by Abigail Agar
But already, the Duke arrived at the front of the house and hurried out into the chilly rain. It splattered across his chest, his cheeks. His feet found the muddy footpath, and he rushed the rest of the way to the carriage house. For, if she hadn’t passed through there, she couldn't have gotten far on foot. Not in the grey haze, the dark twilight.
When he arrived at the carriage, he found a carriage boy he didn’t recognise. Perhaps a man who’d been hired in the months since his illness? He frowned at the man, who was combing through the wet tangles of one of the horse’s manes. He didn’t bother turning to the Duke when he spoke, and his voice was braggadocios and bubbly.
“Not certain I’d see ye old Duke here in the carriage house ever, and here he is already, not ten minutes after I arrive!” the man said. “My goodness, me. I heard news round Leeds that you’ve got your sight back. Looks to be true, quite!”
Rage raced through the Duke, making him hungry to tear at the carriage boy’s chest and shove him against the wall. But he paused, shaking his head. “Where is the other boy? Lucas?” he asked.
“Oh, Lucas, hey? He showed up round about a few hours ago with some little girl, maybe his lady, I don’t know. Point is, the one carriage hand couldn’t take the carriage back, so it had to be me. I don’t ordinarily work all the way out here, but I don’t mind. Lucas said there would be a hole to fill, what with him heading off to the city and all.”
“The city?” the Duke sighed. “He brought the girl with him to the city?”
“Absolutely, Duke,” the man continued. He pointed his sharp little nose towards the Duke. “That wasn’t some sort of runaway situation, was it? The girl looked young, perhaps, but not so terribly young. Not your daughter, I hope.”
“No, no. Of course not.” The comment felt like a smack. The Duke dragged his hand across his cheek, forcing his eyes to the ground. “They gave no mention of what part of London? Nothing?”
“Don’t rightly know, sir,” the man continued. “Suppose she’ll be knocked up with a gaggle of babies quite soon, that one. Quite pretty. And Lucas, well, you can imagine that he’ll jump on her as soon as he gets the chance. Provided they’re married, of course.”
The Duke ambled out of the carriage house, finding himself facing the famous foursome—his children—all in a line, with Christopher still hobbling a bit at the end. The moment they saw him, they stopped walking. Lottie let out a slight shriek before darting towards him and tossing her arms around his legs. The Duke brought his fingers through her fine curls, marvelling at how heavy this reality felt. Marina, that light, that beauty, had retreated, sensing correctly that she wasn’t entirely wanted. She’d found another path and had had the bravery to trek forward.
“Come along, children.” The Duke sighed. “We better get back inside. Margaret will have our heads if we don’t eat this beautiful dinner she’s prepared.”
The children understood, as much as they could possibly, at least. They snuck alongside their father, their heads downturned, and returned to the mansion without a word. Then, they sidled up along the table, their eyes cast towards the stew. Margaret ambled back into the dining hall, carrying with her a large bowl of rolls. The butter atop them gleamed.
“Margaret, won’t you join us for dinner?” the Duke asked, his voice soft. It was the first words anyone had spoken in perhaps fifteen minutes. They scratched at his throat.
“My, well. Where on earth did that girl get off to?” Margaret asked, her face falling.
“Margaret, please. Please, sit with us,” the Duke said. “In the governess’ chair. We so want you to join us. To celebrate this beautiful occasion. For finally, I am well.”
The words were hollow, echoing in his throat. After instructing Max to say grace, which he whispered through, trying to conceal his tears, the Duke dug his spoon into the stew, so perfectly spiced and seasoned, and began to eat. How strange to see the vegetables and meats, slopping around before him. He could see each individual colour. The roll quite literally melted in his mouth, slurping along his tongue and gliding down his throat.
But everything was tasteless. He tossed the half-eaten roll into his stew bowl, splaying his fingers across his abdomen. It was then that he realised all of his children and Margaret were crying. They ate on, desolation in their faces, while the Duke spun himself into deeper misery. It should have been one of the greatest days of his life. But he felt so terribly alone.
Chapter 32
Marina’s first days in London were some of the greyest days of her life. She stumbled off the carriage alongside Lucas, darting from some gritty back alley and into the stinking kitchen and cellar of Lucas’ brother, a man named Garrett. Garrett’s top maid, a woman named Teresa, pointed to a few crates and bales of hay in the corner, instructing Marina that she was to sleep there until they decided upon a position for her at the big house. She’d circled Marina, gripping her cheeks, stating she was a bit “too soft” for such hard labour. “But perhaps you can grow into it. Laundry will need washing. Floors will need scrubbing. And it all has to happen immediately, before even the master knows that he needs it. Do you understand me? The moment he sees a dirty floor, that’s when we have a problem.”
“Certainly,” Marina whispered.
“Certainly? What about, yes ma’am,” Teresa scowled. “Certainly? What is this? What kind of a house do you think this is? Using language such as that. How dismissive. It’s not to be tolerated.”
