A Grave Inheritance

by Kari Edgren

  A small leather handle had been fitted on the inside of the wall. With a little tug, I ducked back into the room as the panel slid into place. Oddly, my fear had faded during the impromptu inspection, replaced by a burst of curiosity for the identity of the mysterious walker. No doubt, this person was either a resident of the house or a confident of Lady Dinley’s to be able to navigate the dark maze that ran between the walls.

  Perhaps another day I would explore the passageway myself, during the daytime when I was properly dressed and not at risk of popping out at the dead of night into someone’s chamber. I smiled from the thought, then, on a whim, carried over the chair from the dressing table and leaned it against the hidden doorway. To be sure, even the most diligent of souls could get lost in the dark, and I preferred some warning if anyone happened to stop by unaware.

  To my relief, what remained of the night passed without further incident. At a quarter to nine the next morning, I came down the stairs in a simple wool gown, prepared to serve alongside Nora and Margaret Fox. Finding the foyer empty, I passed into the drawing room, where Lucy sat in an armchair near the fire, embroidering what looked to be a pillow cover.

  “Good morning,” I said, my chipper tone matching my mood.

  Lucy’s head came up with a start. “You’re out of bed early. Do you have something scheduled?”

  “Yes—” I began, only to be cut off before another syllable could find air.

  “Remember,” Lucy said, “we have the lecture on binomial nomenclature at two sharp. The crowd at yesterday’s lecture was quite surprising, and I think we should leave for the Botany Society no later than half past noon to secure good seats.”

  I bit my check to keep from smiling. “I’m sorry, Lucy, but I must beg out of the lecture as I’ve been invited to join Nora and Margaret on their rounds today.”

  This earned me a queer look. “Do you intend to meet up with them in town?”

  “No, we planned to go together this morning in Margaret’s carriage.”

  Lucy clipped the embroidery thread with the small scissors hanging by a ribbon around her neck. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve already missed them. Margaret’s carriage arrived at seven this morning.”

  My mouth fell open in surprise. “They’ve already left?”

  “Near on two hours ago.”

  “Why didn’t Nora tell me the time had changed? I wouldn’t have minded rising earlier.” Not that much, anyway. And it wasn’t like Nora to be overly concerned about my sleeping habits.

  Lucy dug around in a basket for more thread. “There was no change in plans, my dear. Nora told me last night that they planned to set out again at first light this morning. Maybe you misheard her.”

  A miserable feeling swept through me. With no uncertainty, I knew Nora had specified nine this morning. Had she purposefully lied with the intention of leaving me behind? My eyes burned from unshed tears. “Yes, I must have been mistaken,” I mumbled, gazing down at my hands.

  “You know if we leave by noon for the Botany Society, it might be possible to gain an introduction to the speaker. Maybe even have an opportunity to pose a question or two before the crowds descend.” She jabbed the freshly threaded needle into the pillow cover. “What do you think? Considering how much you work with plants back home, I wager you’re just as eager as I am to discuss the merits of adopting a more consistent naming system.” She jabbed another stitch through the cloth. “If you ask me, it is fortunate, indeed, that Nora and Margaret have already gone, and you need not feel guilty about indulging a passion instead of serving those in need.”

  I swallowed the lump from my throat. “Please excuse me, Lucy. I’ve a few things to attend to before we leave.” With a heavy heart, I trudged to my chamber and fell backward across the bed.

  Most fortunate, indeed. At that moment, I couldn’t have felt any less fortunate, nor more alone than if I resided in a hermit’s cave. My best friend was avoiding me. I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Cate since returning from the bakehouse. Julian despised me. Henry would be gone for three more days. And thanks to Princess Amelia, I had been designated the foremost social outcast in London. Perhaps all of England.

  Quite unexpectedly, supper with the duke didn’t seem so bad anymore.

  * * *

  We arrived outside the Fitzalan residence at seven sharp.

