It was enough to make her feel half-alive sometimes. She was busy and active, but there was a side of herself—the personal side, the feminine side—that had to be utterly repressed, and all to honor her marriage to an absent stranger. Most days were so full of activity from dawn to dusk, there wasn’t time to notice it. But during brief moments, it became clear this half-life would be the entirety of her life.
It was depressing, if she chose to dwell on it. But that was the one aspect of her life she had no control over. The rest was different. In many places, she could act, and her actions helped people. She would focus on that alone, and maybe, in time, she’d stop caring about the other.
* * *
I mentioned several pieces of business in my last letter to you, the most pressing one being the candidates for head butler. Since you’ve voiced no objections, I shall assume you are in agreement with my choice, and I shall proceed with the hiring of Mr. Borne.
Once Mr. Borne joins us, our staff will be complete. Even without him, the house runs like a well-oiled machine. Everyone has done exemplary work restoring Briarwood. One would hardly recognize it from several months ago. I’m very pleased with what we’ve accomplished and how things are progressing, even if at times, I wish it could all go faster, for the tenants’ sake. I hope your work in Italy continues to be productive.
Sincerely yours,
Victoria, Countess of Dunnley
* * *
Andrew scowled at his wife’s curling, elegant signature at the bottom of her latest letter. She wrote constantly, a never-ending stream of informative missives about the renovations underway at Briarwood Manor.
He’d been nearly shocked into insensibility when her letters first began arriving. She’d stayed in that godforsaken ruin where he’d left her. She was attempting to restore it. For a moment, it made him question his resolutions. She wasn’t swanning around London’s ballrooms, wrapped up in her new title. She was up to her elbows trying to repair his ancient family seat.
It must be yet another ambition of her mother’s. For a woman raised in a tenement, an ancestral family home must seem quite the thing. Fine. Let them spend their fortune trying to redeem that hovel. At present, he had no plans to ever lay eyes on it again.
If his work in Italy continued apace, he’d have a reason to stay for years. The British Archaeological Society had published a pamphlet of his early findings from the site, and they’d finally shown enthusiasm for his theory of a full, undisturbed Etruscan grave site existing in the vicinity. Once he found the tomb, he’d be busy for years writing about his findings.
Luciana came into his study with a vase of flowers, her eyes locking on the letter in his hand.
“From your wife?” she asked.
“Yes. Another one.”
“She’s quite a correspondent.”
“Yes, she is.”
“I suppose it’s a burden, you being here while there is so much to be done there.”
“She’s managing well enough on her own. And it’s her choice to do it.”
Luciana took a sprig of bluebells out, cocked her head to examine the flowers, then slid them back into place. “Andrew...”
He sighed and dropped his letter to look at her. “What?”
Luciana finally turned to face him. “I should hope, after all this time together, I can count on you to be honest with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought you said she’d be your wife in name only.”
“She is.”
She glanced pointedly at the letter he still held. “She writes a lot of very long letters for a woman who isn’t really your wife.”
“I can’t stop her writing. You know I never answer them.”
“You could if you wanted to. I’m not trying to stop you. I just want to be sure I know how things stand.”
“Things between you and I are exactly what they’ve always been.”
The lie felt heavy on his tongue. Luciana had come back to his bed, but things were changed and they both knew it. He rarely reached for her and when he did, it was with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Luciana hadn’t complained until now. She was there to do more than warm his bed. She was his companion, in a real and important way, even if at the moment she was pressing him to face up to an unpleasant subject.
“Are you certain of that?”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I only want you to be honest with yourself. And with me. Right now, it doesn’t feel as if you are. If things are going to change, I’d like to know it.”
“They’re not. Nothing has to change.”
“But—”
“Do you really think I would...” He waved a hand helplessly. “Go home and become some gentleman farmer?”
“If it’s what you want.”
“And what then? Give you up?”
“Come now, Andrew. We both know it won’t last forever. I’ve enjoyed our time together a great deal, but these arrangements are never permanent, I know that.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had one or two other offers, you know. You’re hardly my only option.”
Her words drove home a hard truth he’d been happy to avoid until now. As content as he’d been these three years, this had always been as insubstantial as tissue paper, ready to be crumpled and discarded once it was no longer needed. There had never been a home for him in England, so he’d come here and made one for himself, one that now seemed just as impermanent. If it vanished, too, what would be left?
“Perhaps I’m not ready for it to be over yet.”
Luciana held up a hand to placate him. “Then let’s not argue. I’m not asking you to choose.”
“And yet, for some reason, you think I might choose her.”
Luciana shrugged. “It’s a possibility. From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t seem so terrible. In time, you might come to think so, too, however badly it began.”
His face heated with shame and he looked away. His wedding night with Victoria still plagued him, as did his abandonment of her the next day. It was beneath him. He knew it now and he’d known it then. He just didn’t know what to do about it. Despite Luciana’s suspicions, Victoria was just as much a stranger to him as she’d always been, and it seemed unlikely that would ever change.
