“I know,” Eugene told her with a smile, “now, I must go. This will probably be the last you hear from me.”
“Me, too.” Horlock stood up, brushing down his black trousers. “Goodbye, Emily. I’m sorry things ended this way.”
*****
Two days later Emily stood outside Roland’s tiny home, knocking politely on the door. She hopped from foot to foot, feeling as if her heart might explode. She was almost ready to leave when the door opened, a sulking Roland standing inside.
“What is it?” he asked none too kindly.
“I… Came to apologize,” she replied with an affirmative nod, “to say sorry for the way I treated you and everyone else.” She sounded way more confident than she felt. Inside, she felt as if all of this was hopeless. Why would he want to listen to her now? She didn’t deserve his time and patience.
He stepped away, inviting her in. “It’s about time. I thought you would never pluck up the courage.” He smiled, but it was forced.
“Yes well, I had a visit from Duke Horlock and Eugene - they convinced me it was worth the embarrassment.” She kept her head bowed, hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat. “So I’m here, and I’m sorry, and I don’t know how to make it up to you.”
Roland was quiet for a long time - so long in fact, that with her head down she wasn’t sure he was still there. Eventually, he said, “well it isn’t a good apology, but it will do. You are trying, and that’s something I suppose. Promise me you won’t try anything so stupid again though, yes?” His arms were crossed, face carefully blank of emotion. He looked so much unlike the cheerful, grinning man she knew.
With a shaky laugh, Emily nodded. “Yes, of course. So you forgive me?” Her heart thudded in her chest, her hands felt slick with sweat as she clasped them tightly, eagerly.
“What you did was extreme - even for me - and we both know I haven’t treated women well in the past. I’ve never done something this bad before, though. So no, I don’t forgive you - not yet. I might, though; and I’m willing to try. Is that enough?”
Emily only mustered up a choked laugh of disbelief. He was willing to make up? Or at least try. It was too good to believe. “Of course, of course that’s enough! Thank you!”
Roland stepped forward to embrace her, gently pulling her to his chest. “And what about Eugene and Duke Horlock?”
She pressed her face into his chest, sighing heavily. “They’re finally leaving me alone. Not quite how I imagined it happening, though.” She laughed humorlessly. “After how I treated them I don’t blame them.”
Roland broke the hug first, standing back with a hand on his hip, looking at her sternly. “You’ve learned your lesson, then. Good. I don’t know how much longer I could have lasted without you. You drive me insane, but you’re worth it.”
Really? Emily found that hard to believe. With his history and knack for womanizing, it was impossible to believe he really cared for her. Apparently he did, and that was enough for her.
She kissed him, standing on her toes to place her lips softly on his, closing her eyes as she fought the urge to laugh. Oh, this was just too good to believe! She wished this moment could last forever.
When Roland kissed her back, her heart skipped. It made it seem more real, more solid - but also more dreamlike. A week ago this seemed impossible. Somehow, it still did.
When Roland broke the kiss, he was flushed and beaming with joy. “I suspected you were a good kisser, but not that good.” He laughed, genuine and carefree.
Soon Emily joined him, small giggles escaping her lips as she rested her head on Roland’s shoulder. He was thick and sturdy - reliable. That was something she had never considered him before.
“So, was this whole mess worth it to get me?” he questioned teasingly.
“I guess we’ll see - but I’d say so, yes.”
They kissed again, and for once everything seemed right in the world.
A Swift Marriage
“He ruined us, daughter,” Mother said. Mrs. Mamie Bain often talked of her husband with vitriol of late. He had spent their fortune, ruined their chances, and then killed himself with consumption. The Bains were thoroughly disgraced. Even so, it was hard for Miss Abbie Bain to connect the loving man who had lifted her and placed her upon his knee with this demon Mother spoke of; the two were simply too different. “He did,” Mother went on, leaning into the fire, poking at it, and grimacing. “How many servants do we have now, dear? One! And not a footman to speak of! Not that anybody wishes to visit with us anymore! Oh, no!”
