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

by Linfield, Emma

  Emily nodded her head, got up, and ran the brush through Phyllis’ hair one last time, setting it on the table afterward. Ruth came over and took her seat, starting her afternoon shift with the old lady. Emily bowed her head and excused herself through another servant door, catching Neil’s eyes as she turned with her compelling draw.

  I should give her a raise for being a minute early, Neil thought, acknowledging Ruth’s arrival.

  “Oh good, you are here,” Phyllis quipped to Ruth. “Neil was about to tell me about Paris.”

  “Grandmother, at this moment I have pressing business with my cigar,” Neil said, unfolding his legs and standing from the grand table. Thomas stepped forward to open the door for him, but Neil waved him away.

  “It is alright, Thomas.” Neil waved. “I shall take it completely undisturbed.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas complied, stepping back. “Perhaps you will need your lighter?”

  “Yes, well,” Neil caught himself. How can you smoke without your lighter? You are smarter than this. “I will need that, won’t I? Thank you, Thomas.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” bowed Thomas, for the one-millionth time in his life, handing Neil the golden mechanical lighter.

  Neil made a show of fussing for a cigar, and after retrieving one he rushed out onto the back, stretching porch.

  Emily was there, waiting for him, and approached with a spring and a smile. When they came together for a kiss, she slipped a folded piece of paper into his palm.

  “What is this?” he asked, looking down at her curiously.

  She gave a bounce of her head and a glance with her eyes, indicating that he should open it.

  Neil unfolded the paper and was shocked to see several words neatly arranged in the centre. He read:

  “My name is Mary-Anne.”

  * * *

  Mary-Anne tried to read the Duke’s expression as he read the paper. To Mary-Anne, he seemed at a complete loss, as if this could not be accounted for in his catalogue of possible thoughts.

  “You can write?” he asked her finally, looking up over the note.

  Mary-Anne nodded affirmatively.

  “All this time,” he trailed off, looking between her and the paper. She feared he would react poorly to being deceived, but she hoped that he would understand why she had kept her ability hidden. She waited anxiously for his next reply.

  “Why, this is wonderful!” Neil suddenly exclaimed, picking her up and spinning her around. “We can communicate with one another!”

  She was glad to see him react in a positive manner and broke out smiling. For Mary-Anne, this was a life-changing event. This was the shedding of a layer of secrets, and it felt immeasurably gratifying. It was as if a layer of doubt was being peeled away from her shell, and she felt glad and warm to be in Neil’s company. She felt safe and accepted. She led him by the hand to an outdoor table where she had prepared some paper and a pencil. She sat him down across from her and pointed to the paper.

  “Where to begin?” Neil said, taking it all in. “Mary-Anne,” he spoke her name for the first time. “It is a beautiful name.”

  Mary-Anne blushed, shaking her head in disagreement.

  “Where are you from?”

  She scribbled her answers on the paper and passed it to Neil.

  “Dover, but my family moved to London when I was two.”

  “Where in London?”

  “I do not remember. I was very young when they died. I do not remember how. After that, I was raised in an orphanage until I was thirteen.”

  “What happened then?” he asked gingerly.

  “I found work at a shop on Paul Street, called Holloway’s, and remained there until recently.”

  “Holloway’s,” Neil echoed, thinking on it. “I know the place, hats and coats mostly, yes? Were you a seamstress?”

  Mary-Anne nodded yes to both questions.

  “A seamstress from London,” the Duke shook his head. “But how did you arrive to us? Out of the night, and your voice, I am sorry, I shall ask one question at a time.”

  Mary-Anne gave him a warm look over, telling him to take his time.

  “Have you always been mute?”

  “No. I cannot say what happened, for I myself am not sure.”

  “That night you came out of the forest,” Neil said. “That is the night you lost your speech?”

  Mary-Anne nodded, glancing away to the sand dunes.

  “What happened?”

  Mary-Anne shook her head. She was not ready to share that with the Duke, for perhaps it would completely tilt his opinion of her.

  “It is fine,” Neil said quickly, reaching out for one of her hands. “There is no need to speak of it,” then he blinked a few times, likely processing his error in speech. “Forgive me, Emily, erm, Mary-Anne. Lord, this is all taking some adjusting.”

  Mary-Anne draped her other hand over his, trying to comfort him. After a moment, she picked up the paper again and wrote:

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I was smoking,” Neil laughed. “But dear Thomas had my lighter.”

  “You had better smell like tobacco.”

  “How right you are,” Neil replied, sitting upright. “I would have never thought of that.” He took the cigar from his front pocket and lit up the end with his lighter. Once the flame had been established, he waved the tendrils of smoke around his overcoat, letting some of the stench sink in, and then extinguished the cherry of it under the heel of his boot. “It is done,” Neil said, brushing his hands together. “Now I smell like smoke.”

  “Are you going to tell them?”