“Think carefully, Andrew.” She left him alone in his study, doing exactly that. In truth, no matter what he’d professed, he’d never really stopped thinking about Victoria since the day he’d met her.
November 1895
Briarwood Manor
On Sunday night, right after dinner, it began to rain. Overnight, the skies opened up and deluged Briarwood Manor. Thunder rattled the windows and lightning lit Victoria’s room as if it were midday. She was shaken out of her sleep by the tempest sometime after three. She stayed in bed as long as she could, but eventually she couldn’t ignore the rapid patter of servants’ feet outside her door and she got up, slipping back into her serviceable dark dress from the day before.
Out in the hall, the house was in turmoil, with servants running to and fro carrying pots, buckets and anything else to hold water. The workmen had been repairing the central and north roofs, but they weren’t finished and water poured into the house in half a dozen places. The leaks were largely contained to the servants’ quarters in the attic, but some of the lower rooms had also been breached.
The hard work begun inside the house would not be undone by the weather. Retrieving a stack of linen from a frantic scullery maid, she set to mopping up the water in the conservatory in an attempt to save the newly restored decorative tiling on the floor.
When dawn came, she was still on her hands and knees, drying the delicate Italian mosaic work. Mrs. Palmer appeared behind her. She looked up, pushing her falling-down hair out of her face.
“
Mr. Forbush sent word. He asked that you come see Orley Dell.”
She scrambled to her feet. As bad as the situation had been in the house, it had to be worse in the fields. They’d begun the irrigation work on Orley Dell, but the workmen weren’t finished yet. With all the rain, the field would be flooded, the newly excavated ditches washed away in a sea of mud.
“How bad is it?”
“He didn’t say, My Lady.”
She paused only to snatch a shawl off a chair in the morning parlor before setting out. The morning was wet and raw, a harbinger of the winter about to set in. Cold and fatigue set her shivering as she trudged across the lawn and then through the lower fields. The hem of her skirt and petticoat grew waterlogged and muddy, but she didn’t pay it any mind. It hardly mattered on a day like this. As she crested a gentle roll in the field, the ground dropping away to the dell, the sounds of gruff male voices and scattered laughter floated up to meet her.
Down in the dell, she spotted the familiar hulking shape of Mr. Forbush speaking to Mr. March. Since that first frightful day, he’d become almost an ally as she and Mr. March struggled to undo years of neglect at Briarwood. More often than not, Mr. Forbush stepped forward to speak for the tenants on any number of issues, helping to guide their efforts to where they were most needed. He raised his head at her approach and waved his cap in greeting.
“Come and see, Your Ladyship!” he called, sweeping his arm to the side. “Rain to end the world all night long and here’s Orley Dell, as dry as you please!”
Victoria gasped and clapped her hands together. “It worked! They didn’t flood!”
“Indeed, the ditches worked,” Mr. March called up. “I was worried they hadn’t gotten far enough when this storm hit, but that wasn’t the case.”
Unexpectedly, her eyes pricked with tears. Her dirty, wet dress, her falling-down hair, her aching back, the numbing fatigue—all was forgotten. Never in her life had she felt as happy and relieved as she did at the sight of a dry field in the middle of a rain-soaked estate.
“Oh, Mr. Forbush, I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
“It’s all thanks to you, Your Ladyship,” Mr. Forbush said, his face split with his wide, infectious grin.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of anything in my life.”
She might be of some real use to these people and this place. All her hard work—their hard work—finally seemed to be making a difference.
“Your Ladyship!” A thin, reedy voice called out from somewhere behind her. She turned to see the young man who sometimes ran messages up from the village racing across the sodden field in their direction.
“Your Ladyship, a telegram came last night. It’s a bit delayed on account o’ the weather.”
He thrust a slightly wrinkled envelope at her.
The message on the thin yellow paper was short and to the point. The Duke of Waring has died. Come immediately to Waring House, London. The Duchess of Waring.
Chapter Ten
The lacquered black coach bearing the Waring crest rolled to a stop in front of Waring House. Two footmen with black armbands on their sleeves stepped forward to release the steps and open the door for Andrew. How long he could linger in the coach without facing everything coming next? If he didn’t get out, would he never become the Duke of Waring?
But the front door of Waring House, draped in black crepe, swung open, like the gates of hell reaching out for him. The same scowling butler he remembered from his last visit stepped out from under the portico and bowed his head.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
His future would not be denied. “Your Grace” now meant him. He was now the Duke of Waring, a title he’d spent his entire life reviling. With a shiver of distaste, he forced a smile for the butler.
“Good to see you again. I’m sorry, I don’t...”
“It’s Morris, Your Grace.”
“Of course. Thank you, Morris.”
“My condolences for your loss, Your Grace.” Morris didn’t sound all that sorry, but knowing the deceased duke, Andrew didn’t blame him. He wasn’t sorry, either.
