by Abigail Agar
Nobody spoke for a long time. Even Lottie and Max stopped their weeping. The Duke could feel their little faces turned upward toward him as if he were captivating. He felt sure he looked terrifying: his face filled with sweat, his beard long and bristled, his hair curly and black. He was no longer the dapper husband of Marybeth, the doting father. He was a man who hardly slept, who’d grown so disheartened and sick that he could no longer see.
“Are you going to speak?” he demanded, hating how black his words sounded. He was every bit the enemy.
“I don’t see any reason to speak. There’s nothing I could possibly say to make you trust me,” Marina returned.
The words felt like a smack. The Duke brought his foot back, teetering forward and backward in the doorway. He wanted to lash out to her, to grab her arm and shake her until she understood what kind of house she’d entered into, with those opinions and that mouth.
“Speak, woman. Tell me why you’ve allowed my children out of bed, when you should be upstairs. Packing your things, for your leaving tomorrow morning. In fact, I have half a mind to call the stable man just this moment to take you back where you came from. It’s clear you’ve created darkness over this house. First, with Christopher’s injury. Now, with this …” the Duke huffed, growing angrier. His heart fluttered up in his throat.
“You can’t possibly think that I want any harm to come to your children,” Marina said firmly. “These children are the best humans I’ve met in years. Years. And the fact that they’ve demonstrated themselves to me over the previous day—even reading to me, helping me to understand all that’s gone wrong in the wake of their mother’s death—has meant the world. When we heard you begin to play, I saw it as an opportunity to heal. For all of you to heal, together. Because, dear Duke, it doesn’t seem that you’ve given your children that chance.”
The Duke sputtered at these words. He dropped his hands on either side, his lips quaking with anger. He prepared a whole diatribe of possible words to tell her that she’d made one of the biggest mistakes of her life.
But before he could, he heard the all-too-familiar, innocent voice of his youngest son, Max. It was so rare for Max to speak before the others, as he was the most frightened, the most apt to give in to being “less than.” Even Lottie spoke over him sometimes, articulating her points before Max could quite reach what he meant.
“Why are you sending her away?” Max asked, his voice a bit louder and brighter than normal. “Why are you sending Marina home?”
At this, the Duke was at a loss for words. He brought his chin downward, hoping to be in line of vision with his son. His lips parted, and then closed again, as he waited for the proper thing to come. But, in the meantime, apparently, his other children had much to say.
“You can’t blame her for what happened, Father,” Christopher said, sounding stocky and wild. The Duke could only imagine him in his little wheelchair, bobbing his head and waving his hands. When he’d been seven, he’d been in the very same wheelchair (at least, he imagined it was the same) after a brief accident when he’d fallen from a tree out back. He and Marybeth had switched places frequently, pushing him around the mansion and telling him stories …
Of course, he couldn’t have imagined that would be the boy’s last time in a wheelchair. Not with his innate ability to craft trouble.
“Christopher, what happened out there?” the Duke asked, softening his voice.
“It doesn’t matter what happened. All that matters is, it wasn’t Marina’s fault,” Claudia said sternly. She spoke like a teacher, with authority over everyone around her. The Duke could almost imagine her, staggering to her feet, her arms crossed over her chest. “In fact, Father, she seems to be the only governess who doesn’t want to leave at the first sign of trouble. And now, what? You’re going to just send her off like this.”
“Claudia …” Marina whispered, seemingly trying to reel her in.
“Don’t. Don’t! I’m tired of everyone trying to stop me. To tell me that, no, Claudia, you aren’t old enough to know. Well, you know what? I am old enough. And I tell you, Father, if you send her away right now. If you send her away from us, and then separate us into boarding schools …”
Max let out a shriek of fear. The Duke dropped his chin lower, feeling a wave of hesitation. Everything within him yearned to crank back into the study, to bring his violin back to his neck.
“Father,” Lottie whispered. “Father, was that you playing the violin?”
Lottie’s little voice sounded almost foreign in the Duke’s ears. He hadn’t paid well enough attention to it, over the previous months—allowing governesses to pick up the slack, to care for her. To ensure that she “made it,” like the other ones had. Would Lottie be a stranger to him when his blindness went away? He felt an insane desire to reach forth, to draw his fingers along her cheek. How soft it must be! Only four years before, she’d been given to them. And now, she was floundering against the weight of time and circumstance.
He’d hesitated for too long. Marina found her voice once more—the voice of a woman taking control, yet with tenderness. “Children, I think we’ve given your father enough grief for now, don’t you?” She seemed on the brink of tears. “I think we should return to our rooms. Tuck ourselves in. Shall we? Come along.”
