by Erica Taylor
“These are the first six trees planted by my seven times great grandfather,” Sarah explained. “It’s the whole history of the Bradstone title.”
“Go on,” he prompted.
“Well,” she began, adjusting her grip on Athena’s reins. “The story goes that my seven times great-grandfather Macalister, before he was the first Duke of Bradstone, was angry with his father and came down from Scotland, turning traitor, giving the English secrets of the Scots.” She glanced apologetically at him and he shrugged.
“I’m only half Scot, so you don’t need to look so remorseful,” he replied with a shrug.
Sarah continued. “Henry VIII himself became aware of Macalister’s spy prowess and employed him to spy within the Scottish armies for the British. No one knows the exact reason Macalister was awarded the dukedom and all the other titles, as at the time he was only a meager Baron, but he was involved with some peace talks, and then almost overnight he had a dukedom. Family legend has it he fouled an assassination attempt, but the truth is lost to history.”
“How does this explain the apples?” William asked.
“In addition to land and titles, Macalister was awarded six cuttings from the royal fruiter’s mother orchard of rejuvenated apple trees,” she explained, gesturing to the six trees now behind them. “From those six rose thousands.”
“Fascinating,” William said, scratching his jaw.
Sarah looked peculiarly at him. “I doubt even half of it is true. Macalister did receive the dukedom during Henry VIII’s last years, but the rest could be complete fairy tales. Doesn’t your family have such legends about their titles?”
“I don’t know why my family was awarded a dukedom,” William admitted. “I am the fifteenth duke, but the title is not as old as the number suggests; Hastings tend to go through dukes faster than others. It was awarded during Elizabeth’s time, but for what I do not know.”
“Have you ever been curious?” Sarah asked.
William shook his head. “To be honest, I’ve never really cared.”
“It wouldn’t kill you, you know,” Sarah said. “To care. I know you didn’t want it, but now that it is yours, it might be interesting to see what you could do with the dukedom. To be different than your father, and restore honor to the title.”
Of course Sarah knew his mind almost better than he did himself. He was not the least bit interested in the history of his title, its past sullied in ways that were nearly impossible to cleanse. The only solution was to do better, be better, than his father had. He wanted to share with her the steps he’d already taken to distance himself from the wrongdoings of his father. He wanted to share how he was changing Foxton for the better. He was proud of what he had been able to accomplish in two months, but it didn’t seem to mean as much without her by his side to share his life.
“The first thing I did when I inherited was terminate every illegal and questionable deal and holding he had,” William replied, needing to tell someone. Anna wasn’t even aware of how he was managing the dukedom. It didn’t seem right to talk to Anna about it but talking to Sarah had always come easy. He glanced at her, careful to not give away the depth of his feelings in case anyone in their hunting party was observing their conversation. “I am trying to right his wrongdoings. I do care about the dukedom, even if I did not want it. There are people who depend on the success of the changes I have implemented. I am trying to shape Foxton into something that elicits respect, instead of the connotation of wickedness my father created. It seems impossible to wipe the slate completely clean, after the mud and blood he sullied it with, but I’ve accepted this is now my life. I became a doctor to offer some good into the world. I hope to do the same with this dukedom.”
Sarah shot him a warm smile. “I’ve seen you pull children from a wrecked carriage, Will. You excel at the impossible.”
William opened his mouth to respond but his voice was lost to a sharp “Tally-ho!” from the hunt master as the fox was spotted.
The hunt master and the hounds promptly took off into the forest, their hunting party of fifteen following at a discreet distance. They galloped across the countryside for a good twenty minutes, William keeping an inconspicuous yet vigilant eye on Sarah. She put on a brave face, but she clearly hated almost every moment, her face wincing in anticipation of disaster at each jump over hedges and low fences. Athena managed not to dislodge Sarah from her seat, though it was dodgy for a moment as they stepped down a steep embankment and across a nearly frozen stream. Her siblings, by contrast, thoroughly enjoyed the romp through the woods, as though the purpose of the fox hunt was not to catch the fox, but to run amok across the countryside on the back of a horse.
