By Chris Davies
The garden was an enchanting prison, where plots to escape her husband hatched as regularly as the robin's eggs in the Japanese maple. Here, in her sanctuary, she was a queen, a general of geraniums, a czarina of zinnias, a sultana of snapdragons. Here, she had consequence.
"Mother, watch me," the boy interrupted breaking her reverie.
Catherine St. George, Duchess of Alamuir sat on a stone bench observing with one eye her precious son, Oliver, as he tilted his wooden sword ferociously at the topiary - fortunately, the topiary did not strike back.
"Oliver, take care! It's taken years to achieve that shape."
"Yes, and it's much appreciated, Mother. It's a veritable dragon, and I am truly St. George."
Catherine giggled at her son. "You are truly a St. George."
Yes, she thought, he was very much like his father. Determined to be the best at everything, clever and honest. But unlike his father, he was also very affectionate. A sad smile crossed her lips as a sigh escaped.
She closed her eyes and raised her face to the mid-morning sun. It warmed her and melted away some of her feelings of isolation.
"Mother," Oliver shouted.
Startled, she sat up straight and adjusted her bonnet. "What, dear?"
"You'll be bran-faced sitting there like a toad in the sun."
She tucked her chin in and furrowed her brow. "What exactly do you mean, bran-faced?"
"Freckled, Mother. Father says you spend too much time in the garden and you'll become freckled if you're not careful."
"Where did you hear that expression?"
"From Jimmy Saddles. He's the most bran-faced ginger in the household."
"And who, pray tell, is Jimmy Saddles?"
"The stable master's son. You know Mr. Saddles."
"And this Jimmy Saddles is your friend?"
"Yes. We ride together. Father says he may take lessons with me. But, Jimmy says he'd rather muck stalls than practice Latin. So we confine our friendship to our rides."
Catherine shook her head. "Come along, Oliver." She stood and motioned him back to the hall. The garden had been a nice respite from the somber ambiance that pervaded the estate. She hadn't seen her husband in weeks, not even at dinner. Even the staff moved about with dour faces and eyes averted. She knew her husband was ill. She'd seen the doctors come and go. But he hadn't asked for her. She shrunk from begging an invitation to attend him in his chambers. There was very little interaction between them and hadn't been for these ten years since Oliver's birth. Two very separate households under the same roof, and poor Oliver, ambassador to both.
She rustled Oliver's dark curls with her fingers, ignoring his scowl. Even his hair was so like his father's. "Will you luncheon with me, Oliver?" she asked, handing her pelisse to her maid.
"Thank you. No. Father has summoned me." His words were so adult, yet his voice was still that of a little boy.
"Of course," she agreed. "If you find time later, I'll be reading in my sitting room. I'll be safe from freckles there."
"Yes, Mama." He smiled, kissed her cheek and skipped off. Her heart clinched with love she felt for him, and she speculated about why Alamuir had summoned the boy.
By Chris Davies
"Good Lord, Spivey. Will this foal never come?" asked Gregory Grisham, Earl of Estabrook.
"We'll have to pull it out, Milord. We can't risk losing the mare."
"You're right. She's the cornerstone of our breeding program and our best hope for a Derby winner."
Sweat stained the shirts of both men as they worked hard to help the mare along. Suddenly, with a gush, the foal emerged.
"Ah," said Spivey, "he's a beauty. Look at the size of him."
"There, there," said Estabrook as he patted the mare's neck. "You've given us a fine lad. Big enough to be a bang-up courser." He gave Spivey a huge grin. "He'll put us on the map I'll wager."
Curious, Estabrook looked up as a young boy raced into the stable "Milord, milord, there's a messenger for you. Waiting in the hall, he is. He says to come quickly." The young stable boy put his hands on his knees and struggled to catch his breath.
The Earl frowned. "Clean up the dam and her foal, Spivey. Make sure they're feeding properly." He stood and brushed the hay from his clothing the strode through the kitchens. He washed his hands, earning a glare from Cook then grabbed an apple on the way out. He heard the old woman chuckle and smiled.
He met the messenger in the hallway off the kitchen. "Who sends the message?"
"The Duke of Alamuir, Milord. He says it's urgent. I'm to wait for a reply."