No one spoke. The Duke remained in the doorway, listening as Marina seemed to gather them together. He heard the wheels spinning on the wheelchair. Could hear the muffled sobs of Lottie as she seemed to press her face into someone’s dress. But he remained there, like a foolish, frightened soldier, listening to them leave.
“We’ll go to bed, and this will all be like a nightmare when we wake up,” Marina whispered to them, just loud enough for the Duke to hear. “Don’t worry yourselves. Remember—the important thing is the music he created. Wasn’t it absolutely extraordinary? Your father has a greater talent than anyone I’ve ever heard. Even if you have to go away, my children; even if you must go off to a boarding school, please remember the music. Remember that you came from a house that upheld things like art and song and beauty. It’s in your very soul, my darlings. Don’t forget.”
The Duke remained stunted, listening as her voice disappeared down the long hallway. Where in the world had this woman come from? And how was she so very aware of the depth of emotion lurking in his music?
He hadn’t imagined that anyone would ever hear him play again.
Now, he felt stripped down and naked, fully seen by a woman he was prepared to turn out on the street. Was he making the proper decision? Or was he ultimately destroying that which she spoke of, just now—this beauty, this song, this art?
Chapter 14
Marina stepped lightly up the last bits of the staircase, drawing her and the children into the flickering candlelight. She and Claudia set the wheelchair atop the landing, watching as Christopher flashed them a humorous smile. The smile didn’t match the mood whatsoever—the mood of darkness, demonstrated by their father in the other wing. But for this reason, Marina let out a slight giggle.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Today was just the strangest day,” Christopher said, shrugging his little shoulders. “Mother always said that when you don’t know what to do, you should laugh about it. It’s the best medicine.”
Lottie gripped Marina’s dress from the side, walking alongside her as they drew closer to Christopher’s bedroom. Marina had the feeling that this was the ending of something, the way she often did on a birthday or at the end of a big party—that the moment she closed her eyes, the day would be over. All the fun finished. She tried to memorise the children’s faces as they stepped further down the hall—the anxious way Max scrunched up his face, the way Claudia traced her fingers through her hair. But she also made peace with the fact that, surely, these children would forget about her. She’d been only a single day in the span of their lifetimes.
And although they would leave a lasting imprint upon her life, she cou
ldn’t demand the same. It was the very nature of children, that they were pushed along on a grander timeline, no longer able to memorise the little songs you sang them, or the way they’d gripped your hand so tight (so frightened they were of something lurking in the forest, or down the hall—even if it was just a shadow).
Once inside Christopher’s room, Marina helped him clamber up onto his bed. He showed only a slight twinge of pain, and then collapsed atop his pillow, extending his leg. Lottie sprung up onto the bed, snuggling close to him. Christopher leaned down and placed a kiss on her head.
“We all have to get to bed, children.” Marina sighed, pushing back tears. “Your father’s at his wits end with us, I’m afraid.”
Claudia stepped between Marina and the bed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you really going to leave? You know what will happen to us. Don’t you?”
“Claudia, you know it’s not really up to me what happens,” Marina murmured. Feeling like an older sister—playing a role she’d never played before, but always craved—she drew her fingers through Claudia’s hair, twirling her curls. “But you have to be brave, my girl. That’s the nature of all things: that they will continue to change and grow, as will you. But in order to truly face the music, you can’t show the demons your fear.”
Marina only wished that she could believe her own words. She stepped back, gesturing towards the door. “I think it’s best we all tuck into bed, for good, this time,” she whispered. “I’m exhausted, and I have a long trip in the morning.”
“What will happen to you?” Max asked.
Marina wrapped a hand around his chest, guiding him towards the door. She could feel his heart fluttering like a butterfly, deep in the ribcage. Everything felt heightened, the very climax of a storybook, the vibrant climax of a song …
“It doesn’t matter, Max. It doesn’t matter at all,” she echoed, blinking into the shadow of the hallway.
She tucked both Max and Lottie beneath their duvet covers, ensuring their toes were warm, their heads were deep on the fluff of the pillows, even that their eyes were closed by the time she left their rooms. Claudia, of course, put herself to bed, scrubbing her face over the basin. Marina suspected that she did this to cover up the fact that she’d been crying.
Once back in her little prison-sized bedroom, Marina faltered against the edge of the bed, trying to draw breath. She eyed herself in the mirror—still so dishevelled, from her trek through the woods. With quivering fingers, she began to draw out the twigs and dirt, marvelling at the wild woman peering back at her. This woman had all-out yelled at her employer on her first day of the job.
