The Coachman's Daughter

by Gayle Eden

  She entered the apartments via stairs inside the coaching house, pushing open the door and arriving into the main parlor. It was a warm room, lots of shelves and books, the fireplace, his chess set on a table before it, and a bay window—her favorite spot. It smelled of leather and comfort. It felt like home.

  “Am I late?” She saw him in the small kitchens, already setting their table.

  “No. I decided to make stew. Master Jude brought us a brace of hare he had snared.” He smiled at her.

  She returned his smile and crossed to the two rooms off the parlor, one was hers. She entered, going past wardrobe, bed, and her vanity, to a small bathing chamber. There she stripped, refreshed, and padded back into the bedchamber, plucking a clean shirt and pulling it on, before the trousers. The wardrobe was full of fashionable clothing, some she purchased for herself, many her father bought her, with all the trappings. On her vanity were perfumes, jewel boxes and hairpins.

  There was everything in the chamber for a Lady of quality, along with unique gifts her father had given her every year, six she had brought with her from the Mafey’s—which were in those days, the only tangible evidence of a father who really existed. He sent money there but the Mafey has made her wear the most plain and well-worn clothing and cover her hair... be silent and invisible…

  In her bare feet, her damp hair behind her ears, Haven went out and into the kitchens. “Thank you.” She took the chair he held and sat, watching Patrick sit across from her. Beside her stew was bread and fresh milk.

  She closed her eyes while he said grace, and then they were eating. In the Mafy household, prayers were a constant thing and eating was quiet and quickly done. She and her father, most of the time, used their meals to converse, share a laugh, go over their day.

  Haven looked at him on and off, seeing herself perhaps in the hue of his dark red hair now threaded with silver, though his eyes were a dark sapphire blue. There was not a lot there that she could draw herself from, but it was more the enigma of his past, of hers, that always made her search.

  He caught her looking and said, “Any trouble last night?”

  “With the Marquis, you mean?” She smiled dryly and took a sip of milk before shaking her head. “No, other than getting him into the coach.”

  His eyes went over her face. “You’re twenty and two, Haven.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “You should be getting on with your own life.”

  They had discussed this before.

  “I will,” she said, while scooping up another spoonful, eating, swallowing.

  He sat back. His own hands fell idle by his plate. “You can’t save him.”

  “I’ve done so, more than once.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “The Duke and Duchess depend upon me.” She set her spoon down and wiped her mouth, looking at him and finding his brooding gaze discomforting.

  “The graces—are an unconventional pair. We have reason to be grateful for the things they have provided you. However, you are not employed by them, daughter. You can have a life, a future, of your own.”

  She fiddled with the napkin and dropped her eyes from his, watching her fingers folding the edge of the cloth. “I like it here. I mean, I like living with you, with them.”

  “We all feel the same. Nonetheless, you spend your time babysitting the Marquis, driving him, rescuing him. It is not the life I planned for you. If you had an interest in one of the young men who have shown an interest in you….”

  He meant the tutor who came in the off-season and tutored Jude, Nigel—who had shown an interest in her. Or, Mr. Bentley who was the vicar. Nigel was nice enough, but he was a soft man, gentle and though his intelligence was attractive, she felt “stronger” than him in the way that prevented an attraction. The Vicar… she had no quarrel with Mr. Bentley; it was the profession she could not overcome. Having grown up in a dreary cottage with joyless, pious people, she could never go back to that. She had certainly lied to Deme about her suitors. Nigel may not mind her trousers, but Mr. Bentley certainly disapproved.

  Haven met his gaze again. “Can you see me with either of them?”

  “No. I can see you leaving here, traveling, and having a life that is more fulfilling. Using some of those advantages. You have plenty of money to do so.”

  She finished her milk and stood, taking her bowl to the wash pan. Lingering a moment by the kitchen window while Patrick got up from the table too. Haven felt him behind her. She felt his hand affectionately on her arm.

  He said above her, “I’m proud of you, no matter what you do.”

  Her heart filled. She reached to cover his hand, her mind going to her conversation with Lisette. “Would she be?”

  “Who?”

  “My mother?”

  His hand slipped from her. It did not surprise Haven. She sensed he was walking into the parlor, likely to fetch his pipe from the mantle.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Turning, she went into the parlor too, but sat in the window seat of the bay, while he packed the pipe and lit it, remaining by the mantle. His profile to her was remote. It got that way, when she mentioned her mother. She thought it somehow tugged him back in time. It certainly made him distant.

  “Was she a bad person, father?”

  “No.”

  “Then why won’t you speak of her. Why wouldn’t the Mafy’s speak of her?”

  He puffed a plume of smoke, went to the wing back chair, and sat. “It’s a—painful subject for me.”

  She could hear the sounds from below, one of the stable lads running to fetch something, and the Duke’s mastiff barking, which meant his grace was likely coming to play chess with her father.

  Haven got up and went to fetch her boots. She pulled them on, and then sat there a moment, her eyes holding her fathers. “Do I look like her?”

  “Very much, so.” He swallowed. His eyes were filled with emotion.