“Mother,” Abbie said, pulling a blanket around herself up to her chin, “don’t be morbid.”
“Morbid? Ha!”
“Yes, morbid,” Abbie said. “That will not help anybody. It has been three years, and the past still swells within your breast.”
“Three years… It feels like one-hundred. Look at my eyes, daughter. Look at the lines. Such lines! I have aged one-thousand years in these three years. I cannot believe that it has only been three years. No, I will not!”
Abbie sighed and stared into the fire. Mother said nothing more. Abbie collected her novel from the table and lost herself in the escapades of some French lady, as she climbed society with a wit and shrewdness of which Abbie was hugely jealous. If only she could claim that same wit, that same shrewdness… But the lady in the novel had a dowry, and Abbie had no dowry, not since Father. Her brothers were in the colonies, she was one-and-twenty, and her prospects were dwindling fast. Mother had remarked bitterly one night: “Perhaps we ought to marry you to a yeoman, what a scandal!”
Abbie read the French novel until Mother fell asleep and then sneaked to the library, wherein there was stored tomes of Latin and Greek, as well as a volume on the natural art of wildlife. This study was absolutely pointless to her, but she did it nonetheless, and had become quite proficient in distinguishing the different types of vertebrae in various different species; and she had taught herself Latin and Greek to a satisfactory degree. There wasn’t much else to do in their little pocket of Somerset, where visits never came and life rolled from day to day in one endless succession.
She slammed the book shut when there was movement at the door, and swiftly reclaimed her French novel, hiding the big, dusty tomes under the desk. But it was only Betty, their maidservant. She was old now, with deep-set wrinkles and limbs like gnarled branches. She walked slowly into the room and smiled warmly at Abbie. “Studying again, I see, my lady,” she said, inclining her head.
“Hello, Betty,” Abbie said. “Sneaking around?” Abbie smiled to show the maidservant she was joking. Betty had stayed because she was old and she loved Abbie. She had been the one to care for Abbie since she was very young. Abbie had a huge wealth of memories involving Betty, all bright and stark and beautiful.
“Always, my lady,” Betty said. “Always sneaking, these days. But now I sneak with purpose.” With slow, deliberate movements she reached into her pocket and produced an envelope. “A messenger came with this. I believe it is addressed to two people, but I cannot tell.” She handed Abbie the letter.
Abbie read the front. It was addressed to two people. The illiterate maidservant was right. It was addressed to her and Mother. “I will go to Mother,” Abbie said. “What time is it, Betty?”
“Dusk, my lady,” Betty said. “The sun is just setting – what sun we’ve had this cold November day – you ought to open the curtains in here, my lady.”
“I like the dark,” Abbie said. “It helps me imagine I am someplace else.” That I am somebody else, she added, but only to herself. That I am somebody else who lives an exciting, carefree life: that I am a heroine in a French novel, or that I am a well-respected female scholar. Just imagine!
She left the library and walked through the house to the drawing room, in which Mother slept before the fire. “Mummy,” she said, touching her mother�
�s chin. “A letter came for us.”
Mother opened and closed her eyes slowly, and then sat up in the armchair. “Perhaps a debtor,” she said. “Yes, we have paid each and every one these past three years, but I would not be surprised if another materialized as though by some sick form of witchcraft!”
“Mother,” Abbie said. “You mustn’t speak like that.”
Mother took the letter from Abbie’s hand and cut it open. She unfolded the paper and read with darting eyes. When she’d read it through once, her eyes tracked back to the top of the page, and read through it again. “A joke, no doubt,” Mother said. “A cruel jest.”
She threw the letter in Abbie’s general direction. Abbie caught it just as it was fluttering to the ground. She read by the firelight.
Dear Mrs. and Miss Bain,
I formally invite you to the ball at Highgarden Castle on 5th December. It would gladden me greatly if the two of you could attend.