Lucas was brought up to the carriage house, where he said he would earn his keep to stay in one of the bedrooms of his brother’s mansion. As he began to leave, he spun back toward Marina, again gripping her hand. His long lashes batted, catching the light from the moon. “You know you can come with me, if you want to,” he offered. “If I say you’re my fiancée, that we’re going to be married. I know my brother will find a room for you at the big house. You’ll still need to do your duties, of course. But I don’t see that there’s any way out of that.”
“Lucas, I can’t possibly,” Marina murmured, shaking his hands so that he moved away from her.
“Don’t be stupid,” Lucas said again, shrugging his shoulders. How boyish, how arrogant he seemed, after knowing the Duke. Perhaps everyone would be ruined for Marina, after this. After knowing that kind of love.
“Nobody’s going to want you, you know,” Lucas continued, scowling. His brother appeared in the doorway, a burly man with a stomach that protruded over his pants. “Nobody is going to want you because you’re going to be all ruddy and washed up from this work. Remember that. Remember that I was your last shot.”
These words felt like a smack across Marina’s cheeks. Her nostrils flared. She wracked her brain for some sign of what was appropriate to say next. She felt if she lashed out—something the older, more confident Marina might have done—she might have been tossed from the house. And she couldn’t afford to be out on the streets. Already, she’d seen the beggars lining the cobblestones, marking time with their chilly feet and preparing for winter.
“I would be terribly lucky to fall in love with you. Really. I just can’t possibly.”
Lucas gave her a last, sad smirk, before shrugging. He nabbed an apple from the shoddy kitchen counter, stabbing his teeth into it as he marched away. Marina watched his toothpick legs as they slunk across the grass, towards the carriage house. She imagined working alongside him for the next year, maybe two—always knowing that, if she just said the word, he would open his bed to her. And she could leave her bed of hay and crates.
But at the moment, she felt too proud for it. Her heart felt blackened, after abandoning her love. The moment Teresa blew out the candle and went back up the cellar stairs, Marina fell to her poorly-constructed bed, drawing her hands over her knees. They clacked together. She told herself, over and over again, that this decision had been better than one involving returning to her mother, to her brothers. It had to be.
It wasn’t difficult for Marina to fall asleep over the first few nights, as her
back ached and her brain fumbled with exhaustion. But as her muscles and stamina grew, she found herself anxious and aching throughout the night—curling up on her slab of a cot and wondering what the rest of her life would look like, alone. One particular evening, as she shivered, she flung herself up from the cot and wandered towards the kitchen some of the servants used throughout the evening, to make tea and porridge to get through the night.
Upon her approach, she heard a light cackling from one of the other maids, a woman perhaps ten years older than Marina, but much more raggedy. She had wrinkles caked around her eyes, and her hands were craggy from scrubbing countless floors. She was speaking with Everett, one of the carriage boys, with a gleaming bald spot atop his head.
“Can ye imagine me, Everett, up there at ye grand ball? My goodness, me, no. Wearing one of those gorgeous ball gowns? Can’t imagine I could even fit the thing over my bum these days,” the other maid, whose name was Elizabeth, said.
Of course, this was ridiculous, just a statement that held no weight. For Elizabeth herself was stick-thin and underfed, probably only a few decades from an untimely death. Marina watched as Everett poured himself a cup of tea, tittering at Elizabeth’s ill-made joke. “Ah, you know you’d be one of the prettiest ones up there. Dancing to and fro. My, my. If only we were on the other side, hey?”
“Side of what?” Marina asked, taking a light step towards them.
Everett and Elizabeth spun their heads towards her, both their eyes gleaming like those of rodents. Marina swallowed sharply, placing her hand across her stomach. Upstairs, someone dropped something: it sent pieces clattering across the floor and broke the tense silence between the three of them. It seemed that Everett and Elizabeth weren’t sure whether to trust her, as she was generally new and had kept to herself. Marina suspected people thought she was strange, or perhaps stupid. But she hadn’t given a moment to care about it.
“Side of society, of course, darling,” Everett finally stuttered, turning back to his tea. “It’s only that the Queen holds one of her fancy balls for the birth of her new grandson.”
“I’ve just been to market,” Elizabeth said, ensuring her eyes didn’t link up with Marina’s eager ones.
How foreign that felt, not to be seen.
“And, anyway, wonderful gowns for the ball, you see,” Elizabeth continued, speaking only to Everett. “You can’t imagine the pounds you’d need for such a thing. I’d have to work the rest of me life just to buy a single sleeve.”
“And ye would wear that sleeve better than any other woman, I’m sure of it.” He laughed. With a flick of his wrist, he brought another teacup down from the rickety cabinet, pouring another bit of hot water. He dropped the tea bag into it, bobbing it up and down. Then, he tapped the teacup to the far side of the table, where Marina stood. He made not another mention about Marina.
