Aurora ran from her bedchamber and to her sister’s room. The doctor came forward as she burst through the door, but with a surprising show of strength the girl pushed him aside and went to her sister’s side. “Cally! Cally! Open your eyes this minute,” she commanded.
Calandra’s hazel eyes opened slowly. She looked at Aurora with a weak smile. “I knew you would come before it was too late,” she said. Then she shuddered, and her look grew vacant.
“Doctor!” Aurora’s voice was almost a scream.
He came quickly to the bedside, and taking Cally’s wrist, sought for a pulse. There was none. He put his ear to her chest, but the young woman’s heart was stilled. Looking up, he said to Aurora, “I am sorry, Miss Aurora, but your sister is dead.”
“The baby! Is the baby dead too? Oh, God! Don’t let Cally’s death have been in vain! What of the baby?” Aurora cried.
“Fetch me my medical kit,” he ordered her. “Will you faint at the sight of blood? Go and fetch Martha. Hurry!”
She practically flung the black leather bag that held the necessities of his doctoring skills at him, and then she dashed from the bedroom, sobbing wildly, calling for Martha. The servant stumbled from her chair and practically collided with her young mistress.
“It’s Cally,” Aurora wept hysterically. “She is dead! Oh, Martha! My sister is dead, and it is all my fault! Go! Hurry! The doctor wants you to aid him. He will try to save the baby.”
Martha dashed into the duchess’s bedroom, where the doctor stood staring down in horror at the bed. “What is it, sir?” she asked him tremulously, attempting to see around his bulky figure.
“Come no farther!” he said sharply.
“What is it?” she repeated nervously.
He turned, white-faced. “Look if you will, but it is a terrible sight, Martha Jones. No wonder poor Calandra could not deliver her child. It is a monster, but praise God in his mercy, it is dead.”
Determined but fearful, Martha gazed down upon Calandra, whose belly had been opened by the doctor in his desperate effort to save the duke’s heir. “It’s two babies,” she said softly. “What’s that about their necks, Doctor, and why are they so close together? Why, they look as if their poor little bodies are united.” Then she gave a little scream. “God help us! They have but two legs! Oh, Doctor! What is it that poor Miss Cally has borne in her body all these months?”
He shook his head in his own wonderment. “I have heard of such a thing, but rarely. Had they been normally formed, they might have been twins, but of what sex, I cannot tell, for they are conjoined in such a manner to make it impossible. They have two heads and necks; each has a set of shoulders and an upper chest, and each has two arms, but the rest of their trunk is one, and there are but two legs. They have been strangled by their own cord, thank God! I will sew the duchess back up, Martha Jones, and we will tell the duke the child was dead in its mother’s womb, which is no lie. There is no need to say what we have seen this day. There will be sorrow enough in this house, and as Miss Aurora is to be married herself in a few months, there is no need to frighten her with her poor sister’s misfortune, eh, Martha?”
Martha nodded. The sight of Cally’s monster would remain with her for the rest of her days. It was horrible. Then she had a thought. “They’ll ask what the babe was, Doctor. Tell them a wee girl. There will be so much sadness over this as it is. The duke has been good to us. Don’t let him think he lost a son as well as a wife.”
“It is no son,” the doctor said softly, “but I do not think it is a daughter either.” Then he shook himself and said, “Go and fetch the duke, but I do not want him to come into this room yet. Ask him to await me in the library, Martha. And see to your mistress. She was here when her sister died. Calandra’s last words were for her.”
As Martha left the room, the doctor began to sew up his patient’s belly. He was astounded by what he had seen, and wondered what could have possibly caused Calandra to conceive such a creature. Shaking his head, he worked with swift, neat stitches. He didn’t want anyone else seeing what he and Martha had seen. Poor girl, he thought. If she had lived, if the creature had survived, what would have become of them all? No mother could surely look upon such a monstrosity and love it. It might have driven her to madness.
Martha hurried down the hallway. Her first concern was for her mistress. The duke could wait. They all could wait. Aurora’s earlier words had disturbed Martha, and she had to make her understand that she was not responsible for Calandra’s fate. Cally had been offered a choice, and had willingly, nay, eagerly, accepted the responsibility of being Valerian Hawkesworth’s wife. No. Not his wife. His duchess. Cally had not been a true or good wife at all, God rest the poor soul.