  She always felt she was on the brink of discovering everything, of being able to ask questions and get answers. Nevertheless, when he looked like that, so in pain, so torn inside, she could never probe the wound further.

  Hearing a sound below, and the Duke’s deep voice, she got up and went to kiss Patrick’s forehead.

  “If you go out tonight, with the Marquis. Take your derrick.” Patrick uttered gruffly, “Make sure those pistols are primed.”

  “I always do.”

  On the stairs, she met the Duke, robust, tall, his black hair now snow white. He wore his mane long and tied back, and he was dressed more the country squire than Duke, in buckskin jacket, linen shirt and well-worn trousers and boots. He was a strong and robust man, but a real softie with his children.

  She pat the Mastiff’s shaggy head after greeting the Duke.

  “You keep Deme in line, my girl.” he gave her an affectionate hug. “You are the only one of us not swayed by his charm.”

  “He hasn’t any charm.”

  His grace guffawed at that and nodded, his green eyes twinkling,

  Haven grinned, then said before passing him, “You should have warmed his bottom more often as a boy, your Grace.”

  “True. However, Deme was a good lad, spirited, but good hearted, a joy. His charm and wit were entirely different before…”

  At the bottom of the stair, she looked back to see him merely standing there, looking down at her.

  “I know, your Grace.” she did know, at least what started him down the road he was on. Though Haven did not think it was the catalyst anymore. Deme had entangled himself with married lover who tricked and lied to him. He had called her husband out for supposedly abusing her. He’d shot and killed him. How he discovered her truth, no one knew, but he’d holed up in his hunting box for six months, and was never again the same. His friend, Montgomery, the Marquis, had been in Egypt already. There was no one who could reach him. That—was eight years ago.

  Haven said, “He’ll come round, your Grace.”

  He no
dded, and smiled slightly, giving her a wink before knocking on the door, which Patrick answered.

  Haven stood there a bit after it closed. She and the Duchess had talked of it, though the Duchess had her own way of coping with Deme’s habits. She pretended it was temporary. All these years, she would put on a brave face, for the Duke perhaps, or for herself. She had spoken of it with Lisette, who handled it with humor. Haven did battle with him. She provoked him. She was blunt with him.

  She remembered the other Deme too; still somewhat spoiled then, having a natural arrogance and confidence, a wit. She could hardly take her eyes off him. Her reactions came out in a verbal way once, when he had caught her staring at him. It evoked his mockery, intended or not. From that point on, she never showed her weaker feelings to him again. Heaven, was so used to dealing with the changed man, she needed no greater reason. He could be a real ass when he was in his cups. Worse, when he was hung over. Everyone humored him. She bloody refused to.

  That woman had been killed in an accident, she had heard. Somewhere along the way, Deme looked at things rationally and accepted he had been played for a fool. He had taken a life. The husband also had been poisoned by her and dueled for her nonexistent honor.

  His recklessness was partly the Wimberly way, and partly the fact that he never had been kept in check. He had no reason to. Everything was his for the taking, with no effort at all.

  Chapter Two

  Any notion of falling upon his bed and sleeping was erased once Deme had his bath and coffee. The house, as usual, was noisy, with boots tromping back and forth—servants getting the trunks out of the attic. His mother’s pets carrying on. And when he was bathed, shaved, was standing by an open window with another strong coffee, the younger siblings were inside the house too—seemingly yelling to each other from opposite corners of the mansion.

  His apartment doors did shut out some of it, and after Mossley saw to him, he had sent the valet away for a moment of peace. In polished boots, black trousers and his usual white silk shirt, he felt the autumn breeze stir his drying hair. There were curls already falling over his brow and rustling against the shoulders of his shirt. The coffee helped that hung-over feeling, but nothing ever really satisfied him.

  Looking out over Wimberly, seeing the beauty of fall on the cusp, he was planning his evening; billiards with his brothers, because he realized they were grown men and he had spent next to no time with them. He would have tea with his Mama, though that meant having to hold one of her pooches on his lap usually. When it was late enough, he would find his usual solace in a bottle of Irish whiskey.

  He grunted and left his chambers, too restless to keep still. Finding an hour of peace in the back room with one of the books Lord Monty had written in Egypt. He was engrossed until the clock struck the hour.

  Putting the book down, he went to see the Duchess. Knocking on the back parlor door, a little room she called her office, he was let in by her maid, who curtsied and them left them in private.

  His mother was in a bright blue day gown. Her fading blond hair was done up nicely yet she wore her comfortable old slippers. A striking woman still, she offered her cheek to him for a kiss.

  “You look too pale, Deme. You must rise earlier, and take bracing walks. I vow that London air does us all ill.”

  He seated himself after kissing her cheek, and poured them tea. When reaching hers, and she took it, the rabbit on her lap hopped off and onto his.

  “Yes, Madam.” he answered. His black trousers would have to be brushed of rabbit hair.

  One of the cats immediately replaced the rabbit for her affectionate strokes. Beside her hip, on the brocade settee was a pair of pooches napping. It was a sight he was used to by now.

