Beauty went back to kneading the dough and dragged forth her voice. “I—I may have received a proposal of marriage.”
“What!” The shrieks and cries from her sisters rang in the small space.
“Who? When? Did you say yes? Did you accept?” Frederica slapped her hand onto the table in excitement. Elizabeth was still, her eyes focused on Beauty.
“I haven’t yet in person, but I will, as soon as I return to the Castle.”
“Wait, you are going back? I thought you said the duke forgave the debt?” Frederica furled her brows.
“He did, but he is sending a carriage in two weeks for me. And I want to go, to meet with, to be with . . .” Her face grew scalding. “The man I will marry.” She looked down.
“Who is . . . ?” Frederica prompted.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. What fool talk is this? Who is this man?”
“Is it one of the footmen? Or the gardeners?” Elizabeth’s head was cocked, and her eyes glittered mockingly. “Tell us it isn’t one of the tenant farmers, Beauty.”
“All you need know is he is a good man, and that I shall accept him.” She held back a smile and re-floured her rolling pin.
“Why won’t you tell us who, Beauty? Is he some horrible undesirable?”
“He must be.” Elizabeth’s voice was dry. “Else she would say.”
“It is only that I haven’t received his reply yet, his assurance he received my letter and our understanding is established. Once it is settled, I will tell all. And invite you to the wedding.”
“And how will we get to a wedding in Northampton if you are going there for him?”
Beauty rolled the dough, readying it for scones. “One thing I will say, he is well able to provide for me, and our future children.” Her cheeks heated again, but she could not keep the smile off her face or the laugh out of her voice.
Frederica wheedled and whined, and Elizabeth walked away stiffly, but Beauty kept silent with a secret smile on her face.
***
She brought a basket of the fresh greens of the season to the Owenses. Mrs. Owens gave her a long, motherly hug.
“Is all well here?” Beauty asked.
“Much better! So much better.” Mrs. Owens smiled her wide smile. “You went to work for the duke, and all. ‘E who we thought was so cruel? ‘E sent a man who removed young Mr. Mitchell from his place and put a new one in. The over-charging, you know, turns out Mr. Mitchell was pocketing the extra! ‘E’s been arrested! Near broke old Mr. Mitchell’s heart. But oh, such great change for the better since the new steward. And so quick. Our roof's fixed. The floodgate's repaired.” Mrs. Owens’s smile lit her whole face and crinkled the edges of her eyes.
“And the duke returned what was overcharged. We got money given back! Can you believe it?”
Beauty’s heart sang. “I’m so glad! I can believe it, Mrs. Owens. I’ve met the duke now, and he has been nothing but kind to me.”
“Oh?”
“And to all those under him at the castle,” Beauty hastened to add. “I do believe he is a good man, despite all. I’m so glad to see he is making things right.”
“And how is working in the duke’s castle?” Mrs. Owens eyed her. “You’re serving the duchess, I hear? The whole village has been agog at all the franked letters your father has gotten.”
“I am content.” Beauty kept it vague and tried to dampen her blush. “Has Will Grant been seen in these parts lately?” Beauty attempted nonchalance, but her face grew hotter still.
Mrs. Owens wiped her hands on her apron, and her lips quirked. “Yes, a few weeks ago, passing through ‘e said. Now that’s a nice young lad, there. A lass could do worse than Will Grant. A big man like that, ‘e can provide for you.”
“I’ve seen him in Northampton. He lives in that area most of the year.”
“May we be hearing more of that, then?” Mrs. Owens smiled and winked.
“You just might.“ Beauty grinned and looked down, unable to control the joy on her face.
***
“Papa, I have much to tell you.”
She had waited with anticipation until the day she judged him well enough to have this conversation.
“Tell me, my Beauty. How was the castle, truly? And how was the duke?”
“Father, he has told me he loves me and has asked me to marry him.”
“What is this?” His eyes widened. “Tell me all.”
So she did, beginning with Will, who turned out to be William the duke in disguise, and she shared the letter with her father.
“I am relieved. And in some ways, only a little surprised.”
“Only a little? I am shocked. I did not think he cared so much, nor that he would consider a poor girl like me.”
“I knew his interest was in you from the beginning, when I first clipped that rose. He did not care about my other daughters, only you.”
“Oh.” She clasped her hands in front of her.
“He has done much for us, and I do believe it was all for you.”
“Then you will not object, Father, when I say yes to his proposal of marriage?”
“How can I? He has treated you with kindness.”
“He has, he really has!”
“I am glad to know now how you came to his attention. Traveling Will Grant, the duke. I had been thinking he must have seen you in London before the troubles began. But you were so young then.”
“No, we met here in North Lenton.”
“Will he make you happy? As a man? Not as a duke, for any woman wants to be a duchess. But in marriage . . .”
“I do believe he will. Oh, Father, I love him.”
“Well, then. I shall lose you again, my Beauty, but this time, with my blessing.”
Beauty’s heart was full.
Chapter 19
The night before she was to leave, they stayed up too late playing games and talking. Father laughed and clapped his hands.
They played charades and whist, sang uproarious songs, and drank a little too much of the elderberry wine saved from last autumn.
