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

by Linfield, Emma

  * * *

  Oliver watched Julian go in paralytic amazement. It was bordering on downright absurdity, the scope of it all, and Oliver did not know what to do about it.

  This man had told him a story, likely none of which was true, and yet he had spoken with the authority of someone who had braved a thousand harbourmasters’ sons. There was something about this huge man that was terrifying and inspiring at the same time, something that Oliver wanted to have for himself. He wanted to inspire that aura of mysterious prestige that went with tall tales of adventure on other continents.

  Most of all, Oliver needed money, of which this gentleman had demonstrated he possessed ample amounts. More than ample, in fact, the wealth Mr. Bastable had displayed was excessive. The purse of coins that had lingered so briefly in his possession was more money than he could hope to make in ten years on the Duke’s estate. It was a chance at something new, for a bright future for him, his wife, and his child.

  Every option Oliver had weighed in his head had not come close to that: a heaping sum of wealth that would spontaneously transport him to another way of living, one where suffering and famine were a far less common a sight. That was his road onward.

  However, there was that last thing, that Mr. Bastable had imparted on him, that also tore at him. He had threatened his family outright. Usually, this would send Oliver into a state of reaction, firmly lashing out to protect what he held dear. But there was that cold presence about this Mr. Bastable that scared Oliver. It was something that told Oliver very clearly, if Mr. Bastable wanted to hurt him, nothing would stand in his way.

  It was the sense of danger and the promise of incredible wealth that lead Oliver down the stairs to the door of Room 3.

  He knocked on the planks, and a delighted Julian opened the door, ushering him inside.

  “Well?” the merchant asked. “Have you come to your senses?”

  “I will help you,” Oliver said. “I will do what I must for my family.”

  Chapter 30

  Mary-Anne leaned against the carriage window, gazing at the passing pastureland. The coaches rattled and rolled along the road, noticeably rougher since they had veered off the metalled roads and back onto Rutland estate.

  Phyllis snoozed between her and Ruth, and Kaitlin lay draped over Betsey, fast asleep on the long journey.

  While all the other carriage occupants were intermittently snoozing, Mary-Anne was buzzing with life and energy.

  The entire ride she had thought of the Duke. She recounted how his gentle eyes matched his firm jaw, and how his dark hair blustered in the breeze.

  She played their perfect afternoon over and over in her head, lounging casually by the sea, and how she had shared parts of her life with him.

  Though where this went from here, she had no idea. They had not discussed it in the least, and instead just reveled in their joy.

  Now, with the manor home in sight, the thoughts were of real substance to Mary-Anne. She did not know what the Duke thought of it, for he rode ahead in the other carriage.

  Am I simply to become his mistress? Mary-Anne worried to herself, biting down on her lip. She dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. I mean more to him than that, she tried to assure herself. But I cannot be his wife. Nor can he be my suitor. So, I shall continue to be a servant?

  These were the thoughts bouncing through Mary-Anne’s brain while the carriages came up the winding road.

  They had left the shore rather suddenly, and she wondered if she had anything to do with it. What have I done wrong? Stop fooling yourself, she shook her head. You are not at the center of everything.

  Yet at this moment, Mary-Anne felt as if the world was swinging back and forth dependent on her actions. At least, this small pocket of a world that was the Arnold household. What had caused them to leave the shore?

  Mary-Anne’s thoughts were broken by the clack of the carriage door, and Mr. Marton’s friendly face beaming up at them all.

  “Good trip then, Your Grace?” he inquired towards to Phyllis, who was stirring suddenly awake.

  “Have we arrived?” she arched her back out like a cat, and Mary-Anne shared a surprised glance with Ruth.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Ruth said gently. “Come, Emily, and I will help you with the steps.”

  “Here we are,” Mr. Marton said, clicking down the folding steps. “Boy! Get that luggage! On the double now!” he barked out with a turn of his head.

  “Yes, Mr. Marton!” Oliver’s voice called back from out of view, and Mary-Anne smiled. She enjoyed the young servant’s company and enjoyed seeing him getting along well.

  There was a solidarity between them; two outsiders suddenly cast into the workings of the manor. In time, she figured, they could likely be friends.

  Mary-Anne hopped out and helped leverage Phyllis out of the coach.

  “Dreadfully gray,” the old lady bantered, glancing nervously up while hobbling towards the house.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Ruth indulged.

  “Emily, help me here!” Thomas called out from behind them.

  “Go on, I have her,” Ruth said warmly. Mary-Anne nodded to her and went back to help Thomas with Phyllis’ trunks.

  “Take these,” Thomas ordered and handed her a series of heavy, precariously-stacked boxes of garments.

  Once the parcels were set, weighing down her arms, he glared at her in the eyes over the top of the trunks.

  “I am on to you, Mary-Anne,” he sneered.

