by Regina Darcy
“Now then,” she said, “this will serve you well, I’ve no doubt. I recall my own mother applying it to my skin when I was nearing my wedding day.”
Honora closed her eyes as her mother dabbed the fragrant restorative on the handkerchief. The fresh scent of the herbs and flowers was soothing to her spirits and she thanked Lady Hestia.
“It’s the least I can do for you, my darling,” her mother said, leaning closer. “You know . . . I went to my wedding night woefully ignorant. If there is anything you wish to ask me, I—I will of course answer.”
Honora knew that her mother was sincere in her offer. She also knew that Lady Hestia dreaded the thought of imparting intimate details of what was expected of an innocent bride when she joined her husband in the marriage bed.
“Thank you, Mama, but that will not be necessary,” she said. “I am sure that all will be well. I am curious about something else, however . . . I know so little of Twickendale.”
“Yes,” Lady Hestia said. “It is rather far from London. But I am sure that the Duke will not spend all his time there and that he will understand if you wish to reside more often in London, or even if you will make frequent visits to your family when we are in the country.”
“Yes . . . there were two women at the ball whose names escape me. I heard them talking about Twickendale,” Honora lied. “I should like to speak with them. Perhaps I would feel less apprehensive if I could learn more about where it is that I shall be living.”
Lady Hestia frowned in concentration.
“There were so many guests at the ball, but I am sure that I shall bring the guest list to you and perhaps, between the two of us, we shall be able to determine who the ladies were.”
Honora leaned back upon her fainting couch and smiled. “That would be excellent, Mama. If you could bring that to me, I am sure that I shall be much encouraged.”
Lady Hestia bustled away, eager to do anything to help her daughter’s frame of mind without being obliged to divulge the private details of one’s wedding night, something which would, she was certain, bring a blush to her cheeks, even though so many years had passed since then.
“It might have been Lady Charlotte,” she said upon her return to her daughter’s room, the guest list in hand. “She is often in Twickendale to visit her daughter. They were both at the ball; did I not introduce them to you?”
“Perhaps you did, Mama, and I have forgotten.”
“Yes, well, you had other matters on your mind that night,” her mother said, recalling her daughter’s vivacity and high spirits during the event. “But it could have been Lady Charlotte and Minerva, her daughter. Minerva did not, I fear, marry well. Only a colonel. But I believe they are happy,” she added brightly. “We shall call upon them tomorrow.”
“Please, Mama, but I should do this on my own. I do not wish to seem cowardly and in need of my mother to get me over my fears of being homesick when I am a wife. I shall call on them to thank them for attending the ball and then I shall inquire of them information about the county.”
Lady Hestia was greatly gratified that her daughter seemed to acquire a resolve with this decision. Nonetheless, she insisted that Honora continue to rest for the remainder of the day.
Lady Charlotte and her daughter were at home when Honora delivered her card the next day, and she was immediately ushered into the drawing room, where the ladies welcomed her with such effusiveness that Honora wondered if they were already preparing themselves for her funeral.
“I did not have the opportunity to speak with you on the night of the ball,” she apologised when they were seated.
“Oh, you had other business to attend to,” said Minerva sympathetically. “You looked quite lovely; such a beautiful dress.”
“Thank you. I have a subject to bring up which may cause some discomfiture, but I pray that you will be candid with me.”
The mother and daughter exchanged a look of alarm, confirming to Honora that they were indeed the women that she had overheard on the night of the ball.
“How can we help?” Lady Charlotte asked.
“I have heard troubling rumours about the Duke’s first wife,” Honora said without prevarication. “I believe that you may know of them?”
“My dear girl—” Lady Charlotte began.
Her daughter interrupted her. “It is said that the Duke murdered his first wife,” she answered. “There is no proof. There is no evidence. There is only a rumour.”
“And a dead wife,” Lady Charlotte added. “None of us knew the young woman, you see. She was originally from Scotland, but she was raised in England. Still, she did not mix with London society and so she had no connections in the city to raise questions about her death.”
“Nor family,” Minerva added. “She was an orphan.”
“But a person cannot simply die with no one to take notice,” Honora protested.
Again, the two women shared a communicative glance. It was apparent that, as mother and daughter, they were close confidantes.
Honora envied them that bond. She and her mother were affectionate, but she could not conceive of telling her mother of her fears about her fate should she wed the Duke.
“The Duke’s family has an estate in the north of England, along with several other residences,” Lady Charlotte said. “Quite isolated, I understand. It is a rather forbidding part of the country. In such an area, the Duke would be like a king over his subjects.”
“But he wasn’t the Duke then,” Honora pointed out. “He was merely the heir.”
“Yes, well, to be a duke’s heir is no minor position. The circumstances would be the same, would they not? He would be the Duke of Ivanhoe in due course. And Lady Amelia, although she was of noble birth, was not one of the London set. No one knew her, you see. They were married up north, no one even met her.”
“They married, she died, His Lordship’s father died soon after and he inherited the title.”
“I believe his father was ill and suddenly took a turn for the worse after Lady Amelia died, but as to what, I am not certain.”
