The Duke's Ugly Duckling

by Charity McColl

  Stewart arrived just as the doctor was leaving. Dr. Ronald Maynard shook his head as he put his hat on. “I don’t know what is ailing the missus, but I have left some laudanum for the pain, and also to help her sleep. Make sure she is kept as comfortable as possible.”

  “Thank you, Ronald.” Stewart ran up the stairs and to his wife’s bedroom. He loved coming into this room because it was warm and he would remember the times when they had been so happy. This was actually the master bedroom but ever since Florence was born and Monica rejected her, he had chosen to sleep in a separate bedroom closer to the nursery, so he could be with his daughter at all times. That had been in their old smaller house. In this one he took the centre bedroom next to the stairs, as a way of preventing Florence from gaining access to her mother’s bedroom should she ever decide to do so. He didn’t want Monica hurting his child more than she already had.

  He still loved his wife very much and regretted that they hadn’t had any more children, but Monica couldn’t bear to give birth to another child with a harelip and so had totally refused.

  He had begged with jewels and furs, trips and all manner of attractive gifts but she was done. One ugly child was enough for her to bear, thank you. What was worse, she referred to Florence as a demon and she said she had no wish to give birth to any more demons, and that had hurt Stewart for a long time, that he had actually considered putting Monica away and then getting another wife to give him more children.

  But reason soon prevailed and he resigned himself to the fact that he would only ever have one child, so he lavished all his love and attention on her. He knew that it irked his wife that he spent so much of his time at home with Florence, but she had no one, and Monica had her numerous friends. The only saving grace was that she never brought any of them home, perhaps afraid that one of them might see Florence and ask who she was, and there would have to be some explaining to do.

  “Stewart, is that you?” Monica called out weakly. Her head was throbbing and her whole body felt like it was on fire. She held out a hand and he took it, kissing it as he sat on the side of her bed. “What did Ronald say, does he know what ails me?”

  “He thinks you may have overstrained yourself while riding,” Stewart said, for lack of something better to say. “But he promises that you will soon be fine, only you have to try and eat whatever is served and drink a lot of milk and water, and you will soon be fine.”

  But no matter what treatment was given to her, Monica seemed to only get worse. Each day as Stewart looked in on his wife before he went to check on his businesses or when he returned in the evening, he found her only getting worse.

  “Perhaps we should go to London so you can get better treatment,” he told her worriedly, one evening. He really was worried because she was now just a pale shadow of her former self. But Monica shook her head.

  ‘The journey to London will wear me out. Let me get a lot of rest, I will soon be alright.”

  Stewart nodded, then thought of something. “Monica, I know this is too much to ask …”

  “No,” she shook her head and held up a shaking hand. “Not at this time, not ever.”

  “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

  “You were going to ask me to see the child,” she shook her head. “I said I would never look at that child for as long as I live and that is the way it will be.”

  “Alright then, don’t get upset. You need to rest. Let me check on Florence, and I will be back.”

  That night Monica took a turn for the worse, and by morning she was dead. Florence noticed that Rhoda’s eyes were red rimmed, and her father didn’t come to her rooms as early as he often did. When he did, he looked really sad and sat her down at the table.

  “Florence, you turned eighteen a few days ago and I think it’s time I told you something because I know you are old enough to bear it.”

  “What is it, Papa? Are we going away like the other times, and will Miss Rhoda come with us?” Stewart knew she was referring to the times when he had taken her to London for the different surgeries in the past. “Will it hurt?”

  He shook his head. “We’re not going away. Remember when you turned fifteen I told you that was the last time I would take you to London?”

  “Yes, Papa. But what is it? You look very sad.”

  “I am sad, everyone is sad today.”

  “Why? Did I do something wrong?” Her eyes filled with tears and Stewart pulled her into his arms and held her close. Florence always liked it when her father hugged her. He made her feel very safe, as if he could slay all giants that might come to harm her.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, you are the best daughter any man could ask for. You are my princess and I want you to always remember that.” He took a deep breath and held her at arms’ length. “Your mother died early this morning.”

  Florence was frozen for a while. Her mother was dead. Of course, she knew what death was, Miss Rhoda had explained it to her so many times, but for her own mother to be dead before she had ever seen her, it sounded surreal.

  “Papa, are you sure? You said Mama would come and see me when I turned eighteen, but she didn’t come on my birthday. Are you sure she’s dead?”

  Stewart could only nod. “It happened child, she has finally rested.”

  Florence sighed, “I will never see her now, Papa, why didn’t Mama ever want to see me?”

  “She was a very busy woman, working very hard.”

  “Child ….” But he was prevented from answering when there was a gentle knock at the door. It was one of their male servants and Stewart was glad to escape from his daughter’s questions.

  Florence sat thinking for a long time, and Rhoda felt sorry for her charge. The poor child had lived a sheltered life for eighteen years, and to be suddenly faced with the death of a parent who she had never seen must be quite disturbing for her.

  “I’ll go and get you some milk and cookies, my pet,” Rhoda said. Florence only nodded and Rhoda went out of the room.

