It was her rose. The bare-stripped stem had taken root. It was growing. There it was, almost impossible, a single dark purple bud, perfect in its early shape, on the edge of opening. So early in the season, so unexpected from this young growth. It spoke of such promise.
A warmth traveled over her from the top of her head down to her soaked knees. If this poor rose could thrive, could have such hope, so could she.
She stood, bunched up her skirts, and ran past her still-arguing family, through the door and up the stairs.
She rifled her trunk, loaded up her portmanteau with the necessities, pulled on two more petticoats, her roughest work dress over the traveling dress she still wore, and donned two layers of her warmest stockings. It was getting warm in the middle of the day, but she’d need them in the night.
She pulled out the duke’s driving cloak and his scarf. She still had them. She wrapped them around herself.
She ran downstairs, the cloak dragging, and raided the basket in the kitchen she had filled with food for the journey the day before, taking only what could fit in saddlebags.
She tied on her bonnet then went to the pasture.
Phillip, their horse of all trades—plow-horse, riding horse, their only horse—munching on grass, placidly allowed her to bridle him, and lead him back to the stable. She was glad he didn’t make her catch him.
She saddled him with their only saddle and filled the saddle bags with all that would fit.
Her family did not leave her alone for long.
“Beauty, what are you doing?”
“You can’t possibly?”
She put her foot in the stirrup, and—to her sisters’ gasps of horror— pulled up her skirts and mounted him astride.
“Beauty! What do you think you are doing?” Elizabeth screeched.
“We don’t have a side saddle!” Frederica’s voice was scandalized.
The stirrups were too long for her legs. Her feet slipped from the one, and her right wasn’t able to find the other.
Oh, well. She could use her knees like a man, could she not? She kicked Phillip’s flank with her heels and got him moving. She couldn’t slow or they would stop her. She wouldn’t let them.
“Goodbye to you all.”
“Beauty, what on earth?” Her father sounded bewildered.
She encouraged Phillip into a trot. “Father, I love you!” she called back.
“Where are you going?” Father called.
“Thornewick!”
“Go, Beauty, go!” Charlie waved his hat and whooped.
“Stop, Beauty!” Michael called.
“Stop her, Michael, stop her! She’s mad!” Frederica cried.
Her brothers ran after, but she had the only horse, and she soon outpaced them.
***
She got a mile or two before the lack of stirrups became too much. With an unladylike curse, she groped for the left stirrup, got her foot into it, and slid off, landing ungracefully.
She munched on cheese—having missed breakfast—and shortened the stirrups. There was no way to know if they were the right length now without giving it a try.
She led Phillip to a low stone wall and used it to remount, glad for the strength hard work had developed in her, plus the month of riding she’d had at Thornewick.
Yes, the stirrups were a bit too short now, but it was better than it had been before. She huffed with frustration and kept going.
People who passed her on the road either averted their eyes at her unseemly display of ankle and calf or stared rudely. She kept her eyes straight ahead and encouraged Phillip to maintain a trot.
She was just a strange country bumpkin of a young woman, of no note at all, ignore her, ignore her . . .
She heard rapid hoof beats and the rattle of wheels behind her.
”Beauty! Isabelle!”
She turned at her name. A man in a dogcart with a single horse hitched was fast approaching. It was Michael.
He had the Owenses’ cart and their horse Petunia.
Beauty turned her face away from him and tried to urge Phillip back into a canter, but he was fatigued and refused. He kept up a walk. He was not a young horse anymore.
Michael caught up, the mare’s sides heaving.
”I am not going back, Michael!” She kept her eyes straight ahead, focused on her goal.
“Peace, I’m not here to take you back.”
She shot him a sharp glance. “Good. Because you would not be able to. I would go on foot if I had to.”
“You might just. Phillip is flagging.”
“And poor Petunia isn’t?”
“Join me in the cart, Beauty. Let’s stop scandalizing the county. I’ll drive you. Can’t go seventy miles by yourself. Not safe.”
Mixed feelings rushed through her, but the predominant one was relief. “Very well, then.”
She slid off once again, muscles unused to such treatment complaining. She tied Phillip to the back of the cart and climbed aboard, Michael assisting her.
Once they were on the road again, Michael asked, “Do you have any money?”
“No.”
“Where were you going to sleep tonight?”
“Hidden off the road.”
“You’ve never slept outside in your life.”
“Because it’s a first does not mean it’s impossible.” She sniffed.
He sighed. “I’ve got enough blunt for a room in an inn. Though not much else.”
Another relief. Though she had been willing to sleep outside, she had not relished the thought.
“And not enough to change out the horses on the way. We’ll need to go slow enough to keep the horses from expiring.”
“I’ve realized.”
Tense quiet stretched.
“You going to thank me for coming?”
Her body released much of the tension she had been carrying, and tears pricked her eyes. “Thank you, Michael. You are a relief and a blessing.”
***
With Michael driving, Beauty pulled out the letters from the duchess that Elizabeth had kept from her.
