by Tuft, Karen
“Who do you think?” Papa sneered. “I whipped that impudent chit. I whipped her to within an inch of her life. After all these years watching you fail, she waltzes in and accomplishes what you could not with the snap of her finger. Oh, I wanted the pleasure of it for myself and the assurance of a job thoroughly done. I have exacted my revenge; you can be sure of that.”
“Oh no,” Elizabeth whispered, feeling as though she’d taken a blow herself.
He walked to the bedroom door, holding on to the furniture to help keep his balance, and then started down the corridor.
“Marwood, please!” Mama cried. “Surely something can be done. Nobody cares about that girl, and Elizabeth isn’t so old. Perhaps there is another rich gentleman who would wish to have her.”
Papa laughed. “You think so? When the creditors begin arriving—and you can be sure they will—you tell them that, won’t you? Please hang all your hopes on Elizabeth. It certainly worked the first and the second time. No, thank you. I won’t be hanging my expectations on her again. Perhaps I should have whipped you instead,” he said to Elizabeth. “You miserable failure.”
Elizabeth cringed at Papa’s hurtful words.
He had also mentioned creditors. That must explain the man who had called so early in the morning. It was already beginning, then.
Mama followed him down the corridor, and Elizabeth trailed after them both, her insides shriveling with each word Papa uttered. He eased himself carefully down the stairs, clutching the railing tightly as he went, until he reached the entry hall. The front doors were standing wide open, and beyond them, Elizabeth could see the coach waiting for him.
Mama clung frantically to Papa, clutching his sleeve, trying to keep him inside the house. “Take me with you! Don’t leave me here!” she cried.
“Are my bags secured?” he asked the coachman, ignoring her.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the coachman said.
Papa shook Mama free of his arm and descended the outer steps, the coachman striding over to assist. “Goodbye, Duchess,” Papa boomed so that the servants and any passersby would hear. “Thank you for nothing. You had one responsibility—to provide me with an heir—and you failed miserably. You have had the use of my title for decades and have given me nothing in return. And the single child you did manage to provide me with failed in her only responsibility. Twice, no less. You two deserve each other.”
“Marwood, please!” Mama was hysterical.
Elizabeth couldn’t take it anymore. “Papa!” she cried out, her heart in pieces.
He ignored them both and placed his hand on the coachman’s arm for support as he climbed into the coach. The door shut.
“Marwood!” Mama pounded on the side of the coach with her fists as it lurched forward and started on its way. “Stop! Don’t go!”
Papa ignored her.
“Marwood!” Mama shrieked, hurrying alongside the coach as it sped up, pounding as hard as she could, before finally collapsing to the pavement. The coach continued down the street and turned a corner, and then it was gone. Papa was gone.
Elizabeth crumpled onto the steps and buried her head in her arms.
Their entire world had fallen apart.
Chapter 4
One year later
Kit was in a bit of a quandary. Should he remain in London until the Parliamentary session ended or return to the family seat of Cantwell Hall in anticipation of the upcoming harvest?
Which was why he was currently at Angelo’s Fencing Academy rather than Westminster, foil in hand, defending himself against the strong offensive move his good friend Hugh Wallingham had just made. Kit was not a politician by nature, and while he made his voice heard in the House of Lords when the occasion required it, he sincerely wondered if his time would be better spent elsewhere. He much preferred to act than sit around debating opinions endlessly. Returning home was his preference; he always preferred Oxfordshire to London. He also missed Phillip, who had taken it into his head to practice law in Lincolnshire, of all places.
Hugh lunged, and Kit successfully parried and followed with a riposte, their foils clashing. Back and forth they went, with Kit attacking and Hugh parrying and then Hugh on attack and Kit beating him back, striking, disengaging, lunging again . . . Ah, but it felt good!
“Arret!” Mr. Angelo called. “Stop now.”