This woman had allowed one of her children to bust his leg in the middle of a forest hole. Yet, this woman had loved deeper, with greater abandon, than she ever had before. Certainly, she’d loved her mother, her father, her siblings, when she’d been in her youth. But that love had soured, due to their sheer dislike of her—and her insistence that she get as far away from them as she could.
Marina stretched out on her back, her ears craning for the sound of that music once more. But the world brought her only isolation and darkness, perhaps the occasional cawing from birds in the forest. She imagined the Duke tucked away in his bedroom, his fingers capable of creating such depth of song. Did he sleep on his back? On his side? Did he spend long nights staring into the nothingness of his blind eyes, wondering what was on the other side? Marina rubbed her forehead, marvelling at the handsome gruffness of the Duke. The thought of him made her stomach tighten with a strange mix of anxiety and fear and desire.
Marina’s desire, in this life, had been largely stunted, just a piece of her imagination after a few brief encounters with boys from her nearby town, and the neighbour’s. Always, when she gave in to this inclination, she had no context to put to it.
The thought—of strong arms wrapped around her, of lips kissing her—made her dizzy with need. But for what? If she imagined it to its logical end-point, surely that kiss would taste of tobacco, of beef stew. Also, these kisses—from these boys of the nearby town—they would surely be sloppy, ill-mannered. They wouldn’t give power to romance, the way she was wont to do.
But the thought of kissing the Duke (dare she possibly allow this thought to dig through her?) gave her pause. For the Duke had kissed before. He’d loved before. He certainly knew passion, lust, and how that was unequivocally tied to anger and fear and want, as demonstrated in his music. She shivered, remembering the way he’d stared—so blindly—past her when he’d torn open the door of his study. It had been an impenetrable rage. And also, his black curls had shook; his cheeks had reddened; his lips had spat with adrenaline. She’d enraged him, twice that evening. When she’d hardly brought anything more than annoyance to anyone else in her life, prior to that day.
In some respects, this felt big. It felt like, although the man hadn’t physically seen her, he’d sensed her presence more than anyone else had before. She wasn’t just a fly to bat away. Rather, she was a force.
Marina couldn’t sleep after this thought. She stirred, shooting from one shoulder to the other. Outside, the moon hung heavy over the forest, casting light over the tips of the trees. In the morning, she’d be barrelling back into the world. What would the rest of her life have in store for her? If this was the prelude, she couldn’t imagine what was next.
Chapter 15
The Duke tossed himself over the side of his bed, arching his neck down like a swan. Sunlight streamed in through the window, glowing against his back. It was perhaps seven in the morning, just an hour before their accustomed breakfast time. But every muscle in his body ached—his upper arms tense, his fingers tender from the strings of his violin, and his legs cranky from standing, rocking back and forth as the music swelled.
His head, too. It felt as though someone had smashed a hammer against it, over and over again. Of course, he’d hardly slept. He’d felt both completely enraged and completely defenceless about what had happened with the new governess. Little Max, asking why in the world he had to send her away. And Claudia, so enraged that her entire world was about to be shifted because they couldn’t find a governess to stick to their bones.
At one time, the Duke’s family and business had been ones to revere. Now, they were crumbling, just the leftovers of a forgotten, better life. And the governess seemed to see the chaos they lived in, and, instead of running away from it, she yearned to embrace it. In fact, she’d brought the children to his doorway to listen to his rumbling violin …
As if emotion mattered. As if you didn’t have to hide from the darkness of your own mind …
The Duke dressed quickly, his fingers finding his tossed-over clothes atop his bedroom desk’s chair. He sensed he looked dishevelled and strung his fingers through his black curls. On cue, someone rapped on the door.
“Come in,” the Duke growled.
The door opened. He didn’t bother turning his head. From his right ear, he heard the whispering of Ms Hodgins and Jeffrey, his assistant.
“Enough of that prattling about. What is it?” the Duke demanded.
One of them stepped forward. “My Duke, I wanted to discuss the business with you this morning. Namely, an upcoming trip to the palace,” Jeffrey stated.
Sometimes, his voice was almost high-pitched, like a slight whine in the Duke’s ear. The Duke ignored this, trying to push his anger back down his throat. Best not to stir the pot.
“Marvellous, Jeffrey,” the Duke said. “Please. Come along.” He gestured for his assistant to enter the room.
“And Duke?” Ms Hodgins called.
“What is it, Ms Hodgins?”
“I wanted to arrange for the girl to be taken away this morning, as we discussed last evening. I will send the go-ahead to the carriage boy to take her back where she came from,” Sally affirmed.
For whatever reason, the Duke had an absolutely guttural reaction to this news. He scoffed, drawing his hand around his throat. He pulled at his tie, tossing it across the beds
pread. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Ms Hodgins,” he said suddenly, surprising even himself.