  “Remember,” Cate said when the carriage came to a halt. “Do not lose your temper like you did with the king. Richard Fitzalan may be an amiable gentleman on the outside, but only a fool would forget the ruthless fighter hidden beneath the manners and trim. He’s not called the dragon for nothing.”

  “The dragon?” I said, the words breaking unnaturally. “You can’t be serious.” Why hadn’t Henry told me about this?

  “The nickname originated during his navy days, and from what I’ve heard, it is by no means a misnomer.”

  I tried to respond, but my mouth had turned inexplicably dry.

  Cate winked at me, then rapped on the window. “Now, let’s see what the dragon has in store.”

  The door swung open. A handful of footmen appeared to assist us from the carriage, bedecked in powdered wigs and the Fitzalan gold and black livery. Cate walked ahead as Lucy and I stood side-by-side, momentarily transfixed by the massive gray stone structure that must have comprised an entire city block. Even in the diminished light, I could tell it was the largest residence I had ever seen other than Kensington Palace, and the two were a close tie at that.

  “A bit large for a widower and his son, if you ask me,” Lucy said in a hushed voice. “There must be space enough to house all of Hopewell for the night.”

  I nodded. “With room to spare.”

  Lanterns blazed along the steps and on either side of the front door. We passed two more footmen on the way into a foyer which looked to be about the size of Brighmor Hall. Following yet another footman, we were shown to the grandest drawing room I had ever seen. At least a hundred candles flamed in free-standing holders and from a large crystal chandelier overhead. For first impressions, this one was undeniably stunning.

  My eyes skimmed over the room, taking in the abundance of gilt trim, dark silks and marble, before coming to rest on a man near the hearth. He stood angled away from us, one hand resting on the mantel, and his head bowed in thought.

  Cate whispered to the footman, who then cleared his throat. “Lady Dinley, Lucy Goodwin, and Miss Kilbrid, Your Grace.

  Lifting his head, the man turned, and I was struck at once by the physical similarity to Henry. Like the son, Richard Fitzalan was a tall man, standing well over six feet, with broad shoulders, and despite the advanced years, a trimness to rival any lad of twenty. Also like his son, he didn’t wear a periwig as so many other gentlemen were wont to do. Instead, his thick hair had been lightly powdered and tied back, simulating the latest fashion, while avoiding the superfluous hairpiece.

  He remained still as he surveyed our little group, his eyes coming to rest on me for several seconds. I met his stare straight on, refusing to look away despite a sudden fit of nerves. A smile pulled at his mouth, and my heart skipped from the same expression I had seen a hundred times on Henry, usually on the heels of some amusing or sardonic comment.

  Not until the duke took a few steps did I notice the cane and pronounced limp on his left side. Henry told me of his father being wounded in battle, but for some reason, I had never envisioned the man with any type of physical ailment. Cate moved toward him, and in a wave of silk skirts, we met somewhere in the middle of the room.

  “So good to see you, my lady.” He bowed gracefully, and taking Cate’s hand, brushed a kiss on the back of her cream satin glove.

  “And you, Your Grace,” Cate said, her eyes twinkling with the usual merriment. “Please let me introduce my friends.” She gestured to us in turn. “This is Lucy Goodwin and Miss Selah Kilbrid.”<
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  One look from the duke, and I knew the reckoning had begun. The intensity of his pale blue stare seemed to hold supernatural powers, searching my soul while offering nothing in return. My pulse quickened, and cold sweat coated my palms as I waited for him to speak. Would it be kindness or arrogance from the man destined to be my father-in-law? And did I have the fortitude to bite my tongue if he said something particularly nasty? After Cate’s warning, it seemed I had better keep my temper in check or risk exposing the dragon, and in turn, making matters worse for Henry.

  I squared my shoulders, ready for just about anything when the duke surprised me by shifting his attention to Lucy. “I’ve heard much praise of you, Lucy Goodwin, and your daughter Nora.” He glanced toward the French doors. “Is she not joining us this evening? I hope she hasn’t fallen ill. Our London vapors can be hard on those accustomed to fresher air.”