“Dash it all, Kit,” Hugh said as he wiped his face with the towel Mr. Angelo threw to him after the match ended. “You’re in fine form today, my friend. I could hardly catch my breath before you were at me again. I have been practicing assiduously, as Angelo here will attest, and yet, you have beaten me handily.”
“It’s true,” Angelo said. “He has been here nearly every day for weeks, poor fellow.”
“I say, old man!” Hugh exclaimed, even though he was laughing right along with Kit and Angelo. “That was a worse jab than any Kit gave me throughout the entire match.”
Kit poured himself a glass of water. He drained it quickly and refilled it, his body feeling vigorously alive from the exercise, the water tasting cool and delicious. “Shall we go again?”
When Hugh only laughed and shook his head, Kit turned to Mr. Angelo. “You?” he asked.
“No, my dear Lord Cantwell, not today, not today,” Angelo said, chuckling. “It would not do for me to be embarrassed in my own academy were I to lose, and you are, as Mr. Wallingham observed, in exceptionally fine form this afternoon. I am feeling my age—all five decades of it—especially in comparison to you two puppies.” He screwed up his face into a piteous grimace and placed a hand on his lower back to illustrate his point.
Kit and Hugh laughed again. “Very well, Angelo. I shall challenge you on a day when I am feeling rheumatic,” Kit said.
“And I shall accept the challenge when you do—oh, oh!” He took a couple of hobbled steps. “Or maybe not.” He winked mischievously at them. Angelo was a master fencer, as his father had been before him and his son was showing himself to be, as well. He might not be a young man, but age hadn’t slowed him one bit, Kit was sure of it.
“I shall take pity on your advanced years and so-called decrepitude—for now—and leave you in peace, then,” Kit said. He tugged on his waistcoat and jacket and tied a simple knot in his neckcloth. “Unless I can talk the two of you into having a pint with me.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer, Kit,” Hugh said. “That I am feeling parched at present is an understatement.”
“Thank you, but I must decline,” Angelo said. He glanced at the door of the academy, where a few gentlemen Kit recognized as some of his peers were now entering. “It seems the House of Lords has adjourned for the day.”
He did not add anything further, for which Kit was grateful. Kit had needed his freedom today, this chance to move his arms and legs and stretch his muscles. He had needed a day away from the cacophony he frequently found in the House of Lords—talk of France and Russia and Napoleon and empty coffers and upstart Americans and the loss of ships and supplies and lives . . . There were days on end when Kit wondered if his peers were more interested in listening to their own voices than in the resolution of the conflict with Napoleon and France and with the former colonies in America.
Hugh seemed to have caught the change in Kit’s mood, if his own now-somber look meant what Kit assumed it meant. Hugh was too observant by half. “Come,” Hugh said. “Loser buys.”
“Not at all,” Kit replied, giving Hugh a congenial pat on the back. “I will buy the drinks, for I must bribe you into being willing to fence with me again.”
“I accept that argument and the free ale it provides,” Hugh said. “Let’s be off.”
They nodded to the group of gentlemen who’d arrived from the House of Lords, which, on closer examination, included the former Earl of Kerridge and his ever-growing entourage—clingers-on, Kit thought cynically since the earl had become the ne
w and incredibly lofty and powerful Duke of Aylesham.
“Aylesham,” Kit said, nodding in greeting. Aylesham was not an acquaintance, not precisely, although Kit recalled that the duke had been briefly betrothed several years back to his neighbor and good friend, Louisa Hargreaves, now the Viscountess Farleigh, before circumstances had arisen that had caused the betrothal to end. Relations with the duke had been icy since that time. Aylesham had made it clear ever since that he had no discernible reason to become better acquainted with Viscount Farleigh, his extended family, or his personal friends, including Kit and Hugh.
Surprisingly, the duke didn’t actually give him the cut direct, nodding barely enough to be considered civil. “Ah,” His Grace murmured to himself when he and his entourage passed Kit and Hugh as they walked farther into the room. “It would appear Master Angelo has been busy with a few of our colleagues this afternoon while the rest of us were suffering from the tedium of our responsibilities. I hope you are not fatigued by your exertions, Master Angelo.”
