The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “Grandmother tells me that you cannot talk. Is that true?” Kaitlin asked.

  Mary-Anne nodded, pushing a smile to the edges of her lips.

  “My papa told me that people need a tongue to talk. Do you have a tongue?”

  Mary-Anne stuck her tongue out, jokingly.

  “Ew!” Kaitlin giggled and stuck her own tongue out. “You are funny, and I like you,” Kaitlin proudly proclaimed, marching up to Mary-Anne and taking one of her hands. Kaitlin began to lead Mary-Anne on a slow, meandering stroll through the grounds.

  “I am hiding from my music teacher,” Kaitlin said. “He is a nice man, Grandmother says, but he makes me angry.”

  May-Anne looked down to Kaitlin, her eyes inviting the child to continue talking.

  “He makes me sit straight up, and it hurts my back,” Kaitlin said, bouncing her head back and forth. “I just want to sit however I want to sit.”

  You are a special child, Mary-Anne thought, trying to steer the walk back towards the manor. You should do what you want to. Never let them hold you back.

  “Grandmother says that I am not ladylike,” Kaitlin went on, confiding in her new friend with the blind honestly only children can provide. “But I am a Lady!” she said, looking up to Mary-Anne with wide eyes as if she had just come to some epiphany. He held out her long strands of hair in opposite directions and said, “See?”

  Mary-Anne removed her bonnet and mimicked Kaitlin’s action, which caused the child to spit out another bout of giggles.

  “Grandmother is sad because she is too old to teach me how to be a lady,” said Kaitlin. “She says that it is my mother’s job, but my mother is dead, so now it is Papa’s job.”

  Mary-Anne halted, kneeling down to Kaitlin, and gave her a blanketing hug, scooping her up into her arms. What a resilient girl, she thought. She is much like I was.

  Mary-Anne handed the little girl the basket of eggs to hold and began to carry her back to the house. Kaitlin felt important, holding the basket of eggs, and she felt comforted by the kind woman who had come into her life, and so she kept on talking.

  “Papa doesn’t ever talk about Mama,” said Kaitlin. “He doesn’t really talk that much at all.”

  Mary-Anne carried Kaitlin all the way back to the manor. When they walked inside, Betsey rushed up to them.

  “Oh, thank you, Lord!” she said, taking Kaitlin from Mary-Anne. “Where have you been, Lady Kaitlin?” she asked her, bopping Kaitlin on the nose and causing her to chuckle.

  “I was with my new friend!” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  “Thank you, dear,” Betsey said to Mary-Anne.

  * * *

  The Duke had been walking along the hallway on the second floor when he heard the commotion of Kaitlin’s re-entry. He stopped there, at the top of the stairs, and looked down to see what was what.

  Neil watched the servant Emily hand his daughter to Betsey. Her wrists bent ever so gently, and the light fell attractively across her dress. There was a certain tenderness that Neil could see in the way she held Kaitlin. She was silent, yet full of grace, and her wink of a smile towards Kaitlin caused Neil to conceal a small smile of his own.

  There was a subtle level of attraction, pulling his eyes to her, but he did not recognize it, for he suppressed his feelings of romance so intensely. He had locked them away in a vault and thrown the key, yet the arrival of this mysterious woman had shone a light down into the darkness, highlighting the bronze handle of the forgotten tool.

  Perhaps, there is more merit to this woman than meets the eye.

  Chapter 8

  “I have to go,” Oliver whispered, shifting his body on the straw.

  “Stay,” Lucy whispered back, rolling over in an attempt to pin Oliver to the hay bales.

  “Oh, believe me,” he said, kissing her gently. “I wish I could.”

  “You can,” she said.

  “I can’t,” he said, rising suddenly so that she slid with a sharp laugh into the hay. He vaulted to his feet, reaching quickly for their clothes that were draped across a post. “We start construction today, and I fear I may already be late.”

  “You were already late,” Lucy said, throwing her garments back into place.

  “I know,” he grinned. “My uncle will be fixing to plant me a facer.”

  “Well then hurry back to me, and I shall make it all better,” she said, drawing close to him again, running her hands through his ever so lightly.

  “I shall not hesitate,” said Oliver, and leaned in for another kiss before turning like a whirlwind and rushing down the creek as fast as his legs could carry him.

  He was drastically late. By the time he arrived at the old warehouse down by the river, people were hard at work. The building, abandoned some years ago, was a simple brick construction with space for a wooden roof and multiple floors within.

  All the wood had rotted away, and the collapse of several trees nearby in the past years had seen extensive damage to the brick walls. The old warehouse had stood near the edge of the Arnold’s property for what seemed like ages, and now it was being thrown back into use.

  “Mr. Hanson, how good of you to join us,” Mr. Marton barked out. As groundskeeper, he was in charge of the warehouse’s renovations and assigned jobs to each of the day laborers.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Marton,” Oliver called back, jogging up to the construction site. “Got here as fast as I could.”

