Two years as their governess and Caroline still wondered how these children had grown so attached to her, to the point that she gained hugs sometimes. “Wonderful. Now please sit. We have to get back to your arithmetic, Lady Josephine and your Latin, Lord Hayward.”
“Yes, Miss Robins,” both children chorused as they sat.
* * *
The evening had come faster than Caroline had imagined and after releasing the children to their nurse, she had gone back to her modest servants’ quarters at the very back of the west wing.
After unbinding her hair from the relentless bun it was captured into, Caroline raked her hand through the long auburn tresses that stretched to her mid-back and sighed in relief. Soft hunger pains from her missed meal were harassing her stomach and she knew it was time to find some sustenance.
The light from the candle was getting dim but she managed to use it to wash her face and don a nightgown and robe. Slipping her slippers on, Caroline left the room in search of food. The servant's wing—the West Wing—was separated from the main one that housed the Duke, the Duchess and their two children, Josephine and Nicholas, with much fewer amenities. Both wings, however, shared the centrally located kitchen.
Caroline entered the warm room and found a covered glass of milk and a tray of rolls and cold butter sitting beside a slice of apple pie. Tender appreciation evoked a small smile on her face as she knew that it was the butler, Hinds, and Mrs. Willow, the head cook, who had left the food out for her.
Sitting and smiling, Caroline quietly ate her supper. While coddling her milk, she sat there, pondering, when a shuffle altered her to someone coming in—it was the head cook, Mrs. Willow.
“Oh, Miss Robins,” the cook acknowledged, as she hastily took out some pans. “I never saw you at supper, so, Mr. Hinds and I made sure to leave your meal out. I’m glad you ate. You’re too young to be skipping meals, luv. You need some meat on your bones.”
Laughing under her breath, Caroline shook her head, “Thank you for your consideration, but why are you up at this time of night?”
Mrs. Willow sighed audibly, “Her Grace’s lady’s maid woke me. I was told her stomach is giving her a warm time, and she requested some tea and some biscuits.”
Pressing her lips together to stop a soft exhalation, Caroline asked, “How is Her Grace doing?”
With both hands braced on her hips after she had placed the full pot on the grill of the woodburning stove, Mrs. Willow shook her head. It was mostly dark, but the flickering flame gave Caroline enough light to see that the cook was unsettled. “I cannot tell you, Miss Robins, she’s barely been out of bed these past three days.”
Looking back, Caroline couldn’t remember seeing the Duchess in the past month, much less the past few days, and grimaced.
“And how…” Caroline hesitated to speak in case her words would be misconstrued, “How is His Grace? I’d imagine not well—if I had to see the one I loved in such pain, day after day, I’d be just as disconsolate.”
“Well…” Mrs. Willow said, while carefully pouring the boiled water on the tea leaves and spooning in a touch of honey, “His Grace is a strong man. He had to be, to survive the military at a young age. Her Grace has gone through spells like this and I can bet he’s hoping that, just like the one before it, she will come through.”
Standing up and by habit brushing her skirts off, Caroline smiled. “I hope so, too. Good night, Mrs. Willow.”
“Good night, dear,” the older woman said, while carefully arranging a plate of biscuits on the tray beside the tea.
Leaving the kitchen, Caroline went back to her modest quarters and prepared for bed. Unbidden, her mind flitted over to the Duke and she mulled over what she knew about him.
It had been slow, as there were not many occasions when the two would mingle, but over time the pieces had come together. The image was not complete but the parts she had were lovely.
She knew that the Duke had spent some time in the military, that he was educated in the fields of business and law. She also knew that he copiously read historic books, adored his children, and had a strange penchant for spices from the subcontinent. The Duchess, on the other hand, preferred candies from France, read salacious gothic novels when she was strong enough, and barely paid any mind to anyone, least of all her children.
So sad. Caroline sighed. They are such wonderful children.
After two years of observation of the distance between the Duke and his wife, Caroline had come to a silent conclusion. Although it was not confirmed by any of the servants around her, it was evident—the marriage of the Duke and Duchess was one of convenience. It was not a strange concept, as many of the peerages entered into such engagements, but she wished the Duke could have found someone who truly loved him.
The distance between them was more evident on the carriage ride back from the hamlet’s church that Sunday. Though the couple was sitting together, the Duchess of Barley, clad in angelic white, had her eyes trained out the window while the Duke stared silently at the padded red upholstery in front of him.
Caroline and the two children were sitting behind them, with Nicholas mirroring his father’s attitude of solemnity, while Josephine continuously switched from sweetly chattering to humming under her breath. Caroline saw the Duchess’ jaw clench whenever Josephine’s chatter got too loud.
“Lady Josephine,” Caroline admonished softly, “Be quiet now, please. I promise to answer your questions when we arrive home.”
The child pouted but nodded, “Yes, Miss Robins.”
Out of her peripheral vision, Caroline noticed the Duke’s eyes close tightly for a moment, with lines of pain at the corners but they vanished in the next moment. Arriving at the ducal manor was a blessing and after the party alighted from the vehicle, the Duchess curtly spoke.
