by Joyce Alec
“Not alone!” Sarah gasped.
He shrugged.
“I must leave men here to protect you and the children,” he replied. “I will take some but not many. I shall be perfectly all right.”
Sarah did not want to argue, but she felt anxiety fill her from head to foot; even his warm embrace could not shake her trepidation.
Later in the evening, once the children were sound asleep in their beds, Sarah watched from the window as Oliver and four others walked away from the estate and towards the churchyard. Oliver turned to look behind him before the house went out of sight, seeing a single candle lit in the window. He was comforted in knowing that Sarah was watching him and would be waiting for him to return. He was determined to return with that blaggard, Croyton, in tow. His cousin would regret threatening him for the rest of his days.
The churchyard was dark and silent. Oliver carried the bag, laden with stones instead of coins and paper instead of notes, to the large round stone next to the small yew tree. Placing the bag down, he began to slowly make his way back to the cover of the trees, safe in the knowledge that his men were stationed nearby. They would watch and wait for the culprit.
Without warning, a sudden pain sliced through his shoulder, throwing him to the ground, his head hitting a rock as he fell. Shouts filled the air around him. It took a moment to realize that he had been shot, pain shooting through his shoulder and down his arm. Three men clustered around him, but he waved them off.
“Find him! Find the man! He must be found!” After assuring those around him that he was perfectly well, he began to try and make his way through the churchyard, following his men as they chased Croyton down. He soon realized that he would not be able to keep up, his left arm hanging uselessly by his side as blood soaked his shirt. Already he was feeling weak and dizzy, and he knew he needed to return to the house immediately in the hope that his men would bring Croyton to him.
8
Sarah had not given up her vigil, determined to keep watch until Oliver returned. She was thankful for the moonlight bouncing off the fallen snow as it gave her more light with which to see. She leaned closer as she spotted a man, staggering slightly as he walked. With horror, she realized it was Oliver, his steps becoming slower as he struggled through the snow. She flew down the staircase and out of the front door, reaching him just as he fell.
“Oliver? Oliver!”
Blood stained the snow around him as he lay, unconscious at her feet. Sarah cradled his bloodied head as men who had been guarding the house came flocking to her side, one immediately rushing off to call the doctor. Following her direction, the men carefully lifted Oliver into the house and then into his own bed. Sarah called for Meg, the servant appearing with wide eyes and an even whiter face at the sight of her unconscious master.
“Miss, what has happened to the duke? What shall we do?” Wringing her hands, Meg stared at Sarah as though waiting for orders. Sarah refused to panic, knowing that she had to be strong. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Meg with a calmness she did not feel.
“The master has been shot, it appears, and his head looks injured also. The doctor has been sent for, and meantime, we must remove his wet clothes and clean the blood off as best we can. Go and fetch some boiling water and some rags.”
With a nod, Meg disappeared, leaving Sarah to begin the difficult job of removing some of Oliver’s wet clothes. His boots were difficult enough, and she was grateful for Meg’s reappearance to help with his greatcoat. Soon Sarah could see the wound, pulling his shirt aside, heedless of the many buttons that went flying. From what she could tell, the bullet had gone straight through, but it was still a messy wound. With great care, she and Meg cleaned both the wounds to his head and shoulder, only pausing in their ministrations when the doctor arrived.
He was a kindly looking gentleman who seemed unperturbed at being woken in the middle of the night. He examined the wounds carefully as Sarah watched him anxiously, hoping it was not too serious. Taking out a needle and thread, he first boiled the needle and then carefully stitched the wound in the duke’s shoulder. Minutes ticked by as the doctor completed his examinations.
“Now, am I speaking to the duchess?”
Her cheeks a flaming red, Sarah stuttered a few words, as Meg looked at her knowingly.
“Not yet, but soon,” came a whispered, weak voice from the duke’s bed.
“Oliver!” Sarah cried, rushing to his side. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve just been shot,” he replied, his rumbling laugh turning into a racking cough.