“Not at all, Your Grace, I assure you,” Angelo replied smoothly.
“That is certainly good to hear,” Aylesham said. He looked again at Kit, his quizzing glass raised halfway to his eyes before turning away.
Blast it all, if he hadn’t already known, Kit knew now that he’d be staying in London until Parliament adjourned, heaven help him—unless something interceded to save him.
The thought provided only the slightest glimmer of hope, however, for what possibly could occur when the Season was drawing quietly to a close—and even at home, for that matter, when his lands were being watched over by his competent steward?
“You seem rather dreary for a man who just bested me handily,” Hugh said as they entered The Three Lions.
Kit had opted for a pub rather than one of the gentlemen’s clubs; he was in no mood to encounter more of his peers this afternoon. “It’s nothing, my friend,” he said as he gestured to the barmaid. “Two pints, please.”
She curtsied and hurried off.
“I suspect that your illustrious friend the Duke of Aylesham has somehow affected your good humor.”
“I wouldn’t refer to Aylesham as a friend, although he is certainly illustrious,” Kit said. They located a free table in the corner just as the maid returned with their pints. Kit handed her a coin. “But that is beside the point,” he added.
Hugh looked appreciatively at the girl as she pocketed the coin and turned away to help another thirsty customer. “Eh?” he said. “Oh, right. Duke of Aylesham.”
How could Kit expect Hugh, good friend and empathetic soul though he was, to truly understand the weight that came with a title? Kit liked to believe he had adjusted to the responsibilities adherent to becoming the Earl of Cantwell upon his father’s—and mother’s—untimely deaths. But there were times, like this afternoon, when it all got the better of him. “Never mind, Hugh. It’s nothing to do with Aylesham anyway and doesn’t bear talking about.” He took a sip of his ale, but the bitter taste remained. “We must make plans for this evening—a much more pleasant subject than discussing His Grace and his fawning friends.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Kit,” Hugh said, lifting his mug. “Here’s to the evening ahead.”
Kit raised his mug in return and drank deeply.
***
There were events one experienced that ultimately changed the course of one’s life, Lady Elizabeth Spaulding reflected as she gazed out the window. She had often reflected on that simple fact, even more so during the past year.
“Ring the bell, Elizabeth,” Mama said from her chaise longue near the window, tearing Elizabeth from her thoughts and back to the present. “It’s past time for tea, and I’m parched.”
“Yes, Mama.” Elizabeth closed her book and set it aside—she hadn’t been reading it anyway—and stood.
“And see if the post has arrived while you’re at it.”
“Yes, Mama,” Elizabeth repeated, even though she knew that if there had been any mail, Stokes would have brought it in already. She dutifully pulled the bell cord, which Stokes eventually answered.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Her Grace would like to have tea brought in, Stokes.”
“Yes, milady.”
“Has the postman brought us anything today?”
“No, milady.”
Mama sighed loudly from her seat on the chaise longue. Elizabeth paused where she stood while Stokes left the room and then silently counted to ten before resuming her original seat near the fireplace. She picked up her book and once again attempted to read.
“Your tea, Your Grace,” Stokes said upon entering the room.
Her mother ignored the butler, her head turned away to stare out the window. Stokes set the tray on the small table next to the chaise longue and bowed slightly.
“Thank you, Stokes,” Elizabeth said when her mother said nothing.
He silently took his leave.
“The tea is most likely cool by now.” Her mother glanced at the mantel clock. “You see the time? I notice such things, you know. But the servants delight in tormenting me, spiteful creatures that they are, when I am already beside myself with worry and grief over your father. And see here”—she gestured impatiently toward the tray—“these are the same biscuits they have served for tea every day this week.”
“They are doing their best, Mama,” Elizabeth said. She and her mother had spoken these same words or similar ones every day for months, about the tea or a myriad other household matters, and it had done little good. The conversation was routine by now. “A little gratitude may lighten their moods and their burdens, as well as our own.”