The fox was eventually cornered in a thicket and killed by the hounds, but they couldn’t see the fox’s demise. It was just as well. The sounds of the poor creature dying at the hands of the hounds was traumatizing enough.
The hunt master dismounted and dug the dead creature out of the thicket as the dogs did not seem eager to bring him out as a trophy. The brush of the tail was cut from the beast, along with the head and pads, the whole thing rather gruesome for the day after Christmas.
“Here ye go, yer grace,” the hunt master said, handing Bradstone the chopped off tail of the fox, the cinnamon red fur smeared with crimson blood. Bradstone accepted it and glanced to his youngest sister, Mara.
Sarah groaned, and William shot her a questioning glance. She looked pointedly at him and mouthed the word, “blood.”
William wanted to laugh, now that he realized the issue, but he held it in. He knew the old hunting tradition that came next and doubted Mara would thank them for it.
“Mara dear,” Bradstone said, maneuvering his horse alongside Mara’s. “Did you enjoy your first hunt?”
“It was all rather exhilarating,” Mara replied with a grin before her face fell, looking to the tail in her brother’s hands. “Until the part just now, when the fox was killed, and Mr. Bruin cut off his head.”
“There is another part of the tradition we have to uphold,” Bradstone said. Leaning over to her horse, he tugged on her saddle, pulling until her horse was pressed against his. “I apologize, but you did ask to join us.”
“It’s tradition, Mara!” Nick called out.
Norah leaned over from her own horse, on the other side of Mara. “It’s unpleasant, but you’ll survive. And if you balk now, they’ll never let you forget it.”
Mara glanced around at her siblings before putting on a brave face. “Whatever it is, do it.”
Bradstone looked apprehensive, but he dabbed at the bloodied tail in his hand with his gloved fingers and smeared a streak of blood across Mara’s cheekbones.
To her credit, Mara didn’t flinch or look horrified. William had wanted to vomit after his first fox hunt when his father had “blooded” him, something his brother Heathmont had a good laugh about. After that, blood didn’t seem to bother William, which was fortunate given his chosen profession.
“There you go,” Bradstone said, shifting his weight on his saddle so he was evenly distributed again. “You’re a proper fox hunter now.”
Mara beamed, which was rather unnerving with the blood on her face.
They returned to the house, Mara riding beside Brad-stone, sitting proud with fox blood on her face. Clara was at the door to meet them as they arrived at the front drive, dismounting and handing off rains to various grooms.
“Well, Mara, you’re properly initiated now,” the duchess said, cupping the young girl’s cheeks, careful to avoid the bloodied mess.
“This was wonderful!” Mara exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “How long do I leave this on my face? May I wear it all day?”
The duchess laughed and led Mara inside.
William spotted Sarah in the disarray of riders dismounting and returning to the house and maneuvered to stand beside her, helping her down from her horse.
“She’s a morbid little creature, isn’t
she?” William asked, his voice close to Sarah’s ear as they entered the house.
“She’s an odd little duck, that’s for certain,” Sarah replied. “Most of the time she’s just happy to be included. Being the youngest of this lot cannot be all that enjoyable, I imagine.”
“Aye,” William agreed. “Nor could being the oldest.”
“Aye,” Sarah said with a nod, borrowing his brogue.
Anna appeared in the foyer, her cheeks rosy from the cold air drafting in.
“Palmer!” she said with a little wave, her voice energetic. “Did you enjoy your hunt?”
Sarah glanced between the two, before offering a polite smile to the young duchess and extracting herself from their company.
“Aye,” he replied, watching Sarah ascend the stairs, away from the festivities.
“Come, we’ve tea ready and a fire to warm everyone,” Anna said, leading him further into the house. Sighing, he followed with the remaining crowd from the hunt.
Everyone but Sarah.