  Lucy gave him a pleasant smile. “I thank you, Richard Fitzalan, but Nora has no complaints to her health. She was kept away tonight due to a prior engagement with Margaret Fox. Perhaps you are familiar with the name and its significance to the Quakers?”

  Jealousy pinched my heart and my mouth tightened to a straight line. Over the past three days, I had become all too familiar with Margaret’s name since Lucy spoke of little else. Not that I had met the lady, or even seen Nora again following our conversation on the stairs. Anxious to confront her about the lie, I was greatly disappointed when a note arrived yesterday, requesting permission for Nora to stay the night at the Fox home so the ladies could continue undisturbed in their labor for the poor. Or some such rubbish.

  “Ah, yes,” the duke replied. “Mr. Roth has taken an interest in the Quakers, and has seen to educating me on your history and simple ways. He is joining us for supper, though I dare say he will be most aggrieved by Nora’s absence.”

  Just the mention of that man’s name soured my temper. Supper, indeed! I could think of nothing more gratifying than sticking a salad fork in his—

  “And you, Miss Kilbrid,” the duke said, jolting me from my reverie. “Our acquaintance is long overdue. My son seemed intent on keeping us apart for fear that I could not behave properly. I hope you find him mistaken.” His expression and manner showed every sign of pleasantness, but those eyes—they seemed capable of turning me inside out.

  By sheer self-will, I managed not to look away. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m sure I shall have no reason to complain.”

  His eyes creased with amusement and a soft rumble sounded in his chest. “It is a pity that Henry is not here tonight, for I believe we are destined to be great friends.”

  The duke remained the picture of congeniality throughout supper, and with each course, I grew more relaxed in his company. Only the presence of Mr. Roth kept me from proclaiming it a perfect success. As he sat to my left on the opposite side of the table, I could almost imagine him gone while the duke kept up a series of questions regarding the Colonies. For all his bluster the other day, James appeared rather subdued this evening. The condescending smirk he saved especially for me had turned into a sullen frown upon learning of Nora’s absence. Over the duration of the meal, his mood darkened further, no doubt, due to the duke’s obvious favor for me. What little James contributed to the conversation in the beginning, tapered to a brooding silence by the time dessert arrived.

  When the forks came to a final rest, the duke drained the last of his wine and stood. “Why don’t we continue in the drawing room? Mr. Roth, please show the women through.”

  James gave a sharp bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  We filed from the dining room, James in front, followed by Lucy and Cate. The duke and I went last, our pace hindered by his limp. “Are you unwell, Your Grace?” I asked, noticing that he walked markedly slower than when we first went into the dining room.

  The duke came to a stop and placed a restraining hand on my arm. “Well enough,” he said, watching as the ladies disappeared around a corner. Then opening a door, he gestured for me to follow. “This way, Miss Kilbrid, if you please. I wish a private word before we join the others.” Though pleasant, his tone brokered no refusal.

  I went without protest, down another corridor and into a room that looked to be the duke’s private study. A newly-set fire burned in the hearth, and a crystal wine decanter and pair of glasses rested on the desk as though in expectation of our arrival.

  The duke pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. “Thank you for joining me,” he said, taking the seat on the opposite side of the desk. His eyes went to the crystal decanter. “Would you care for wine?”

  “No, thank you, Your Grace.” The two glasses at supper already exceeded my usual limit, and under the present circumstances, I felt a strong need to keep my wits about me.

  I watched in silence while he poured one for himself. Returning the decanter to the desk, he then reached for the glass, only to stop in mid-motion. Pain shadowed his face as he pulled his hand back and pressed it directly over his heart.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Your Grace,” I asked for a second time. “Shall I fetch a servant?”

  He gave a faint smile and shook his head. “No need. A bout of indigestion is all. The pain will soon pass.”

