“Yes, Mother, I am aware.”
“Do you not wish to see me happy in my last days?” The Dowager Duchess asked, her beautiful green eyes, a mirror of his own, turning sad and troubled.
“Of course, I do.” Felix frowned at such a question.
“Then marry.” Her eyes pleaded for him to take her request seriously.
Closing his eyes, he pressed his fingers to his temple. “I will consider your request to court Lady Cordelia Weatherton, but I cannot make any promises as to marriage.”
“That is all I ask, my son, is that you make the attempt.”
Felix nodded, then bent down to kiss her forehead. The Dowager Duchess looked so pale as she lay among the long dark curling tendrils of her hair and the stark white of the bed linens. He traced the tired drawn features of her face, remembering a time when she had been healthy, her cheeks full and rosy. Looking at his mother was like looking at his own reflection, only in the feminine. Felix had gotten his tall height and muscular build from his father, but his looks and coloring were all his mother.
“I will leave you to rest for now, but later we should go and sit in the gardens together. The roses are in full bloom and are lovelier than ever this season. A more beautiful collection I have yet to see.” He praised his mother’s gardening endeavors in hopes that it might inspire her to continue fighting the good fight. She had been an avid gardener before the mysterious illness had robbed her of such joys. “I will have the men move your chaise lounge out onto the grounds for luncheon.”
“That would be lovely indeed, my dear. Thank you,” the Dowager Duchess agreed. “Until then I believe I will take your advice and rest.”
Felix nodded his approval, bowed over her hand in affectionate respect, then left the room. Leaving the manor house, he strolled down to the stables, had his horse saddled, then rode out into the forest. He was in desperate need of exercise to clear his head. Lady Cordelia Weatherton… he shook his head in displeasure. He had danced with her at the last ball of the Season, and since then his mother had desired their pairing.
It wasn’t that Lady Cordelia was unattractive, in fact she was quite pretty with her golden blonde curls and cornflower blue eyes, but she was not very bright or kind. Unlike most men of the age, Felix preferred his female companions to be intelligent. He supposed he had been spoiled for all other women by the fact that his mother, and her mother before her, had been of decidedly superior intellect. His father had adored them for it, and so too did Felix.
When the Duke had died, he had left an enormous hole in their lives, but Felix and his mother had banded together to survive the loss. He could not imagine surviving her death as well.
I do so long to see her happy and contented, but must it be with the Weathertons?
The Weathertons were a snobbish bunch, not unlike most others of their station. Lady Cordelia’s brother, Bernard Weatherton, the Earl of Bredon, was the head of the family after the death of their father the year before. I suppose if I am to do as Mother has asked, I will need to invite them over for tea or luncheon. He despised such social niceties with people of his own class, finding the working classes so much more interesting. Most people of his own station bored him.
Felix’s thoughts turned back to more pressing matters. He rode for a time, thinking of what possible methods of treatment he might have overlooked or had been missed. He thought of taking his mother out of England and traveling the world to consult the various medical practitioners in the East, but he was not at all certain that her health would permit such strenuous activity as travel. It was more likely that she would not survive the journey than it was that they would find a cure.
Returning to the stables, he was met by his favorite groom, Oliver Singer. “Did you have a pleasant ride, Your Grace?” Oliver inquired, taking the horse’s reins so that his master might dismount.
“As pleasant as can be expected, given the circumstances,” Felix answered, beating the dust from his clothing.
“How is Her Grace, if you don’t mind me asking?” Oliver led the horse into one of the stalls, unsaddled it, and began brushing it down.
Felix sighed and took a seat on the edge of a wooden trough. “It is not at all good, Oliver. There is a strong possibility that if we do not find a cure, and soon, the Dowager Duchess will not live to see Christmastide.”
“Say it isn’t so, Your Grace,” Oliver stopped brushing mid stroke, his face drawn in lines of concern.
“It is, I am afraid. I wish it were not, but we are running out of time.”
“The doctors…” Oliver began, but was cut short by a shake of Felix’s head.
“Nay, the doctors know nothing of what plagues her. They offer no hope.”
“’Tis sorrowed I am to hear it, Your Grace. Her Grace has been nothing but kindness itself to me since I was but a lad. We are all quite fond of her in the servants’ quarters.”
“As she is fond of all of you,” Felix answered with a smile. He couldn’t count the number of times that he had caught his mother spoiling the servants’ children with some treat or another.
“Please pass along our sincerest regards and let Her Grace know that we will be praying for her.”
“I will, Oliver. Thank you.”
“Not at all, Your Grace.” Oliver continued his brushing, while Felix stood to leave the stables. “Your Grace?” Oliver’s voice called after his retreating back.
“Yes?” Felix asked turning back toward the stall.
“If I might make a suggestion, Your Grace?”
“Go on,” Felix instructed.
“My mother used to swear by the old woman who lived alone out in the woods. She was a healer of sorts. Perhaps…”
“It is unlikely that a mere peddler of herbs would be able to offer aid, where the most highly educated of physicians have failed, Oliver.”