“As I was just about to say,” the doctor began, interrupting their conversation. “The duke has suffered a shot to the shoulder, and I believe you also must have hit your head?” A slight nod from Oliver confirmed his suspicious. “Concussion, blood loss and freezing temperatures do not make a good combination. Keep that wound clean, apply the poultice, and bandage it regularly, and you should be up in no time.”
Heaving a sigh of relief, Sarah pressed Oliver’s hand, grateful that he was going to be well.
“However, you must rest, Your Grace,” the doctor continued. “Rest, then rest some more, until you feel your strength returning. No more striding about in the snow late at night!”
“Thank you, doctor,” Oliver replied weakly. “I shall, of course, heed your advice.”
“Good, good,” the doctor replied, all business. “May I be the first to offer my sincerest congratulations, my dear,” he continued, directing his words at Sarah. Sarah, completely bewildered, merely nodded, not knowing what else to say. Oliver squeezed her hand, his eyes closing once again as the doctor took his leave.
Sarah remained with Oliver for the remainder of the night, uncaring as to how her behavior appeared to the staff. She prayed he would not succumb to a fever, and her prayer was answered. No fever came, and Oliver slept soundly for the remainder of the night. Giving in to her tiredness, she eventually found herself nodding off in the chair, completely and utterly spent.
When Oliver woke, he found Sarah sound asleep in the chair. Her face was pale, with shadows around her eyes. The poor thing was completely exhausted. He cursed the knock on the door that woke her, waiting until she had roused completely before allowing entry.
“Your Grace,” the butler began. “George, one of your hired men, wishes to have a word with you. Whilst he will not tell me the specifics, it is in relation to your cousin, Croyton. In addition, I have a breakfast tray for you both, should you be hungry.”
“Yes, yes, send him in,” Oliver said, sitting up in bed, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder. Sarah sent him a warning glance as he grimaced, her caution going unheeded. Breakfast trays arrived first, with George soon after. He was a tall man, holding his cap in both hands which he twisted back and forth.
“George! Thank you for coming. I am quite well, as you can see. Tell me what has happened with Croyton.”
George, refusing to look the duke in the face as befit his station, spoke plainly, his words tinged with a little trepidation.
“Your Grace, we chased the man that shot you across the estate grounds. He had a horse hidden, which he mounted and began to ride away on. Unfortunately, in the darkness, he fell and — well, he is dead, Your Grace.”
A hush filled the room, the atmosphere growing tense as the silence built. Oliver did not know what to say. The threat was gone for good now, but he had not wished for Croyton’s death.
“Thank you, George,” he said eventually. “Please also pass on my thanks to the others as well. Croyton’s death was of his own doing; I do not hold any of you responsible. You must all go to the kitchens for some refreshment, and you will also receive extra pay, now that your job is complete.”
Clearly relieved, George made his goodbyes, thanking the duke profusely before exiting the room. Sarah turned to Oliver, a mixture of shock and relief on her face.
“Oliver?”
He sighed, beckoning her over. She sat on the bed next to him and he took h
er hand, marveling at how it fit so well into his own.
“I am not sad for him, my love. He was a cruel man, serving only himself. The threat is gone, my children are safe, and you are here with me. What more could I ask for? Surely God has smiled on us today.”
She nodded, a soft smile on her face.
“I must go to the children,” she said quietly. “They will be wondering what all the commotion is about, and I shall reassure them, of course.”
“Stay nearby today,” Oliver replied, tugging her forward. “I will need you close to me, to make sure I do not over-exert myself.” He grinned at her, laughter in his eyes.
“Indeed, Your Grace,” she replied, a mischievous smile on her face. “I shall take good care of you.”
“You already do,” Oliver whispered as she left the room. “You already do.”