“I am wearied, Moses.” Her voice was stiff as she discarded her shawl and went to the stairwell, “And I will be resting. Please do not disturb me.”
Caroline balked at the lady’s indifference as she had not even turned to look at the man she was speaking to.
How cold.
In reaction, Caroline stopped Josephine from going after her mother and softly shook her head. “Follow me, My Lady, let me take you and Lord Hayward to your rooms, so you can take off your church clothes. Then, you can have repast in the—”
“Thank you, Miss Robins.” The Duke cut in. “I appreciate your help, but I would rather not bother you on your Sunday afternoon. Please, let me take care of them.”
An expression of melancholy was in his eyes, but it was a look Caroline had seen many a time over the years, and every time she saw it, her heart pained her.
“Understood, Your Grace,” Caroline said as she curtseyed and left to her quarters. Doing so, she passed a large portrait above the fireplace—it was a beautiful depiction of the Duke, the Duchess, three-year-old Nicholas, and baby Josephine resting on the Duchess’s lap, all smiling serenely.
On the surface, it depicted a happy family but privately, Caroline thought the painter had taken some artistic liberties with the expressions. The creation was starkly contradictory from the reality she woke up to every day.
While approaching a corner she looked over to see the Duke lifting his daughter into his arms while resting his hand on his son’s head. He was speaking to the children, but his words were so quiet that she could not hear what he was saying. Silently, she went her way.
Her quarters were very humble, holding only a bed, a wash closet, an armoire, a table, and a chair. The floor underneath was bare wood and her slippers or stockings were sometimes the only things saving her feet from freezing during wintertime. However, it was summertime and the boards were warm enough.
Sunday evenings were her main respite from her weekly duties. She was allowed to do anything she desired; she could go to the nearest hamlet or wander the garden or stay in her quarters if she wished.
Unbinding her hair, Caroline changed into a soft blue dress and took up a book o
n philosophy that she had begun reading three days ago. The words, though enlightening, sounded monotonous in her mind, and soon enough she discarded the book for sketching.
There were two sketchbooks that she owned, one that had held beautiful representations of men, women, children, and curious objects but the second one was something of a shame for her.
The second book was a dark leather-bound book with intricate hand-tooled stitches. It was her most precious possession for two reasons; it was a parting gift from the nuns at the convent and secondly, it held drawings of the Duke. When he was still mysterious to her, she had started drawing him one night on a whim, but her fascination with him had grown and every page thereafter had some depiction of him in one form or another.
She knew it was not right or proper for her to have such a predilection but Caroline fancied it a history of the Duke in an art form. She turned the pages to skim over her drawings, of the Duke one morning when she had seen him with his horse, to a bust of him in rare moments of anger. Smiling, she took out her box of graphite pencils and settled down with the wane of the day’s sun as her source of light.
Without thinking, her fingers started sketching the Duke’s face and then tracing the outline of his hair. His eyes were shaped but instead of filling them in, she went to shade the dark hood of his eyebrows.
She sketched the skewed cravat with a smile at his unintentional unkemptness and filled in his shoulders. She barely drew in his torso but went back to his face. Defining the line of his nose and the shape of his lips, she still left his eyes out for last. After shading in his hair and adding a line or two, she then rotated the page and though the image was wonderful and accurate—a virtual mirror of the Duke—she couldn’t find it in herself to smile.
The pencil was poised over the blank space of his eyes and the image in her mind flowed down her pencil and filled them in. She drew in the emotion in his eyes and when she saw the pain she had brought to life, she nearly ripped the page out.
Caroline pressed her lips tightly while her hand rested on the desk beside it. Why does his pain affect me so much?
After a moment of thought, she softly closed the book and went to wrap herself in a shawl.
He is hurting, and I know what it is like to hurt in silence.
It pained her, it truly did, to see a man as handsome, successful, and accomplished suffer in a loveless marriage but there was nothing much she could do about it.
Was he ever happy? Is there anything I can do to afford a little joy in his life…and would he accept it if I tried?
Chapter 3
The potion of Socrates’ Poisoned Cup, an ancient elixir of sacrifice, was what the Duke believed he was sipping with every day that he woke up to bleakness and a loveless marriage. He had reasoned out years ago, that the price of sacrificing his happiness to care and provide for his family and the people in his dukedom, was a fitting bargain.
However, with every passing routine and monotonous day, he constantly questioned himself if his marriage to Lavinia Hayward had been the smartest decision of his life.
Their courtship had passed very quickly and they had married relatively young—her one-and-twenty, to his four-and-twenty—and the first weeks of that marriage had passed with them associating themselves with each other. Lavinia did not speak much in those days and Moses had taken her silence as her trying to acclimatize herself to her new home and station.
However, when her lugubriousness stretched on, Moses had begun to wonder. Her displacement had grown deeper after she had birthed Nicholas. Many older ladies—even his mother before she had passed—had told him that the Duchess’ drawing away was normal for some women and Moses had believed them.
As the doting husband, he had deliberately ignored her downheartedness and done all in his power to give her some joy—buying her rich clothes, delicate confections, glamorous jewelry, and anything that caught her eye.