Yours sincerely,
Brigadier Zack Dagon, Duke of Sommer
“Mother!” Abbie cried. “This is astonishing!”
“It is a cruel jest from one of your father’s enemies!”
“It would be a brave jest indeed,” Abbie said. “To impersonate a Duke. I am sure His Grace would not take kindly to it.”
“Bah!” Mother exclaimed.
“Oh, Mother, we shall go, shan’t we?”
“Go where? To a fake ball?”
“Oh, Mother, you really must not speak like that.”
“Of course we shall go!” Mother cried recklessly. “Of course we shall go! We shall go and we shall be turned away at the door! But go we shall! You will prepare the dresses, and I will rent a carriage, and we shall go and be made fools of!”
*****
Mother had hidden away their dresses when Father began to sell things to support his habits. Abbie rooted them out, cleaned them, repaired them, and they wore them to the ball. It was not as Mother had feared. She had become so paranoid. When they produced the letter upon entering the estate, the footman had led the two of them into the large ballroom. A frost crisped the tall glass windows, and through the sheen Abbie spied a rabbit upon the lawn, frantically hopping toward the woods.
The ballroom was filled with around four dozen ladies and lords, standing in small circles or dancing together at arm’s length. The lords wore long-tailed jackets and breeches with knee-length boots, and the ladies wore dresses of elaborate and impressive embroidery. Footmen circulated with wine on platters that glinted in the torchlight. Abbie accept a cup of wine and Mother snatched one for herself.
“There are the Durhams,” Mother said, pointing. “And those are the Perkers, and there are the Tinnings, and look, there are the Laverys. All of whom were friends of my late husband and me. Now I doubt they will even pretend to recognize me! Oh, coming here was a mistake!”
“Mother,” Abbie hissed. “You must not say like that.”
Mother and Abbie were making their way to a table in the corner when a lady emerged, tall and feline with a long white neck and a supercilious sneer upon her face. It was Lady Carol Ollivander, Abbie’s childhood friend. The two of them had often played together before Father ruined them. She had not seen Carol for three years, since Father’s death.
“Abbie!” she cried, walking gracefully to where she and Mother stood, looking down on them with her impressive height. “What a wonderful surprise to see you both here. And how brave of you to come!”
“Hello, Carol,” Abbie said.
“That is Lady Ollivander,” Carol said, as though the two of them had not made daisy chains together whilst their fathers talked of war. “I do not recall giving you permission to use my Christian name.” She turned to Mother. “Oh, a relic from the old days.”
Mother inclined her head at the remark. “Lady Ollivander,” she said with practiced deference. “You look well.”
“You do not,” Carol said, her sneer intensifying. “You do not at all. How did you manage to arrive here? It must be a frightful tale, full of cheating, lying, and stealing.” A coterie of ladies formed behind Carol, each one with a more supercilious expression. Their faces peered as though from a great, impenetrable fog. Abbie felt as though she had fallen on the highway, and ghouls were peering at her. The coterie fell upon themselves in laughter. Abbie felt her cheeks turning red. “Or did you sneak upon the food cart? Is that it?”
Mother looked at the ground, the fight drained from her. Abbie bit her lip and felt tears sting her eyes. She didn’t know what to say. This was Carol, the girl with whom she played as a girl, and now here she was being dreadfully cruel. She remembered she and Carol clapping their hands together as girls and promising to always be friends. And now…
“Actually…” A man’s voice, strong and deep, cut across the laughter. “Actually, I invited them.” The man who stepped into the fray wore a military jacket studded with medals. His face was strong and his deep brown eyes were narrowed. A scar ran down the side of his face, down his left cheek, pink in the middle and red at the edges. But his handsomeness somehow transcended the mark. “Is this how you behave at a ball, ladies?” he said, staring at the group. “Like a pack of wolves, descending on your prey?”
Carol bowed her head, and now she was blushing. “Apologies, Your Grace.” The other girls murmured with her.