Estabrook took the sealed letter from the messenger. "Get yourself something to eat in the kitchen. I can recommend the tarts. You've a long ride back." He flipped the lad a guinea.
"Yes. Thank you, Milord."
The Earl of Estabrook sat down behind his desk in the estate room. He swung his muddied boots onto the desktop, sighed and put his feet back down on the floor. He wondered why he had received such an urgent message that he had to be called in from the stables. He opened the message from his old friend and read:
My dear friend,
I understand that your time in America has proven beneficial and that you have
restored not only your reputation but also your estates. I congratulate you. I've
heard good reports on your racing program. I only wish I could be there at your
success.
You were my truest friend. I remember with fondness our years at school and
our escapades in London. Those memories have been the fodder of my happiest
remembrances these last ten years.
My time on this earth is drawing to an end, and I beg this final favor of you.
I am desperate to see that my widow will be assured of her rightful place in
society. She is a lovely young woman, and I repent of the harm I have caused
her. I have endeavored not to engage her heart, knowing that I would leave her
suddenly. I believe that she will be happiest when she is remarried. I have done
all in my power to set her on that course.
Upon my death, she will travel to Paris and remain under the care of Lady
Sarah, who we both remember fondly. Please see that she arrives safely and is
not beset upon by wastrels and fortune hunters. She will return to London for
the Season, and I rely upon you to escort her where necessary.
My son will be traveling with her. He is a fine young man but at a vulnerable
stage of development. If I could impose upon you further to keep an eye out
for him, you would do me a great kindness.
Catherine, my wife, is unaware of our friendship. I'll leave this to you to
address as you see fit.
All debts are forgiven.
I wish you a long and happy life.
Regards,
Alamuir
He loved Alamuir like a brother. Estabrook took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. There was nothing he would not do for the Duke. His life and his second chance at restoring his estates were all due to his friend's assistance. Estabrook's father had left the title in ruin, and rather than face the overwhelming task of setting it all to rights, he turned to gambling, general debauchery, and running from his responsibilities. He was not proud of his early years. Alamuir had seen him through and provided the financial opportunity for the breeding operation.
"Mr. Sharps," he bellowed to his butler, "tell the messenger I will do as Alamuir requests. I'll have a note ready in a moment."
He wondered at some of the phrases Alamuir had used. Whatever did he mean about not engaging his wife's heart? And why, had he never mentioned him to her. They had been friends, after all. He'd never known Alamuir to be ashamed of their acquaintance. He had no interest in the Duchess' heart. Well, there was no use worrying about it. He'd see the job done.
He could ill afford the time away from the estate, and he was not anxious to shepherd some spoiled duchess about London. His days of chasing women about were long over. At the age of thirty-eight, he was happily settled in bachelorhood and raising his horses.
Estabrook had no interest in attending the London season. Being chased by schoolroom misses would be a total bore. He had no wealth to speak of and wouldn't be a prime catch on the marriage mart, but there was the title. There was always a title-hunter willing to sacrifice herself at the altar, or some grasping mother willing to lay a trap for an unsuspecting Earl. Even his miserable reputation wouldn't keep them all away.
However, this was an obligation that he could not turn down. He'd given up hopes of an heir. It was for the best. There was some second cousin somewhere who would gladly inherit his horse farms and the entailed lands. They were self-sufficient and even brought in a tidy profit these last few years.
He did like the idea of visiting Paris. There might be some good livestock he could purchase to improve his herd. Yes, he could make that work. Besides, a debt was a debt, and he owed Alamuir. He sighed deeply, hoping the Duchess was not some headstrong coquette determined on cutting a swathe through the male population, now that he had promised Alamuir to protect her from the very sort she was likely to attract.
| Author Notes | This scene is included in the first chapter and is part of the setup. We've met the heroine and this is an introduction to the hero |
By Chris Davies
The fleshy woman, wearing only a loose caftan, reclined on her chaise-longue in the Paris apartment. In her hand, a glass of sherry dipped and waved with every expostulation. Her boozy husband leaned against the mantel, above which a bright square of wallpaper was exposed.
"I'll miss the Gainsborough," he said to his wife, Lady Sarah, in a lazy drawl made worse by his French accent.