  “One day your wit and your mouth will disagree, Mr. Hanson, and I daresay it shall not be a kind day to you,” Mr. Marton said, looking the lad up and down. “Go and find your cousins, yonder,” he gestured to the far side of the building. “They are laying brick and could do kindly with your blessed appearance.”

  “Yes, sir,” Oliver said, giving Mr. Marton a wink as he jogged away. Marton cracked a smile as the young man left him. What a rake he will become, he thought and stifled himself a snort of laughter.

  The workers, all of whom were tenant farmers on the Duke of Rutland’s estate, worked for hours. They cleaned fallen branches from the site, laid new brick, chipped away the old, disintegrating mortar, and sawed planks for floors.

  Mr. Marton checked his pocket watch about two o’clock and called a break for the workers. Everyone took to the shade, splashed their faces in the creek, and ate stale lumps of bread.

  “What are we working on?” Oliver said, sinking down into the grass. “It is blistering work.”

  “Where were you this morning, Oliver?” Uncle Robert said, planting himself beside Oliver with a grunt. The grass was cool beneath them. “Mr. Marton told us all about it on our way here. The Duke bought this piece of property, added it to the estate. Now we are fixing up this old warehouse to send wool downriver.”

  “I overslept,” Oliver said, leaning back and kicking off his boots, flexing his blistered, calloused toes in the breeze.

  “More like slept over, eh?” cousin Mark laughed, walking past. Oliver kicked out at him playfully, and Mark stumbled into the river, splashing up to his knees.

  “Watch your step there, cousin,” Oliver said.

  “You best watch your own,” Uncle Robert said, breaking off a piece of bread with a loud, crackling snap. “You were with that woman? The baker’s daughter?”

  “Lucy,” cousin John said from behind them.

  “Is there no such thing as privacy?” Oliver said, leaning his head back to look at his cousin.

  “Not in the cottages,” Mark said, dragging himself out of the river and splashing up at Oliver, who rolled over laughing.

  “She is a fine woman,” Robert said. “But why is my young nephew the one who is most interested in these things? Mark, you should be married, and John, you should have children by now. We farmers do not live as long as the landlords.” Robert looked up and down at his sons, giving them raised eyebrows, saying “hmm?”

  “Yes, Mark, where are your children?” Oliver said, and Robert boxed him on the ear.

  “Do you love this woman?” he asked.


  “I suppose,” Oliver said, leaning on one elbow. “Although I had not thought about it.”

  “Well,” Robert said, breaking off more bread. “Perhaps I shall speak to our friend the baker then.” All the boys started cooing playfully at Oliver, who blushed and grinned until they were all interrupted by Mr. Marton’s call to work, and so they continued

  The project was a large one, and so they all retired for the day on Mr. Marton’s command, about an hour before sundown. Everyone, save Oliver, had been there when the sun had risen, and were anxious to return to their cottages for some kind of hot meal and cold ale.

  They climbed up into large oxen-pulled wagons and made the slow migration back to the village along the creek that fed into the river.

  “What is that?” Uncle Robert said, pointing to a dark smear on the horizon.

  “Say, what is it?” some of the other workers began to chime in as they drew nearer.

  At a certain point, it became clear to everyone, including Mr. Marton, just what it was occurring.

  “Fire!” Mr. Marton shouted. “Fire in the village!”

  The scene was utter chaos between the cottages. Three houses were on fire, and the flames leapt sporadically from the thatch roofs, looking greedily for another purchase anywhere else. The bell from the chapel was ringing out, and scared villagers ran about, forming a loose fireman’s line to the creek. Bucket after bucket of water splashed into the inferno, but seemingly to no avail.

  * * *

  Neil watched in horror from his favorite room as the village below the manor burned. It had first appeared to him as some sort of reflection, and he had glanced around the room to see which lamp may be causing the orange glow in the window before him.

  He soon saw, however, that it was no reflection or even an optical trick. There was a full-scale fire in the village, and it terrified him.

  “Mr. Marton!” he screamed, marching through his house. “Mr. Marton!”

  “He is down at the cottages, Your Grace,” Thomas said, appearing.

  “Dash it all asunder,” Neil said. “Get down there, have everyone brought to the ballroom.”

  “The ballroom, Your Grace?” Thomas looked confused.

  “It is the only space big enough for everyone,” Neil said. “Go, man! To it now! Go!” he waved Thomas out, who took off for the cottages as fast as he could.

  “Ruth!” Neil shouted, raising all the servants. “Ruth!”

  “Your Grace?” she asked, wiping the dreams from her eyes.

  “Linens, towels, pillows, anything we have. Bring them to the ballroom, immediately!”

  “Yes, Your Grace, but what is going on? She asked, hesitantly, knowing not to question The Duke but also not knowing what she was doing.