Nothing had worked.
Between balancing his duties to his people and the Crown, the Duke had found it hard to care for his family, and with a still mostly absent Duchess, he had resorted to employing nurses for Nicholas. When the boy was a little over three years, Lavinia had conceived again and delivered Josephine—his little angel.
“I wonder if…” Moses sighed, not having the strength to speak the words running through his mind. If anything had worked.
Moses dropped the quill into the inkpot, sealed the last letter to the Regent, placed it onto a stack of other letters, and then stood. The crack in his bones told him he had been stationary for far too long and he felt that some exercise was required.
It was nearing dusk, so taking his thoroughbred out was not reasonable and dinner was a way off, so he decided that the best and easiest way was to take a walk in the garden.
The flowers of the main garden had been the prize of his mother, Victoria, the late Duchess of Barley. She had declared that the garden be ordered in a like-by-like system instead of a chaotic mix of colors. The delicate petals were grouped by hues, not by type. Precious pink carnations, dog-rose, and foxglove lit up a section of the park, while cuckoo flowers, cornflower, and chicory were blue sensations in another section.
Long cobblestone walks meandered through the foliage and small stone fountains were encircled by velvety green grass. The garden lamps were not yet lit but the sunset provided enough light to guide his way. The garden was the place his mother had come to for peace, and Moses wondered why he had not yet utilized the powers of tranquility it gave in the months before.
He then heard a soft humming, and frowning, followed the sound to its source. To his delight, he spotted Miss Robins bending over to examine a blue flower.
“Miss Robins?”
Instantly he regretted his words as she startled so strongly, that she nearly fell over into the bush. Before he could reach her, she luckily regained her footing and stumbled back.
Her chest was visibly palpitating, and her face was flushed as she spun to meet him, “Your Grace, good evening. You startled me.”
“I apologize, Miss Robins,” Moses offered peacefully. He looked around and noticed the soft sway of the trees to the dying summer wind. He looked back at his newest companion who, though standing quietly, was clearly nervous. “Now that you have regained your balance, would you care to walk with me, Miss Robins?”
By the slight widening of her eyes, he could see her astonishment but stood still waiting for her reply.
“I am honored, Your Grace,” she spoke gently and grasped her skirts.
His eyes darted down to catch the motion and admired her slender and graceful fingers as they grasped the dark cloth.
His gaze went back to hers as he spoke, “I assume you know that we have the issue of sending Nicholas off to school looming before us. How academically ready is he, Miss Robins?”
Looking at her, he noticed her defined profile, and his mind hearkened back to the thought he had had when seeing her first.
She truly is a beauty.
Miss Robin’s delicate oval face, high cheekbones, and smooth column of neck gave her a profile that he thought should be immortalized.
“His speaking of French is on par for his age, and his reading and writing of the language are very well. He is doing well in Greek and Latin, but his arithmetic does need some work and he has shown an interest in history and learning German.”
“Hm,” Moses considered, as they rounded a large rose bush. “And how are his manners?”
She hesitated before replying, “May I speak freely, Your Grace?”
Moses stopped mid-step, “Of course, you may. You’re free to speak, Miss Robins. There is no castigation here.”
“He is too grave for my peace of mind, Your Grace,” Miss Robins replied with a concerned look lining her face. “He is far too pensive and I…” here she looked quickly at him to ascertain his emotion, “…am led to believe that Her Grace’s condition is affecting him. Please forgive me if I was too bold.”
Moses heard th
e quick fearful addition to her words but felt compelled to soothe her anxiety. “To be honest, Miss Robins, his morose disposition has been a concern of mine, also. However, I do not believe my wife’s affliction is his infirmity. He is a young boy. Miss Robins, I am assured his behavior is because he has no peers to correlate to. The school, with boys his age, will probably change his disposition.”
Her sigh of relief was audible, “I sincerely hope so, Your Grace. Thank you for alleviating my fears.”
The air between them changed and Moses was not sure what to attribute it to. Perhaps the pale sky had suddenly changed to a quick mélange of dark reds and indigo by the riveting sunset, or perhaps the wind had picked up and caused Miss Robins to twist her head away and by doing so, cause her lashes to flutter.
She was so close he could smell the genteel perfume wafting from her skin and soft sparks of magnetism drew him. There was no contest that she was beautiful and despite her station, he admired her…and felt drawn to her smile.
But did admiration transform into…attraction?
* * *
There was no physical way to smother the small sparks that were running over her skin. There was no touching between her and the Duke, but Caroline felt something intimate was happening. It was more meaningful—more of a meeting of the mind rather than one of the skin.
She felt his dark green eyes trace over her, and the soft sparks that they sent over her skin were frightening but also magnetizing. The Duke cleared his throat and the spell was broken.
“Miss Robins…”
Caroline tensed hard as her mind had tripped into flurries.
“…if you can be as candid with me as possible, as often as possible, I would appreciate it. Your honesty is like a breath of fresh air to me.”
Caroline nearly swallowed her tongue at the almost inconceivable request that the Duke had lobbed to her like a ball. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, you want me to be…candid—truthful—with you?”
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