"Well, the money from its sale will keep you in brandy for another month or two." Her tone was arch. She eyed Marcel La Flambeur with a healthy amount of disgust and took another sip of sherry.
Lady Sarah, Comtesse de LaFlambeur watched as two workmen built the crate to house the framed painting, cringing with each strike of their hammers. She might have put her hands over her ears, but relinquishing the sherry was the greater annoyance.
The doorman knocked. "A letter for you, Madame," he called through the door.
Marcel bestirred himself from the fireplace and opened the door. He took the missive, neglecting to give the man a tip, before closing the door again. "It's addressed to you," he said. "An admirer, my love?"
He held the letter just out of her reach.
"Give it to me," she demanded. As she reached for the letter, the sherry spilled, and she cursed loudly.
"Tsk. Tsk." Marcel muttered as he dropped the letter on her lap, tittering as he resumed his stance by the fireplace to watch as she read.
My Dear Lady Sarah,
I hope this letter finds you well. By the time you read it, I shall have passed. I hope
you'll remember me with great fondness as I remember you.
I have a favor to ask. My widow, Catherine will be traveling to Paris upon my death. It is
my fervent wish that you may find the time to introduce her to Parisian society and see
that she is accepted into the great houses. I will, of course, see to all of the expenses this
might entail. You may rely upon Simmons; you do remember Simmons, to make sure that
the monies are made available for your use. I realize that this may come at an
inconvenient time, and Simmons will be prepared to pay you an additional sum of 10,000
livres when Catherine successfully leaves Paris for the Season in London. Simmons will
see to any costs you deem necessary for Catherine's debut.
I wish you and the Comte de LaFlambeur great happiness and thank you in advance for
this kindness to my wife.
Sincerely,
St. George, Duke of Alamuir
Lady Sarah crushed the missive in her hand and threw it across the room. "That bastard!" she shouted.
Both men looked up from crating the Gainsborough, their mouths forming perfect O's.
"Dearest, language," he scolded. "What has he said that has upset you so?" asked Marcel.
"He wants me to sponsor his widow. To give her entree into society."
"I rather doubt we can afford it. I see why you're upset." Marcel tipped his glass back and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Oh, he will pay for it and then a nice bonus." She slowly began to grin from ear to ear.
"Certainly we could use the entertainment funds. What could you possibly have to be upset about?"
Sarah lifted her heft from the chaise and pulled the caftan close around her swollen body. "Put the Gainsborough back," she ordered the workmen. "Tell Mssr. Picaud I won't be selling it."
She turned to Marcel and viewed him with a gimlet eye. "We may not have much time before she arrives. You'll want to dry yourself out. Perhaps a new coat. She is a duchess. We'll have to pull ourselves together." She sucked in her stomach and stretched her mouth into something resembling a smile. I'll need a new wardrobe as well. There will be balls and morning visits."
She walked to the small desk where she kept her stationery. "I'll have to call in some favors. A few well-placed hints about a wealthy duchess should garner some invitations." She put her index finger to her pursed lips. "I believe there may be some old friends of Alamuir's still in Paris. I'm sure we can count on them to help launch her." She stood a little straighter. "Yes, this might be just the thing."
| Author Notes |
Historical romance - Georgian era
|
By Chris Davies
"He's dying, Your Grace. He insists that you come right away." The chambermaid scurried away.
Catherine rose from the chair in her sunny drawing room sanctuary and hurried down the hall. She paused at the threshold of her husband's bedchamber as she overheard him speaking to his man of business. She knew better than to interrupt.
"You're certain, Simmons, that all of the arrangements have been made?" asked the Duke.
Catherine winced as she heard her husband's voice. It had once been so forceful, causing her to tremble whenever he spoke. Now it was barely a whisper. She could feel the exertion in his effort to speak. Yet, even though he sounded weak, she reminded herself that he still wielded power over her life. She wondered what arrangements he was making and why he had commanded her presence.
"Yes, Your Grace, every last detail. Just as you have ordered." Simmons' voice was crisp and clear and gave the duke confidence that his will would be precisely executed. Simmons always carried out the Duke's orders... precisely. Catherine hated the man for his pompous demeanor and the power he held over her. She never understood his relationship with the Duke.