She could hear Aurora weeping bitterly even before she entered the bedroom. The girl was sprawled across her bed, sobbing as if her heart were broken, and in a sense, Martha realized, it was. Going to her mistress, she gathered the girl to her bosom and attempted to soothe her sorrow. “There, miss, there. It was God’s will, and there’s no standing against God’s will now, is there?”
“Th-th-the b-b-b-baby?” Aurora queried.
“Dead too, a girl,” Martha said shortly.
Aurora cried all the harder. “It was all for nothing,” she sobbed. “All for nothing, Martha. Oh, my poor Cally.” She looked up at her servant, her lovely face all red and wet. “It’s my fault Cally is dead, Martha. It’s all my fault! Did you and Mama not warn me that no good ever came of deception? But I would not listen, would I? And now my sister is dead because of my selfishness!” Her weeping began afresh, her whole body shaking turbulently.
Martha drew in a deep breath and then she grasped Aurora by the shoulders and looked her directly in the eyes. “It ain’t your fault, miss. You didn’t force Miss Cally into marriage. She had a choice, but the silly girl was so overwhelmed with the idea of being a duchess that she was just as headstrong and willful as you’re wont to get. All Miss Cally wanted of her marriage was to be beautiful and acclaimed, wear fine clothing and drive in a magnificent carriage, and give parties that all the mighty would come to after fighting over her invitations. But we didn’t know that, did we? Your parents set you both a good example of a Christian marriage, miss. Miss Cally knew what was expected of her, but she refused to be a good wife to the duke. None of that is your fault, and I won’t let you blame yourself for it!”
“But I am to blame, Martha,” Aurora said woefully. “My father arranged a fine marriage for me with his friend’s son, and when I learned of it I spurned it, and would not do my duty. I tempted Cally because I suspected that she would adore the idea of being a duchess. I was right, and she took my place. By doing so, it has cost her her life. Had I done what my father expected of me and married Valerian Hawkesworth, my sister would be alive today. I do not hold myself responsible for Cally’s behavior or actions, but I do hold myself responsible for my own.”
“Well,” Martha said in hard, practical tones, “you can’t change what’s done, miss. Miss Cally is gone, and that’s a fact.” She arose from the bed. “I got to go and fetch the duke for the doctor. Dry your eyes and wash your face. Then go find the old dowager. She’ll need a bit of comforting to get over this shock.” Martha stamped from the room, leaving Aurora alone once more.
The servant found the duke in his library and requested that he await Dr. Carstairs, beating a hasty retreat before Hawkesworth might ask her any questions. She met the doctor coming down the staircase as she was hurrying back up.
“Find the duchess’s maids, Martha,” he told her, “and do what you can to make her look presentable.” Then he moved on down the stairs and entered the duke’s library.
Valerian Hawkesworth came quickly to his feet, looking anxiously at William Carstairs. “My wife, the child?” he said, but from the look on the doctor’s face, he knew the news would not be good.
“I am very sorry, your grace, but they are both deceased. The labor was extremely difficult for your wife. She w
as unable to birth the child, and her poor little heart just gave out. I opened her belly surgically to save the infant—it was a girl—but it was dead, its cord wrapped tightly about its neck. I sewed up the incision, leaving the child with its mother. You have my deepest sympathies.”
The duke nodded silently. Vain, foolish Calandra, he thought. She is dead, and our daughter with her. Poor girl. At least she will never again have to endure my attentions. A daughter. I would have enjoyed a daughter, but I needed a son. “I understand, Dr. Carstairs,” he finally said. “We could all see that Calandra was having a difficult time these past months.” He walked over to the mahogany sideboard and poured two tumblers of whiskey, handing one to the doctor. “I hope her suffering was not too great. Sit down, Doctor. You look tired.”