Your Grace! It is His Grace, Brigadier Zack Dogan! His Grace looked around the ballroom, and called to a man a few feet away: “Lord Ollivander, I believe your daughter is tired. Perhaps you would escort her to a seat, so she may sit down and compose herself?”
The man jumped at the suggestion, and swiftly the sneering wolves were dispersed. His Grace turned to Abbie and Mother. “I apologize,” he said, bowing deeply.
Mother faltered, looking up at the man as though he was descended from heaven. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “I—we—thank you.”
“Your Grace,” Abbie said, as steadily as she could, curtseying.
“I fear you are not enjoying the ball,” His Grace said, facing the women. “Perhaps, Miss Bain,” he faced Abbie, looking down at her with hard, unflinching eyes, “you would give me this dance? That is, if your beautiful mother does not object.”
Abbie looked to Mother, her world spinning so fast she could barely keep up. A few minutes ago she had been scorned by a group of ladies, and now she was being asked by a Duke to dance! The world is a mad place, she thought wonderingly. “Of course you may,” Mother said, her voice dry and raspy.
His Grace took Abbie’s arm and escorted her to the floor, where they danced practiced, slow steps. He held her at arm’s length, and they danced the steps that had been danced for generations before them. “I am glad you came,” His Grace said, as they moved around the floor.
“As am I, Your Grace,” Abbie said, feeling more and more each moment like she would wake up at home and all this would be some silly dream.
“I have a proposal for you,” His Grace said, as they moved around the floor. “That is why I invited you.”
“Your Grace?” Abbie said.
This just didn’t happen: not in Abbie’s life.
“I wish you to be my wife.”
“Your Grace?”
Was this some cruel joke? Was he making a fool of her?
“Yes,” His Grace said. “I need a wife, and I have chosen you. That is why I invited you, to make this proposal. You will gladden me if you accept.” But his voice did not sound glad. It sounded hard and cold. “I need a wife,” he repeated, as the dance slowed to a halt, “and I have chosen you.”
*****
It was not a cruel joke. His Grace was sincere, and he and Abbie got married after one short conversation.
Even by those day’s standards, they were strangers to each other. After the wedding night – a quick and businesslike affair – His Grace
left her for five months. He had business with the King, he said, and would say nothing else on the matter. Mother came to live with them, to keep Abbie company whilst her husband was away, and His Grace wrote to her once a month, always the same stilted, loveless letters.
“I often think,” Abbie said, the night before His Grace was due to return, “that he married me for some reason I cannot know. It does not make sense, Mother, for him to choose a wife like me, does it? I am poor – I was poor – and we barely knew each other.”
“Knowing your husband is not all that wonderful, daughter,” Mother said. “Why must you be so suspicious, dear? He married you. Is that not enough?”
“We have barely spoken, Mother,” Abbie said, the dread building within her. “We had no sooner—hmm, made our marriage official than he fled to the King. Business with the King, he says, and I have no idea what he is truly doing.”
“You should be proud,” Mother said tiredly. “You are the wife of a Duke. You have made our family proud.”
By marrying a stranger, Abbie thought, and felt a wave of confusion wash over her as it always did when she thought of her husband. It wasn’t that he was cruel or brutal to her; he was just nothing to her. When he was here, he replied to her in monosyllables and invented any number of reasons to not remain in the same room as her for longer than was strictly necessary. If they were breaking their fast together, for example, he would wolf his food down and leave her to finish hers alone.
“I am going to confront him on the morning, when he returns,” Abbie said. “I am going to discover the reason for his coldness.”
“Abbie, he is a Duke! It is his business how he behaves, not yours!”
“Are you not curious, Mother? Do you not want to know why he chose me to be his wife, a woman he hardly knows, a woman who still feels uncomfortable calling him anything other than Your Grace?”
Mother scoffed and stared out of the window at the May sunlight. “Why can’t you just be content? You have a beautiful house and soon you shall have children running around it.”
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 25
