by Olivia Drake
“The duke’s gone to the north end of the estate,” Augusta said, her voice gruff over the clop of hooves. “Neighbor’s cows wandered through a hedgerow yesterday and got into our wheat.”
Embarrassed to be caught with her emotions exposed, Juliet blushed. “I see.”
“So do I.” Those bland blue eyes held a speculative gleam. “You wed His Grace for love, did you not?”
The blunt question startled Juliet and made her hackles rise. “Of course. Why else would I have left my family, my home?”
“To acquire an ancient title, perhaps. Or perhaps to rebel against your father.”
Quelling the painful memory of his slap, she said, “Papa isn’t always the tyrant that people around here seem to think.”
Shrugging, Augusta returned her attention to the lane. “If you say so.”
“What do you know of the feud?”
“That’s a question you should put to your husband.”
Annoyed, Juliet went on, “Have you ever met my father?’’
“In India.”
“India? Papa hasn’t been there in years.”
Augusta clenched the reins. “Gordon and I went there as newlyweds,” she said flatly. “William asked him to manage a tea garden in Assam. The plantation lost a great deal of money.”
Did she blame Papa for bringing about her husband’s defeat?
Juliet had but a moment to wonder when they rounded a bend and came upon a sleepy hamlet tucked into a sheltered fold of hills. Quaint cottages and half-timbered buildings huddled around a village green. Beyond the picturesque appearance, she noticed a few roofs in need of rethatching, a shutter hanging askew, a crumbling wall. Before a cobbler’s shop, a wizened old man sat smoking a pipe while a trio of laughing children darted past, scattering the hens scratching at the bare earth.
“Welcome to Wyecote,” Augusta said.
She drew the dogcart to a halt before a small cottage ringed by a stone fence. Beyond the house, laundry flapped on a line strung between two spindly yews. Juliet stepped to the dirt lane as Augusta retrieved a covered basket from behind the seat. She marched to the gate, the hinges creaking under a push of her hand.
The fragrance wafted to Juliet even before she walked within the walled yard. She found herself inside a rose garden as lush as the cottage was shabby. A riot of roses climbed and cascaded, tumbled and rambled, in a charming proliferation of yellow and salmon, white and crimson. Delighted, she twirled, arms outspread.
A woman emerged from the doorway, her green eyes vivid against lily pale skin and a drab black gown. She couldn’t have been more than five years older than Juliet, yet weariness haunted that lovely face. At the woman’s side, a tiny, fair haired girl leaning on a single wooden crutch tottered forward, a rag doll dangling from her hand. Her big blue eyes fastened on Augusta.
“Hullo, Mrs. Deverell. Did you bring me—” Spying Juliet, she stopped, then awkwardly retreated to the folds of her mother’s aproned skirt.
“Good morning, Hannah, Mrs. Forster,” said Augusta. “I’ve brought the new duchess to meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Juliet said.
Mrs. Forster’s mouth dropped open; she hastily sketched a curtsy. Her daughter attempted to copy the action, but her crutch got in the way.
Watching that small, bright face, Juliet felt her throat go taut with tender compassion. One of Hannah’s legs appeared twisted beneath the much mended gray stocking and knee length skirt. Impulsively Juliet bent to offer her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Miss Hannah.”
The girl blinked warily, then thrust forth the doll, its tattered state a testament to much loving. “This is Peggy.”
“Hello, Peggy.”
As Juliet solemnly shook the doll’s ragged hand, a shy smile bloomed across Hannah’s face, a smile that dissolved Juliet’s heart. Would she and Kent ever have such an adorable child?
She looked at Mrs. Forster. “Your garden is beautiful. You must love flowers as much as I do.”
“Aye, Your Grace,” the woman said, her eyes dreamy. “I work here of an evenin’, when it’s too dark inside to be at the loom.”
“I help,” piped Hannah. “Me an’ Peggy.”
Juliet grinned. “I’m sure you do.”
Augusta shifted the basket from one hand to the other. “How is young Master Tom today?”
