by Eva Grace
A cold shiver pulsated through Raff's body when he spied the particular portrait on which she gazed. It was painted the year that his father had lost a huge sum of money in a game of cards and the portrait had been painted after a particularly rowdy, venomous drinking spree. Raff had been thinking of having it taken down for some time now and giving them to the flames. Seeing Catherine looking it over now only added credence to this idea.
"It's hard to believe I was ever so young." His voice echoed sliced through the silence and across the open hall, bouncing off the floor and seeming to shake the walls. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh —the tone had crept in unconsciously.
"It's hard to believe you were ever an innocent, you mean?" It was said as a joke, but stung nonetheless. And she didn't turn around to address him, choosing to stare up at a portrait of Jonathan when he was nine.
Jonathan eyed the portrait with utter disdain as he approached her. He remembered the painting of that particular piece as if it were yesterday. It was a truly tragic day if there ever was one; a fact that wasn't captured in the portrait as the artist was ordered to not include the fresh black eye that his mother had been sporting.
"I may have been a child," Raff chided as he moved in behind Catherine. "But I assure you, I was never innocent."
Catherine let go a 'humph,' as if in agreement, before pointing up at the portrait; to Raff's face in particular. "There's something about this piece," she began curiously. "It's your face. You look almost sad? Odd that the artist would include that."
"Well, I wasn't," Raff said quickly; a little too quickly.
"I never thought --"
"In fact, I think it's for the best if we keep the artistic evaluations to a minimum. The next time you feel the need to express an opinion or ask about my childhood, don't."
Without another word, or even the barest hint of an explanation as to what had set him off, he turned and strode from the room; his boots echoing off the polished hardwood floor as he left.
It wasn't until a moment later, when he was alone and able to reflect on what had just happened, that he was actually visited by a pang of guilt. When he snapped, Catherine's face had whitened like that of a ghost as her eyes dropped to the ground, no doubt to hide her fear in what it was he might do. He had no doubt over reacted in the moment; ironically turning into his father at the mere mention of his childhood.
"Well, drat it," he muttered, fighting the desire to go find Catherine and apologise for the way he had behaved. It was this god forsaken house that did it to him, being here was... well the sooner he made haste from here, the better,
Thinking that perhaps he should apologise Raff made his way back to the entrance hall but paused as he registered the sound of footsteps. Cautiously, he peered around the corner, checking to see who was there before he called out —it was Catherine, pacing back and forth, her face a picture of inner tumult.
Hidden from view, Raff watched curiously as she paused before the portrait to consider it again, an unconscious hand reaching out and tracing the outline of his face. In that moment she looked so alone; isolated from the world. In that moment, Raff actually had a sudden attack of conscience. It wasn't something that happened often, so when it did take place, he was forced to note it.
His wide was essentially a stranger in her own home. And worse than that, he had done nothing to alleviate this feeling —he had acted in the same brutish manner as his father. Although he wasn't about to start treating her as a loving husband ought, perhaps he could go some way to making her feel more comfortable in her new life? It was after all the one she was going to be stuck with forever.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Rebecca, Catherine's maid chirped, as she made her way into the Duchess's bed chamber. "Oh, but it's another beautiful day!"
A blinding light flooded the room,as Rebecca threw open the curtains, enveloping everything from the young maid, to Catherine – who was still in bed – in its warmth.
"Good morning Rebecca," Catherine replied with a yawn. "Is His Grace still abed?"
Catherine's voice was hopeful as she propped herself up on her elbow and shielded her eyes from the light. Every morning since she had arrived at Witchford had been spent alone —the Duke having disappeared with the rising of the sun. It was obvious to her that Albright detested the thought of having to spend any more minutes of his time with her that were not strictly necessary —a fact that compounded the acute isolation that she was feeling.
"Out for his morning ride," Rebecca replied pleasantly, as she began to bustle about the room. "But he shan't be much longer, I reckon, for he rode out a dawn."
Sighing to herself, Catherine fell back into bed, stretching her arms out as she did. She wasn't sure why she had asked where Albright was, as indeed he had gone for a ride every morning since they had moved in together, and further to that, she wasn't sure why she hoped him to have changed his routine today. It wasn't as though there was anything particularly special about this morning, only that they had nearly spent a week together as man and wife. Though, as the Duke had not cared to darken the door of her bedchamber, Catherine supposed they were not yet man and wife, in the Biblical sense at least.
"I could sleep forever," Catherine sighed, stretching languorously under her covers.
"Oh, it's far too nice a day to be spent in bed, Your Grace." Rebecca informed Catherine in her direct country manner. "The sun looks set to make an appearance and in Norfolk that's not something one wants to miss, for it might not happen again for a month."
