“Yet you censor her decision because it would not have been yours,” Caroline had replied. Her tone had been soft, but it had struck Rebecca far more deeply than if she had exclaimed it more energetically.
“I do not criticize Miss Randall,” Rebecca had continued, still choosing her words carefully. “I merely decry the world in which she has been obliged to make a choice that so undermines her that I should scarcely call it a choice at all. It is coercion.”
“Perhaps it is,” Caroline had replied. She had seemed to have regained some of her own serenity. “But it is the world that we inhabit, and we would do well to consider how we might navigate it cleverly, rather than wishing that it were some other way.”
Rebecca sighed, her breath clouding the chilly glass of the window pane. Even as she recalled how heated she had felt at the time, she was struck by how abstract their conversation had been.
Keenly as she had felt Miss Randall’s plight, the truth was that she had fancied herself superior to her choices in some manner. She had believed herself to be more in control of her own destiny than Miss Randall was of hers, and she could see now the erroneousness of such a belief and, indeed, the arrogance of it.
Down the hall, she knew that her fiancé slept, likely snoring. The thought of being his wife turned her stomach, as she supposed the idea of becoming Mrs. Alan had done to Miss Randall. But, much like Miss Randall, she found herself with little choice in the matter.
When she had been riding with Andrew, the idea of running away had hung between them, halfway between a joke and an illusion. Or at least, that was how it had felt to her. Perhaps Andrew was so accustomed to the sense of his own liberty, that he had felt a sense of belief that she fundamentally lacked.
She could no more have run away with Andrew and ruined her family’s good name that she could have turned away from her father and made herself a pauper. It was the sort of thing that girls did in novels, perhaps, but given that this was real life, she supposed that she would have to take her cues from Caroline and learn to navigate it more cleverly.
It was a sorry thought, a thought that made her feel that some profound and essential part of herself was in the process of being lost.
But then she thought of her mother, of Grandmamma Horatia, of all the women that she had known throughout her life. She supposed that none of them had married out of love, and despite this, they had turned themselves into women of good sense, character, and value.
She could only hope that she might do the same.
Outside, just as the moon was beginning to fade away and dawn started to creep over Godwin Park, she heard the crunching noise of the groom bringing Andrew’s horse over the gravel drive.
“I wish you a good journey, my Lord,” she heard the man say. She hoped that Andrew would make some reply, if only so that she might hear his voice — albeit, muffled through the windowpane — one more time before he left.
But there was no reply. She could only suppose that Andrew nodded, gave one last look up at the house, gathered up the reins and turned his horse toward the gate.
She supposed those things. The only thing that she could know for sure was that Andrew left Godwin Hall at a gallop as if desperate to put as much distance between himself and the house as possible.
Overcome suddenly by a wave of tiredness, she got into bed and observed with great regret that she would have liked nothing more than to do the same herself.
Chapter 21
She was awoken by a knock at the door. She called out for the servant to enter, realizing that she had fallen asleep with the drapes still open from when she had been looking out for Andrew.
“If you please, my lady,” the young maid said after entering and giving a rather distracted curtesy, “I have been sent to inform you that the Duke is unwell this morning.”
Rebecca sat up in bed and blinked, rubbing her eyes. For a moment she was not sure to whom the girl was referring. She was still not accustomed to the idea of Charles having become a duke.
“Unwell?” she echoed. Charles’ early retirement the previous night had entirely departed from her mind after her poor night’s sleep.
“Indeed, my lady. His Grace passed a very bad night, I am afraid.” In the absence of having some drapes to open, the maid appeared to content herself with smoothing out the covers on the bed. “He has begged your pardon that he will be unable to attend church with you this morning.”
Rebecca frowned. Charles must indeed be slightly ill if he was prepared to miss attending church only a week before his marriage when doubtless the entire parish would be expecting to see him and wish him joy of the upcoming event.
“Has the doctor been sent for?” she asked. “Is there anything known of what may have caused this ailment?”
“His Grace believes that it is dyspepsia, my lady,” the maid said. “He does get it quite often. He believes that there is no cause for alarm at present, and has said that he will rest. He believes that he will be quite well by the afternoon.”
Rebecca nodded. That did not surprise her. Charles had inherited the somewhat dyspeptic constitution of his father, who had frequently overindulged at meals. In the old Duke, this had been slightly offset by an otherwise hearty manner and fondness for outdoor walks, which his eldest son had never shared.
“Would you be so kind as to ensure that my best wishes are sent to the Duke?” she asked, removing her legs from the covers and putting her feet into the slippers that sat on the floor.
“Of course, my lady,” the girl said.
