I glanced toward the Duke again, a hollow feeling creeping into my stomach despite my breakfast. Our eyes met, and I could see that he was trying not to show how disappointed he was with this turn of events. I shared his feelings; of course I had known that we could not stay in Scotland forever, but I had grown so attached to life at the castle that the thought of leaving made me feel forlorn.
“William, I fear we shall also have to leave you,” Lieutenant Potter spoke up, passing his letter to Helen for her to read. “My brother writes that his wife is feeling ill and requires Helen’s assistance. She is close to her confinement, and naturally my brother is concerned.”
“I am very sorry to lose your company all at once, but of course you must go,” the Duke said, and though he had looked away to address Papa and Lieutenant Potter, I felt as though the sorrow in his words was meant for me. “Arthur, you are welcome to make use of my carriage if it will assist you in departing more swiftly.”
And they did make use of it, departing that very afternoon. Helen’s face was pinched and drawn as she took leave of me, and I guessed that the letter had contained more worrying information than the Lieutenant had imparted. The Duke, Papa, and I saw them off in the courtyard. Little Henry and Arthur did not want to leave at the end, and Arthur scampered to hide behind the Duke in an effort to avoid being taken away. Finally the little boys were loaded into the carriage, and we watched them until they had disappeared from sight before we returned to the castle.
“I think we shall delay our departure for another fortnight, if you are willing to host us that long,” Papa said as we proceeded into the library.
“We do not want to deprive you of all your company at once,” I added, and the Duke’s gaze found me once again. “Perhaps… you would do us the honor of returning our visit?” I spoke haltingly, for I had not asked Papa for permission to extend such an invitation, and I was not certain of how the Duke would respond. But one look at the expression of hope that crossed the Duke’s face told me he very much wished to accept my offer.
“That is an excellent notion, Bella! I should have thought of it myself. Indeed, William, you must come with us when we go. Perhaps we could make use of some of our compounds in the fields. Morrison could not complain of my absence if the farms produce more than twice their usual yield.”
Papa’s suggestion caused the Duke’s posture to stiffen minutely, though it would have gone unnoticed to a casual observer. “Your offer is most generous, Matthew, but I am afraid my own estate business will not allow me to leave within a fortnight. Perhaps,” he said, still looking at me, “I might join you once I have the estate in order?” I am afraid I did not hear Papa’s response, somewhat distracted by an unreadable expression in the Duke’s eyes that made me feel as though a swarm of butterflies had settled inside me.
Our old routine was not altered much by the removal of the Potters, except that I spent more time alone in the mornings. It made me even happier to see Papa and the Duke when they joined me for luncheon each afternoon. Whenever they placed a new tincture or compound on the rosebushes, I made a point to join them as well. We went on like this until today after tea, when Papa excused himself and returned to the castle for his usual rest before dinner.
I had brought out my sketch book and a translated copy of Preller’s Greek Mythology, which we had lately been reading. Without needing a prompting, the Duke picked it up and found where we had left off the day before. He read aloud the legend of Cupid and Psyche while I sketched. The Duke’s rich voice wove the story around me, and I began drawing the scene where Psyche accidentally burns Cupid with lamp oil, curiosity overcoming her love for the husband who has forbidden her to look on him.
I drew Psyche first, the lamp small and round with a shallow basin, her curls falling around her shoulders, her face beautiful and full of wonder and surprise at the sight of her immortal sire. I made her my age, old enough to wed but young enough to still be tempted by curiosity into acting foolishly. (You will think this description odd, but not when you have read the whole of my letter. I write now with the clarity of after-sight.)
Cupid came next, in an attitude of half-rising, staring at his young bride with a mixture of unbearable sadness and disbelief. His wings drooped gracefully from his shoulders, his hair also curly, but unruly with sleep. One arm was in the process of being lowered, as though his eyes were adjusting to the light. Without deciding on it consciously, I gave him the Duke’s breadth of chest and shoulders, his strong jawline and regular features, but softened slightly to reflect his ageless quality. As I drew his eyes, I found myself thinking over how very sad the story was. Cupid’s one request, that Psyche not know his true identity as a deity, had been made to protect her from his vengeful mother, Venus. Breaking her word and giving in to her curiosity drove him away, and Psyche was eventually forced into servitude to Venus before she and Cupid could be reunited again.
We continued on in this manner until the Duke reached the end of the chapter. He paused and stared out at the roses without speaking. I finished shading a corner of the sketch and spoke an abstract thought. “It never ceases to amaze me how large these roses grow. I have lived among them for weeks now, and still it is impressive.”
“These roses have seen many of my experiments over the years.” He leaned sideways to look at my sketch, and I held the paper closer. He nodded his approval and settled back into his seat again.
“I wonder how the roses in the southwest corner are faring. You and Papa placed another layer of compound around them two days ago, did you not?”
“We did, and we have not been to check them yet. The rain yesterday will have helped the soil absorb the compound more readily, and we should be able to see signs of change by now if it was not properly mixed.”