Mama ignored her and the tea tray.
Elizabeth once again set her book aside. She rose and crossed the room and poured herself a cup of the tea. “See, Mama, it is steaming hot after all. Shall I pour you a cup too?”
“I think not,” her mother said, still staring out the window.
Elizabeth poured a tiny bit of tea into the remaining empty cup and then took two shortbread biscuits for herself so it would appear to Stokes as though they both had taken tea. It did no good for her mother to order the servants about and then have them think their efforts had been unnecessary and unappreciated.
As Elizabeth took a small bite from one of the biscuits, she thought of how she knew all about feeling unnecessary and unappreciated.
Her mother draped her hand over her eyes and sighed even more dramatically. “I believe the Royal Mail must be neglecting its service to Surrey. Oh, no doubt the mail coaches will do what they must to have the post from London delivered to Bath and to Brighton. One would think the Duchess of Marwood would warrant better service than I have received thus far. And yet we have received nothing.”
Elizabeth remained silent.
“I do not know why I hold to the hope that a letter from your father will arrive. It’s been months, Elizabeth. Months. We are exiled here in the country. Not a single friend or relation has sent so much as a note to salve my wounds, except for my dear brother in Yorkshire. We are all but forgotten; most of the servants have abandoned us. And we have heard nothing from your father. Not a word.”
Elizabeth did not reply.
“This is your fault,” her mother muttered.
Elizabeth dropped her head and shut her eyes. There was nothing she could say.
The most life-changing recent event, the duel Papa had engaged in with the new Lord Halford just over a year ago, had effectually changed the course of all their lives.
And Elizabeth had been responsible for it.
***
When Elizabeth and her mother had arrived at Marwood Manor last summer after the dreadful circumstances that had forced her father to flee the country, Elizabeth had found solace in tending the flower gardens. The cheery nature of the blooms, especially the quiet elegance
of the roses, had soothed her spirits.
This summer, however, due to the fact that most of the servants had taken positions elsewhere, Elizabeth had put her efforts into a small vegetable garden instead, hidden in a corner near the kitchen, where she could not be seen by her mother. Cloaked in a billowing apron, careful not to soil her dress, Elizabeth knelt on the ground and pushed her small gardening spade into the soil, loosening the roots of the weed sprouting next to a cabbage. She plucked out the weed and thrust the spade under the roots of another one nearby.
Mama would be incensed if she were to discover that Elizabeth, daughter of a duke, was toiling away in a vegetable patch. It was the one small rebellion Elizabeth had allowed herself thus far, and she had done it primarily out of necessity. For, as the roses reminded her daily, beauty and elegance in and of themselves did little to put food on the table. Elizabeth was determined to help in any way she could.
The lump sum of Mama’s dowry had kept them all fed for the time being, but it wasn’t enough to see to the needs of the estate, nor did Mama have any inclination of using her own money to provide for servants’ wages. She was barely inclined to use her money to buy food for them all. Elizabeth had heard Mama grouse and complain every time she’d given Mrs. Reed, the cook, money to stock the pantry. If it weren’t for the fact that Mama preferred not to go hungry herself, Elizabeth wondered whether she would open her purse at all. Elizabeth didn’t have pin money of her own that she could contribute anymore, or she certainly would have.
Conditions at Marwood Manor were decidedly bleak. Any furniture and artwork that wasn’t entailed had been sold, but that had only delayed the inevitable. The few loyal servants who’d remained with the estate when Mama and Elizabeth had returned had dwindled further as it had become more and more apparent that the duke would not be returning anytime soon and that wages could not be paid. It had seemed inconceivable to everyone that a duke could find himself bankrupt and exiled from England, but such was the case.
It was true that Elizabeth and Mama rarely received correspondence; Mama’s acquaintances seemed to have abandoned her completely, other than the occasional letter from Uncle John. Uncle John was wealthy, but Mama had refused to ask him for help in her letters, always claiming Papa would send word at any moment. But that had not happened.