It seemed as if this was her cue to leave. But she lifted the cup, inhaling the steam as it swirled from the water. “You wouldn’t happen to know who is supplying the musical instruments for such an affair, would you?” she heard herself ask.
Again, Elizabeth and Everett looked towards her, aghast. She’d broken the rules of their game. It was their time to flirt, to giggle into the late hours before returning to their gruelling work in the morning.
“I’m afraid I’m not up on the inner workings of the Queen’s party, my dear,” Elizabeth said, sounding increasingly snarky. “Musical instruments? As if I’ve ever spent a day of my life knowing a single thing about …”
“But there’s absolutely no way for someone like us, like me, to go to the ball?” Marina asked, putting her tea cup back on the table. She blinked big, eager eyes at the pair of them, her heart hammering. For she felt him like a tide, coming towards her. Her Duke. The children.
“Ha. Haven’t you been listening, child? Haven’t you heard a single thing of what we’ve said together? This party is just a fantasy in our little servant brains. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take that tea into your little cot room and have a few little daydreams about the ball. That’s all we can possibly do, you know. Daydream.”
Marina’s eyebrows lowered. She went back to her cot, her thoughts spinning wildly. Behind her, Elizabeth and Everett continued to banter, chuckling about the idiocy of the “new maid,” and marvelling at when she would become old and decrepit, like them. “She’s got a bit too much hope for my taste, that one. Like she’s seen money. Knows what it tastes like.”
“Well, she certainly doesn’t have the beauty of a richey, does she?” Everett asked.
Another smack. But Marina was accustomed to being told she wasn’t beautiful. In fact, this comment filled her with memory of the Duke, how his eyes had shifted when he’d seen her in the flesh. How very clear it was that she wasn’t enough.
But she was unable to sleep. And when the first beams of grey light slid in through the crack in the door, she was dressed, her heart bolting against her ribs. After ensuring that nobody else was up or aware of her, she snuck from the back of the servant house, diving down a side cobblestone alleyway and heading around the corner, towards the bakery. Baking bread smells wafted through the air. The chill in the late October air crisped at her nose and filled her lungs. She coughed twice before charging in through the bakery doors, finding herself beneath the warm, glowing light of the interior.
It was just after six in the morning, and several servants and maids swarmed the front of the bakery, pointing at a selection of baked goods and pastries for their ladies and lords. Marina bowed her head and dove into line, hunting through her pockets for a few pennies. It was just enough to fill her stomach with her favourite pastry—a glazed, raisin-filled tart, which would surely burn her tongue with its sweetness. She felt that tasting it might be akin to feeling alive for the first time since her arrival in London. There was a hardness to this city she’d been unable to imagine. It was as if everyone had sharp elbows, was preparing to blast past you, bruise or bust you on their way to the top. And that was no more true than in this line at the bakery, where maids grumbled at her for not stepping up to the counter quick enough; where they called her fresh-faced and stupid, clearly not a member of their bizarre, angry tribe.
Although, Marina knew, they had every reason to be angry. They worked long hours, were continually dejected, were more or less regarded as less-than human. Another elbow was tossed towards her face before she shrugged up to the counter, pointing at the raisin, glazed tart. Her finger shook as she pointed. “Please,” she murmured, before tapping her coins atop the counter.
“Please,” the baker mocked her, arching his brow.
Marina blacked out her terror, tugging herself back into the swirling rain outside. The sky was low, grey, dotted with black clouds, but the tart was sweet, coating her tongue with a sticky layer. She paused at a shop window, nibbling the last of her crumbs, gazing up at a gorgeous ball gown made of thick fabric, its skirts wide and its neckline low. Marina closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself in such a thing. What would the Duke think, should she arrive at the ball in something like that? Would he immediately tell her he’d been wrong? That she actually was beautiful enough for him?
She snickered at these thoughts, knowing just how foolish they were. “As if the Duke would ever see me that way,” she said with a sigh.
But in another blink, she remembered something else. If she attended the ball, even in secret, she might be allowed to say goodbye to the children. To impart the words she’d longed to say to them since she’d left. “Be confident in yourself as you get older, for you’re all you have,” she imagined whispering to Claudia. “And take care of Lottie. You’re her only woman influence, which means everything. I didn’t have that much when I was growing up. My sisters avoided me, scolded me. It’s perhaps why I never grew into a proper one myself.”
The rain pattered, thicker against her nose and the top of her head. She rushed back towards Garrett’s mansion, knowing she was perhaps twenty minutes late for her first
round of chores. The mansion and servants’ quarters were filled with swirling chaos in the morning, allowing Marina to tuck into the tapestry without anyone noticing she’d been gone. But the half-hour she’d been gone had only filled her with a deeper longing to flee that world. Every single servant and maid she came into contact with that morning seemed to ache with an inner darkness, as if each of them had given up.