“Shall we look together?” I suggested. He grunted assent. We strolled down the lawn together and were soon before the rose bushes in question. The Duke bent his tall frame down to examine the leaves and undersides of the petals on the blooms closest to the ground, near where the compound had been applied. The roses on these bushes were of a vibrant yellow color, tinged with a rich pink along the top of the petals. This was one of the bushes I knew the Duke had bred himself, combining different varieties of roses by grafting stems and rootstocks. The scent was heavy around us.
“Hmm… I am not certain I like the look of this particular spot.” The Duke knelt on the grass and poked about in the dirt. He rubbed a pinch of the dark soil between his fingers and brought it to his nose. “Here, tell me what you smell?” I crouched lower, careful of my skirts, and breathed in the loamy scent of the earth. It had a sharp quality to it, one that I thought smelled a little familiar.
“It smells like an herb of some sort, although I cannot exactly place it.”
“It is fennel. I had hoped it would encourage root growth, but I suspect it is not going to work. See here? Already the lower leaves are a lighter shade than they were before.” He showed me several leaves, then brushed the dirt from his hands and stood up. “I wonder about the leaves in the back…” he began without bothering to finish the sentence as he carefully lifted away the rose stems so that he could fit himself behind the bush. I rose and watched him duck out of sight again for several minutes before he emerged. “I shall have to bring something down later to adjust the mixture,” he said, then exclaimed loudly at the thorns as they snagged his coat. He turned and scowled at the offending bush, and his expression was so funny that I laughed aloud. He looked at me with a stern face that quickly dissolved into a small smile and a throaty chuckle. Our laughs faded, and we continued to look at one another.
Lately the intensity with which he used to stare at me had softened into something else, something I had purposely tried not to understand. There amongst the roses I felt my pulse quicken, and quite suddenly I knew exactly what new emotion lingered in his eyes. I smiled again and turned away, hoping he would not notice my embarrassment.
“It is so quiet now that little Henry and Ar
thur are gone,” I observed. “One feels somewhat forlorn without their voices in the air.”
“I agree. It has been a long time since there were children in the castle. But then, it is a long time since anyone has come here.” The Duke paused before continuing. “And now you are to leave as well. I find I have become… accustomed to having company. I regret the necessity of your return to Kent.”
“But you need not remain here alone. The Duncans surely desire your company, and of course you may always go to London if you would rather not be in the country. Eleanor tells me there are many pleasant people there.” I purposefully did not mention the invitation to visit Kent, for it seemed a nearer concern than I could manage to talk of in that moment.
“Yes, you are right,” he said, but his tone was hesitant. “And yet… I cannot help feeling that there is a particular reason why I do not wish for you to leave.” Where before I had not wanted to meet his eyes, I now could not look away. The Duke hesitated again while I watched him, my heart thumping hard and my mind racing from point to point too quickly to follow.
Finally he stepped forward, closing the distance between us and looking down at me. “Isabella… I… I cannot see you leave without first speaking to you. What you will think of my offer I cannot guess. I know that I am not young, that I have been disagreeable to you in the past. Heaven knows my behavior toward you has not helped my suit. But your presence here, your daily influence, has wrought a change in my mind and heart that I had come to believe impossible. To find intelligence and respect joined with spirit, to feel so strongly that I have found one to whom I could truly give my whole soul is more than I ever hoped to find again. I would say that I have a small hope that you will accept me, but I dare not trust it when I think on my manner toward you in Kent. However,” and here he paused and took my hand, which I realized at that moment had anticipated his movement and raised itself without my knowledge, “if you can forgive me, if you find that you can return my feelings, I would be honored if you would consent to be my wife.”
His touch felt charged with energy, as though the lightning from a storm had taken up residence in his hand. It tingled and skipped between our fingers as he held my hand in both of his. His brown eyes were glowing with a look that I could now read perfectly: tenderness, nervousness, loneliness that longed to be dispelled, and hope, a tiny flicker of it that tried to hide itself behind the other emotions but could not quite manage it. As his voice faded into silence, his words hung in the air before us. All at once the tumult of emotions rushing through me resolved into two distinct and conflicting points, one governed by my mind and one by my heart. My heart told me with perfect certainty that I loved the Duke, and it leapt at the thought that my love was returned. But I have never listened to such things as I should, content to ignore my heart and allow my mind to guide me. My mind would not be ignored now, and it forced my heart aside as it latched onto one word.
“Again?” I said, my voice small and fearful, not my own.
“What?”
“You said again… that you did not think…” I faltered, unable to continue. The Duke’s expression altered from hope to confusion. Slowly he released my hand and took a very small step back.
“You are wondering why I should say such a thing if you are the first lady to inspire my admiration,” he said bluntly but kindly. “Would it alter your choice if you were not?”
“No, not exactly,” I said, and even to me my words sounded foolish. “I just wondered…” I stopped again. I could not immediately say what I wondered.