"...and you have sent the messenger as directed and the letter to lady Sarah?" the Duke continued.
Catherine frowned, wondering who Lady Sarah might be. Perhaps Alamuir had kept a mistress.
"Yesterday, Your Grace. We are awaiting the Earl's reply. It is expected at any time."
"You'll let me know the moment the messenger returns?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Catherine stepped into the room her footsteps silent on the Aubusson carpet. Alamuir's gaze fell upon her immediately. He dismissed Simmons with a raising of his hand.
"Step out of the shadows, Catherine. Stand where I can see you." Alamuir spoke with evident strain and ended with a coughing spell.
"Shhh. No need to talk." Catherine approached the bed. "Let me just sit with you. Maybe some tea? You'll feel stronger in the morning. We can talk then." Catherine began to wring her hands.
"No. There are things I must discuss with you. And stop wringing your hands. You're a duchess for God's sake."
She was used to such admonitions. She calmly placed her hands by her side, raising her chin as she did so.
Alamuir was propped up with pillows in his grand bed. She moved to stand before him, raising her hand to his cheek. Too cool, she thought, for a warm September afternoon. The Duke turned away from her hand. She removed it. He appeared to be twice his almost forty years. She wondered when he had aged so.
Her gaze traveled around the room. She couldn't help but think of the hideous memories this room evoked. She'd turned sixteen the day he came to her father's estate with a special license in hand. By midnight she had been bedded with little thought to her pleasure or comfort. For two months she had been summoned to this room until she was with child. They had not slept together since before Oliver was born. No, there was nothing happy about this room.
"I can see the emotions wash across your brow," he said. "I am sorry for those early days of our marriage."
A small smile crossed her lips. "it was long ago, Your Grace." She never thought to hear her husband apologize for anything. But, it was far too late to have any meaning to her.
"I never explained why," the Duke offered. "I had just received news of my weakened heart. I thought it was a death warrant. My doctors had no idea how much time I would have, and I needed an heir. It was selfish of me. I robbed you of your youth, your season in London, and most of all your innocence."
"But you have given me Oliver. I wouldn't barter him for anything in the world."
"Nor would I. He is a wonderful son... handsome, clever, a joy to be around." The Duke's remarks were interrupted by prolonged coughing which left him visibly weakened. "I am relying on you to see him to manhood."
"Don't be silly. Oliver looks to you for manly advice. He only looks to me for kisses and bedtime reading." Her eyes tightened, squeezing out a tear. She found it difficult even to breathe. She couldn't comprehend her feelings for this man who she had despised for the last ten years. She hadn't understood why he had married her in such haste. There was some relief in finally knowing.
The Duke watched silently as the tear rolled down her cheek. She observed as he struggled to raise his hand to wipe it away, but the effort was too great. He exhaled loudly. His hand dropped back to the bed.
Catherine sniffed and wiped it away with the back of her hand. She had promised herself that there would be no tears. She blinked and regained control. "I am being morose. I'm sorry. I know you'll feel better in the morning. Shall I call Oliver in to raise your spirits?"
"No, my dearest. I have said my goodbyes to Oliver."
"Don't say that. You can't leave us. Where would we be without you?" Her chest constricted as she thought about the responsibilities of overseeing his dukedom and preserving it for Oliver.
A brief smile touched the Duke's lips. "I'm shocked. I never realized you harbored such warm feelings for me."
His sarcasm killed any tenderness that might have developed.
"Enough of these useless sentiments," he continued. "I forbid you to mourn me. Simmons has arranged for you and Oliver to travel to Paris. You may grieve privately for no more than three weeks as you prepare."
"Prepare for what?" she asked.
"I expect you to present yourself at the French Court. You're to become the toast of Paris. You will make me proud."
"Are you mad? I have no interest in parties or entertainments. I have no friends in Paris." Her face flushed with anger.
"Silence," he demanded. "You must remarry. Oliver needs a father, and you need a man." He coughed again and struggled to catch his breath. "A man who can teach him to be worthy of his title, and someone who can love you properly. I have prepared a list of acceptable peers and have given it to Simmons. The choice will be yours. You will have one year to decide. Your inheritance will be contingent upon marrying within the confines of those choices."