Rebecca sighed. She was truly sorry that Charles was ill, not least because it made her feel rather guilty for all the ungenerous things that she had said and thought about him over the past days.
But nonetheless, the fact that she would not be obliged to walk with him to church was liberating. Her poor night’s sleep and sense of conflict over her feelings for Andrew were likely to make her rather terse today, and she was grateful that Charles would not be present to grate upon her nerves.
“Oh, and there was another thing, my lady,” the maid said, reaching into the pocket of her apron. “Lord Andrew set off for London early this morning, and he bade me give this note to you.”
“Oh?” Before Rebecca could even consider what the note might contain, her hand had reached out eagerly as if of its own accord, keen to grasp the piece of paper that Andrew had written on.
The maid curtsied again and handed the note to Rebecca, before leaving the room.
The note was a single piece of paper folded into a small square, with her name written on it in his familiar, bold hand. ‘Rebecca’, it said. No ‘Lady’.
The contents of the note were very brief. It simply read, Forgive me, Becca - A.G.
Forgive him? The request seemed to play and shift in Rebecca’s brain, throwing her into confusion. She had not supposed that he was to blame for leaving. She had accepted that he could no more ignore Charles’ request to go to London than she could defy her father in the plans for her marriage.
And yet, the request for forgiveness somehow served to make her angry at Andrew where she had felt no anger before. It was a fit of anger in response to what she saw in the note as the acknowledgment that he should have been braver, that he should have stayed. An an admission that he had failed her.
* * *
The well-wishers were still present, of course, but Grandmamma Horatia did an admirable job of inserting herself between Rebecca and anyone who appeared eager to ingratiate themselves with the soon-to-be Duchess.
Grandmamma Horatia excused them quickly, however, by explaining that the Duke had been lately taken ill and that they needed to return promptly to the Hall to discover if there was any further news of his condition.
“I hope the rest of us are in good health,” she said, looking around their faces one by one, as they set off from the church back to the main house.
“Splendid, thank you,” the Earl replied rather gruffly. “An excellent dinner. I could not find a single
fault with it.”
Rebecca reflected at that moment that it seemed rather likely that her father would often be joining them at table at Godwin Hall. The only thing that she could presently think of that would be worse than being married to Charles was to be married to Charles but without the fortunate side effect of escaping her father’s domineering presence.
“I am glad that you are well, Father,” she said patiently, before turning to her friend. “And what of you, Caroline, dear?”
Caroline looked a little unwell herself that morning, rather pale and listless.
“I do hope that you are not suffering from the same ailment that is afflicting Charles,” Rebecca said to her friend in concern. “Do you recall if you partook in any of the same dishes?”
“Only the beef, I believe,” Caroline said a little faintly. “I do not believe that did me any harm. It was well done.”
“It would be most unlike the cook to serve anything spoiled,” Grandmamma Horatia added, a frown altering her stately features. Rebecca smiled in acknowledgment to reassure the older lady that she did not believe that she would ever preside over a sub-par dinner table.
“You had better lie down when we arrive back at the Hall,” Rebecca said to Caroline. “Here, dear. Do you need to lean on my arm?”
Caroline shook her head, and instead began to walk a little faster. Rebecca suspected that she was feeling a good deal more ill than she was letting on, and wished to return to the house as quickly as possible.
“Were you not feeling a little unwell yourself last night, Rebecca?” Grandmamma Horatia asked. “I seem to recall that your countenance did not quite have its usual bloom.”
“Not ill, precisely,” Rebecca replied, still distracted by her unwell friend. “Ah… look! There is one of the servants coming down the drive. Perhaps they have been sent to tell us that Charles is better.”
But this did not prove to be the case. The young footman had been dispatched because the master was ‘a good deal worse’ and had taken the decision to send for the doctor. Rebecca saw an expression of concern cross Grandmamma Horatia’s face at this news.
“He is often a little unwell after large meals,” Grandmamma Horatia said, quickening her pace as they walked up the gravel drive to the house. “But he is a very stubborn young man. I cannot recall the last time that he asked for the doctor to be sent for.”
* * *
The doctor arrived post-haste and examined the patient thoroughly before emerging to inform the waiting party that he believed that there was no cause for great concern. He was not sure precisely what was wrong with the patient but said that all the symptoms suggested trouble digesting some spoiled meat.
“That would make sense,” Rebecca interjected. “Caroline is also suffering this morning.”
“We all ate a little of the beef joint, as I recall,” Grandmamma Horatia said, frowning. “I do not feel at all indisposed myself.”