“Who she was,” the Duke finished for me. His shoulders, usually straight and firm, drooped slightly. His voice retreated into politeness. “That is a fair question. The match was planned when we were children. She was a young lady of sense and wit, someone I could respect. I admired her for it. I felt fortunate to be promised to such a woman.” His eyes rose slightly, as if focusing on a distant memory. “But she died the winter before we were to marry. Since then I have only met one young lady with her intelligence,” he said as his eyes returned to mine. “You are like her in that way, but you are far more kind and generous.”
“Did you love her?” The words slipped from me before I could stop them.
“In a way, yes. I respected her and thought that it was love. I was young then and did not know the difference. My feelings for her were like an experiment: calculated, planned to the last degree, but never put into practice.”
“Is Miss Hamilton the reason why the villagers dislike you?” My heart jerked and tried to take the words back the moment they left me, but my mind could not stop its burning curiosity. It was a prying question; I had no proof that a Miss Hamilton had even existed. But still I asked. I was Psyche.
The Duke’s face paled noticeably. “How do you know that name?”
“I… in the village…” I was stammering, wishing desperately that I had not spoken. The Duke’s face flushed at my words, and his posture took on its accustomed stiffness. His eyes darkened, and his expression grew hard.
“May I ask which person I have to thank for informing you of my history?”
“No one told me anything specific. Mr. Adamson mentioned that you had inherited the Hamilton land when the family failed, and that the townsfolk were unhappy with it and—,”
“And from these things you inferred that I had a hand in their demise?”
“No!” My denial was too quick. “I did think something had happened, but nothing so horrid as that.” But I was lying, and we both knew it. Even though I had generally thought the Duke to be innocent, I am ashamed to admit that I had wondered if he had been directly involved in the Hamiltons’ misfortunes. My heart felt all the weight of that shame, but my rebellious mind once again took over. Resentment flared next, anger that the Duke would praise my intellect and then find fault with me for using that intellect to notice the signs pointing to his secrets. It made my next words sound haughty. “Well, yes, of course I wondered. How could I help wondering? And am I not entitled to know, considering what you have asked me?”
“You presume a great deal,” he growled in reply. Those words shocked my mind into submission at last. Was he truly going to retract his offer? It had not occurred to my mind that this was possible, even though my heart had feared it the whole time. How could one person be so divided within oneself? Only then did I truly see the extent of my error.
The Duke sighed heavily and paced away from me, one hand raking through his hair. Finally he turned and spoke. “I was young, Isabella, young and foolish and alone, with no guidance and all the responsibility of a master thrust on my shoulders before I had enough sense to know better. And I was vain enough to think that I knew what I was doing. Have you also discovered that it was my chemistry that was my downfall, my love of scientific discovery that led me to put a household at risk? And the Hamiltons, happy to indulge the experiments of their titled future son-in-law, eager for the increase in prosperity and influence that success would inevitably bring? Too late I realized my error; even as I arrived they were beyond my help. There was nothing I could do. It was called an accident, and perhaps it was. But it was I who miscalculated and I who reaped the reward anyway. Is it any wonder I wished to forget what had happened? That I craved a new beginning, separate from the crushing weight of guilt and incompetence?”
From my earliest acquaintance with the Duke, I had sensed a certain wildness about him, a passion that he kept tightly in control, as though afraid to let it loose. Now it flooded from him, and I was reminded of my initially relating him to a great bear. Never had that image fit him so well as now. He prowled the lawn between the rose bushes, and I watched, my heart having sunk so low within me that I doubted I would ever feel it beat in its proper place again. This was my fault. I had sought this out, and it had brought us both only shame and hurt. This was worse than Cupid and Psyche; there was no goddess I could appeal to, no way to rebuild the hope for a new, untainted life that I had destroyed with the force of my curiosity.
The Duke stopped pacing and looked at me again. It felt like an eternity that we stood there in total silence. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing to say. The Duke’s expression was brooding, heavy with anger and sadness. Much as I wished to look away, I made myself continue to stare at him, to see the misery I had created with my suspicions and folly. My own misery was great indeed, and I found myself unable to hold back the tears that had been threatening to fall for some time.
This was a mistake. The Duke’s dark anger faded at the sight of my distress. But the repentant look, the pity, and worst of all, the return of that tiny spark of hope were too much to bear. He stepped forward again, and for one moment I thought he might take me in his arms in spite of all that had just occurred. I backed away; I would not let him forgive me for what I had done. He could not be happy with me.
“I regret that I must decline your offer, Your Grace,” I said very quietly. “I am truly sorry.” And then I turned and fled up the other side of the lawn, running as fast as I could toward the castle. I ran until I reached my room, and here I have been ever since. Papa came to the door at our usual dinner hour, but I told him I was ill with a headache from sitting too long in the sun. It was not a total falsehood, for my head does throb most alarmingly.
My only solace has been to confess all to you. I cannot stay here a moment longer than necessary. In the morning I shall beg Papa to take us home to Kent immediately. Please write to me there as swiftly as you may. I only hope you will not think worse of me for behaving so foolishly, but I know that it is not likely. Write to me about anything, for all I can think of is the Duke’s face and how I have ruined my chance of happiness forever.
Glass Roses: A Victorian Fairytale Page 21