“Slept better last night,” said Mrs. Forster, “thanks to the cordial you brought. Come in, I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”
One room comprised the cottage. The furnishings were appallingly few: a scarred table with a pair of chairs, a stool beside a butter churn, a glass jar of roses atop a low chest. A grainy photograph of Queen Victoria in Jubilee finery took the place of honor above the hearth. In the corner, near the single window, a loom held a half-finished pattern of blue and tan cloth.
Mrs. Forster went to a wooden cradle beside the hearth, lifted a small, squirming bundle, and brought it to Augusta. “I only just finished feedin’ him.”
Setting down her basket, Augusta cuddled the baby and felt his forehead. “Fever’s gone. Must have been a touch of the ague.”
Mrs. Forster wrung her work worn fingers. “Tom’ll be all right now, won’t he? I couldn’t bear it if...” She bit her lip.
“He’s as hale as a horse,” Augusta said, smiling as a tiny fist clamped around her thumb. “He’s already feeling his oats this morning.”
As the older woman cooed at the baby, Juliet stared, amazed at the transformation. Those severe features had gone gentle, tender with maternal affection. Why had she never had a child of her own? Sympathy stirred in Juliet. Had barrenness turned Augusta so cross? Or had she lost a baby?
Tugging at Augusta’s skirt, Hannah darted an impatient glance at the basket. “Please, Mrs. Dev’rell, what have you brought me?”
“Hannah!” her mother scolded. “Mind your manners.”
“It’s all right,” said Augusta. “Perhaps, Your Grace, you’d care to hold the boy a moment.”
Juliet gathered the infant to her breast and relished the unfamiliar sensation. He felt sturdy despite his size. His milky scent and solemn green eyes entranced her, and a flash of memory left her weak. Would the long nights of passion bear fruit? Perhaps she already nurtured Kent’s baby inside her. A baby would tie him to her in a way Emily had never succeeded...
“I’ve something for Peggy,” Augusta said. Lifting the cloth from the basket, she drew forth a small parcel. “But you may help her open it.”
Balancing on the crutch, the girl tore open the brown paper to find a tiny gingham dress. Her face lit up; she tumbled into Augusta’s arms. “A Sunday dress for Peggy,” she declared.
“Bless you,” murmured Mrs. Forster. “If it weren’t for the kindness of you and His Grace—”
“Poppycock,” Augusta said, squaring her shoulders. “You just see to these precious babes. We must run now. We’ve other calls to make.”
Juliet handed the baby to Mrs. Forster. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. As they walked outside, she couldn’t resist touching a perfect salmon tea rose. “This variety is called Adam, is it not? I’ve seen it displayed at horticulture exhibits.”
“Don’t know all the proper names,” Mrs. Forster admitted. “Emmie... the other duchess, I mean... she let me take cuttin’s from the castle garden.” She twined her fingers in her apron. “Beg pardon, Your Grace. I don’t mean to sound so familiar. It’s just that the duchess and I sometimes played together as children.”
Emily again. A pang invaded Juliet’s heart. Suddenly she felt isolated, an outsider trying to play a role that belonged to another woman. A woman who had grown up here, a woman who had been loved by these people... and by Kent.
“I understand, Juliet said. “And I want you to feel welcome to visit Radcliffe whenever you like.”
Mrs. Forster bobbed a curtsy. “You must come back again.”
They climbed into the dogcart, and Augusta snapped the reins.
The vehicle jolted slowly down the rutted lane.
“Is her husband a farmer?” Juliet asked.
Augusta’s jaw tightened; she stared straight ahead. “Tom Forster was killed in a threshing accident last harvest. Mrs. Forster had just learned she was to bear a second child.”
Despite the sun warming her back, Juliet went cold with shock. “How will a widow with two small children survive?”
“The duke waived her rent and continued Mr. Forster’s wages. Between that and her weaving, Mary and the children will get on.”
“What about Hannah? Surely there must be medical expenses.”
“There’s nothing our Dr. Sattler can do. See there?” She pointed to a clean, whitewashed building near the village green. “He has a fine new surgery, but there’s only so much he can do.”
“What exactly is wrong with her?”