  I didn’t push further, though my fingers itched for contact, so I could take a peek at his heart.

  The pain must have lessened, for the duke soon dropped his hand to the desk, this time ignoring the wine. “As you can imagine, Miss Kilbrid, I have heard all manner of accounts regarding your character. My son and Lady Dinley believe you of the highest caliber, while others...” He paused for a moment, and tapped a finger against the desk in thought. “Let’s just say that some others do not hold to the same high opinion.”

  I gave him a steady look, managing to confine the inevitable anger to the tight line of my shoulders. “Your Grace gives shelter to my greatest critic.”

  “True enough,” the duke replied impassively. “Mr. Roth is not an admirer.”

  “I hope you don’t give credence to his words. The man is incapable of uttering an ounce of truth whenever my name is concerned.”

  The duke’s pale blue eyes locked on mine, and I felt again the odd sensation that he could see me from the inside. “I assume you are referring to his favorite words of choice—upstart, commoner, Catholic and rebel.”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes, those would be them.”

  The duke reached for the wine glass and took a small drink. “It may surprise you,” he said, “that Mr. Roth’s strong opinions are not entirely unjustified.”

  Dismay throttled my fledgling hope. All through supper I had thought the duke an ally, only to be broadsided by this unexpected support for my most ardent opponent. His words left me feeling incredulous, betrayed even. “So, you share his opinion then?” I asked, my voice rising in anger. “The man has despised me from the start and wishes nothing but ill to come my way.”

  And it seemed he was succeeding.

  The duke studied my face. “Forgive me, Miss Kilbrid, I should have said that his strong opinions are justified in general. But that is his story to share, not mine. As for my opinions, I have yet to decide if you are a good match for my son and heir.”

  I blinked several times, not quite sure what to make of his declaration. Undecided wasn’t entirely bad, though to be sure, his choice of words left a bad taste in my mouth. Who was he to say whether or not I was good enough for anyone? Lifting my chin, I smoothed my expression to match his own. “What are your objections? That I am Irish Catholic? Or that I do not carry the distinguished pedigree of Princess Amelia.”

  His face remained impassive. “Direct and confident,” he said. “I now see some of the fire my son so admires. Well, let me be frank in return. I am no lover of the papacy, but that is for political rather than religious reasons. As for your Irish roots, my maternal grandmother could claim the same.
”

  My eyes widened in surprise. “Henry never mentioned you had Irish descent.”

  “Most likely because he doesn’t know. Her family immigrated to England three generations before my Grandfather Fitzalan claimed her for his wife. Maybe you are familiar with the surname O’Lughnane?”

  I shook my head.

  “Shortly after arriving in this country, her grandsire changed the family’s name to Lundlam to avoid suspicion with the local magistrates.” He gave me a wry look. “You may understand my grandfather’s desire to keep his wife’s genealogy a secret as being Irish is not politically expedient in England.”

  “So Mr. Roth frequently reminds me,” I said darkly.

  “Like you, Miss Kilbrid, my grandmother may not have lived in Ireland, but she considered herself Irish through and through. As a lad, I spent countless evenings listening to tales of her native land—tales of magic and ancient races.” The memories must have touched him, for his mouth softened into something of a smile. “You must be familiar with some of the stories yourself.”

  “A few,” I admitted.

  Quite without warning, his stare grew more intense. “Ah, yes. Wonderful tales, but we both live in the real world and know that such nonsense does not exist.”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice under his scrutiny.

  After a moment, his gaze dropped and he pressed a hand to his chest again. Wincing with pain, his breath turned thinner.

  “Your Grace,” I said, now genuinely concerned. “Please let me call a servant.” I started to push up from the chair when he waved me back down.

  “No, no. I insist. It will pass.” Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he dragged it across his forehead. “You see, I am already much improved.”

  I kept my eyes pinned to his face, not convinced for a second on his state of improvement. “Perhaps we should join the others in the drawing room.”