  Florence sat for a while and then stood up. Her mother was dead and she wanted to see her. In the past, she had listened when her father and Miss Rhoda gave her all kinds of excuses about her mother not being able to see her, but now she wanted to go to her rooms and just see her, even though she knew dead people never spoke. But at least she would see her face and maybe touch her.

  She left her bedroom and turned down a corridor she had never used before. It was strange because in all her eighteen years, all she had ever done was leave her room and go down the stairs, emerging in the courtyard. Miss Rhoda had told her never to use the second door, and being the obedient girl that she was, she had never questioned why. Now all she wanted to do was to see her mother, or rather her body, and maybe finally put all her questions to rest.

  The manor was large and as she walked from room to room, she felt something pulling her towards the largest room at the end of the first floor of the house. She opened it slowly, first putting her head in to see if there was anyone. It was a beautiful room, all done in soft colours and, without being told, knew that she had arrived at her destination. She stood undecided at the door, looking towards the large four poster bed but it was empty, and the beddings had all been removed.

  For a moment Florence just stared at what used to be her mother’s room, and then she saw the portrait on the wall on one side of the room. It was the beautiful woman who she had often seen from her window. The picture pulled at her and she soon found herself standing in front of it, staring up at it, and then her eyes went lower and she saw a young woman staring right back at her. The girl’s upper lip was so disfigured, that it made her face look twisted. Florence blinked and the girl blinked back. She raised a hand to touch her lip and the girl in the mirror did the same, and that was when she realized that she was looking at her own reflection for the first time in eighteen years.

  A hoarse cry broke out from her throat as she raised both hands and touched her scarred face. “No,” she moaned, swayi
ng from side to side. Her father and Miss Rhoda had always told her that she was beautiful, a princess. But the ugly looking woman in the mirror was the opposite of beautiful.

  Florence fell down to her knees and she didn’t realise that she was screaming until someone shook her.

  “Florence, stop crying,” Rhoda had been bringing milk and cookies to her charge when she heard the piercing scream. She dropped the tray and ran, almost colliding on the stairs with Stewart, and they had both rushed into Monica’s room where the screams were coming from.

  One look at Florence on the floor in front of the mirror and they both knew that the truth had finally come out. Their princess had seen her own reflection in the mirror.

  “I’m ugly, I want to die,” Florence sobbed. “Why didn’t you let me die when I was born,” she cried.

  “Child, we’re so sorry. You’re not ugly, just different,” Stewart didn’t know what to tell his daughter, and he recalled the many times that Rhoda had pleaded with him to be truthful to her. Now he wished he had, but it was too late. “You are beautiful to me.”

  “Was that why Mama never wanted to see me? Why she hated me so much and would never come to my room?”

  “No, your mama was ill and she didn’t want you to worry,” Stewart found himself saying. According to him it was true. Only a mother who was ill in the head could shun her own offspring for eighteen years, living under the same roof but never having anything to do with her. Yes, in her own way, Monica was ill.

  5

  Enter The Duke

  Lord Albert Errol, the Duke of Whittington, stood in his rooms and looked out into the deserted courtyard. In years past, the place would have been teeming with stable boys walking horses or taking them out into the meadow for guests to ride. There would have been the sound of servants calling out to each other, each doing what they are supposed to, efficiently and in just the way his mother would have wanted.

  Now all he could hear were ghosts of the past; the cobbled driveway had grass and other weeds growing in between the stones, making it difficult for anyone to drive a carriage over it, not that anyone would be doing that any time soon. Albert laughed in self-derision. He was all alone, this was his life now and the sooner he got used to it the better it would be for him.

  Everyone was gone, and if there was one person who had been adversely affected by the just-ended war in France, it was Albert. He had lost so much to the war. At the beginning of the Napoleonic Wars, when he had been sent to France as a surgeon, taking care of the British soldiers, his father had fallen ill. By the time word got to him, he was deep in the heart of France fighting for his life and the lives of the men he was taking care of, that he couldn’t get home in time. When news finally reached him, it was to inform him that his father was dead and his mother was also ailing.

  He had begged for leave for a while to take care of things at home, and while back at his estate in Whittington, he had decided to take a wife, someone who would look after his mother when he returned to the battlefield, for his calling was such that he couldn’t turn his back on his country when he was needed.

  Valerie had been a good young woman from a good family, and he was confident that she would take care of things at home, while keeping him informed. For a while no news reached him from the home and he thought all was well. Then he was urgently summoned home because things had gone bad, but he didn’t realise how bad until he got there.

  His mother had taken a turn for the worse and because there was nobody to guide Valerie on how to run the estate, she had done her best but gotten fleeced by the workers. Many had left and only a few loyal ones remained, but even then they were agitating for their wages which hadn’t been paid for a while. His mother died and he decided to close the manor and move his wife to the dower house on the estate, which his mother would have eventually taken over when he came home. He left Valerie in the hands of her sister and returned to France.

