by Lucy Wild
But it was true. He asked around the club and they all knew. Even the waiters seemed aware of it. “That’s it then,” he sighed as he sank back into his chair. “It’s all over.”
Reginald looked up from his newspaper. “You could always propose to her yourself.”
William blinked back at him. “Oh, come on, Reginald. She has been my best friend since infancy, since before her parents died in fact. She sees me as a big brother, I am certain of that fact. She would never agree to marry me.”
“Would she not?” Reginald folded his paper and sat up his chair. “I have seen the way she looks at you, William. She would marry you in a heartbeat if you would only ask her. She loves you, dear boy.”
“What do you know about love? You are the most affirmed bachelor in all of England.”
“I know more than you, it would seem. I say you go see her before it is too late.”
William dwelled on those words for days. He could not propose to her. The rejection would be too painful if she were to say no. Not only that but it would ruin the closeness they possessed. No, better to leave it alone and let fate run its course.
It was on the very morning that the Marquis was due to attend that he decided perhaps fate could do with a slight nudge. He had woken up from a most disturbing dream. Within it, he was a child again, a mere ten years old. He had been out silently observing a badger sett in the woods by the back of Risby Manor when he had heard the noises from the house. Running up there, he was too late to do anything about the burglary. The scene as he walked inside had remained with him ever since, invading his dreams regularly. He passed by the bodies of Eleanor’s parents, her father with his pistol gripped tightly in his hand. So much blood. Bodies of people he did not recognise, one still moving. “Vincent will kill me for failing,” the man whispered, coughing up deep red liquid that dribbled down his chin. “Oh God, it hurts.”
His head slumped downwards and he fell still. William walked upstairs but this time it was different. Back then, he had found Eleanor in the doorway of the nursery, the corpse of her governess at her feet. But in the dream it was Eleanor with blood leaking from the side of her head, her brains shattered by a burglar’s bullet. As he looked down at her body, he let out a scream of despair and the scream was loud enough to wake him.
He had set off on his horse an hour later, arriving at Risby Manor just after noon. He had no idea what the dream meant but he knew he had to speak to Eleanor. When the door opened and she appeared, she looked as beautiful as ever and he could not bring himself to mention the dream lest he scare her. Together they had sat on the bench by the pond as she had talked about her dream instead, about that night so long ago and yet also just minutes in the past.
“I wish I could speak to my parents,” she said. “They would know what to do about the Marquis.”
“I am sorry,” William replied.
“It is not your fault.”
“If I had seen those men, I might have been able to do something.”
“You were ten years old, William. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I might have sounded the alarm.”
“Enough of that. You saved me that night.”
“I did nothing of the sort. I merely carried you from the house, nothing more.”
“Oh William, must I marry him?”
William looked at her, the way her face shone in the sunlight, the brightness of her eyes. He had to tell her how he felt. Let him be crushed by her refusal, at least there would no longer be that dead weight within him, the pain of keeping his feelings secret for so long.
He reached out and took her hands in his, feeling the softness of her gloves under the tips of his fingers. She stared up at him, as if she knew what he was about to say. “Eleanor,” he began.
“Yes?”
“Eleanor,” he tried again.
“Yes, William?”
“I have something I must say to you but I do not want it to impact on the bond we have between us. The last thing I would ever want is to hurt you.”
“You have never hurt me.”
“Eleanor,” he said again. “I…”
“Yes?”
There was the sound of footsteps on the gravel behind him and William turned to find the shadow of a man blocking out the light. “Oh, this is too much,” the voice said and William’s heart sank. It was the Marquis.”
“You go too far, Billy boy,” the Marquis said, drawing himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest. “You attempt to snatch her from me in such an underhand manner. That is just like you.”
“I beg your pardon,” Eleanor said, pulling her hands away from William as she got to her feet.
“Quiet, you,” the Marquis said. “This is between him and me.”
“Are you about to brawl over me like dogs with meat?”
The Marquis ignored her, turning back to William. “I have had enough of this. I challenge you to a duel.”
“A duel?” William asked, unable to prevent himself from laughing. “You want us to fight it out with swords like two medieval knights? All over me sitting here watching the fish?”
“She is an eligible woman of the gentry out without a chaperone sat beside a cad and a bounder. You refuse the duel do you? That would be just like you. Lothario in private but a coward in public. Walk away now and never return and I will let this go.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then by the devil, I will have satisfaction from you.”
Eleanor gasped. “Say no, William. I could not bear to see you hurt”
“Yes, Billy boy. Say no, let your honour be stained with the yellow that dwells forever within your soul.”
“I accept,” William snapped, watching the Marquis’ expression change. His face contorted as he attempted to keep his growing fear from showing. He failed.
“You…you do?”
“I do. On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“We duel not with swords.”
“What should we use then? Harsh language? Marigolds?”
William allowed himself a smile. “We duel, one shot each, with pistols of my choosing.”