Boxing Day, as William was learning, was more of a day of work than rest for the Duke and Duchess of Bradstone. Watching as they distributed boxes of goods to their tenants who came to call, William was startled by the couple’s generosity, a far cry than he had ever seen from his father. He knew the purpose of Boxing Day, but had never seen it in action. His Gordon relations in Scotland did not have tenants and were not titled, so the most they did on Boxing Day was give their staff the day off. Old Foxton had never done anything remotely kind for his servants or tenants. It was refreshing to see a peer actually engage with his tenants. Bradstone knew their names, their stories, where they lived, and what they did. The duchess asked about their children, correctly naming each one, talking through problems with weaning and nursing.
William soaked it up, happy to have a positive influence, a decent role model for a change.
An example of how a duke should be.
After dinner came cards, which seemed to be a popular evening activity for the Macalister family. There was even a chalkboard tacked onto one wall in the drawing room where the card tables had been set up, the names of the partners for whist listed with tacks and tallies alongside the names. It seemed someone was keeping score of each whist game and who won.
“There is a championship game between the two best pairs of partners after Twelfth Night,” Sarah explained when she caught him eyeing the board curiously.
Everyone partnered up naturally, husbands together with wives, Norah with her twin Nick, Charlie and Mara as the two youngest Macalisters, and Sarah paired with Lord Morton. Tobias opted to bow out, claiming to be dismal at cards and citing work he needed to get through.
Abe had been glued to William’s side for most of the day once the hunt was concluded, much to the delight of the neighborhood children who came with their parents for Boxing Day, though much to the disgruntlement of Brad-stone. His own dogs had been banished to the stables, and while Abe had been sent away numerous times over their three days in residence, it seemed he was not fond of sharing a bed with horses. Somehow, he always managed to sneak back inside.
Bradstone didn’t comment directly on Abe’s magician-like reappearances, but he didn’t insist he be sent away either.
“He’s rather obedient for a dog,” Bradstone observed as they took their seats beside each other, Bradstone opposite his wife and William across from Anna.
“He’s been raised as a human,” William explained. “He was the runt and wanted nothing to do with hunting or retrieving, so my grandda was going to have him drowned. The little pup slipped his rope and found his way into my bed chamber the weekend I arrived home from France. My grandda thought I might benefit from having him as a companion. He’s been babied ever since. Still won’t hunt anything, but he’s been the best of companions.”
“You spent time in the military?” Bradstone probed, setting down a card. It was low, so William ignored it.
“Aye,” William answered, watching as Anna set down a card in the same suit. “I sold my commission a few years ago.” William set down a low card in a nonconforming suit. Bradstone and his wife won the hand.
“I intended to serve,” Bradstone said as he stacked the cards and set them in a pile before him. “I inherited instead.”
“Lovely how inheriting seems to toss your life off track, eh?” William asked.
Bradstone looked up to meet his gaze. “Indeed.”
It wasn’t unusual that Abe’s ears pricked up, as the dog seemed to hear everything long before the humans noticed something was amiss. Unfortunately, this time William’s mind moved at almost the same speed as his dog’s and he realized a hair breath’s too late what had caught his attention.
Abe was on his feet faster than William could reach for him. He still tried, missing the dog and toppling out of his chair, nearly upending the card table in his fall. William scrambled to his feet, ignoring the shouts from his tablemates and the cards spilling onto the floor as all his focus was on the dog intent on his one and only choice of prey.
“Abe, no!” William shouted, dashing after the beast, but the damage was already done.
Abe shot into the tall evergreen tree, prettily decorated with strings of candied walnuts and candles, ribbons tied to the ends of the branches. The green needles shook as the dog tore about the base of the tree, barking and fussing about before finding an open spot to plant his paws on the trunk of the tree. Regrettably, the tree wasn’t as sturdy inside the drawing room as it would have been in the forest, and the weight of the dog pushing and barking up its trunk was enough to send the tree toppling on its side.