9
By the end of the following week, Oliver was up and about once again, much to the delight of his staff and his children. His wounds were healing nicely, but most of all, the pressure he had felt for many months had now disappeared. Croyton was no more; there had been no more letters, and he felt as though everything was simply dropping into place. His children were safe, his house was in order, and Sarah was in his life. Whilst he had made no more mention to her of marriage, it was, of course, his intention. The house was a hubbub of activity as the servants prepared for his Christmas ball, and it was there that he intended to ask her for her hand. The banns would be read, and they would marry on New Year’s Day. He could hardly wait.
“Miss Brown, Miss Brown,” Elizabeth giggled, whirling around the snowy grounds. “Did father really say that I may stay to watch the dancing?”
Sarah smiled at her excitement.
“Yes, my dear, we will watch from the balcony — but you must be sure to be very quiet.”
“Of course, of course I will!” came the reassuring reply. “I shall be as quiet as a mouse. Oh, Miss Brown, will they do the waltz?”
“I should think so,” Sarah replied. “It is a most popular dance!” Her thoughts turned fleetingly to when she had danced the waltz with Oliver, her toes curling as she remembered his arms around her.
“Miss Brown,” Samuel interrupted, a little shyly. “May I also stay to watch?”
A little surprised, Sarah put an arm around Samuel’s shoulders.
“Of course you may, dear. I did not think you would be interested, but you are most welcome to join us. Remember though, children, you have two more days to wait.” They continued to walk a little further across the estate grounds and into a small copse of trees, enjoying the frosty afternoon.
Out of nowhere, a figure appeared, grabbing Sarah roughly by the arm.
“You’re coming home with me, my girl!”
Gasping, Sarah tried to pull away, terrified as she recognized her father’s cruel face.
“I will not. Leave me be!” she cried, trying to wrestle her arm from his grip. A hard slap across her face staggered her, as she tasted blood. Through a haze of pain, she saw Samuel and Elizabeth’s terrified faces.
“Run, children, run back to the house!”
Before she could say another word, her father slapped her again, his ring cutting into the side of her face. Elizabeth screamed as Samuel began to drag her towards the house.
Oliver was enjoying a leisurely afternoon in his study, relaxing in front of the fire with a most enjoyable glass of port. His Christmas ball was in a couple of days’ time and had been planned down to the finest detail. He had a ring prepared and hoped that he and Sarah be betrothed very soon. His silence was broken by his twins bursting through his study door, both shouting and crying at once.
“Father, father!”
“Miss Brown, she...she...”
“We were walking by the pond....”
“No, beside the trees!”
“There was a man and he...”
“He is hurting her, father!”
Jumping to his feet, Oliver ushered his children into the care of his ever-reliable butler, who had just arrived on the scene.
“Stay here,” he ordered. “I will take care of Miss Brown.”
Blast. In all the commotion over Croyton, he had pushed the issue of Sarah’s father to the back of his mind, assuming that, by the time he caught up with her, she would be a married woman. Cursing, he ran as fast as he could towards the small clump of trees beside the pond, hoping he was not too late. He soon saw Sarah, now on her knees as her father, as he assumed he was, held her by the hair. She was clearly in pain, and blood was running down the side of her face. Oliver was enraged and, snarling, he launched himself at the man, freeing Sarah from his hold. A single punch knocked the man to the ground, and it took all of Oliver’s inner strength to stop his attack. Instead, Oliver turned to Sarah, lifting her to her feet and holding her shaking form close, still watching her father with a wary eye. Sarah sobbed into his shirt, bruised and shaken.
“That girl belongs to me,” her father snarled. “I’ll be taking her back with me. She’ll not be warming your bed anymore.” He tried to reach for Sarah again, but Oliver pulled her away, turning her body away from her father.
“I should call you out for such an insult,” Oliver replied, calmly, pushing down the rising tide of ire. “Your daughter has been doing a marvelous job of raising my children and does not warm my bed, despite what you may think. She will not be returning with you. She is to be my wife.”
“Pah!” came the retort. “She’ll not make you a good wife! She’s the same as her mother, that one. She’ll be raising her skirts for any man that so much as looks at her, don’t you doubt it.”