“What is certain is that he returned to the ancestral home in Middlehurst to assume his position as the Duke of Ivanhoe,” Minerva took up the account. “But he remained there rather than come to London, where tongues were lively with speculation regarding his wife’s death.”
“Talk died down, of course, with nothing to feed the fire. And this spring, he returned to London. The rest,” Lady Charlotte said, “you know.”
The rest she knew.
In a state of alarm, Honora returned home more troubled than before her meeting. When she entered the drawing room, her mother received her cheerfully.
“My dear, the Duke has invited you to luncheon tomorrow,” she said happily, sure that this would cheer up her daughter.
“Isn’t that very kind of him?”
“Luncheon?”
“Yes, the invitation came today. He apologises for the lack of notice but begs that you forgive him. I have asked Jane to accompany you as your chaperone, as I am unable to join you. I have already responded to accept on your behalf.”
Ms Jane Beeton was a second cousin of Lady Hestia’s family, a young widow who frequently served as a chaperone or as an extra guest when she was needed. She had lost her husband in the French Wars and lived simply in London, content to accompany her relatives when she was needed and otherwise equally content to live on her own, occupied with her good works and her friends. As Honora could not decline the invitation from the Duke, she was glad that Jane would join her for the luncheon.
Perhaps Jane would perceive something in the Duke’s comportment that would provide the sort of information that might allow Honora to persuade her father to call off the wedding.
“You are unaccountably quiet,” Jane remarked on the following day as the carriage began its journey to the Duke’s residence. “I should think that, as a young woman nearing her wedding, you would be bubbling over with excitement.”
“I a
m not sleeping well.”
“Are you having dreams again?”
Jane knew, and Lady Hestia knew, that Honora was plagued by troubling dreams that seemed all too real. During one instance, when a young child, she had awakened nightly, crying out her brother’s name. It was only when his family received the letter that he had been wounded in battle and would be returning home that her mother realised the connection between Honora’s dreams and her brother’s injury. Lord David had dismissed the notion; the incidents were entirely separate. How could a child know what had happened on a battlefield in Europe, he demanded. Lady Hestia had acquiesced to his version and had not asked her daughter again if she had continued to have dreams that came true.
But Jane was not so cowed. “Are you?”
Miserably, Honora nodded.
“What sort of dreams?”
“Shadows . . . a castle and a woman crying out for help, but no one hears.”
“What else?”
But Honora could not tell the rest. In the dream, she was the woman crying out for someone to rescue her from the man whose hands were wrapped around her throat.
The man was Ivanhoe.
“No more,” she said. “But I cannot sleep. The dream comes every night.”
Jane did not dismiss the dream or its effect.
“Perhaps your mother can prepare a draught for you so that you sleep soundly,” she suggested.
“Perhaps.”
The Duke was waiting for them when they arrived. He greeted Honora with his usual reserve, but his smile seemed genuinely welcoming and he was quite hospitable to Jane.
The dining room table was set for three and it was apparent that, although luncheon was not intended to be an elaborate meal, the staff had gone to some lengths to see that the menu was impressive.
The soup was a rich creamy concoction redolent of sage. Thinly sliced pieces of beef, chicken and pork, marinating in an aromatic broth, were spread across a handsome platter. The carrots were sweet and tender, the first offerings, the Duke told them as he passed the bowl, having dispensed with servants for the meal, from his greenhouse. The butter was sweet and fresh, the bread warm from the oven. There were three different choices of wine for the meal.
The Duke accepted their compliments with appreciation but quickly turned the conversation to other topics. He responded knowledgeably when Jane spoke of her late husband’s military activities against the French, showing a keen awareness of the battles and the results. He asked Honora if she had recovered from her weariness at the engagement ball, regretting that he had been unaware of how tiring it could be to be the object of attention for so many people.
Honora, bewildered by his solicitude, assured him that she was mending.
“I trust you will be well enough to proceed with the wedding as scheduled,” he said.
Jane, who knew that Honora had been feeling other than well, frowned. Honora pre-empted any further comments by assuring that she was doing well and had spent several days after the ball resting.
“I am glad to hear it,” the Duke said. “Yes?” he inquired as the doors to the dining room opened and the butler entered. “What is it?”
“I beg your pardon for interrupting, Your Grace, but the skies look threatening and I wondered if perhaps your guests might prefer to stay the night rather than venture out in the storm?”
“I wondered if the weather was going to turn,” the Duke said. “Ladies, I hope—”
A crash of thunder suddenly broke open, followed by a jagged spear of lightning. The drizzle which had been falling turned into a wall of hard rain and pushed against the windows of the dining room as the chamber darkened.
“Carr, bring more candles,” the Duke ordered. “Ladies, under the circumstances, I hope that you will avail yourselves of my home for the night.”
“My parents will worry . . .”
“They will guess that you have accepted the Duke’s hospitality,” Jane interjected wisely. “They would not wish you to be out in this weather and it would be most dangerous for the horses as well.”
Honora knew that Jane spoke sensibly, as she always did. This was not the sort of storm that would pass quickly; it had been building for several days and, now that it had arrived, it would not cease until it had emptied the skies of the stored volatility above. All the same, she had no wish to be under the same roof as the Duke.