A small gasp escaped her lips. Her hand flew to her mouth. She watched Alamuir's cold eyes focus on her own.
"The list is extensive. I believe you will find that I have your best interests at heart. Please trust me."
"What if I choose not to marry?"
"You will find that you cannot afford the niceties of life, and I suspect you will miss our son. As I said, he will need a man's influence. A guardianship will be arranged should you not adhere to my wishes."
Catherine nodded her head and kept her eyes down. The last thing she wanted was another forced marriage, but she would never forfeit Oliver. She could barely breathe; couldn't find the words to argue with him. Not that he would listen to any argument she put forward. She would find a way to thwart his plans.
Alamuir drifted off as he was wont to do. Catherine sat in a chair next to the bed. She never quite understood why he had chosen her or even how he'd come to know of her. Then she reflected on their ten years together. They were difficult at first, even after Oliver was born not a year after their marriage. She resented being forcefully rusticated. She had wanted a season, flowers from beaux, and midnight waltzes. The last few years had not been as difficult, just lonely. Alamuir ignored her for the most part. She smiled a little thinking that she would have a full year of freedom.
The room smelled of illness and she longed to open a window. She stood, thinking he was asleep but Alamuir grasped her hand and she sat back down.
"Stay with me," he commanded, "there is more I need to say to you."
She reached up and tucked the soft woolen covers around his shoulders. He was so cold he appeared almost blue.
Simmons tapped at the door and let himself in. "Your Grace, the messenger has returned with the Earl's positive response."
"Thank you, Simmons. See that the boy is fed." Catherine observed a contented smile pass across the Duke's lips as he seemed to relax.
Alamuir turned back to Catherine. "You must trust Simmons to look after you. He has your best interests at heart. I have made it worth his while. I would like for Oliver to see something of the world before the duties of his title weigh heavily upon him. You will want for nothing. Should you comply with my wishes, you will be a very wealthy young woman. You will have no trouble finding a husband to your liking.
"I don't know if I can."
"You can. You must. I took your youth. Now I can give you the life you deserve. I want you to live and be happy with my blessing. You have given me everything I wanted in life. Allow me to return that favor to you." He began to breathe erratically.
Catherine's heart ached. She fought the tears that wanted to flow and lifted his hand into hers. "Shhh," she crooned. "I will try."
"Promise me," he wheezed.
"I promise."
"Catherine," he paused to catch his breath, "I couldn't allow you to love me knowing I would be leaving you too soon."
His breathing began to calm. She continued to hold his hand. If only he had softened toward her those many years ago. They might have found happiness together.
"Now sit with me. I don't want to be alone."
Catherine continued to hold his hand. A few minutes later she felt a flutter at his wrist as he passed quietly away from her.
| Author Notes | Historical romance - Georgian era. I consider this the 'inciting incident,' setting Catherine free. |
By Chris Davies
Catherine grimaced as Simmons hoisted himself into her coach. The very thought of spending a day confined in a small space with him made her think of a cell at Newgate. However, it would give her the opportunity to question him about Alamuir's list. She'd like to study the list and eliminate any names that might not allow her the freedom she sought.
"It was a lovely service, Simmons. Thank you for all you've done," she began.
"Yes, it was just as the Duke specified. I really did nothing."
"Well, you saw that it was carried out. For that I thank you."
Simmons nodded.
Catherine realized that broaching the subject of her future with Simmons would be difficult so she turned to Oliver. "Would you like me to read to you?" she asked.
"No thank you, Mama."
Alamuir had been a good father to Oliver, spending countless hours with him. She knew Oliver already missed him terribly. Alamuir must have known that every day was a gift and Catherine could see that he had used them wisely. Oliver would have fond memories of his father. She wished her memories were better.
After a short time, Oliver began to fidget.
"Your father has seen to your every comfort, Your Grace," Simmons told Oliver. " He smiled as he spoke to the boy. Simmons reached into the portmanteau at his feet and pulled out a rather large package and handed it to the ten-year-old Duke.
Catherine was surprised by the rapport between the two. It was good. Simmons would be a help to her son.