At one and twenty, Rebecca was the youngest member of the household staff. She had mousy brown hair, plain brown eyes, and the most simple, uninspiring face a person could have – she was the kind of girl that one would lose in a crowd, even if she were standing right next to you. She had only been in attendance for a little over a year now too, having come down to the estate from a farm-house on the outskirts of Yorkshire. As Albright had not allowed his staff time to prepare for his arrival, and Catherine had not had a Lady's Maid of her own, young Rebecca had hastily been appointed to the position. This made her a little rougher around the edges than the other members of the house, but in Catherine's opinion it also made her far more likable. She was not a real Duchess, no more than Rebecca was a real Lady's Maid and the pair had formed a more relaxed relationship than was usual.
"Just another minute," Catherine said as she stifled a yawn and stretched herself out. She was loving the feeling of the morning sun on her face, and didn't much see the point in leaving the comfort of her bed for another day of loneliness.
"Oh, to be a Duchess," Rebecca sighed with a martyred expression, as she set out Catherine's clothing for the day.
It was a rather informal and by no means proper way for a Lady's Maid to speak to a Duchess, but Catherine was wont to find it endearing. She had little hope of finding friendship amongst society in her isolated part of Norfolk —for there was no society to be found for miles. She would have to make do with Rebecca, and pretend her to be the sister she never had... albeit one who was paid to wait on her hand and foot.
Yawning , Catherine pulled herself from the comfort of her bed, slowly crawled to her feet and allowed for Rebecca to begin the long, ever so monotonous process of getting ready for the day.
Catherine had never been one to fuss over her appearance and now that she was married, the whole idea of dressing up seemed rather... pointless. It took an hour every morning to get ready and once the process was done and Rebecca had finished lacing her stays together, Catherine was prone to think, 'what for?'
It took her three days of this apathy before she realised what the problem was; now that she were married – to a man that couldn't give a rotten fig for how she looked – that the elaborate ritual of beautifying herself was rather a waste of time.
What she wasn't sure of yet though, was whether it was the process of dressing that she had become stale towards, or the outcome? If for example, she knew that in getting ready and looking as resplendent as she w
ere able, that she might turn her husband's head a little faster, that he might look at her like a husband should look at his wife, would she then relish in the process? Would she actually leap from her bed each morning, rather than having Rebecca near drag her from its clutches?
Of that she could not say, and until the day that her husband, the Duke, chose to start acting like a husband – a day that was as likely to come as the moon rising in the morning instead of the sun – she would continue to harbour an ill will toward her Lady's Maid as she insisted that she dress Catherine's hair in ever more elaborate styles.
Once she was dressed and ready, Catherine was finally able to start the day proper, and after six days of living in Witchford Hall, she would be lying if she said that she weren't starting to become accustomed to the house.
Her day always began with a walk. It was nothing grandiose in scale, nor too testing in terms of distance covered; just a simple stroll around the grounds of the estate; a means by which to stretch her legs and become more accustomed to the land on which she now lived. Of course this walk wasn't taken alone, as Jonathan all but insisted she be accompanied. So as Catherine walked, she was followed and watched by Michael, the elderly footman who for all Catherine knew was mute for all he talked. From Raff's choice of protector for his wife, Catherine deduced that her husband, while uninterested in her, did not want her succumbing to the charms of a handsome manservant.
Once the walk was completed however, Catherine would return back to the house, more often than not to find Albright returned from his morning ride. Like she, he was also bound by routine and where she would spend the next hour before lunch reading in the library, he would spend it in his study doing... well she wasn't quite sure what it was that he did while locked away in that tiny room, but she guessed it to be estate business that was not hers to pry in on.
Despite this, the two always crossed paths on the journey to their respective areas, and as they did they almost always stopped for a pleasant, albeit brief, chat.
"How was your walk this morning, my lovely wife?" the Duke would question across the hallway when he saw her. Whenever the two spoke, he made sure to use an overly affectionate tone as if he were worried someone was listening and that their sham marriage would be rumbled. If she were being perfectly honest, Catherine actually found his veiled sarcasm slightly endearing. She like the ironic quirk of his eyebrow as he spoke lovingly to her and the mischievous glint in his blue eyes.
"It was exhilarating, dearest," she would respond in the same sickly sweet manner. "And how was your ride? I hope it was as pleasant as the weather."
"Even more so!" Raff would then exclaim, as though reading lines from a poorly written play. As the two made to go their separate ways, he would then lean in and kiss her on the cheek, and she would lean forward and accept as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Shall I see you at lunch?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
And then they would carry on their way.
Although the whole thing was a charade, and as silly as it was over the top, Catherine actually found herself looking forward to it each morning as she walked across the estate, and if she ever found herself dallying, she would pick up the pace to ensure that she made it home on time for this brief interlude into the lonliness of her life at Witchford hall.
It was an odd thing, and although she and her husband's relationship was anything but normal, it certainly had its own flavor which went a long way to making it both unique and bearable.
What she liked the most about it was that neither were under any illusion as to what their marriage was. As such, they both felt free to express themselves as they saw fit, and to even have a little fun in the process. Where she was nowhere near as free and unencumbered in the way she acted as Albright was, she found herself relaxing over time and was soon able to be herself in front of him. It was funny really as she knew many a wife that spent years putting on a facade as a means to please their husband —six days in and she was already well past that.