  “The village is on fire!” he shouted and rushed through the glob of servants to find his daughter and Grandmother. He walked with a spring in his step moving with a purpose like he had not felt since his days in the army, where any moment could mean life and death.

  Neil found Kaitlin looking aghast out of her window at the flames dancing on the night’s horizon.

  “Papa,” she said. “What is that?”

  “It is fire, sweet thing,” he picked her up and began to carry her down the hall. “I must go and deal with it, alright? But I need you to do something for me. Can you do it?” Kaitlin bobbed her head in a sleepy agreement. “Good,” he said, reaching Phyllis’ room.

  “What is all the commotion, Neil?” Phyllis asked, sitting up in bed. Mary-Anne was alert beside her and moved to take Kaitlin from the Duke when he offered her.

  “You are going to stay here with Grandmother and Emily, understand?” Kaitlin blinked again and agreed.

  “Neil, what the devil is the matter?” Phyllis pressed again, but he was up and out of the room, running back down the stairs to the parlor.

  Neil ran through the front door and saw that Thomas was already leading a straggle of villagers up to the manor while the village burned on behind them. They passed by him one by one as they entered through the door, some reaching out a hand to say, “Thank you, Your Grace.” Once inside, Thomas and Ruth showed people to the ballroom, where towels and linens had lain across the cool tile, and people took a respite from the falling night.

  Neil caught Mr. Marton on his way in, and asked, “What happened down there?”

  “I am at a loss, Your Grace,” he said, wiping his brow. “It seems one of the cottages caught fire, but it spread so quickly. We endeavored to extinguish it quickly, but it would not be put down. It only kept on keeping, until we were forced to surrender it.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “I do not believe so, Your Grace. I pray I do not discover otherwise.”

  “Go then, and thank you, Mr. Marton.”

  “Your Grace.”

  The Duke sought out Betsey and asked her to relieve the poor woman with his Grandmother and daughter. “I suppose they are owed some answers,” he said. “And they certainly shan’t get them from her. My grandmother will not be pleased, but you must tell her that it is my will, and it is too late for her to alter things.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Neil took a moment to appreciate his adrenaline rush. He had not felt so invigorated in years and had blindly let his tenants into his house. The thought was already beginning to repulse him, and he wondered what it was that forced such a decision.

  “Oh, what have I done,” he whispered to himself, and then let loose a slight snuff of laughter. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not laughed in some time, at least not properly, not with a feeling of joy and excitement in his heart.

  Then he began to ponder the reality of his situation. A fire was currently destroying the cottages of his tenants, and many of them would soon be homeless. Those who would be homeless were already in his house, but they could not remain there. The poor village people will make a dreadful mess of this place, he thought.

  Neil went back to the ballroom, where his tenant refugees were gathering with their families and holding each other. He saw Emily, walking with an indescribable grace through the chaotic room. She carried a jug of water and was passing out wooden cups to people which she filled. At each farmer she would gently smile, sending whatever reassurance she could through her calm eyes. They seemed to connect with her attention, finding a brief moment of calming solace while she poured them some fresh water.

  Neil watched her, and for the first time, he saw that she truly stood out against everyone in the room. She was beautiful in her acts of charity, and Neil was taken aback by the sudden flare of feelings. He was compelled to watch her, to appreciate her subtle movements, and to drink in the reflection of her eyes. He had not thought about a woman in any manner of attraction for four years; and so abruptly as the feeling had come, he disregarded it. Now is not the time for any thought besides the situation before me, Neil thought. I must have more control over my emotions. I cannot be sidewinded by an insignificant.

  Neil looked away from Emily, surveying his tenants, trying hard to push his mind away from the woman walking past. Instead, he drove her out of his thoughts by channeling his anger about the fire. There would be hell to pay, for someone anyhow, Neil thought. There must be a culprit to this, accident or not.

  * * *

  Mary-Anne carried the water jug around the ballroom, filling rough wooden cups to go with the small bits of bread that had been handed around. She smiled delicately at each villager as she served them, nodding to acknowledge their shaking hands and quivering lips.

  For these people, everything has come crashing down in a single evening, she thought. Mary-Anne remembered what it was like to lose everything. Calamity had befallen her not once but twice before, in which her life had been immeasurably changed in rapid sequence.

  Now it had happened for a third time, and she found herself a house servant, serving water to broken tenant farmers.

  Mary-Anne looked across the room and saw the Duke. He was an impressive figure at t
he moment, dictating orders to secure the wellbeing of his tenants. It took a certain man, she thought, to open his house in this manner. It was the decent thing to do, she concluded, the human thing to do. She knew that many in his position would not act with such impulsive charity. Another Duke may have put up field tents, and another may have done nothing at all. Yet here, The Duke of Rutland was acting above his peers, and the action struck Mary-Anne peculiarly.

  It was a feeling of appreciation and acknowledgement. Here is a rich man who seems not as bad as the rest of them, she thought, pouring another cup of water.