“Her Grace is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
The last thing he needed now was to deal with his mother, but he’d have to sooner or later, so he squared his shoulders and allowed Morris to usher him into his father’s—no, his—house. It had happened. This cold monstrosity was his. Morris divested him of his traveling coat, gloves and hat, passing them off to a footman before leading the way to the drawing room. Odd, as his mother, on her rare visits, preferred to lounge in the morning parlor at the back of the floor, smoking her French cigarettes and drinking sherry.
Morris opened the door as he spoke. “Your Grace, His Grace, the Duke of Waring, has arrived.”
He was momentarily stunned when it was not his mother, but his wife, who rose from the settee to greet him. For an instant, he hadn’t known her. It had been eight months, and they’d spent so little time together. The woman facing him now, while recognizably Victoria, was much altered. His memory of her had been of a pink rose of a girl, with elaborately arranged fair hair and a figure swathed in ruffles and bows. Victoria stood before him now looking terribly sophisticated. The lines of her black dress were stark and somehow also elegant, setting off her creamy complexion and bright green eyes. Her hair was swept up in a simple chignon.
She was absolutely beautiful. She always had been, but it was like she’d blossomed during his months away.
Victoria lowered herself into a curtsy, her lashes sweeping across the high arcs of her cheekbones as her eyes dropped to the carpet. “Your Grace. Please accept my sympathies.”
It took him a moment to understand what she was talking about as he shook himself back to reality. His father. Yes, right. The mourning. Morris referring to her as “Your Grace.” He remembered in a flash why he was here and what his role was meant to be. He was the Duke of Waring, she was the Duchess of Waring and they didn’t like each other. The whole thing was depressingly familiar.
“Thank you. You look well.” He hadn’t meant to say anything personal to her, but somehow it popped out. Victoria looked as startled as he felt.
“Thank you. I am well. And you?”
“Very well.”
And with that, he was out of polite conversation. He should have known he could count on his well-trained wife to save the situation.
“Would you like some tea? Or should I have the cook make something for you to eat? There was some excellent cold beef at luncheon. She could make a tray for your room.”
The words were all polite kindness, but her tone was frosty and her eyes held no warmth in the brief moments they met his.
He held up a hand to stop her as he sat down. “Just a cup of tea. Thank you.”
She’d only served him once before, on the day they met, but she remembered exactly how he took his tea—one sugar, no milk.
“Is my mother here?” It would be just like her to fail to appear for her husband’s funeral.
“I believe she’s resting upstairs. The past few days have been trying for her.”
He stifled a laugh, knowing nothing was more trying for his mother than the excessive wine she had no doubt consumed the night before. “And my sisters?”
“They arrive this afternoon, according to Morris. One of the matrons from their school is accompanying them.”
“Mother didn’t inform you of their plans?”
Finally, there was a crack in his wife’s perfect composure. Her eyes dropped and she drew her lower lip between her teeth.
“I’ve had very little chance to converse with your mother since I arrived.”
“And when did you get in?”
“Two days ago.”
His mother had snubbed Victoria for two full days under
her own roof? “I’ll speak to her,” he said tersely as she handed him his teacup and sat down at a safe distance from him in an armchair.
“She’s lost her husband. She’s under no obligation to entertain me.”
“You’re a guest in her home. Actually, not to put too fine a point on it, but she’s now a guest in your home.”
“Not in my eyes,” Victoria said softly, eyes on her lap. There seemed to be more than one meaning to her words but she didn’t expound and he didn’t press.
“Don’t labor under any delusion she’s mourning the loss of my father. They hated each other in life. I expect she’s relieved to be rid of him.”
His bald pronouncement did not shock her. Of course, she probably felt the same way about him. Ah, yes, here they were, in the midst of history repeating itself.
“I’m used to fending for myself, Your Grace. Your mother is welcome to leave me to it, no matter what her reasons.” Her tone was flippant and dismissive, with a bit of a sting. He didn’t remember this sarcasm in her, but then again, as Luciana kept pointing out, he didn’t really know her.
* * *
Victoria could never tell precisely what her husband was thinking, but she could guess it wasn’t good. His appearance, although expected, had unsettled her. In her memories, he lurked as a hazy, scowling figure, the impression he’d left her with on their wedding day. She’d forgotten how handsome he was, and how he set her on edge with one look from those shocking blue eyes. If only she could purge herself of this inclination to breathlessness in his presence. A ridiculous response, and one he didn’t deserve from her.
Within five minutes, it was clear he hadn’t warmed to her during their separation, even though he seemed somewhat offended on her behalf at his mother’s snub. As if she’d need defending from a bitter lush like the Duchess of Waring. Besides, his defense had more to do with his enmity toward his parents than any tender feelings toward her. It was best to steer their conversation back to the events at hand. With businesslike briskness, she proceeded to fill him in on the logistical details.
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