by Abigail Agar
“I’m—I’m sorry?” Sally asked, her voice high-pitched.
“I don’t want you to send the girl away,” the Duke stated.
“My, Sir. I don’t believe that’s appropriate,” Jeffrey offered. “Ms Hodgins has explicated the events of the previous evening, including some sort of event in which the governess got the children out of bed after hours …? I can’t imagine that’s entirely proper. Can you, Sir?”
The Duke felt awash with annoyance. “I can’t imagine that’s any of your concern, is it, Jeffrey?”
“Duke, in your condition, I know you’re not thinking entirely clearly,” Jeffrey stammered.
“He’s right, dear Duke. In any other circumstance, you would turn the girl back home. She isn’t living up to the rules of this household. Jeffrey and I have both been around for years. We know what you might have done, in the event that you were well …”
“I’m bloody all right,” the Duke scoffed. “Just because I can’t see, doesn’t mean I’m a complete invalid. Ms Hodgins, after this meeting with Jeffrey, I demand to have breakfast with my children. Along with the new governess, this Marina Blackwater. Do you understand?”
There was a deafening silence. The Duke’s heartbeat became frenetic in his chest, barrelling against his ribcage. His tongue lurched up, preparing to hammer an insult towards Sally Hodgins (yes, a woman who’d stuck by his and his family’s side for years and years … but …).
“If you’re absolutely certain, Duke,” Ms Hodgins said, seemingly understanding just how serious he was. “I will see to it that the children and this—this pure mistake of a governess …”
“Silence, Ms Hodgins,” the Duke said, his voice low. “You’ve made your opinion known. It’s been noted. Now, do as you’re told.”
“I will keep my eye on her, Sir. Please remember that you are currently in a difficult state. It would be best, in my current opinion, to send the children to boarding school, so that you can focus on becoming well again …”
But before the Duke could barrel forward and demand just why Ms Hodgins was pushing him to the outer brinks of his sanity, her footsteps shuffled down the hallway. The Duke brought his fingers to his forehead, dipping the nails into the skin. Before him, Jeffrey lit a cigar, puffing the smoke.
“She’s trying my temper.” The Duke sighed. “As if she can’t understand that things are bad enough.”
“Well, let yourself forget about that, Duke. As I mentioned …”
“Yes, what is this of the palace? Most recently, their sales weren’t as prosperous as you had stated they would be.” With this, the Duke was faced with the memory of Marina declaring that she’d heard this around town—he was a failing businessman, falling to ruin. He righted his posture, extending his palm so that Jeffrey slipped a cigar between his fingers. He gripped it tight, listening as Jeffrey snapped a match in front of him and lit the end.
“Well, regardless, the Queen has stated that she wants a grand ceremony and ball for the upcoming birth of her grandchild. For this, she wants to outfit her entire orchestra with new instruments, from your very company, Duke,” Jeffrey said, nearly sputtering with excitement. “It’s clear that the last shop they went with—one over in Coventry, you see—wasn’t up to their high standards.”
“So, now they’ve come grovelling back?” the Duke said. He stood, puffing at his cigar and reaching for the crack in the window. His fingers flicked into the open air, feeling a frigid, rainy October day.
“I can’t imagine that you can possibly turn them away,” Jeffrey chortled, sounding in disbelief.
“Of course not.” The Duke shoved his stubbornness away, reminding himself that he did, indeed, require this money. A job like this could push the business forward for years. It could ensure that he didn’t give in to the current circumstances of his illness and his loss of cash. He could be deemed a success.
“When do they require the instruments?” the Duke asked. “I would like to deliver them myself.”
“Why, within the month. The child will be born by the beginning of November, you see,” Jeffrey stuttered.
“Then it will be done,” the Duke stated. He stabbed at his cigar, whirling back towards the door. “Please, hire as many new workers as we require. And meet again, here, to go over the books, before the end of the week.”
“Very good, sir,” Jeffrey said. “It means the world to me to know that you trust me enough to handle the majority of this high-end work, while you become well again.”
Something about Jeffrey’s voice gave the Duke pause. He reached the doorway, clacked his nails against the wood. Was Jeffrey somehow taunting him? Of course he wasn’t. That was unlike him … completely outside the bounds of his normal personality. Ordinarily, Jeffrey lived to please the Duke. The Duke had often felt that he was just a few steps from kissing his feet, rapt with attention …
Yet something about his voice …
The Duke spun back towards Jeffrey, who seemed to be shuffling papers. He could just imagine his sweaty, thick fingers, cramming the papers back into their prospective folders.
“What is it, Sir?” Jeffrey asked, sounding anxious.