Oliver squealed with delight as he opened the package and spied the miniature soldiers, dressed in their red coats. He set them up on the traveling tray and lost himself in imaginary battles. The coach was beautifully appointed and well-sprung so the armies were barely inconvenienced by bumps in the road. Each bump that was encountered was accompanied by Oliver's sounds of explosions as if his toy soldiers had been destroyed by artillery.
The ducal crest on the coach assured them the best treatment along the road. As she looked out the window, she often saw people lined along the roads watching them pass. Their household goods and some of their retainers were following in another four coaches making an entourage of five with several footmen riding postillion.
Catherine insisted on bringing Bully, Oliver's favorite pet bulldog and he snored peacefully at her feet, keeping them warm. She found it difficult to read as the coach swayed, so she tried her embroidery instead. They would be on the road for several days before reaching the port and taking a ship to Calais.
"Oliver, shall we practice our French? I could ask Mademoiselle Fleury to join us at the next stop." The look he gave her reminded her of his father. "Perhaps you and I should practice amongst ourselves."
"I'd rather not, Mama. There will be time enough for French later. I want to play with my soldiers."
She patted his head. "Of course, dear. We have nothing but time." She turned to Simmons. "Do you speak French, Simmons?"
"Yes, Your Grace as well as Italian. Most of the arrangements have already been made, so there is little I need to do besides seeing that we keep to the itinerary. My skills will be superfluous."
"Well, perhaps you can humor me and help me practice. Alamuir despaired of me and my lack of linguistic skill."
"Of course, Your Grace." Simmons switched to French and began speaking. Catherine was lost after the first few words. She forced a smile at Simmons then turned toward the window trying desperately to remember the word for tree as Simmons droned on.
Her mind wandered back to Alamuir's last wishes. How could she marry again? She looked at Oliver and saw how young and unprepared he was for the tremendous responsibility that had been placed upon him. There was some truth in what Alamuir had said. Oliver did need a man's guidance. But she rebelled at the thought of giving away her new-found freedom. There had to be a way to satisfy Alamuir's requirements and at the same time keep herself out from under the unwanted influence of another husband.
After several hours, the coach came to a halt at an inn. Thank the Lord, she thought. Another hour and she'd have screamed. The Inn was called The Twining Rose and appeared respectable. Surely Simmons wouldn't allow her to stay anywhere unless it was respectable. Catherine and Oliver waited impatiently in the coach while Simmons made sure of their welcome. Catherine put on her hat and veil so as not to be recognized, although who could miss the entourage with the ducal crest? Such a silly convention, mourning. Would any of it bring Alamuir back? Of course not. She'd spent months being tutored in the social mores of her class. Alamuir insisted that she know how to behave. As they never went anywhere, she often wondered why it was so important to him. But now she realized that she would need to be circumspect so that Oliver would never be embarrassed.
Simmons returned and ushered her into the Inn and up to the second floor where a table was being prepared for her and Oliver in a private room.
They seated themselves, and just as they were being served, there was a commotion at the door. A man burst through. He was tall and well built with dirty blond hair tied back in a queue, his beard untrimmed and filthy. Catherine thought he looked like some Viking marauder. She stood, clinging to the napkin in her hand.
"Excuse me madam, but this room was previously bespoke," the man said with some annoyance.
Catherine had no idea what to do and put her hand to her chest. Fortunately, Simmons came rushing to her aid.
"My Lord, the Duchess has reserved the room some days ago."
The man turned and eyed her lasciviously from top to bottom. "The Duchess, you say?"
"Yes, and her son, the Duke of Alamuir."
"Alamuir, you say. He's dead? When?"
Catherine looked in horror as the man discussed her dead husband in front of her son. She put her hands over Oliver's ears hoping to shield him from distress.
Simmons put his arm on the man's shoulder trying to turn him from the room. "I'm sure we can find another room for you, Sir. You wouldn't want to disturb Her Grace while she mourns."
The man gave her a final leer and turned away. Catherine sat back down and began to sob.
"Are you alright, Mama?" Oliver turned and hugged her. "I'll take care of you, Mama. I promise I will. I promised Father I would. We could practice French if you like."
"Oh, Oliver, I am so sorry." With a sniff, she wiped her eyes dry and gave Oliver a wan smile. "I'm proud to have you here to protect me. Now," she proclaimed, "we must continue on with our adventure. No more crying. Your father would not have approved.