Despite being dictated to and written down by Lady Judith, the words contained kindness and a hint of mischief, their character just as the duchess herself was.
The duke, the duchess informed her, had wandered the castle aimlessly for several days, and then resolved to go to London and “do his duty as regards to Parliament. He dislikes all the posturing and politics, so he must truly be in need of something to occupy his time. He plans to be back before you return to the castle next month, dearest Beauty.”
Beauty clasped the letters to her chest after she had read them and cried.
“Are they so bad?” Michael looked at her, bewildered.
“No! These are tears of—hope! And distress.”
***
William exited his carriage without waiting for the footman to lower the step and raced up the grand entrance of Thornewick Castle. He flung the doors open, hitting the footman who had attempted to open them for him. The servant let out an umph.
“Forgive me, lad.” William absently apologized to him. “Is she here, is she here?” William scanned the grand entry, knowing his eyes looked wild. It was a few hours past when she should have arrived at the castle, if she had been picked up as planned on the thirteenth and there had been no delays.
William had not left London promptly. He hadn’t wanted to cool his heels awaiting her at the castle. But he had put off the trip too long, and had spent the journey from London in miseries thinking she’d arrive to find him not home. And on pins and needles with excitement that she might be there, waiting for him.
There had been no letters. Absolutely none. Even accounting for the post being forwarded to London from Thornewick, her letters should have found him.
“Her carriage has not yet arrived, Your Grace.” Collins the butler looked ruffled.
Disappointment swept through William. He sway
ed, then he broke into rapid steps, heading to the stairs.
“Would you not like to greet your mother, sir?” Collins called. William didn’t answer. “Would you like refreshment from your journey?”
“A tray to my rooms, Collins!”
He headed up to his tower and it’s fantastic view of the countryside.
He would be the first to know when she arrived.
***
William sat in his tower, the wind ruffling his hair at his nape and threatening to unseat his hat, watching the gatehouse through his second best telescope, the brass eyepiece pressed to his good eye.
He’d been there several hours. They should be arriving any moment. Any moment now.
The ride from London had been interminable. So had being in London, no matter that the Season was in full swing. The lady he wished to dance attendance on wasn't there.
A carriage turned into the entrance at the gatehouse. Was it his carriage? There! His crest!
He watched it, excitement bubbling inside him, snapping through his taut nerves.
He fought back a chill. Why was it so cold up here? It was spring.
He shivered. Was he getting ill? No matter. He had no time for such things. He kept his eye to the telescope. He could not make out the inhabitants of the carriage, but surely it was his Beauty finally arriving?
Chapter 21
They only got thirty miles the first day. The next, Phillip started limping. Beauty wondered if she would make better time on foot.
They stabled Phillip with an ostler at the next town and continued with only Petunia, whom the Owens family had kindly lent Michael, along with their dogcart.
It took three days and all of Michael’s funds for them to reach Thornewick village in Northampton.
Finally, the gatehouse of Thornewick Castle came into view. With renewed vigor, they set Petunia to a canter and rounded onto the drive.
Raindrops hit Beauty’s straw bonnet. A storm had been threatening the last few miles, heavy thunderclouds overhead, readying for a downpour.
Michael pulled up on the graveled drive in front of the grand staircase and helped her alight as a stable lad raced over to take Petunia's lead. Beauty straightened her skirts and stared at the imposing staircase. Nerves hit her. After three days travelling in an open carriage, in addition to several hours astride the first day, she was more haggard and dirty than she had been when first coming here to be a scullery maid. What if he took one look at her appearance and changed his mind?
Bedraggled Beauty would not a fine duchess make.
The stable lad looked at her curiously. “Miss Reynolds?”
“Hello, Jemmy. Is the duke at home?”
“Yes, miss. It’s good to see you, miss.”
“Thank you, Jemmy.” She gave him a slight smile and faced the steps.
The foreboding urgency that had spurred her on for the last two days reared up again.
Her recent dreams had been unquiet. Worry plagued her. William had never received any of her letters. All he knew was she refused the carriage. He thought she had refused him.
She needed to reach William. Nothing else mattered.
She took a deep breath and walked up the grand steps with all the dignity she could muster. The storm broke over their heads with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. She and Michael took the rest of the steps at a fast pace.
The butler answered their ring. He frowned at the sight of them but let them in. They stood, dripping, in the imposing entry hall.
“Well. Miss Reynolds.” Mrs. Haskins stood at the top of the stairs. She gave them a cold glare. “I am surprised to see you.”
Beauty tightened her courage and moved forward. “I am sorry for your fruitless journey, Mrs. Haskins, but I am here now. Is the duke at home?”
She descended the stairs. At the bottom, she looked Beauty up and down, her mouth tight. “He is in his rooms and has ordered he not be disturbed.”
“Even by me?”
“He has refused his own mother.”
Beauty winced.
Mrs. Haskins gave a gimlet eye to Michael.
“My brother, Michael Reynolds, Mrs. Haskins. He accompanied me.”