  Mary-Anne was speechless. Had he found a note? How could we be so careless?

  “Mind yourself, and know that you are not invisible,” he concluded and marched briskly away.

  That is not the end of that. She carried the luggage into the house.

  She could not see the Duke anywhere. It was as if he had gone directly into his chambers before the second coach was even unloaded. She knew she had to communicate with him about Thomas. If the valet knew, then it was only a matter of time before Phyllis knew. If Phyllis knew, then all secrecy was for naught, and the old lady would likely suffer a mental break.

  Mary-Anne went about the closing chores of the day with great speed and worry. Not at all during dinner, before or after, did the Duke appear.

  As soon as Phyllis was asleep in her bed, and she saw Thomas go into his chambers, Mary-Anne found her moment to sneak away.

  She rose silently, creeping slowly through the servant corridors, careful not to make a creak. She had not mastered the layout of the house, as she had at the orphanage where she grew up. There, she knew every spot that made a sound in every inch of floor.

  Here, she was far less confident. So, she pushed her bare feet cautiously across the floor panels, feeling for softer spots, and skirting around them gracefully.

  She paced like this all through the manor, scanning for the illumination of a lantern. Finally, as it fell to be the last room she came by, completing her loop of the whole ground floor, she saw light coming from the Duke’s office.

  * * *

  The doors swinging softly open caught Neil’s attention as he stared out at the moon. He smiled brightly to see Mary-Anne padding silently into the room, but his smile began to fade quickly into a frown.

  “I have ruined us,” Neil confessed.

  Mary-Anne crossed to him, furrowing her brow.

  “Thomas has discovered us, through nothing but my own negligence. I feel wretched for it, only having just confirmed it to confidence.”

  She took his hands in hers, comforting him, and he felt as if she already knew.

  “Did he say something to you?” Neil became tense.

  Mary-Anne shook her head.

  “Well, I know not what to do. So, I have been lingering in the moonlight.”

  Mary-Anne went to his desk, locating a pencil and paper, and wrote in a note: “We may linger in the moonlight together. Nothing else has importance at this moment.”

  “You are right.” Neil glowed, reading the note. “Will you walk with me?”
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  Mary-Anne smiled at him brightly and offered out her arm. Neil took it, giving her a mock bow, and then began to lead her slowly through the house, pointing out various works of art and family heirlooms.

  The pair came to a display of silver spoons, hung in a neat display.

  “These belonged to my great-grandmother,” Neil remarked. “Or so I am told. You see the small hint of china there, in each of the handles?”

  Mary-Anne leaned close to inspect the spoon. They were beautifully crafted, intricately wrought around a shine of porcelain. Each spoon depicted a different picture of trade with the Far East, and Mary-Anne appeared fascinated.

  “I am told that my great grandfather was a great sailor,” Neil went on. “And that he brought these all the way back from the South China Sea. Between you and I,” Neil leaned in close to whisper in her ear, “he had them brought to the house by a London trader.”

  Mary-Anne looked up at him and smiled, likely to see his mood shift towards humor.

  “Come,” Neil said. “There is so much more to see.”

  They went then to the northern drawing room, where all manner of old fineries were displayed in various frames and mounted panels.

  “Here is one of my favorites,” Neil pointed out, stopping before a glass display case. Inside, on a bed of red velvet, sat the hilt of a once-glorious saber. “I found this laying in muck after the battle of Talavera. The beauty of it struck me, especially standing out against its surroundings. The blade must have come off in the battle. I know not who it belonged to.”

  Neil saw that Mary-Anne had let her eyes wander away from the hilt, despite his story, and had become fixated on the adjacent case.

  “Ah,” Neil said. “There is the true beauty.”

  It was a spyglass, gorgeous in design. Silver had been inlaid around all of its fixtures, and the whole of the shaft was a tube of ivory. Pockets of gemstones decorated the silver, and fine carvings adorned the instrument, all set with gold.

  “Also, from Talavera,” Neil said over her shoulder. He reached down and clicked open the case. “Go ahead, pick it up,” he gestured.

  Mary-Anne gingerly took the spyglass and began to inspect it with what Neil interpreted as genuine interest.

  “The French baggage train was full of things like that, so many riches you could not imagine,” Neil went on. “As officers, we were ordered to prevent looting, you see, but it was impossible. The men were starved for wealth and food, and the victory came at great cost. The day was so hot, that high Spanish heat—” Neil shook his head and blinked for a spell. “I tried to prevent my regiment, but I could not, to my shame,” Neil still stood still a moment, then continued. “Nevertheless, I found this beauty in the dirt, just as the hilt, there,” he leaned back to the sword piece. “I could not abandon such craftsmanship to destruction,” he explained. “So, I rescued it, and brought it back home.”

  Mary-Anne laughed quietly, looking to him from the spyglass. She fished into her waistband and scribbled another note: “Rescued indeed.”