Catherine lay awake for several hours contemplating her future. She had so many questions. Perhaps Simmons would be able to answer them. If only he were more forthcoming. She found it so difficult to talk to him. How would she ever be able to rely upon him as the Duke had? And what of this list? Was she to see the list and make her decisions based upon Alamuir's wishes?
As she began to drift into sleep, there was a loud pounding on her door. Bully growled. Her heart began to race. Surely, she had remembered to lock it. She sprang from the bed and fumbled in the dark for her dressing gown. She could hear men talking. She inched toward the door to make sure it was secure. Catherine recognized the voice of the man who had previously barged in. It was him making the disturbance. Calling her name and imploring her to open the door.
The hair on her neck stood on end. A tremor of fear inched its way down her spine.
Another man's voice, which she didn't recognize, was trying to coax him away. She could hear a scuffle and a loud smack. Then the noise subsided and her breathing began to regulate. Was this what her life was to become without the protection of a man? Perhaps Alamuir had been correct. Maybe she did need a man, but she couldn't begin to contemplate it. Instead, she gave in to a hearty cry.
The next morning she was awakened early by Gisele Fleury, her lady's maid, scratching at the door. Catherine rose and opened the door.
"Ooh, madame. Monsieur Simmons has said that we must arise early to be on the road.
May I fetch you chocolate before dressing?" Mlle. Fleury lit some candles and laid out Catherine's traveling gown.
"Yes, Gisele. Chocolate would be kind." She arose and went to the basin to splash cold water on her face. She knew she didn't look her best, but she would be covered by a veil until she was secure in the coach. Maybe she would send Oliver to ride with his tutor, Mr. Markham. He would be far better company for a young boy, and she needed to have a private conversation with Simmons. She could no longer ignore her own future.
An hour and a half later they were on the road. Catherine watched the sunrise from the carriage window. It was a beautiful morning. Cool without being chilly. The leaves were beginning to yellow and would be in full foliage before long. She loved this time of year in the country and was sad to leave it behind. She thought of her garden at Alamuir, where she had passively watched the seasons pass. It had been a source of comfort in her solitude. She could almost smell the scent of roses as they headed for the coast.
"Simmons," Catherine blurted out, "how long had you been with the Duke?"
She watched as he gained control over his surprise.
"All of our lives, Your Grace. My mother was the housekeeper at Alamuir and my father the estate manager. The prior Duke allowed me to share a tutor with your husband as we were of an age."
"I had no idea. Were you very close, then?"
"Yes, Your Grace. We were best of friends as boys. We shared many good times. We were only apart during the Duke's time at Oxford. I have been his man of business since he came into the title."
"No wonder he trusted you so. Do you know why he chose me to marry?"
Simmons coughed to hide his astonishment. "Yes, Your Grace. However, I doubt he would want me to divulge that information."
"Well, he isn't here now, is he?" she said boldly.
"No, Your Grace." A look of sadness passed over his face.
Catherine had not considered his feelings of loss. She was quiet for a few minutes, allowing herself to process this new information.
"Alamuir is my home, Your Grace. I love it, too."
Catherine looked up into his face. She saw him differently. She had always thought him a pompous prig, jealous of his position with the Duke. "And Alamuir will always remain your home, Simmons. I understand better, now."
"I have promised Alamuir to look after you, and I will do so with my life, if necessary. You may trust that I always have your best interests at heart."
"Thank you, Simmons. But, I still want to know why the Duke chose me."
He was silent for a time. "Your mother was considered a great beauty in her day. She bore six healthy sons and then you. The Duke heard tales that you were becoming a great beauty, too. He hoped that you would also be able to bear sons."
"She died shortly after I was born. A grippe took her. I don't remember her," Catherine said as her eyes became unfocused and she looked into the distance. "I hated my father for selling me to the Duke."
"It wasn't like that. Your father loved you and wanted what was best for you. He knew Alamuir would give you everything that he could not. When Alamuir told him of his weakened heart and his need for an heir, your father relented."
Catherine could not contain her tears. They flowed freely down her face soaking into her bodice. Simmons handed her his black-rimmed handkerchief.
"Perhaps, Your Grace, when we return from the Continent we could visit the Baron. I know he would be glad to see how you have fared. He writes to me now and again, concerning you."