“Oh, I’m getting tired.” Beauty yawned.
“It is only eleven at night, Beauty. I just passed the clock and know for sure. And you are leaving me tomorrow,” Frederica said with exaggerated, pleading eyes. “Let’s continue our game!”
Beauty blinked. It felt much later than that. But as it wasn’t midnight yet, they were fine to continue their party.
Worry ate at the back of her mind. She’d written several letters to the duchess, and one—only one, daring letter—to the duke, but no answering letters had arrived from them. Yes, she was only gone a month . . . but at least one should have reached her. Her letters to her family posted from the castle had reached here with little trouble, had they not?
She pushed the worry aside and focused again on the diverting game they were playing.
Much later, it felt, the clock chimed the half hour. Still not yet midnight. Well, they could stay up late. Beauty could sleep in the carriage. That would be much nicer than to be awake for the hours of travel.
They played several more rounds of whist, using farthing-stakes. Beauty enjoyed unusual luck, winning several rounds.
When their father declared it far too late and sent them all to bed, she stumbled upstairs with blurry, blinking eyes. Yes, they had stayed up late, but why was she quite this exhausted?
Her sisters kept chatting even later into the night. Frederica told her of the squire’s son who had caught her eye, and Elizabeth wanted to hear, again, and in the greatest detail Beauty could provide, what the latest fashions from London were like, and what the duchess wore this season. She even ran out the room and fetched the outdated lady’s magazines they had, so Beauty could point out differences.
As the clock tolled one, Beauty fell into a heavy sleep, her sisters still talking.
A dream disturbed her rest, dark and foreboding, ano
ther where she wandered lost down endless twisting paths, seeking, always seeking someone. And always alone.
Thorny rose briars surrounded her on every side, the flower-heads colorless, the petals shriveled and drooping.
Where was he? She was so worried. Was it her father she sought?
No. No. It was William. Her Will. Where was he? He was in danger. He needed her.
She began to run, briers slashing at her exposed face and hands, her feet hampered by mud, her sodden skirts slowing her down. Still she ran, searching for him. Calling for him.
Horses’ hooves clopped, adding urgency. If she could get to the horses, she could get to him.
But she could not find the horses.
The sound faded and she fell into deeper sleep.
William!
She sat bolt up in bed, her heart racing.
The clock downstairs chimed seven times.
The room was dim, only a little sunlight seeped through the cracks of the shuttered and curtained windows. It was morning, was it not? Why so little light?
Her head felt muddled. Achy.
She had stayed up far too late the night before. And that dream. Such a plaguing, worrisome dream. She should have had happy dreams last night, for today she was going home to her William. Even though he had not written her since she had arrived, soon she would be able to tell him in person that she would marry him.
She was going to William. A jolt of joy roused her from the bed, and she hurried to the dim windows. She threw back the heavy curtains and frowned.
Several wooden boards leaned against the window, blocking the morning light from entering.
She tugged at one, and sunlight streamed in. She moved another and uncovered the window.
Outside was full daylight. The sun was . . . rather high in the sky. So high, it did not look to be early morning. It did not look to be seven o’clock. It must be later.
A strange numbness settled over her heart. Nervous tension disturbed her stomach.
No, this could not be . . . What was this? She did not know. She must withhold judgment. She needed more information.
She dressed with hands that insisted on shaking.
She walked down the stairs and studied the grandfather clock. It was ticking, fully wound, and the hands clearly pointed to a quarter past seven.
The carriage would come for her at nine. The time had been set, and the weather was fair.
She ought to have plenty of time to eat breakfast, gather her packed baggage, and say farewell to her family. Because it ought to be fifteen past seven.
Beauty walked out of her room, her insides shaking. Her father emerged from his room at the same time.
“Ah, Beauty! Good morning. I do believe I overdid it last night. Not feeling quite the thing this morning.”
“What time is it, Father?”
“Why, the clock chimed seven just a while ago, it’s what got me up and moving.”
“I do not think it is correct in the time,” she said, her voice dead in her ears.
She turned and descended the stairs then walked straight out the front door.
The sun was high in the sky. Eleven in the morning, at least. Not quite noon. But seven it was not.
Michael walked outside from the stable, looking tired. “The cow is sick and I’m having trouble with her.” He blinked around blurrily. “Wait, Beauty, shouldn’t your carriage have arrived by now?”
“Beauty! You are up! And you are staying!” Little Edmund ran to her and threw his arms around her. “I’m so glad you changed your mind!”
“What are you talking about, Edmund?”
“I was in the village when the duke’s carriage passed by, and Elizabeth and Frederica met it, and said you had changed your mind and would be staying here. I didn’t know you had changed your mind, but—“
“What?” Her voice came out strangled and soft. A cacophony of alarm rang inside her.
“Didn’t you tell them to refuse the carriage?”
“No, no, I didn’t.” She shook her head.
“What, Beauty’s staying? What’s this?” Father came outside and stood beside her.
“Ah, Isabelle. You are awake.” Elizabeth emerged from beyond the gate, her bonnet on her head, gloves on her hands, looking trim and beautiful, with a wicked gleam in her eyes. Frederica followed behind, biting her lip and looking worried.