  “Is that what you want?” Neil asked. “I feel it would all be such a fuss.”

  Mary-Anne shook her head, no. “They must not know. They will hate me.”

  “How could they ever hate you?”

  Mary-Anne looked at him seriously, dropping her forehead. There are a thousand reasons to hate me, she thought. I am not of your class, and I have been lying to everyone for weeks. I am an unknown, a servant girl, and that will have consequences.

  “Do not fear,” Neil reassured her, resting his hand on hers. “It is our secret — and ours alone.”

  The two lounged on the porch in each other’s silent company for a brief time, passing back and forth a few more small notes about favourite colours and enjoyable dishes, before Mary-Anne had to take her leave to assist Betsey with Kaitlin’s luncheon.

  As she got up to leave, the two exchanged humorously awkward glances. There was uncertainty still between them, as it always is when two people suddenly fall in together.

  It was a brief stagger, in which Mary-Anne contemplated kissing him goodbye. It was clear he had also conceived the notion, and as they stood, they awkwardly facing each other.

  “I suppose you should be going then,” Neil stumbled over his words, taking half a step closer. Mary-Anne smiled at his indecisiveness, leaned forward, and pecked him on the cheek. She felt the stubble of his facial hair brush against her chin, and she playfully mocked his need to shave with pantomimes.

  “Yes, yes, I shall shave,” Neil grinned, stroking his chin. Mary-Anne smiled at him again, blushed, and quickly stowed away in the servant’s hallway. Her heart was fluttering from the encounter, and his acceptance of her.

  I do not know where this will lead, Mary-Anne thought, but for now, it has complete hold of me. Lord help me and my foolishness, she shook her head, smiling and blushing at herself.

  * * *

  Thomas moved through the house, checking in on various elements that did or did not require his attention. Not only was it his job, but Thomas enjoyed keeping an eye on all key functions of the manor, such as the kitchens preparation schedule and Kaitlin’s coming and goings.

  Thomas allowed an appropriate amount of time for the Duke to finish his cigar and then marched off to retrieve the remnants of his ashtray. However, upon exiting onto the porch he discovered not a spent cigar, but a small pad of paper and a pen
cil.

  Thomas glanced around curiously, trying to take stock of anything he had missed accidentally. It would not be proper to leave a mess about, especially cigar ash. How it spread when knocked over, Thomas thought, shaking his head. Instead of discovering the hidden location of the Duke’s non-existent ashtray, he found a crumpled note tucked beneath the small table.

  Hesitantly, Thomas straightened the wrinkled scrap of paper, and read the neatly arranged words.

  My name is Mary-Anne.

  “Impossible,” Thomas said to himself, re-reading the note again and again. Nobody had arrived at the house, at least nobody that Thomas knew of. Certainly not anybody named Mary-Anne. This had come from one place, and one place only, Thomas decided. It was Emily, or Mary-Anne, or whatever her name was. Whoever wrote this was in the house, and it was not Betsey for sure. The governess could read and write, but there was not a single Mary-Anne in her family. Ruth was illiterate, as were all of the house servants.

  For a moment, Thomas considered the possibility of it being part of Phyllis’ delusions, but he assured himself that the old lady had been in the dining room, then in one of the drawing rooms. She had come nowhere near the porch.

  Little Kaitlin was learning her letters still and could not compose such a proper sentence. Thomas had witnessed her recent work and it was not impressive.

  That only left the house servants, none of which could write. Thomas knew them all very well, save one. Emily, or Mary-Anne, or whatever her name was. That woman that came out of the storm, bringing confusion and mystery. She had been down here, with the Duke, writing messages.

  The first thing that baffled him was that this woman could read and write. It was near unheard of for a person of her class, let alone a woman, to learn to read.

  Another thing that was disturbing to Thomas was that she had been concealing this from everyone. If she could write and was truthful in her intentions, then she could have explained herself the moment she arrived. What was she hiding?

  Thomas moved straight away to find the Duke, hurrying through the servant’s hallway. He found his Grace reading in the library, on the north side of the manor, but he didn’t seem to be paying the book much attention, glancing between the text and the window.

  “Your Grace,” Thomas began hesitantly. “May I take a moment?”

  “Of course, Thomas,” Neil said, evidently glad to find an excuse to close the book. “What matter requires attention?”

  “It is delicate, Your Grace,” Thomas broached, taking a few nervous steps towards the Duke. “It concerns the servant woman, Emily.”

  “What of her?” Neil turned abruptly, his face flustered. Thomas noted the clear embarrassment.

  “I found this note, Your Grace, and I believe her to be the only one able to have written it.” Thomas extended the note to Neil, leaning backward quickly after the Duke snatched the paper.

  “Thomas,” Neil breathed after a moment, taking a good long look at the paper. “As you well said, this is delicate.”