“She was born crippled, something to do with her hip. We can thank God that at least she isn’t in pain.”
“But... has she seen a specialist? Perhaps a London doctor—”
“We can’t afford wild goose chases, Your Grace. I’ve told you before, money is short.”
Juliet’s frustration flared into anger. “Something ought to be done for that little girl. We could appeal to a rich patron, perhaps. Or find a doctor willing to take on a charity case. Why have you given up so easily?”
Augusta reined the horse to an abrupt halt before another cottage. “I’ve done more than you can imagine,” she said stiffly. “We all have our crosses to bear.”
As she stepped down to the lane, the glaring sunlight made her cheekbones appear starker than ever. What sorrows lay hidden behind that severe facade? The absence of her own children to love? The loneliness of a woman wed to an inattentive scholar?
Recalling Gordon’s abstracted manner and twisted hands, Juliet felt pity temper her wrath, pity for both him and his wife. All Augusta had was her charity work; all Gordon had was his books.
Getting out as gracefully as her tight gown would allow, Juliet followed Augusta to the rear of the dogcart, where the woman drew forth another covered basket.
“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re indifferent to Hannah’s plight,” Juliet said. “But perhaps I can do something. My friend, the Lady Maud Peabody, comes from an influential family.”
Augusta absently touched her mole. “Why go so far afield? You’ve said your father isn’t a tyrant. Perhaps he’ll unbend about providing you a dowry.”
Juliet knew the answer to that. “Kent would never accept Carleton money. He’s already told me so.”
“Poppycock. If your father puts property in your name, you won’t need the duke’s permission to spend the income. Nowadays the law allows a married woman control over what’s hers.”
Juliet frowned. Was Augusta trying to cause trouble between her and Kent? “I’ve never heard of such a law.”
“I’m not surprised. Emmett Carleton strikes me as the sort who prefers to keep his women ignorant of legal matters.
Juliet ignored the slur. “Tell me more about this law.”
Augusta shifted the basket from one sturdy hand to the other. “There isn’t much to tell. A few years ago, Parliament passed the Married Women’s Property Act. A wife may keep any money she inherits or earns. You’ll have an advantage I never had.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was an heiress, too. But William convinced Gordon to use my dowry to pay off Radcliffe’s debts. I had no say in the matter.” Pivoting, she tramped toward a crumbling cottage.
The caustic words cut into Juliet. Who did Augusta blame, Gordon for his weakness or the old duke for his arrogance? Another thought startled her. Or was it Papa Augusta resented, because she, too, believed he’d precipitated the family’s debts?
Slowly Juliet went up the weedy walkway. They visited an elderly couple, then called on the harried mother of nine ill clad children. Everywhere in the village she saw a privation that firmed her conviction into bedrock. She could accomplish so much... if only she could obtain her money.
The notion haunted her during the drive back to the castle. She and Augusta were finishing a late luncheon when Fleetwood snuffled into the cavernous dining room. A salver teetered in his white gloved hands. “The post arrived during your absence, Your Grace.”
Juliet took the letter from the tray. “Thank you, Fleetwood.”
The faint aroma of Parma violets wafted from the cream colored envelope. Her heart lurched as she recognized the elegant script.
“You look rather pale,” said Augusta, arching a ginger eyebrow. “I trust that letter isn’t from an unwelcome party.”
“No, I’m tired, that’s all. If you’ll excuse me.”
Her chair legs scraped the stone flags as Juliet sprang up and darted into the dank corridor. She found herself uttering a fervent prayer as she hastened up the stairs. Please... please. The letter must hold favorable news. News that Papa had forgiven her. News that the love for his daughter had finally eclipsed his hatred of the Deverells...
Entering her bedchamber, she slammed the door. She headed to a window and sank onto the stone seat. Her fingers shook as she ripped open the envelope. She scanned her mother’s writing. Phrases leaped out and sliced her heart to shreds.
Your outrageous behavior caused Mr. Carleton to fly into the blackest rage...He insists upon going about as though no one whispers of the scandal... At least you’ve wed a duke, darling, so no one dares shun us... Your father has disowned you... yet you must dress befitting your new station... I shall send a few trunks of clothing, but Mr. Carleton must never, ever find out...