"Yes, Simmons, I would like that. I believe I will write him a letter tonight."
They continued in silence for some time while Catherine regained her composure. It was time to put the hurt behind her. There was so much she hadn't understood.
"Simmons, who was the man who barged in on our dinner?"
"The Earl of Begley, Your Grace. I believe he is actually a third cousin or some such to the Duke. Alamuir did not like him. He is a crude fellow."
"He came back to my room last night."
Simmons' eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.
"Don't worry, the door was locked, and another man took him away before he could do any damage."
"My apologies, Your Grace. I'll see that you are better protected. I'm sorry if you were disturbed."
"I wondered who took him away. I knew it wasn't you, as I didn't recognize his voice."
Simmons had no answer.
They stopped in the early afternoon for luncheon. As Catherine disembarked from the coach, she couldn't help but notice a man standing beside the door. He was large with jade green eyes and sable colored hair. He appeared to be watching her but said nothing as she passed into the inn. Catherine quickly averted her eyes. She had no wish to attract attention to herself. Simmons took her arm and escorted her to a private room. Oliver joined her and chatted away about his morning with Markham and Mlle. Fleury.
Catherine knew he mourned his father more sharply than she, but he was so much better at concealing his sadness. She suspected Alamuir had schooled him to keep his grief to himself. It would have been like him to look out for Oliver's well-being even from the grave. He was just a boy, and she would do her best to keep him happy. She listened to his prattle with a sweet smile on her face.
"Oliver, eat your vegetables. They're good for you."
"Nonsense, Mother. I am a Duke now, I don't have to eat vegetables."
"All the more reason. You'll want to stay healthy and lead a long and happy life."
Catherine put her hand over her mouth when she realized what she'd said.
"Did Papa refuse to eat his vegetables? Is that why he died?" Oliver's face was contorted with worry.
"No, dear. He loved his vegetables. It's just that his heart gave out on him."
Oliver picked up his fork and ate his vegetables.
| Author Notes | Historical romance - Georgian era. |
By Chris Davies
The Earl of Begley awoke from his night of debauchery in the stables of the Twining Rose Inn. His head raged, his mouth was dry as an August cornfield, and it felt as though someone had unhinged his jaw. Had he been in a fight?
His only acute memory of the night was Alamuir's luscious widow. He did recall trying to gain access to her rooms. Yes, someone must have knocked him out. It couldn't have been Alamuir's dogs-body, Simmons. He wouldn't have dared strike an earl. He'd have the bastard transported.
The Duchess was a beauty. The loveliest thing he'd ever seen. Honey blonde hair, frosty blue eyes and a rosy complexion, not some pale-faced wench who'd never seen the out of doors. He had to have her.
Alamuir had gotten the title and the wealth. If not for the carelessness of his grandfather to be born a second son, that title and wealth would have been his. The woman should have been his, too. "Damn Alamuir, I won't mourn your passing," he said aloud.
He looked around the stable and peered out into the yard, picking hay from his person. The Duke's coach and the other four carriages were gone. God's teeth! Had he slept through that commotion? He must have had more than he thought to drink.
"You!" he said to the stable boy who was mucking one of the emptied stalls. "Where was the Duchess' coach headed?"
"To Dover, then Calais, and on to Paris. I heard it straight from the Duchess' coachman himself."
He flipped the lad a coin, sniffed his armpits and went inside to get a bath and collect his bag.
As Begley soaked in the tepid bathwater a plan began to form. He would follow her to Paris. Simple he thought. He'd clean himself up, perhaps buy a new coat. He'd even stop the incessant drinking. He could present himself in a good light. Begley knew himself to be a handsome man when he put forth the effort.
The Duchess would be vulnerable and alone. Her son wasn't old enough to protect a flea. Simmons wouldn't have the bollocks to thwart him. Begley convinced himself that he could carry this off. He'd eat a good breakfast then make a dash to Paris and set himself up. He'd be in the perfect position to assist her... into his bed.
He laughed aloud. Begley was gleeful at the thought of all that money. He rose from the filthy bathwater, dressed and headed for the common room to find food.
| Author Notes | Historical romance - Georgian era. |
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