Chapter 3
Eleanor was furious. The stubbornness of men was already clear to her after so long living with her uncle, a man to whom only the title of a person mattered. They could stamp on kittens all day long but if they were an Earl or above, that was fine, he’d even provide the kittens. He could not be moved on his position that breeding mattered infinitely more than behaviour and she had tried many time during her childhood to adjust his position on things. She had failed.
But his inability to accept change was immeasurably overpowered by William and the Marquis. For them to be about to point guns at each other over nothing at all. Simply because neither of them were willing to back down. It was utterly ridiculous.
She had attempted to reason with William first, insisting that the Marquis wait for her in the house. Once he was gone, she turned to William and slapped him. “How could you be so stupid,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “It is not enough to see my parents dead, you wish to inflict more murder upon the world.”
“I have no plan to murder anyone,” William replied, rubbing his cheek. “He offered the duel, not me.”
“And you accepted. If you care for me at all, you will back out at once.”
“I cannot. Anyone else, I would gladly do so. But I cannot do it to him, I would never hear the end of it. He would ruin my reputation, Eleanor. Do you understand?”
“You are a fool if you go through with this. You might be killed.”
“I doubt it. I am a far better shot than him.”
“Then you might kill him. Then where will you be? Behind bars for the rest of your life. Or transported. Please, William, I beg you to reconsider.”
“It will be fine,” he said, smiling that reassuring smile of his. “I have a plan.”
She did not fall for it. “I wish I could believe you.”
>
She then attempted to reason with the Marquis but he refused to so much as discuss the matter with her. “This is an issue for the Duke and me to resolve,” was all he would say no matter how many times she pleaded with him to rescind the offer.
She told her uncle but he sided with the Marquis. That was no great surprise. “If honour has been impugned,” he said, grovelling to their guest, “I have no doubt it must be satisfied.”
“You will all have blood on your hands,” she snapped, breaching etiquette by storming from the room and leaving them all to it. She wrote to the Parish constable to inform him of the duel but he had written back to say it was a private matter on private land and he refused to attend. No doubt he knew which side his bread was buttered upon.
Her anger did not stop her attending the duel. It was a week later and in the intervening period she had sent letters to both William and the Marquis, pleading with them both a final time to stop this madness. She had no reply from either of them. Her uncle had let slip the date without realising Eleanor had overheard so she followed him out the house that fateful morning as he crossed the estate to the woodland at the back near the river.
Within the woodland was a clearing and there waiting was the Marquis and a wooden case, half a dozen burly servants by his side. “William is late,” her uncle said as he arrived. “I expect he has fled.”
“On the contrary,” a voice said from within the woodland. Out stepped William, glancing across at his opponent. “I have been quite looking forward to this.”
Eleanor stepped out into the clearing a moment later, scowling at the two men. “I insist you both stop this madness. Nothing can be gained by bloodshed.”
The Marquis nodded to his men and they strode towards Eleanor, taking hold of her arms and forcing her backwards. “What are you doing?” she asked, fighting to free herself. “Unhand me at once.”
They dragged her away from the clearing so she was unable to see what happened next. No matter how loudly she protested, they did not let go of her limbs until the sound of gunfire filled the air mere seconds later. As soon as the shots were fired, they released her and she ran back to the clearing, finding William with a smoking pistol in his hand.
Opposite him, the Marquis of Runswick was dying. He leant back against a tree trunk, his jacket wet with blood. Slowly, he slid down the tree until he was sat on the moss at his feet, his face turning white.
“What have you done?” Eleanor screamed at William, running across to the Marquis and kneeling before him. “You have killed him.”
The Marquis’ servants ran to their master, taking hold of him and carrying him out of the clearing. William dropped his gun to the ground. Eleanor glared at him. “I hate you,” she snapped. “Your stubbornness has cost that man his life and for what? For your honour?”
“You did not want to marry him,” William muttered. “Now you do not have to.”
News of the duel travelled quickly. The Marquis was taken to the home of his personal physician who managed to stem the blood loss. He was still recuperating when William vanished off the face of the earth. Eleanor was glad to see him go. How could he see what had happened to her parents and yet still be willing to take part in a duel? It was clear he did not care about her in the slightest. She was glad he was gone, hopefully to a monastery somewhere he could spend a lifetime atoning for his sins.
The engagement between herself and the Marquis ended. Her uncle was beside himself but the Marquis, from his sickbed, declared he had no wish to marry a woman who was friends with the man who had tried to kill him. Eleanor was given no opportunity to defend herself. She hated herself for thinking it, but she was glad the engagement had been called off. It was the one good thing to come out of this horrific series of events. That, and the fact she would hopefully never see the Duke of Ryedale ever again.
Chapter 4
William kept his name but dropped his title. Remembering the old adage that it is best to hide in plain sight, he doubted anyone would be looking for him under his own name. Nor would they think him so stupid as to travel a mere thirty miles to Whitby on the Yorkshire coast. They would be expecting him to have fled deep into Europe.