The letter whispered downward to settle at her feet. Clenching the folds of her skirt, Juliet stared at the sheet of pale vellum against the carpet. Tears burned her eyes. A breeze wafted through the opened window and the quack of a duck joined the gentle swish of the river.
The brilliant summer day mocked the bleakness in her soul. She had a sudden, wrenching desire for the security of Carleton House, for the return of familiar routine, for dinner with Mama and Papa, for fresh gowns to wear, for Maud’s blithe chatter.
Juliet pressed her cheek to the cool limestone casement. Why had she expected her mother to understand? Mama concerned herself with appearances, not her daughter’s happiness. And Papa...
Go near that devil again and by God, you’ll no longer be my daughter.
Burying her face in her hands, she loosed the sobs that knotted her throat. Searing waves of grief swept over her until she felt void of sentiment, emptied of emotion. As her weeping subsided, she faced the bitter truth: Papa would never change his mind about her chosen husband. His love would never conquer his stubborn pride. He deemed the feud more vital to his life than his only child.
Isolation cloaked her. She’d been cut off from everything, everyone, she knew and loved. She raised her chin. No, not everyone. She had Kent.
On wobbly legs, she walked about the antiquated room. Mrs. Fleetwood must have taken away the pile of old fashioned gowns. Sunshine highlighted the shabby grandeur of the furnishings and denned every moth hole in the green and gold bed hangings. This was her home now. These rooms would bear the stamp of her character, the echoes of her playing children.
A measure of peace glided into her hollow heart. Pacing past the mirror with its ducal crest, she caught sight of herself and stopped. A chill prickled her skin. A stranger lurked in the wavy old glass. With sad eyes and a wan face, with her body encased in the old-fashioned frilly gown, she appeared so very different...
So like Emily.
For one icy instant, Juliet felt like a rose strangled by a vine. Then she released a shuddering sigh. Absurd.
Walking closer to the mirror, she studied her resolute eyes and determined chin. That odd impression must have been a trick of the light; she didn’t look a whit like the modest Emily.
From the ashes of misery sprang the flames of fury. Clenching her fists, she paced the room. The devil take her father for shunning her.
And the devil take Kent for trying to metamorphose her into the image of his dead love.
A tightening coil deep within Juliet threatened to squeeze the breath from her lungs, but she ignored the pain. She was the Duchess of Radcliffe. She alone would govern her life; she would demand the rights befitting her position and use them for the good of those who depended upon her.
Your father has disowned you... She’d see about that.
A sense of purpose fed the reckless idea growing in her mind. The time had come to act. She would take steps to obtain the dowry due her. Instead of being squandered on society balls and fancy gowns, her father’s money would pay for medical bills and much needed clothing.
Pivoting on a rustle of old silk, she marched to a gilt writing desk in the corner. Searching the dusty drawers, she found a stack of stationery yellowed with age and stamped with the Radcliffe crest. Before her courage could falter, she took up a pen and began to compose a letter.
Chapter 11
An hour later, Juliet hesitated before the cobbler’s shop; the tiny half timbered building doubled as the Wyecote post office. She could still retrieve the small package she’d just posted to Maud. The package that contained a sealed letter with a daring request...
“May I give you a hand in, Your Grace?”
She whirled to see a handsome man of medium height, his tawny mustache curled at the ends. From the fine lines at the corners of his mouth and blue eyes, he appeared to be in his mid thirties. His dapper tweed riding suit marked him a gentleman, yet the probing intensity of his stare defied good breeding.
Juliet fixed him with a frigid stare. “Have we met, sir?”
He lifted his bowler hat in a respectful salute, then replaced it on a shock of fair hair. “Pardon my boldness, Your Grace. News of Radcliffe’s marriage has swept our gossip-starved district.”
“Indeed.”
“Perhaps I might introduce myself. Henry Hammond-Gore, Esquire, at your service.” He bowed, then added, “My lands lie due north of here.”
“Then it was your cows who broke through the hedgerow and got into our field?” she said dryly.