“Such ailments interact differently with different constitutions,” the doctor replied soothingly. “I am confident in my diagnosis but will return this evening to check on the patient. I expect to find him much improved.”
Grandmamma Horatia was clearly still concerned, but she was able to summon up a kindly smile.
“In that case, doctor,” she said, taking his hand. “I thank you most gratefully for your skillful attention for my grandson.”
“My lady,” the doctor replied, bowing deeply. “I am merely performing my vocation to the best of my ability. As I have already said, I believe that there is no cause for alarm.”
* * *
With Caroline indisposed, Charles ill, Andrew gone and the Earl announcing with little ceremony that he wished to spend the remainder of the day ‘in the library with my pipe’, Rebecca and Grandmamma Horatia found themselves left to their own devices. Grandmamma Horatia proposed that the two of them take a tour of the greenhouses.
“I would propose that we do something more exciting, my dear,” she said ruefully. “Perhaps a picnic or a drive. But I am afraid that I do not wish to stray too far from the house, in case Charles should take a turn.”
“Of course not,” Rebecca replied immediately. “And no more should I.”
And it was true. Although her feelings about her impending wedding to Charles were unchanged, she still maintained a reserve of sisterly love for him - the sort of love that endured despite a good portion of dislike and disagreement — and had no wish to see him suffer in ill health.
Moreover, she had a dread of the idea of an invalid husband. She anticipated that it would be difficult enough to be married to Charles, without forfeiting the distractions of the London Season and local balls and parties. As a married woman, she would scarcely be able to leave her husband if he were to fall sick.
“It is unlike Charles,” Grandmamma Horatia said again, her face worried and thoughtful. “It is true that he is the sort of person who is very often sick, but never gravely. He has not been outside in the chill weather, so there is no reason for him to have caught cold. The doctor said he believes it is mere dyspepsia. But I believe that Charles has a fever, and I am worried by it.”
She passed a regretful look at Rebecca.
“I am so sorry, my dear,” she said. The words carried a great deal more weight than the mere voicing of regret that Rebecca might have been inconvenienced or distressed by her fiancé’s secret. It was the quiet admission that she knew how hard all of this was on Rebecca and wished to convey to her that she would do her utmost to support her in all that followed.
Rather than brushing the sympathy off, Rebecca replied in a low voice, “Of all the people whom I might hold in some way responsible for the present situation, you are not among them.”
Grandmamma Horatia smiled and diverted Rebecca’s attention to the profusion of hot-house lilies that were growing in the greenhouse.
“It does one a great deal of good to spend one’s time among plants and flowers and such things.”
She means it is a good way of avoiding one’s husband, Rebecca thought, with the mixture of mischief and despair that was rapidly becoming her default state of mind.
The hour or so they passed in the greenhouse was a pleasant one, so long as they both remembered not to allow their thoughts to stray toward either the future or the past.
Rebecca began to see, with a great deal of trepidation but also some relief, how she might be able to carve out pastimes and occupations for herself at Godwin Hall, that might allow her a sense of self other than as the wife of the Duke of Leinster.
The trouble is, she thought, I have always longed for a great deal more liberty than I have at present, and yet I am already finding ways to justify to myself how I might be content with even less.
If she had been permitted to continue this line of thought for much longer, then she may have begun to feel very sorry for herself indeed. However, such an opportunity was not afforded to her.
“If you please, your ladyships…” The maid burst into the greenhouse, clearly out of breath from having been running, “I have been sent to tell you that Mr. Charles is a good deal worse.”
Rebecca’s first thought was that Charles must have been very much worse indeed for the maid to refer to her master by the childish name of ‘Mr. Charles’ instead of ‘his Grace’.
But this thought was quickly interrupted by Grandmamma Horatia seizing her hand and commencing to hurry them both across the lawn, with a great deal more speed than might be expected from such an old lady.
“What exactly has changed?” she said briskly to the maid.
“Well, he says the cramps have now got worse to something dreadful, my lady. And…” the maid paused as if to find a way to express herself with delicacy.
“Yes, what is it?”
“He has been vomiting blood, my lady,” the maid said all in a rush. “We’re fearing the worst.”
“I suppose you have already sent for the doctor again?”
“Of course, my lady.”
&n
bsp; They were greeted at the door to the house by Caroline flying out in disarray, looking as if she were on the verge of weeping.
“Oh Rebecca, it’s quite dreadful,” she said, looking more shaken than Rebecca had ever seen her.
“But he was perfectly well yesterday,” Grandmamma Horatia said. She looked a little dazed — an expression that Rebecca could never have imagined seeing on her composed features before.
“It’s a sudden turn, very sudden, my lady,” the maid agreed.
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