Really, once she got past the brutish, arrogant and unpredictable nature of the Duke, she actually found that she rather liked the man. There was a sweeter side to him that he tried so forcibly to hide, and a softness that he probably didn't even realise he possessed. She took great relish in exposing it, sensing that every time she did, the two were drawn closer together.
Lunch had become the only part of the two's daily routines that forced them to spend any time together and if Catherine were being perfectly honest, it was also her favourite part of the day. Where Raff was often too busy at night to always join her for dinner, he seemed to make sure to never miss lunch. Whether because he was actually hungry or because he wished to see her Catherine could not tell —with the gusto with which he tucked into his meal, she was wont to think the latter. Still she did not let this thought affect the one time in the day that they actually sat down and talked, almost as equals. It was there at the dinning table that she learned the most about him, and where she was able to teach him a few things about herself in turn.
Lunch usually began at midday, when Jonathan would walk into the library, announce his presence with a discreet cough before declaring; 'Lunch is served, ma'am." He would then bow, leave the room and Catherine would put her book down and hurry from the library toward the dining room.
That day, as Catherine passed through the foyer on the way to the dining room, she purposefully kept her eyes trained ahead, making sure to not glance at the portraits that adorned the wall. She still remembered that first morning when she had noticed them, and then asked her husband about that particular one in which he looked so sad --and she still remembered oh to well his visceral reaction.
Oddly though, she didn't feel upset when she thought on this moment, what was now five days previously. Nor did she feel anger at having been treated in such an abrupt manner, or distaste at being married to a man that was prone to such over reactions. Rather, she felt sympathy.
"Oh, yes, His Grace had a rather troubled childhood to be sure," Jonathan had told her that same day when she had asked him about the portrait. He had caught her loitering by the portraits, staring up at the one that had set her husband off so.
"Really?" She was cautious in the way she spoke, almost at a whisper as she wasn't too sure how much the elderly servant would be willing to tell her... or if he should be telling her anything at all.
"I'm afraid so. It used to break my heart whenever I bore witness to one of his father's, that the late Duke of Albright's, liquor infused moments."
"Moments?" Catherine had frowned, not fully certain to what he was so heavily insinuating.
"Oh, he would rage, her would shout, and most unfortunately, he would hit," Johnathan said sadly, his rheumy blue eyes troubled as he recalled the past. "That particular portrait was painted without the contextual detail of the black eye that he had given the Duchess Albright earlier that morning."
This revelation went some way towards changing Catherine's opinion of her husband, softening the hardened edges that he worked so purposefully at projecting. Now whenever she saw the portrait, or even when she caught him in rare a moment of honesty, she felt something new, something that wasn't there before.
Gooodness, she was actually starting to feel pity toward the man and with this, she felt herself starting to like her own husband. Who would have thought?
"I was all but ready to send out a search party!" Albright grumbled chortled as she entered into the dining room. He was already seated, but she was pleased to see that he hadn't touched his plated meal yet, no doubt waiting for her before he started.
"And you should have," she chastised him playfully as she took her seat at the opposite end of the table. "This house is so ridiculously large that a person could expire from hunger in their attempt to reach the dinning room."
Her husband smiled at this response, seemingly unable to help himself despite his grumbles. "Is your sense of direction the reason you are late?"
&nb
sp; "No" Catherine smiled pleasantly and gave a wicked grin. "It is every woman's prerogative to be fashionably late."
This cheeky response received a shake of the head and disbelieving grin. But now that the initial pleasantries and playfulness were taken care of, the two were free to eat and – dare she even think it – enjoy one another's company.
It was an odd thing really, the way that the once incongruous couple now got along. To say that they were in love as a married couple ought to be, would be to misspeak; rather, a more accurate representation would simply be to say that they rubbed along nicely.
Catherine supposed it was no small thing, considering how much the two loathed each other when they first met, to simply 'get along' could probably be seen as the greatest of achievements.
They shall write poetry on the miracle of the Duke and Duchess of Albright, she thought with a wry grin as she speared a piece of pheasant.
As the two conversed lightly, Catherine decided that it was her husband's boyishness that she enjoyed the most. Where at first she had assumed him arrogant and narcissistic, she now saw him now for what he was – a man with a damaged childhood, trying desperately to conceal the pain that surely marred his soul. In a way she actually found his prickly demeanour somewhat charming.
But he was fun, or at least she was sure he would be if he deigned to spend more time with her. But the few moments that they did spend in one another's company each day were always interesting, amusing and never dull. She only wished that she could have him for longer, so that she could better attempt to make him cast off his defensive armour.
"I have some news," Albright began in an offhand manner, as the two worked their way through the third course.
"Oh?" Catherine responded curiously, patting at the corners of her mouth with her napkin as she watched him from her end of the table.
"Yes, it seems that I've suddenly been called to London. I leave tomorrow." This was said in blase way, almost as if he had literally just been told, but the way Albright looked away when he spoke, avoiding Catherine's eyes, suggested otherwise.