  Stroking the feline, she regarded him with blue eyes that most of her children inherited. “And no brandy this week, please, my boy. This is our last week with dear Aiden and James. I would have you spend more time with them.”

  “Yes, madam...” Her eyes were watering with unshed tears. It discomforted him. His mother, for all her eccentricities was a strong woman. She lived her life to suit herself, and in their society, that alone took guts. He did not doubt she loved each of them, but he had never been good with emotional scenes.

  It had taken Deme years to conclude he would never understand his parent’s relationship. When they were together, they were one moment arguing, the next doting and petting on each other. His father showered her with gifts, indulged her, and here at Wimberly, the both of them raised their children, of either sex, to live life fully. Games, competitions, swimming in the lakes, riding, and there was no formalities really. In warmer months, dining was a buffet, or picnic outside. Each of them had the best tutors, masters of dance and fencing, and art. However, between the Duke and Duchess, there was a unique relationship, a way of communicating that the offspring had learned early to merely accept as their way.

  Demetrius searched for a subject to distract her from her sadness, and finally asked about the “gathering” his valet had mentioned whilst he shaved. His mother loved nothing better than to have a mixed group at Wimberly, usually of different ages for the younger ones, and some of her friends she had known since her girlhood. A crony or two of his fathers.

  She began talking of it, the plan for a lovely weekend of rides and cards and informal dancing—in the most of the time, closed, ballroom. She talked of the menu and friends that she had invited that were close to James and Adrian, some in the military too.

  He listened and responded, but his mind was distracted until she mentioned Marston.

  “He is hardly a friend of ours, Madam. Decidedly not in our circle.”

  She waved her hand at that. “He will be this coming season.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve decided he would do for Lisette.”

  Deme nearly spewed his tea. Instead, he set the cup down carefully. “You must be joking?” His brow cocked. “Why on earth would you raise Lisette with any spirit, only to match her with some cold, arrogant, bore, like Marston?”

  “He’s not a bore. He is merely less vocal. More the strong, silent, type.”

  Deme sat back and rolled his eyes. “Give over, mama. I may be in my cups most of the time, but even I know the family he spawns from. Lisette is an intelligent and passionate girl; she would go daft with a man like that. You surprise me.”

  Those blue eyes met him. “I am many things, my boy, but blind I am not. I also know from experience, what my daughter needs.”

  “You’ll explain that?”

  “Not that I must, but,” She shrugged. “Just because we have loved and given our children few restraints, doesn’t mean we are ignorant to the pitfalls of the Wimberly passions.”

  Her own brow rose. She regarded him for silent seconds, and then further explained, “My upbringing was strict. Suffocatingly so. I rebelled naturally, and I have been headstrong most of my adult life. There is a price for such things, and though I have become wiser through my mistakes, I would spare Lisette that. If I had met your father before I was presented to him at the altar, who knows what we may have avoided?”

  “Lisette is not you. She cannot live your life over for you. That’s unfair, Madam.” He got to his feet and walked to the window. “I presume Lisette has a bit more spirit too, because she was confined for so long to the sickbed.”

  “Yes. I will not force her into anything. I merely think that Marston will do for her. I know men, Deme. I see more of him than is on the surface.”

  He turned and looked at her, seeing she was arising, the animals gathering at her feet. Apparently done with the subject. And—that parting remark was for him too.

  At the door of the sitting room, she looked back at him and said, “Look to yourself, Demetrius. You are to be the next Duke. Even were you not the heir, you are taking life for granted. You cannot go back and undo. But there is much to experience if you want.”

  The door closed. He stared at it. He supposed he underestimated his mot
her. Yes. He knew he did. Just as he saw those flashes of concern in his father’s visage at his sober moments.

  Bloody hell. He strode toward the door and opened it into the hall, then went to find his brothers for a game of billiards.

  He did not want Marston for a bloody in law. Yes, Marston was much like his best friend Wolford, who was in some ways his opposite, nevertheless, the few times he had seen Elisha Roulle in an exclusive hell or at some club, he thought him an arrogant bastard. Of course, Deme had to also view that in light of the fact, he had been foxed and about his own diversions and he did not put himself out for anyone these days. He certainly would not want Lisette with a man like himself either.

  * * * *

  Haven strolled aimlessly awhile, thinking she would go to the manor and speak with Lisette, and make sure she was not plotting something foolish for escaping Marston when he arrived. Where she ended up, was walking the stone path around the south side of the manor house. The air was cooling. Fog would cloud the grounds in an hour or so. She was approaching the billiard room when she noticed the French doors were open. Subtle smoke from cheroots was drifting out with light and the sound of male voices and laughter.

  Walking to the opened doorway, she leaned a shoulder against it, her brow raised as she counted the Marquis there with his brothers, playing the game. The handsome younger men had jackets off, and were in white shirts, sleeves rolled up and comfortable boots and trousers. Deme wore his usual rakish white silk shirt, too snug black trousers, and polished boots. She noted that he kept pushing his hair back out of his face after taking a shot.