He had no doubt the Marquis was dead. News may have travelled far and wide of the duel but it did not reach the seaside town and for that he was glad. He had no idea how it had happened. He had paid handsomely for the Marquis’ pistols to be loaded only with powder. To any witnesses, it would appear as if both shots had missed. Honour would be upheld and that would be an end to the matter. Of course, Eleanor would still have married the wet blanket but at least no one would be up at the Assizes on a murder charge.
The money had gone into the pocket of the Marquis’ staff but they had not upheld their part of the bargain. Perhaps they had had enough of working for him. Whatever the reason, his shot was true and the Marquis was dead and that was that.
If this was what happened when you loved someone, it was not worth the pain, he decided during the journey. He travelled to Whitby on top of a coach, stuck between a portly old man with a hacking cough and a woman so thin, she was almost buried in her great coat. His hat down low over his head, he kept silent, praying no one would recognise him in the clothes he had taken from the servants quarters. As the country fields gave way to barren moors, he vowed to make his heart empty itself of life in the same way. Never again would he love anyone. Never again would he allow his mind to be coloured by his emotions. He bid a silent farewell to Eleanor in his mind. She hated him. He was a murderer. Time to bid farewell also to the Duke. From now on he would be William Thompson, a man with no past and no family.
Upon arrival at Whitby, he had been swept away by the beauty of the bay. Even with the countless masts blocking the view of the sea, it was still a magical sight. The outgoing tide took with it some of the bleakest thoughts within him. It spoke of fresh starts as the air itself seemed fresher than any he had ever known.
He climbed down from the coach, what ready cash he had been able to get buried within his pocket, ready to rent the quietest property he could find, somewhere utterly anonymous and unlikely to ever attract attention.
He found the perfect place below the east cliff, overlooked by the remains of the abbey. Down a narrow alleyway lay a tiny house squeezed in between a butcher’s shop and a chandlery. The landlady looked as if she had eaten at least a dozen lemons for breakfast and was not best pleased about the fact. “What do you want?” she asked, finally answered the door to his repeated knocking. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“I saw your advertisement. Rooms to let.”
“It’s nine pound a year and I want paying upfront.”
“Might I see the rooms first?”
The woman tutted before reluctantly letting him inside. “You don’t look like you can afford it,” she said. Up a narrow flight of stairs he found a locked door. The woman squeezed past him to open up. “I’m downstairs,” she said as they stepped into a tiny living room. “So don’t think you can get up to anything dodgy up here. I’ll have my eye on you.”
“Of course,” he nodded, wondering if everyone treated you this way when they were unaware you were a duke. “The bedroom?”
“Through there. Coal’s not included,” she snapped, noticing him looking at the fireplace. “And you bring your own up. I’m not your skivvy.”
The place was small, damp, and the paint was peeling off the walls. “It’s perfect,” he said. “I shall take it.”
“Hold up,” she replied. “I told you, I want the money upfront. It’s ten pounds a year and I do not give credit.”
“You said nine.”
“Did I?” Her eyes narrowed, as if she were weighing up whether to argue or not. “Nine it is then.”
“I shall return with the funds presently.”
He walked twice around the harbour before returning, having no wish to raise suspicion by having such a sum of ready cash immediately available. The walk did him good. Watching the fis
hermen at work, seeing the townsfolk bustling about, not one person looking at him, it was so different to the life he was used to, of being observed during every activity he undertook. The stifling choke of noble etiquette could be ignored now, perhaps the Marquis had actually done him a favour.
Returning to the house, he knocked and the landlady seemed surprised to see him. “Thought you might have been casing the joint,” she explained when he asked. “Now, we said ten pounds, I believe.”
“Nine,” William replied, pulling out nine individual pound notes.
She eyed each one closely, holding them up to the light, running her fingers over them, even licking the corner of one.
“They are genuine, I assure you.”
“Can’t be too careful. Now when were you thinking of moving in, Mr…?”
“Thompson. William Thompson. And to answer your question, I shall move in at once if that is acceptable to you.”
“Your bags?”
“I have none.”
“Suit yourself but it’ll get mighty cold up there with no blankets and no coal.”
“I shall have that arranged by the end of the day, do not trouble yourself, madam.”
She walked away mumbling under her breath as William made his way up the stairs. The key was in the door and he pocketed it before looking around the rooms, making mental estimates of the measurements of the place.
The rest of the day was taken up in visiting a number of establishments. By that evening, a bed and armchair were ordered, coal was delivered, and a selection of blankets kept him warm as the night drew on. He laid by the window, looking out at the stars in the night sky, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore reaching him and lulling him into a state of deep relaxation. He might have spent half the money he had brought already but what did that matter? He would find a job. He almost laughed at the thought of him, Duke of Ryedale, working for a living.