  “Very clever.” Neil smiled back. “In all fairness, its worth is that of an ocean-going vessel.”

  Mary-Anne raised her eyebrows in what Neil saw as ironic bewilderment. The two of them smiled again at each other, and leaned in for a kiss in the moonlight, confident that they were indeed alone, and out of view. Neil frequently paced his empty halls at night, and so he was sure that their pacing would not merit any servant’s attention. They were all mostly asleep, or at least in their quarters. At that moment, Neil felt as if they were the only two on the whole of the estate, basking in the moonlight.

  * * *

  Oliver trudged up the gravel path, heaving from the shortage of breath. He had gotten quite drunk in the wake of his meeting with Julian, reeling with fear and disbelief in his predicament.

  After leaving Julian’s room, he had gone back upstairs and drank many more pints of ale. Then he had stumbled out of the public house, heaved a bit by the side of the road, and hobbled off to find Lucy.

  It had taken him far longer than expected to reach the outskirts of the cottages. Once there, he found he could not go to Lucy’s house.

  He sat in the cold dirt, feeling the night’s dew sink into his clothes, and stared for a while at her window. He could not bring this news to her, not while she still reeled from her pregnancy.

  This would terrify her to no end, haunt her, Oliver realized. He had to handle this himself, and he had to keep it a secret ever after. This would not haunt his life or his marriage, he would not allow it to. It would be over and done with, then forgotten, and they would be rich. Rich enough, at least, to give their child a fighting chance at survival.

  A day passed as Oliver nervously waited for the Duke’s return, for with the Duke came the woman of consequence. He played his part well enough as they unloaded. He helped with dinner as was expected and then worked on the washing.

  Finally, the servants were done for the day. Oliver announced his ‘good evenings’ as he often did when he spent the night at Lucy’s. In the servant’s common room, all the kitchen staff playfully teased him about the upcoming marriage, and when it would take place.

  “It will happen when it happens,” he said again and again, waving them off cheerfully. Tonight, however, he held a masked cheer. Beneath he was nervous, tense, and preparing to set up Emily. He liked Emily, and felt horrible, but then reminded himself of his unborn child. I must do what needs to be done, he affirmed in his mind.

  “Goodnight then, Master Hanson,” Thomas nodded at Oliver walking past, making for one of the servant corridors.

  Oliver paused at the door, looking back over the room. People were happy, preparing an evening bite and making up pots of water for tea. “Goodnight, then,” he said, and ducked through the door.

  Oliver shut the door behind him and rounded a corner. There, he delicately removed a piece of paneling. He had been restoring this part of the corridor off and on with Mr. Marton and knew of a space he could hide in until after dark.

  This way, nobody will be looking for me out of bed.

  Oliver climbed inside and lifted the piece of wood back into place. It sat a tad ajar, and an astute observer would have noticed something strange. Yet, it was night, and if Oliver was correct, nobody should have need of this hallway until four or five in the morning.

  Oliver waited patiently as the night wore on. He allowed the appropriate amount of time for even the dutiful Thomas to take his much-needed rest.

  Finally, when he felt confident, he would walk alone, he removed the wood and crawled out of the wall. The hall was dark, without windows, and he placed the piece back into place on feel alone being careful not to make a sound.

  Oliver crept through the servant hall until he came to a door that opened into the Duke’s study. If he were to frame Emily for theft, then whatever was stolen had to be of great value. The best place to find such an item would be the Duke’s office, Oliver reasoned.

  Just as he was going to click open the door, he heard movement from the next room over. Was it the north drawing room? Oliver had trouble remembering the varying room titles. They all seemed fairly similar to him.

  There it was again! It was certainly somebody walking. Perhaps even two people? Two people, Oliver decided, it had to be. But who?

  Then he heard the Duke’s voice, going on about something he couldn’t exactly make out. Oliver crept down the hall, taking great care not to make a sound. If he was discovered in this manner, he would be out of the house and possibly even out of the cottages.

  Oliver came to the door that led into the room from where he heard the Duke. It was as if he was talking to himself, having a one-sided conversation.

  Oliver leaned down and peered through the keyhole. The portal was small and narrow, but the room beyond was bathed in moonlight.

  Oliver saw clearly the shapes of Emily and the Duke, moving between display cases under the window.

  What is going on? Oliver was taken aback. Thi
s was not what he had expected to see. This could seriously complicate things.

  “The French baggage train was full of things like that. As officers, we were ordered to prevent looting, you see, but it was impossible. The men were starved for wealth and food, and the victory came at great cost. The day was so hot, that high Spanish heat,” the Duke said. Oliver watched the pair of them examine a spy glass, the likes of which took Oliver’s breath away.

  “In all fairness, its worth is that of an ocean-going vessel,” the Duke said from beyond the door.