  “Your Grace, I fear for her intentions,” Thomas argued confidently. He had the Duke’s ear, and he would press it if he could. “If this is her writing, then what has she been hiding from us?”

  “Thomas, I fear it is I who has been hiding secrets,” Neil confessed, exhaling a large puff of air. “It is true, Emily is not all that she seems. I feel I have failed her, for I swore I would not betray her confidence. I see now that I cannot hide this from you. What would be the point? You are my trusted aide, Thomas, and I shall need your trust on this. Emily, well, her name is truly Mary-Anne, you see I feel very fondly for her.”

  “Your Grace?” Thomas was blindsided by this turn of events.

  “I do not know how it came to be, Thomas. I have thought on it, and I can find no logical explanation. Alas, I find myself a puddle around her, unable to make myself of any useful shape, completely lost. Never have I felt so!”

  “I am glad, for you, Your Grace,” Thomas proceeded cautiously. If she had already caused the Duke to fall for her, it might be too late to halt whatever she was planning. “Have you learned where she came from?”

  “From London! Is it not splendid! A London seamstress!”

  “How did she find herself at your home?”

  “It matters not, Thomas,” Neil said, waving him aside. “What matters clearly is that we have now found each other.”

  “What of your Grandmother, Your Grace?” Thomas asked. This Mary-Anne had worked her way around him well, Thomas could see. It would take an effort to make the Duke see reason. “She will not take well to this news. She has been working to find you a new wife.”

  “Yes, and we shall tell her that Mary-Anne is the Countess of Surrey for all I care. She will not know a difference.”

  “Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider for a moment. Think of the possibilities.”

  “Yes, what is it, Thomas?”

  “Perhaps she does not harbor the best intentions,” Thomas broached. “She cannot be trusted, especially not in such confidence.”

  “Why, Thomas, should she not be trusted?” Neil pressed, turning on his heel. His voice had lowered in tone, riled by the challenge.

  “I fear she will seek to use Your Grace—”

  “Enough!” Neil snapped. “How dare you? You question the integrity of the lady I have feelings for, and for what? You claim that she means to do me harm? What? Rob me? Break my heart? You see me as a poor judge of character, sir, to think I would be blind to such scandal! I detest your notion, Thomas, and you would do well never to mention it again! Now, you shall remain silent on this matter until I make it public knowledge, do you understand me?”

  “Of course, Your Grace, my deepest apologies,” Thomas resigned, bowing low. “I only thought of your well-being.”

  “Well then, I thank you, but I would see you off. Prepare the carriages and luggage, for I feel we have outstayed the shore’s hospitality.”

  “Your Grace,” Thomas bowed deeply again and turned away from the room. It would be a difficult thing, he thought, to uncover the truth about this Mary-Anne.

  Chapter 29

  Julian Bastable was thrown awake by the rocking of the halting coach. He could hear the coachman outside soothing the horses, bringing them to a standstill, as the wheels creaked into their resting place. The carriage settled a touch in the thickening mud, and the coachman climbed down from his perch. This was indicated by a collection of thumping sounds against the roof that helped Julian bring himself awake.

  The door swung open at the coachman’s expense, and he looked up at Julian with a set of deep gray eyes, reflecting the low, gathering sky.

  “Here we are, Mr. Bastable,” he said, unfolding the steps down to the ground. “Rutland County.”

  Julian climbed out of the wheelhouse and took stock of his surroundings. They had arrived at a medium-sized common house, built of sloping lumber and a crude thatch roof, reinforced with shingled beams. A merry tune sounded from within; songs and drinks danced their sounds through the windows against the setting sun. Although it was not as if Julian could see the sun, per se. It was more that the sky gradually became darker and darker until night had fallen in her entirety. Such was the typical weather of an English October.

  The trees had lost all but a few of their leaves at this stage in October, and the air was thick with a dampness that Julian detested. Gradually working their way north, the tilled fields and clusters of farming cottages indicated a well-populated area. The common house, at the southern end of the buildings, seemed to indicate one cluster of living spaces, while further up the way, across the hay fields and cattle pens, a rather larger village lit up the darkening horizon. Beyond that, of course, were the twinkling lights of Arnold manor. Julian sneered up at the house.

  “Weather is a bugger, isn’t it?” the coachman remarked, stretching his back after the long ride. “Looks like we have a nasty storm coming up, could last a few days.”

  “Yes, nasty bit of business,” Jul
ian remarked offhandedly, creasing his clothes with his hands against the wrinkle of travel.

  “There could be a bit of flooding,” the coachman said, closing the door behind Julian. “Bad for the riverbanks, flooding that is.”

  “So, they say,” Julian agreed, paying the driver from his ever-lightening purse. He had been spending money since the duel, money to get his ship ready, and money to get him here.

  “You have family here in Rutland?” the coachman asked, clearly just being polite and glad to finally be off the road.