“I am sure that is so, Your Grace.” Oliver paused in his task once more to meet Felix’s eyes. “But what harm would there be in the trying?”
Felix stood and studied the groom’s face for a time and then nodded slowly. “I will give your words some thought, Oliver. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“I will speak with Her Grace, and if she gives her consent to speak with the healer you will go and fetch her. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Oliver nodded his assent.
Smiling in appreciation for the groom’s thoughtfulness, Felix turned and reentered the manor house. Climbing the stairs, he entered the Dowager Duchess’s bedchamber to find her in a worse state than when he had left her. “I am sorry, Felix, but I do not think I can join you in the rose garden for luncheon today,” she whispered weakly. She was barely able to lift her head to speak with him.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, Mother. The roses will still be there tomorrow. It is I who am sorry that you are feeling worse than before. I know these doctors’ visits tire you. If only I could give you the strength of my own body, I would do so gladly without hesitation.”
“I know you would, my son, and I love you all the more for your selflessness and compassion. There is not a prouder mother in all of England.”
Felix sat down on the edge of the bed and took his mother’s hand in his. “Oliver Singer, the groom from the stables, has made a suggestion.”
“Oliver is such a kind young man. What did he have to say?”
“He has recommended that we consult an old healer woman who lives in the forest not far from here. He claims that his sainted mother swore by the old woman’s healing powers.” Mrs. Singer had been their head housekeeper for many years until she had died of breast cancer while under the surgeon’s knife. She had been replaced by Mrs. Taylor, who served them still.
“Mrs. Singer, poor soul, I do so miss her smiling face about the house.” The Dowager Duchess sighed sorrowfully.
“It has its risks, does it not, consorting with such women?” Felix asked, concerned.
“Yes, but no mo
re than what I have already suffered. I believe it to be worth it, my son. Could you possibly arrange such a meeting on my behalf? Perhaps after we have finished consulting with Doctor Standish and his colleagues. I would not wish to insult the good doctor.”
“Of course, Mother. Anything you wish, simply ask and it shall be done.”
“You know what it is I want, Felix.”
“Yes, Mother, I do. I have given your request some thought, and I will invite the Weathertons to luncheon next week.”
“Tomorrow, Felix,” the Dowager Duchess firmly demanded.
“So soon?” he asked, uncertain that he wished to begin his courtship on the same day as one of his mother’s doctor’s visits.
“Yes, the sooner the better, my dear. We do not know how much time I have left, and I wish to see you settled before I go.”
Felix brushed the hair back from her face. “I will send an invite to the Earl of Bredon to attend luncheon upon the morrow. For now, I will go and inform Oliver of our desire to see his healer. We will see what can be done, though I am not certain what good a few chants and a bag of herbs will be able to accomplish that all the best doctors in England could not.”
“We will not know unless we try, my son.”
“I will do whatever it takes to save you, Mother, no matter what that might be. If this woman can truly help you, then we will arrange for her to move into the manor house to attend you at all times. If she cannot, then I think we should begin considering bringing in some of the doctors that Uncle Edmond has written to us about from the East.”
The Dowager Duchess’s half-brother, Edmond Hargreaves, was a military officer on the Indian subcontinent. He had written many letters on the topic of medical inquiries he had made on his sister’s behalf. In his last letter he had written that, ‘If you cannot travel to India, my dear sweet sister, then India shall most certainly be forced to make the journey to you. Simply say the word and I will inundate you with the mysteries of eastern medicine.’ Felix was to the point of desperation that he was willing to try anything.
“Agreed.” His mother wearily nodded her assent and then faded off to sleep.
For a moment Felix grew concerned when it appeared as if she were no longer breathing, but then her chest rose and fell, allowing him to relax. Relieved, he stood, kissed her head, pulled the blankets up under her chin, and left the room. Her lady’s maid entered and sat down in the corner to keep watch over her mistress. “Guard her well, Mrs. Snow.”
“Always, Your Grace.”
Felix stepped into the library to jot down a note, then left the house to return to the stables. “Oliver,” he called out into the shadowed interior.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Oliver’s voice called down from the hay loft above. His face peered down at Felix from the hole in the ceiling, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, sprinkling loose bits of straw into his dark brown eyes. Were the matter not so serious, Felix might have laughed at the comical sight the groom made. “We have decided to give your healer a try. Please arrange for her to come and see Mother next week, if it can be managed.”
“I will leave right away, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Oliver, but there is no need to rush. As I said, later next week will do nicely.” Felix turned to go but hesitated when he heard a feminine giggle from overhead.
“Shh, Betty,” Oliver’s voice cautioned in a loud whisper.
Felix smiled and continued walking. It appeared that taming horses was not the only thing that Oliver was good at; apparently, he was quite good with the taming of young kitchen maids as well. Cheeky rascal, Felix chuckled. He envied the young groom his carefree nature, but death had a way of maturing a man whether he wished it or not.