“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to make sure that everything was quite all right with you,” the Duke said, arching his brow. “You know. Everything all right at home.”
“Quite all right, Sir. It’s truly just the same. Living alone. Eating alone. Giving my life to the business, just as I told you before,” Jeffrey said.
“Don’t you—don’t you want anything more from your life, Jeffrey?” the Duke said, tapping his thick heel against the wooden floor. “Don’t you want, I don’t know. Your own wife? Your own kids?”
The Duke could hear the almost calculated way Jeffrey swallowed—a bit too hard as if his Adam’s apple was stuck.
“Sir, I think it’s a bit too late for me, hey?” Jeffrey said. He blustered to his feet, hobbling towards the door. The Duke felt him pass beside him before his footsteps found the hallway rug. He swung back for half a second, lending the Duke a solid, “Well, I’ll see you, then, at the end of the week for that meeting to discuss the bookkeeping …”
Within moments, Jeffrey had abandoned the Duke, marching down the rest of the hallway and down the steps. The Duke gave a final puff on his cigar, feeling incredulous, before digging it into a small ashtray atop his desk (something he’d grown accustomed to finding and had, miraculously, not shattered during his rage the previous evening).
Deciding to push aside thoughts of Jeffrey’s confusing attitude, he stepped into the hallway, pointing his nose towards the breakfast table. Something simmered in his stomach—a bit like anticipation, akin to something he’d felt only as a much younger man, or even as a child.
The Duke used his cane to reach the steps, then all the way down, turning his feet towards the kitchen and dining hall. The moment he stepped down, he heard them: wild chatters, chaotic stories, laughter. Immediately, a smile made his cheeks stretch out. It was almost painful, how unaccustomed his face was to creating this motion. He reached his free hand to his lips, traced at their chapped skin. What on earth did he look like? More of a beast, untamed and wild, than a dapper man who owned a musical instrument shop?
The Duke paused before reaching the doorway of the dining hall, leaning his heavy head against the wall just outside. Within, he could hear Marina Blackwater speaking in a voice much too loud for the breakfast table.
“And that’s when—boom! The rabbit realised he was in the kitchen, about to be cooked! So, he took off, jumping out of the black pot and hopping over the chef’s head, all the way out the window and back to the garden!” Marina said, giggling.
“What? How did he get out the window!” Lottie cried.
“He jumped, silly. Marina just said so,” Christopher offered. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid!” Lottie screeched.
“Hey! We need to be quiet,” Claudia murmured. “Ms Hodgins said that we could expect Father at any time. It�
��s imperative that we be on our best behaviour, lest he changes his mind about Marina …”
“I thought you said we should call her Ms Blackwater?” Max asked, his words tentative.
“Oh, please don’t call me that,” Marina pleaded. “That sounds far too much like my horrible sister-in-laws, or my mother herself…”
“You don’t like your mother?” Lottie asked.
“She never really loved me the way your mother loved you,” Marina affirmed. “Unfortunately. “I always wanted her to. I tried my very hardest to be on my best behaviour. To show her that I could be just as good as my older brothers and sisters. But I was the youngest of eight, and she more or less forgot about me.”
There was silence at the table. The Duke felt his own heart grow heavy. For this tale—of a mother disliking, or feeling completely ambivalent about her child—was one very much familiar to him, as his own mother hadn’t had a significant passion for mothering. He hadn’t been read a single fairytale book. He hadn’t been offered a hand after he could walk on his own. “You must tear through this world without pause, without aid,” his mother had scolded him when he’d once wept that she wouldn’t lift him up. “It cannot be me, and it cannot be anyone else, either.”
“That’s so sad,” Claudia said.
The Duke knew that his children were a bit soft, from the heavy loving of Marybeth. Why couldn’t he lend them that love? Certainly, he felt it bubbling inside him, ever so fiery—a near-constant feeling that left him nearly unable to breathe, sometimes.
In the silence that followed, the Duke hustled back down the hallway, then allowed his feet to fall heavy—alerting his children he was coming. Lottie let out a wild, “SHHHH! Father’s coming!” which made his stomach grow tense. Was she truly so frightened of him that she felt she had to verbalise this in such a way—as if stating that a storm was on its way?
But he huffed forward, appearing in the doorway. He clacked his cane across the floorboards, bowing his head in greeting. “Good morning,” he said. “I trust that each of you slept well.”
He’d decided not to mention their little escapade, in which they’d listened to his violin music outside his door. It was better to move forward, forgive, he assumed. Especially in this case, as he’d decided to keep this strange governess.
He couldn’t validate precisely why he’d allowed it.
None of his children spoke. The Duke perched on his chair at the head of the table. From the side door, the cook shuffled out, plopping a pot of what smelled of spicy sausages near the Duke’s seat.