“I am” came the admission as the doctor sat opposite the duke in the chairs that flanked the blazing fireplace. The fire was warm, and between it, and the excellent whiskey he was sipping, William Carstairs asked the question of Valerian Hawkesworth that he had been dying to ask him ever since he had entered the house. “I was always given to understand, your grace, that you were to marry the heiress of St. Timothy, and yet your wife was Calandra Spencer-Kimberly. How, may I ask, did your marriage come about?”
“I did marry the heiress to St. Timothy,” the duke said. The poor doctor was obviously tired and confused.
“No, sir, you did not” came the firm reply. “Aurora Kimberly is the heiress of St. Timothy. I lived on the island, in the Kimberly house, for ten years. I was the only white man of breeding with whom Mr. Kimberly could speak, and we did so each evening after the meal was over. We sat either on the veranda of the house or in his library, drinking fruit juice and rum, and discussing all manner of things. He confided in me the betrothal agreement he and his good friend, Charles, Lord Hawkesworth, had arranged between their children even before Miss Aurora was born. He had not told his wife of the matter, for he hoped to make an equally good match for Calandra one day, and he wanted no jealousy over Aurora’s match until he had a marriage set for his stepdaughter.
“I came to St. Timothy from Jamaica with the Kimberlys when they were first married. It was hoped in those days that his third wife might give him the heir he wanted, and so he desired a doctor on the island for emergencies. There had been none when Emily Kimberly died. I watched both Miss Aurora and Miss Calandra grow up. I left the island only five years ago to return to England. I would know them if they were my own daughters, your grace. Your duchess was Calandra Spencer-Kimberly, Robert’s stepdaughter, not Aurora, his daughter, and his heiress, of that I am absolutely certain.”
Valerian Hawkesworth was numb with shock, and at the same time he felt a burning anger beginning to arise deep within him. What kind of a deception had been played upon him, and why? “I am as confused about this matter as you are, Dr. Carstairs,” he said in a cool, even voice. “I was given to believe Calandra was the heiress, and certainly no part of her dowry was withheld from me. Mr. Kimberly is deceased, you may know. As I wished to marry and return to England as quickly as possible, a minister was brought from Barbados to perform the ceremony. My wife and I departed for home. Aurora and George came nine months later. Mistress Kimberly wanted them to seek out English mates. My brother-in-law married Miss Bowen yesterday, and they are even now on their way to St. Timothy. Aurora is to marry Mr. St. John in the spring.”
“I did not know about Robert Kimberly,” the doctor replied.
“I would request that you do not mention this matter to anyone,” the duke said. “I will wish to investigate it myself, and I certainly desire no scandal at this time. My wife and child must be buried with dignity and honor. Nothing must detract from that.”
“Of course, your grace,” the doctor said, and finishing off his whiskey, he arose. “I must return to the surgery. With my cousin away, there may be another in need of my services.” He bowed politely, and the duke nodded, standing.
“Thank you, Dr. Carstairs,” he said, ushering him from the library and into the foyer of the house.
There Peters awaited with his long, dark cloak. Helping the doctor to don his garment, he said, “Your coach is waiting outside, sir. The horses are rested and fed, and your coachman is ready.” The butler escorted the doctor outside, and then, returning inside, shut the door behind him, certain in the knowledge that the man was being helped into his coach by the grooms assigned the task.
The duke was already climbing the stairs, and seeking out his grandmother. He found Aurora with her, comforting the old lady, and was torn between his anger and the pleasure he took in her kindness to Lady Hawkesworth. “Go to your room, Aurora,” he said quietly. “You look exhausted, and there is nothing more that can be done tonight.”
“George?” she said in a whispery voice. “Should we send after George and Betsy, Valerian?”
“I think not,” he replied, looking to his grandmother for confirmation, and she nodded. “There is nothing they can do for poor Calandra, and I don’t want to spoil their honeymoon. We shall send word on the next vessel bound for the western Indies. It will give them time to reach home and give your mother a little happiness before they must learn of this tragedy. Now, go to your room.”
She curtsied to them and departed.
“What is it, Valerian?” his grandmother asked when Aurora was gone. “Something is distressing you, and it is not just the deaths that have happened in this house tonight. What is the matter?”
“Calandra was not the heiress to St. Timothy,” he said, repeating what the doctor had told him.