  The day after he arrived, he went into the battlefield to take care of some wounded soldiers and they came under heavy fire. At first Albert didn’t realise that he had been hit, until he tried to raise his hand to help a wounded soldier. Then he saw that a bullet had ripped through his hand, leaving a bleeding hole. He lost a lot of blood and by the time he was brought back to England, the doctors were talking about amputating his right hand from his wrist downwards. He wouldn’t let them, but pleaded for them to send for his wife.

  Nobody brought him any information until he was well enough to leave the hospital and that was when the doctor who had attended him told him of the tragedy that had occurred while he lay in hospital. Valerie had died during childbirth, and the whole estate was in a mess.

  He hurried home to settle things and found that there wasn’t anything to settle after all. Whatever could be stolen had been stolen, and both houses lay in ruins. Since the dower house was more habitable, he took up residence there.

  Now, from his first floor bedroom, he could see the large front door of the manor and he shook his head. How had things gone so wrong for him?

  Valerie’s family were nowhere to be found and he suspected that they had helped themselves to a lot of things from both houses, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. He had to survive on his soldier’s pension, because he was a military surgeon.

  “Only thirty-two and it seems like my whole life is over,” he muttered to himself, turning away from the window. It was time for him to prepare something for his dinner before locking up. He looked at his right hand and sighed. This had once been what some of his colleagues had called ‘the magic hand,’ but now it hung uselessly by his side. He tried to massage it every day like he had been shown while in hospital, but sometimes the effort was too much for him and he just let it go. The result was that he was beginning to notice that it was shrinking.

  Monica was dead and buried, but life had to go on. Stewart stood at the family cemetery for a long time after everyone else, including Florence, had walked away and were standing in small groups a short distance away, while others made their way back to the house for some refreshments. This was the woman he had loved for twenty years and hoped to build a life with. Things had gone so wrong and he wondered if he was to blame for it all.

  From the moment he met Monica, he lost his head because of the love he had for her. He pampered her, spoilt her and maybe turned her into the selfish woman she became. He had indulged her every whim, allowing her to reject their daughter and treat Florence like she didn’t exist. Maybe a stronger husband would have insisted that Monica pay attention to their child, but he had let her do whatever she wanted because he didn’t want to offend her.

  Stewart felt someone slipping an arm into his and smiled when he realized that it was Florence. “Papa, please don’t be sad. You have me, we have each other.”

  “Indeed we do,” he touched her face gently and then wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Let’s go home before Miss Rhoda comes looking for us. It’s getting cold and I don’t want you to get a chill.”

  “Yes, Papa.” They walked back to the carriage where the footman was waiting. He handed them in, averting his eyes from staring at Florence, who had refused to wear a veil anymore. “I have worn veils all my life, this is my face. If someone cannot bear to look at me, then that is their problem not mine,” she had said from the moment she had finally seen what she looked like.

  The drive home was made in silence and Florence followed her father to the drawing room where there were a number of guests. A few made excuses to leave and as Florence watched them go, she smiled sadly. She was being treated like a leper, all because of the disfigurement on her face. But she didn’t blame anyone. If her own mother could not stand to look at her for eighteen years, how did she expect anyone else to be so understanding or accepting? This was her life and she would have to live with the scars.

  After her mother died, her father insisted on her getting a room on the first floor, where the family should have been from the beginning, he said
. She couldn’t bear going into her mother’s bedroom so she chose the room at the opposite end of the floor, and which she felt suited her very well. Miss Rhoda got the room next to hers, and, for the first time, Florence was allowed to roam the house freely. And she loved the feeling of freedom.

  Up in her rooms she had read widely from the books Miss Rhoda brought her, but now that she could go anywhere she wanted in the house, she had access to her father’s vast library and that was where she spent many days, when she wasn’t in the kitchen preparing meals for her father and her nanny. They were the two people that she loved most in the world, and sometimes she found herself wondering why Rhoda had never gone away to get married. She asked the cook to teach her how to prepare different kinds of meals because, according to her, that might come in handy one day, when she might have to fend for herself.

  Sometimes they would talk about marriage and love, when Florence was still closeted up on the second floor, and she had always dreamed of a handsome man coming to ask for her hand in marriage, falling in love, getting married and having children of her own. But that was before she saw her face and realized that she was too disfigured to be attractive to any man. She resigned herself to the fact that she would die an old maid, probably taking care of her father for the rest of his life. She didn’t mind it, but she prayed that Miss Rhoda would never leave them.

  6

  The Plan

  Stewart missed home, but he had to be here. Prince George, the Regent, was commissioning the building of a yacht for his mistress, a job he wanted done in secret because of the eyebrows that it would have raised. And he had been told that the very man to do it was Stewart Knightley, who not only did excellent work, but delivered on time and could be counted on to be very discreet.

  The two had met just before dinner and after their satisfactory meeting, Stewart had been invited to a banquet that evening, before he left for home the next day. It was true what they said, home is where the heart is. He was honest enough to admit that it wasn’t just the thought of his seeing his daughter again that made him want to go home, but her nanny as well.