Roxleighshire by half, Kelso was a little more than an hour south by carriage.

  He examined the girl as soon as he arrived. She looked like she had been flung about the woods like a rag doll. The visible damage was so extensive he had no idea where to begin, or where the injuries might end.

  He finally decided the proper course was to clean the wounds as best as he was able, putting salve on and wrapping them up to protect them from air. If they were allowed to dry they would crack when she moved, causing her such a fright of pain she wouldn’t survive. Sighing, he realized she might not make it regardless.

  The girl’s face was practically unrecognizable, but everyone here knew who she was and her parents were waiting just outside. Her mother was in such a state that Dr. Walcott gave her some laudanum to ease her so he could deal with Lilly. He motioned for the two girls at the door and quietly sent them for fresh linens, shears, and kettles of hot water. He rolled up his sleeves and settled in for a long night.

  Roxleigh returned to the manor and vaulted up the stairs, energized from his ride. He paused on the landing to examine the chandelier, its lowest point at a height just above his head. He liked to watch as the sun set, sending shafts o
f light toward the crystals, painting the entry in rainbows of shattered light. The back of the manor faced west, the high windows above the private parlor allowing the setting sun to reach the chandelier.

  At this time of year the light show went much unnoticed, as it happened just when everyone was preparing for supper. During the summer months the show would greet the guests arriving for suppers and balls, and in the winter months it warmed the occupants who were shut in from the cold.

  Roxleigh turned and walked into his suite. A slipper tub steamed in front of the fire. His evening wear was laid out carefully, his robe on the settee next to the bath.

  Ferry entered the room as Roxleigh started to remove his shirt, jerking it from his riding breeches and stretching as he pulled it over his head.