Abe made it out from under the tree, but did not give up his chase, even as tree, candied walnuts, ribbon, and candles all crashed to the ground, and from underneath the destruction shot out a small brown length of fur. Abe’s intended victim.
“Squirrel!” someone shrieked behind him, but William was more focused on the dog tearing about the drawing room trying to get to the squirrel who was leading him on a merry chase: up and over an elegant settee, under an antiquetable, under the curtains and along the window sill. The squirrel was quick, followed by a persistent Abe and a vexed William.
“Fire!” came another shout, and this one did catch William’s notice as he jumped for the dog, missing him again and falling flat on his stomach. He twisted to his feet, nearly knocking over another side table—really how many tables were required for a drawing room? —and saw the candles from the toppled tree had lit a set of curtains, the blaze licking hungrily up the draperies.
William joined the effort to extinguish the curtain flames before it caught anything else—like the entire house—aflame. Bradstone and Charlie were tugging on the curtains that had not yet caught on fire, but they were well looped onto the study rod.
“Get the girls out of here!” Bradstone shouted at his younger brother, who for once did not argue and turned to help his sisters from the room, faces covered and postures hunched as they ducked under the smoke that was filling the room.
It didn’t seem to be the appropriate time to apologize, so William kept his mouth shut and pulled on the curtains, wrapping the fabric around his arm and tugging with all his strength. The rod finally gave and came crashing down, narrowly missing their heads. With the fabric, though flammable, they were able to cover the tree as it began to catch fire, stomping out and smothering the flames. Westcott had moved to the burning curtains, beating the flames with his evening jacket, and once the tree was extinguished, William and Bradstone jumped in to help. Finally, after a few agonizing minutes of wondering if he had just set Bradstone’s house on fire, they managed to dampen the flames into smoke.
Despite the chaos of the fire, Abe had not given up chase of his squirrel.
Bradstone sat hard on his heels, panting from the exertion and fright, his face covered in soot and expressing more emotion than William had ever seen from the man. William sank to his knees beside him, looking in horro
r around the room and the chaotic damage that had occurred. One wall was charred black, and the carpeting around the tree was covered in burned curtain.
Abe decided that was the appropriate moment to trot over, proudly showing his captured prey in his mouth. He sat in between William and Bradstone, thumping his tail with pride and looked between the two dukes.
Bradstone stared at the animal with wide eyes before patting the dog on his head and said incredulously, “Good dog, Abe.”
It wasn’t luck that Sarah had not been alone with William in a week, but rather careful strategy. She used her mastery of the household workings and her knowledge of her brother’s proclivity for making friends with his peers to ensure that she avoided William altogether or only saw him when others in her family were present. This allowed Sarah some much needed distance from the new duke. For this reason, she was grateful of her brother’s budding friendship with William, even if she didn’t want him more entwined in her family. She saw him at meals of course but never sought out his company and always made certain she was engaged with something each time he sought out hers.
The Twelfth Night Ball wasn’t to be a crush, or so Clara repeatedly reminded them, mostly due to the weather, but also the season, as most families chose to spend the time with each other rather than with neighbors at a social event. Sarah knew that was the furthest from the truth but humored the new duchess as she fretted about the house, worried about hosting her first ball. Clara checked and rechecked the centerpieces for dinner and the arrangements for the ballroom, counting candles and pieces of silver and chairs, all the while convincing herself with meager white lies that no one would come.
Grateful to bow out of the planning and stressing over last minute additions that used to be her responsibility when she played hostess for her brother, Sarah spent her newfound free time enjoying a long bath and dressing slowly, as relaxed as she could be with William and his wife beneath the Macalister roof.
Her gown was a steely blue grey made in a soft velvet. It was cut a bit higher than was fashionable, but when she had suggested something lower, her dressmaker had looked visibly horrified. It was a far cry from the crimson she longed to wear—or emerald or deep gold—but the gown was beautiful, and she felt beautiful, even if she was again confined to her uniform of widowhood.