Oliver began to shake with rage as Sarah clung to him. He told himself that were he to let loose his rage upon this man, he would lose everything he loved. He had to let the insults go.
“I do not have time to trade words with a fool,” Oliver replied through clenched teeth. “You will get off my property immediately and never return. Should you ever try to see your daughter again, it will be all the worse for you. Your daughter is destined to be my duchess. She loves my children as a mother might and has earned both my love and respect, something she has never received from you. Get off my land and never set foot on my property again. Do I make myself clear?”
It was clear Sarah’s father had no choice but to leave. He spat in Sarah’s direction, one final, disgusting insult before turning around to make his way off the estate. Oliver held Sarah to him, feeling her sag in relief.
“He will never hurt you again,” he whispered. “Never again, my love.” She sobbed against his chest, blood staining his shirt. “I swear to protect you, Sarah, for the rest of my days. Will you have me?”
It was certainly not the most romantic proposal and not in the way or the place he had intended, but he needed to make her his own.
“Yes,” Sarah whispered, brokenly. “I will, Oliver.” How grateful she was for this man, how deep her love for him. He had saved her from her father, and now she would be his, forever. She was both happy and shaken in equal measure.
“Let us go inside, my dear,” Oliver said, putting a steadying arm around her shoulders. “We will need to get you cleaned up immediately.”
“The children?” she asked, anxiously. “Are the children all right?”
“Yes, yes,” he replied soothingly. “They were very good; they came straight to me. They will be worried about you, so we must reassure them that you are safe now.”
Leaning heavily against him, Sarah made her way back into the house, one that she could now think of as her own.
10
Sarah winced as she awoke, her face still battered and bruised. With a soft knock, Meg entered the room, a few soft lavender compresses to hand. With gentle hands, she wiped and pressed Sarah’s bruises, chattering twenty to the dozen as usual.
“I heard you and the master are to be married, Miss!” she exclaimed. “That is good news indeed; we are all so pleased for you.”
“Thank you, Meg,”
Sarah replied, feeling so content it almost overwhelmed her. “I am sure we shall be very happy.”
“Indeed you will, miss,” Meg laughed. “Twill be strange to call you Your Grace instead of ‘Miss,’ but I will get used to it, I am sure. Now, you must bathe your face like this both today and tomorrow, especially since you are to be announced at the ball.”
“What?” A look of surprise spread across Sarah’s face. “Announced at the ball? No, no Meg, I am staying with the children in the balcony. We are to watch the dancing before they go off to bed. Of course I am not to go the ball.”
“But you are, Miss,” Meg replied, a smile in her voice. “The master has ordered a ball gown to be made for you; the dresser will be coming soon for your measurements. You will be as pretty as a picture!”
The knock at Oliver’s door was not the usual butler’s knock. Rising to his feet, he opened it himself, chastising Sarah for knocking instead of just entering as she ought.
“You are going to be my wife, my love,” he murmured gently, examining her face carefully. “A duchess does not knock. I shall never grow tired of seeing you.”
“Oliver,” Sarah began, a firm look in her eye. “Meg tells me there is a dresser coming and that I am to be announced at the ball?”
“Indeed,” Oliver replied. “Why should you be surprised at that?”
Sarah did not know what to say for a moment. It all felt so strange.
“I am a governess, I –”
“You were a governess, you mean. My dear, you are no longer a governess, you are no longer Sarah Brown. You are Lady Sarah Sayers.”
“But to be living in this house, without a chaperone, what will people think of me?”
Oliver smiled, his final surprise at hand.
“I have thought of all that, my love. If you would do me the honor, I should very much like to marry you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” came the astonished reply.
“After what your father did to you, I did not want to take any chances. I rode all night and have returned with a Special License in my possession. We do not have to wait for the banns to be read; there is no need to wait any longer. If you are willing, we shall marry tomorrow and attend the ball as man and wife in the evening. What do you say, my love?”