“What did you do?” Beauty pulled the words out of herself.
“Oh!” Frederica pressed her hands to her cheeks. “The carriage is gone, Beauty, we sent it away—“
“Frederica! Silence!” Elizabeth ordered.
“No, it’s done. You can’t hide it further, Elizabeth. We told them you’d changed your mind. And we turned back the clock.” Frederica spoke quickly. “It was quite clever, really. Elizabeth came up with most of it, but I thought to block the window in the bedroom so the light wouldn’t wake you.”
“Why?” Beauty’s throat was a choked knot.
Frederica’s eyes widened, and her words came quickly. “Beauty, I know you think yourself in love with this crippled country bumpkin who’s asked you to marry him, this Will Grant person, but we need you more here. We do, Beauty. I need you, ever so much.” She clasped her hands together in front of her chest and took two steps towards Beauty, looking on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry we’ve made you unhappy, but all will be well, all will be better. You can stay home now that the duke’s released you. You don’t need to go back!” She searched Beauty’s face, her breaths quick. “Oh, Beauty, don’t look at me like that!”
Father stepped forward, brows furled. “What is all this? Frederica, it is the duke that has asked Beauty to marry him.”
“The duke? But, Elizabeth said . . . ?” Frederica’s eyes went wide and horrified.
“Yes, the duke.” Elizabeth spoke, her tones ice hard. “A duke! Offering for Beauty! Declaring his love!” Her face twisted, her words spat. “But I’ve put an end to it.” Her face cleared, became a smooth, beautiful mask once more, a small smile on her lips.
The trembling affected Beauty’s lungs. She could not get enough air. “How did you know, Elizabeth? I didn’t tell you. I told no one but Father.” Too soft, her voice was coming out too soft.
“I’ve known from the day after you came home.” Elizabeth tilted her head up, the smart feather in her bonnet swaying. “I spotted the letter you keep so close to you. I read it. And I’ve read this.” She pulled a stack of letters from her spencer jacket bodice. “And this! And this!”
Beauty snatched the letters from Elizabeth’s hands.
“Thornewick Castle has received none of your letters. I’ve intercepted them all.” She brushed dust from her gloves, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
With trembling hands, Beauty shuffled through the letters. All hers that she had written this month—the three to the duchess and the one, all important one, to William—were opened. They were never sent. Elizabeth had stopped them. Had read them.
And several that were received—two from the duchess addressed to Beauty, franked by William’s dear, masculine signature, and two from the duke, sent from London, addressed to her father. They were all opened.
“Father, these are yours.” Beauty handed them to him.
Her father opened one, scanned the sheet rapidly. “It is from the duke. Asking for my permission to marry you.”
The lump in Beauty’s throat tightened.
“The duke loves her, he says.” Elizabeth’s voice was mocking. “The poor, crippled duke.”
Frederica’s face went from horror as she heard her older sister’s words to crumpled misery. Tears ran down her face. “Oh, Beauty, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—I shouldn’t have—!”
“But Elizabeth,” Michael said, his face aghast, “if Beauty married the duke, all of our problems would be solved. Why would you interfere?”
“Ugly little Beauty to marry a duke!” Vitriol twisted Elizabe
th’s beautiful face. “To be a duchess, when I am—I am wearing worked over rags! I should have a duke! Me! I was to marry the nobleman! I should have married Lord Humphries, but he never would come up to scratch!” Her words became screams. “The money is gone! I am wasted, wasted! She shall not marry a duke! She shall not, she will not!”
“You ought to be horsewhipped.” Michael stepped forward, his body rigid with anger, his arm raised.
“Do not touch me!” Elizabeth shrieked.
Beauty turned from her sister’s tirade and ran away.
Chapter 20
Beauty ran half-blind around the house and through the gate into the kitchen garden.
She stumbled on the stone path, scuffed her toes. What to do, what could she do?
It was done. And she was bereft.
It was seventy miles, two days’ journey to the duke’s castle. And the carriage was long gone, her sisters had assured of that. A sob rose up in her throat.
She paced the stone path in front of the kitchen garden. Wild, agitated, grief-stricken, and worried.
Her dream of last night haunted her: of William lost, William in danger, and she not being able to reach him.
Her last dream had been true for her father, had it not?
What if William was in danger?
That ominous postscript. That he might “wither up and die” without her. Foolish, foolish thing to write. Of course he wouldn’t die.
But disquiet lodged in her throat and choked off her air.
Even if he was fine—as he should be, perfectly hale and hearty—she . . . she wanted to be with him.
She wanted William! Her heart called out for him. Cried for him.
A sob rose, and she sank to her knees. The damp earth chilled her skirt and reached her legs, sending a shudder through her.
She stared down at her hands. A month working at home in the kitchen and the garden had roughened them again. She wasn’t a proper person to be a duchess anyway, would never be.
She covered her face with her hands, drew in shaking breaths. Not even tears would come.
She opened her eyes.
A thin start of a plant was before her, with a few offshoots, light new growth, and a single small, dark-colored bud. She blinked at it, focused, and saw what was before her.
Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4) Page 13