Oh, Father, why did you have to leave us so soon? Thoughts of his father’s death caused his mind to turn back to Doctor Standish’s diagnosis. Dying of a broken heart indeed, what nonsense! As if such a thing were even possible.
Leaving the stables, Felix walked over to his workshop. Unusual for a man of his social station, he had always enjoyed working with his hands to build things. When his mother had become ill, he had spent many hours in his workshop inventing or improving upon various items to make her life easier and more enjoyable.
Currently Felix was working on creating an invalid’s chair with wheels, much like that which had been made for King Philip II of Spain in 1595, only much more comfortable. He was also working on a three wheeled bath chair in order to make it easier for her to take in the healing waters at Bath upon their next visit. The work soothed his troubled mind and gave him a sense of purpose and control over the heartrendingly helpless situation they found themselves in. Discarding his jacket, he rolled up his sleeves and set to work.
The next day Doctor Standish returned, but had little more to say than he had before. When he was done, Felix thanked him for his service and sent him on his way. Disheartened and discouraged, he paced the library floor until the Weatherton’s carriage pulled up in front of the house. The Earl and his sister, Lady Cordelia, disembarked. Felix could see them assessing the house and grounds from where he stood at the window.
Assessing my worth, no doubt, he thought bitterly. Squaring his shoulders, he exited the library and went to meet his guests in the hall. The next several hours were spent in mundane conversation, insincere flattery, and mind-numbing tedium. To please his mother, he invited them to return for a picnic on the following day. They accepted, and so his courtship of Lady Cordelia Weatherton was underway.
The following week was spent in doctor’s visits from London and various social engagements with the Weathertons. After one particularly odious conversation with his guests, wherein the Earl made it quite clear that he expected Felix to marry his sister, Felix escaped to his workshop immediately upon their departure. Unfortunately, the Earl is right. I do need to marry, and soon if I am to do so before Mother passes on. How she longs to see her grandchildren before she goes.
His mother’s health had continued to fade with each passing day, and he had no way of knowing how much longer she would be able to bear the misery her life had become. He poured his fear and frustration into his work with the intention of finishing both wheeled chairs. If he were to wed soon, he would not have the time to finish them later.
Several hours passed as Felix put the finishing touches on his work. He was just about to tighten the last bolt when he was brought up short by a terror-stricken scream from inside of the house. Dropping his tools, he ran for the house to find his mother’s lady’s maid white as a sheet and shaking at the foot of the stairs. She was out of breath from running and quite near to fainting. Her voice trembled as she cried out in fright, “Witch! There is a witch putting a curse on my lady!”
Chapter 2
Marybeth Wright stood in the middle of her grandmother’s old dovecot and smiled. She loved the dilapidated ruins at Blackleigh Castle, where she had spent many happy days as a child. The local inhabitants of the countryside believed the ancient stone edifice to be haunted, but that did not bother Marybeth in the slightest. She had loved her grandmother’s stories of the Witch of Blackleigh and the hidden treasure that supposedly resided within.
The castle had been built shortly after the Norman invasion of Britain in 1066. It had weathered many an attack and had eventually been abandoned in favor of a newer castle some distance away. Blackleigh was then converted into a monastery for a brief time, before being abandoned permanently sometime during the latter part of the medieval period. Though the ruins were now part of the Duke of Arkley’s estate, Marybeth’s grandmother had used it as her own personal possession.
Gathering a handful of wheat from her bag, Marybeth tossed the grains onto the stone floor. A flurry of grey and white wings descended around her as a myriad of pigeons scurried to peck at the food upon the ground. Marybeth grinned with delight at the warbling coo of the birds, as males strutted and danced about attempting to draw the attention of the females. Pigeons were her favorite animal in all the w
orld. They were clever and loyal, mating for life. Sometimes she preferred them to people.
She lived in an old cottage left to her by her grandmother. Her mother had died in childbirth, never revealing who the father of her child was. Marybeth was raised by her maternal grandmother, Abigail Wright, the so-called witch of the forest. Her life was a solitary existence with very little interaction outside of her grandmother and her dearest friend Oliver Singer, who worked on the estate at the stables, with the occasional foray into the village. People were frightened of her grandmother, and that fear had extended to Marybeth as well.
Hearing hoofbeats, Marybeth peered out of the dovecot to find Oliver entering the clearing. “Marybeth!” he called, jumping from the horse’s back before it had a chance to stop moving. “Marybeth!”
“Oliver, this is an unexpected surprise,” she answered stepping out of the doorway. “I was not expecting you until tomorrow. Have you brought me more books to read from the village?” She had read everything she could get her hands on since she was quite small, sitting upon her grandmother’s knee. Her grandmother had provided her with an education that would have rivaled that of the greatest houses in Europe, just as her mother had for her, and her mother before her.
A Duke Under Her Spell: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 2