She straightened and gave a perfunctory curtsy. “Ah, very good.”
Beauty looked over all who had gathered at their arrival: the butler, two footmen, and an upstairs maid lingered near, watching.
She was dirty, exhausted, wet and beginning to shiver, tired muscles straining with every movement. But the urgency didn’t leave. She must see him.
She took a determined step forward, her aching muscles protesting. She moved faster.
“Miss Reynolds! He forbade anyone from disturbing him.” Mrs. Haskins followed behind her as Beauty started on the stairs.
“I will chance it.”
“His wrath?”
“Yes.”
She moved rapidly up one flight of stairs, through the corridors, and up two more flights.
She rounded to the door of his tower suite. She banged hard on the door and stood there, listening over the loud pounding of her heart and the thundering of her breathing.
She heard nothing. No answer. She knocked again, with authority, but less haste, and waited.
Nothing.
But he could be anywhere in his rooms, even at the top floor. Or on the roof.
Surely not. No, he couldn’t be on the turret? Not in this storm . . .
Her trailing entourage arrived. Mrs. Haskins, the butler, the servants, and her frowning brother. She had outpaced them.
“What is all this?” Lady Judith arrived on the scene. “Beauty! What a state you are in! What is happening?” To her brother, “Who are you?”
Beauty didn’t allow an answer. “When was the last time any of you set eyes on the duke? Anyone?”
“This morning, when he refused a tray, and threw his shoes at his valet for bothering him.” The maid spoke up.
Beauty grimaced.
“He told him not to return unless rung for.”
“And he hasn’t rung for him?”
“No. And you should know, miss, that he was starting to look unwell in London. And has gotten worse since.”
Worry rose up into her throat. He might be deathly sick in those tower rooms of his, and no one would know because he had thrown them out and told them not to come back.
Beauty tried the handle.
It opened.
“You cannot go in there, young miss!” Mrs. Haskins cried. “Your reputation will be gone!”
“Come with me, then, and it won’t be.”
The servants blanched, but Lady Judith straightened her posture and gave a nod. “I’ll beard the lion in his den.”
“Good,” Beauty said.
“I’m here too,” Michael said.
She opened the door.
The study at the bottom level was a mess of scattered papers, fallen books, and upended chairs. No William.
She headed for the stairs that curved around the tower wall.
"You seem to know your way around the duke’s private rooms rather well, missy,” cousin Judith remarked.
Beauty ignored her.
She called out, “Your Grace? William? Will? It’s Beauty.”
No roaring tirade or thrown shoes answered, but no relieved welcome came either.
She reached the next level, his bedchamber, and advanced into the room. The bed curtains were open, the bedding mussed, clothing strewn around. But he was not there.
To the next stair she went, Michael and Lady Judith following at her heels.
“William! Answer me!” Tears pricked. Her heart hammered.
The highest level, she saw now in the stormy daylight, was a workshop, full of half-carved toys, plants and seedlings, surveying apparatus, multiple telescopes, piles of papers, and more books. It appeared to be a habitual sort of chaos, not showing the recent disorder of the previous levels.
But still no William.
The storm outside howled and rattled the windows. Thunder rumbled.
“Is he not in his rooms and has instead wandered off?” Lady Judith said over the storm.
Beauty pulled on the trapdoor, letting down the narrow stairs to the tower roof.
She rushed up them and opened the hatch to the wild storm outside. Rain whipped into her face. And there, next to a smaller brass telescope, exposed to the elements, was a large, crumpled form, huddled under a stone bench.
“Oh, William!” She rushed to him through the whipping wind and fell to her knees at his side.
He was wrapped in a cloak. She pulled it back from his face, and he flinched.
“Why are you out here, my love? Oh, William.”
His large body shook, and his eyes looked glazed. She gathered him to her and held him.
He blinked up at her through the rain. “B—Beauty? My Beauty?”
“Yes, I’m here, William. I’m here.”
She heard the shouts of the others, calling for help. Then Michael was there. “Here, let’s get him up. We’ve got to get him inside.”
William surged up, stumbled. Beauty caught his arm and moved underneath to steady him. Michael supported him on his other side. With Beauty under one arm and Michael at the other, they helped William move forward to the open hatch door.
The two footmen and butler arrived and caught him as he stumbled down the steep, narrow stairs. Beauty clattered after and was by his side as they helped him down the next two sets of stairs and into his bedchamber.
“We need to strip him of his wet things and get him into bed,” Lady Judith said.
“Beauty, don’t . . . leave.” William’s teeth chattered.
”Go downstairs while we undress him,” Lady Judith ordered.
”But—“ Beauty protested.
“Go, girl. You can come back up when he’s decent and in bed. We need towels. Get towels!” Lady Judith commanded.
Beauty turned with reluctance. Towels. She ran down the stairs, into the hallway, and demanded towels from a harried maid.
When she made it back, towels in arms, she discovered that his valet had towels in his dressing room. It had been an errand only to get rid of her.
Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4) Page 14