“I know,” the dowager responded when he had finished speaking.
“You know?” His look was incredulous. “You knew the deception perpetrated upon me and you said nothing? Why, Grandmama? Why?”
“I learned the truth only a few months ago,” his grandmother said quietly. “From the day I met her, Aurora seemed familiar to me, and yet I could not understand why. Then, several weeks back, I was in the family portrait gallery when I came across the portraits of the first duke’s two younger sisters. Catherine Hawkesworth was married to the Kimberly, who was given the grant of St. Timothy by King Charles II, and her sister, Anne, was wed to the Meredith who shared the island with the Kimberlys. Aurora is Catherine’s image, and very much Anne’s as well. I realized then why Aurora had seemed so familiar, and I confirmed it with her servant, Martha.”
“But why?” he rasped, his head reeling.
“She didn’t want to marry a stranger, and she didn’t care if she was a duchess or not. She wants to wed for love,” the dowager said softly. “Calandra, however, was not so particular, I fear.”
“Aurora didn’t want to be a duchess?” he said wonderingly. Then he shook his head. “There will be time to deal with that matter, but first we must see that poor Calandra and her daughter are buried decently in the family plot. She was my wife for all the deception. We can do no less, Grandmama.”
“Leave it rest, Valerian,” Mary Rose Hawkesworth said. “If Calandra had been safely delivered of her child, it would have been different.”
“But she was not, Grandmama, and now, poor girl, she is dead,” the duke replied quietly.
“It was a mismatch, and granted it was the wrong match, but nothing of the heiress’s dowry was withheld from you, Valerian,” his grandmother said. “Let it be, and bury your wife with dignity.”
“We will bury Calandra honorably,” he answered her calmly, “but then I will deal with that deceiving little bitch who should have been my wife. So, Miss Aurora Kimberly did not wish to be a duchess. She will shortly learn that the choice is not hers to make.”
“Valerian,” his grandmother said sternly, “Aurora is affianced to St. John. Their marriage is scheduled for May.”
He laughed, and it was a hard sound. “I’m afraid if my cousin wishes to marry in May, he will have to find another bride. Aurora is mine!”
Chapter 11
Charlotte Calandra Hawkesworth, Fourth Duchess of Farm
inster, was laid to rest in the family plot on a hillside overlooking the estate lake. The funeral was private, the young duchess mourned by her husband, her sister, Lady Hawkesworth, and three servants. Sir Ronald said the Anglican service of Christian burial over the body, and at the duke’s request agreed to explain to everyone that the family’s grief was such that they could not bear the weight of a larger gathering.
“Understandable, understandable,” murmured the cleric. “A terrible loss, the duchess and her child both.” Then he left them to their mourning, grateful that Betsy and her husband had not been called back and their honeymoon spoiled. It had been generous of both the duke and his sister-in-law in their great trial and time of grief to think of the newlyweds.
“I must write to Mama,” Aurora said when they had returned to the house after the burial.
“I will write her too,” the dowager said.
“And I,” the duke told them.
“I cannot remain at Hawkes Hill for much longer,” Aurora said. “It is not proper with my sister gone.”
“You will remain,” Valerian Hawkesworth said firmly.
“I cannot!” she cried desperately.
“You can, and you will, and I think we both know why, Aurora,” he said coldly. “Besides, you have my grandmother to chaperon you. No one will think ill of you for staying.”
“St. John will not be happy,” she told him.
“My cousin’s state of mind should be of no concern to you,” Valerian Hawkesworth answered her, “but I shall speak to him myself very shortly.”
Aurora fled up the staircase to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her as if the devil himself were after her. “He knows!” she told Martha, pale and wide-eyed. “He knows!”
“Knows what, miss?” Martha was puzzled.
“That I am the one. The one he should have married!” Aurora replied frantically. “Oh, Martha! He looked like he wanted to kill me!”
“Oh, miss, how could he know?” Martha said. “Unless . . . oh, Lord help us! The doctor must have said something. He and your papa were good friends, being the only two of their kind on the island. The doctor must have known about your betrothal, and when he saw Miss Cally got curious as to why she was the duchess and not you.”
Deceived Page 21