“Perhaps if we wait for an hour or so, the storm will pass and we may return home.”
Briefly, the Duke’s face twisted in a smile which gave no indication of humour. “Are you so reluctant to spend the night, Lady Honora?” he asked. “It is not so long until we will be wed, and we shall share a home.” And much more, his eyes reminded her.
“We are reluctant to impose upon you,” Jane interjected quickly. “That is all. Your Grace has been a most gracious host, but you were not expecting overnight visitors.”
“There is no shortage of room,” he told her. “I do not often enjoy the company of visitors.”
Jane did not shrink before his remark or the disturbing thoughts it conjured about his mysterious life and the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of his first wife.
“I am sure that, when you are married, Your Grace,” she said serenely, “you will find many occasions for hospitality. Lady Honora’s family often welcomes guests for prolonged stays, both in London and in the country.”
The Duke did not respond to her comment.
“As we cannot go outside to explore the gardens,” the Duke said, “may I refill your glasses?”
Honora thought, as the evening had worn on, that the Duke had filled his own glass somewhat more than was good for him.
They had retired to the music room where Jane, who played well, provided music while the Duke stood at the window, watching the storm, and Honora listened to the tunes. It was not an unpleasant atmosphere, but she was troubled by the frequency with which the Duke’s glass remained filled. She had not previously noticed him imbibe much; in fact, she would have said that he was self-disciplined by nature.
As it was already dark from the storm, Honora proposed that she and Jane would retire for the night. The butler had already had their rooms prepared and the maid brought up a warming pan for their bed-linens so that the dampness of the outdoors would not prevent them from having a restful sleep.
Jane pronounced her room most comfortable.
“I am sure that all will be well tonight, my dear, but if you are troubled by dreams, please awaken me so that I may be of comfort to you,” she said when she went to Honora’s room to bid her good night. The maids had found nightwear for the ladies; the garments smelled, not unpleasantly, of lavender and camphor, but they were clean, if not quite the correct size, given the fact that both Honora and Jane were tall for their gender.
“The Duke has been a solicitous host. I should not care to be out in this dreadful storm,” Jane said with a smile.
“I wish it had stopped,” Honora said with a sigh.
On the whole, she had found the Duke to be a polite host. The dichotomy of his behaviour today, measured against the words of Lady Charlotte and her daughter put Honora in a quandary. And then there were those dreams . . .
‘I am sure you will be very happy,” Jane said staunchly. “I will rejoice for you. A happy marriage is truly a blessing from God. Alfred and I were very happy for the short time that we had together.”
“You do not think of remarrying?” Honora asked.
“I was happy with Alfred,” Jane said. “I might not be as lucky a second time. A woman goes into marriage with many questions which cannot be answered until the deed is done. I am a widow now and I shall remain so.” She kissed Honora affectionately. “You will be happy, I am sure of it. Do you need help in dressing for bed?”
“No, I—I am not ready to retire just yet.”
“If you need assistance, you have only to ask. I am next door to you and I will not sleep yet. I found a book of sermons in my room and I believe
I shall read them. Either I shall benefit from their wisdom or they shall put me to sleep.”
Honora smiled at her cousin’s sally and wished her a good night. Instead of preparing for bed, she went to the window seat and watched as the storm, like a celestial rage, expelled its wrath upon the countryside. Although it was but a spring evening, the violent weather had turned the skies as black as if it were already nightfall. The rain was so heavy that the glass in the window might as well have been opaque, except when a fierce jab of lightning illuminated the sky for a brief instant.
Sleep would not come, not on such a night as this. Perhaps, she thought, she would do well to emulate her cousin and seek reading material which would help her relax and sleep.
The Duke had taken them on a tour of his house and he had encouraged them to make themselves at home. She resolved to go to the library for a book.
How quiet the house was, she thought as she descended the staircase. The Duke’s Mayfair home was not large, but it was exceedingly well maintained with stylish furnishings and carpets which appeared to either be new or little worn as if no one but the Duke was present to wear them. No guests, no family, no company to intrude upon the preserved quality of the rooms. Now, with the darkness so preeminent from the storm, she had a sense that gloom had fallen upon the residence, wrapping it in funeral shrouds.
She went to the library where candles were still lit, which indicated that perhaps someone—the Duke, she supposed—would be returning there. She chose a book and turned to leave when she heard the sounds of something peculiar coming from another room down the corridor. Mystified, Honora stole down the corridor. The noise was coming from the Duke’s study.
She peered into the room, swathed in shadows that concealed her from view. The Duke was taking an axe to a trunk, muttering indecipherably as he laboured. In the fireplace, a woman’s dress was burning; Honora watched as the flames licked the elegant white fabric into nothing.
The Duke emitted an incoherent sound which was both a cry and a bellow, as he put the axe down. The demolished trunk surrounded him in pieces. He kicked some of the remnants away as he reached for his tumbler of whisky, muttering words that she could not hear. Once, she heard him call out “Amelia!” but then he threw the rest of the dress into the depths of the fire and sat down at his desk, burying his head in his hands. Silence descended over the room.