“Mornin’, Duke,” she said, her voice soft. It seemed that her normally chipper voice was held back, perhaps due to the fact that she’d heard of the Duke’s lashing-out anger the previous evening. The Duke suspected that nothing in the house could go unrecognised.
“It smells absolutely delicious,” he offered.
“Thank you, my Duke,” the cook said. She plopped several sausages onto his plate, then moved on to the children and Marina. Each of them thanked her with a soft voice, trying to fall below the radar.
The Duke’s nostrils flared at each muttering. He so wanted the children to return to the banter they’d had together with Marina, when he’d been outside the door. As he prepared to speak, however, the cook arrived back with eggs, with biscuits, with butter and marmalade.
She poured a splash of tea and milk into the Duke’s mug, and the Duke tasted it—allowing the sweetness to trickle across his tongue. With this sip, one of his children sprung forward, grabbing something atop one of the platters. The movement was so frantic that the Duke let out a volatile laugh.
But at this laugh, everyone grew still. The Duke could almost envision it: one of his children, poised, with a biscuit in his or her hand. He flicked his wrist, waving to the movement. “Just because I can’t see you, doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re doing.” He paused, making his eyes squint. Although he couldn’t see anything at all, he spoke, “I know just who you are.”
“Who!” Lottie cried out, from the other side of the table.
The children erupted in laughter, tossing their bodies against their chairs in a way that made the table quake. The Duke joined with them, snickering so that his shoulders shook. “Hmm. Well. I can’t imagine that any of you forgot your mother’s rules of waiting for approval before reaching for any food on the table … Did you?”
No one spoke. Speaking would give one of them away as the perpetrator. It was now a game, one in which the Duke was meant to guess. He pressed his finger against his nose, playacting so that his face contorted this way and that. At this moment, his heart felt so light, it fluttered up into his throat.
“Marina?” the Duke began.
“Yes, Sir?” Marina asked, her own voice guarded. Of course, she hadn’t a reason to trust him, yet. Their only interactions had been lined with anger.
“Marina, I want to ask you. Are you willing to give over the name of the one of my children who’s done this wretched deed?”
“Absolutely not, sir,” Marina said. “I would rather die than give over the name. In fact—” She paused for a long moment before making a big show of standing, forcing her chair to screech, and then reaching out over the table.
The Duke’s acute hearing found her fingers over another biscuit, scraping at the buttery exterior, before plopping it on her own plate.
“In fact, I feel it’s only right to stand in solidarity with this young soldier and ensure that nobody goes down alone,” Marina offered.
Lottie let out a wild screech of approval before diving into another bout of giggles. The Duke felt his own smile crinkling up. He folded his fingers together, placing them against his chin. “Is that right, my dear?” he asked.
“It is quite right, my Duke,” Marina offered.
“My, my. How remarkably brave you are,” the Duke said. He was generally astounded, having never encountered a woman of such low class ramming her head against his rules, again and again, like a bull seeing red.
Another of the children stretched forward, gripping a biscuit. Then another. Then, finally, Lottie scampered up from her chair, standing atop it and reaching for the final one. She tittered to her father—with all the love of a girl who couldn’t possibly know better—“I’m sorry Papa!” before falling back to her chair, making it creak.
And so, now all of the children and the governess herself sat with buttery, flaky biscuits atop their plates. The tension in the room was mighty. Yet, in response, the Duke stretched out his hand, beckoning towards the centre platter. “Now, there’s nothing ruder than leaving the last item on the platter. What would the cook think if we didn’t finish it?” He paused, beaming out at his children. “Who would like to do the honours of handing me the very last one?”
“I will, Father.” Christopher lurched forward, despite his bum leg and his wheelchair, and gripped the last biscuit. He brought the morsel to his father’s hand, dropped it on his palm, and then flung back. The Duke gripped the biscuit, knowing, now, who had been the one to take the first. He turned his head towards the far end of the table, where, he knew now, Max sat—awaiting, silent.
“Max. Do you know how best to take a biscuit?” the Duke asked.
Poor little Max, quivering, unfortunate Max, whispered, “With butter and marmalade, Sir.”
The Duke sat for a moment, turning the biscuit around and around in his hands. He could feel his children tossing eye contact at one another, trying to figure out what would happen next. Would he reprimand Max for breaking the rules? Would he yell at Marina once more since she was so unable to reel the children in?
But instead, he dropped the biscuit on his plate, directly alongside the sausages. He gestured to his children with two revolving hands, shrugging his shoulders. “Now, if one of you could manage to butter up my biscuit, add some marmalade, I think we can begin eating. Don’t you? I’m absolutely famished.”
