A Soulmate for the Heartbroken Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  And her aunt’s kindness had continued in that same vein ever since. Never once from that moment had Catherine felt at all uncomfortable at Ivy Manor. And meeting Charles Topwell, the man she had come to call Uncle Charles almost immediately, had only served to make her all the more comfortable.

  He truly was pleased to see her there and, remembering the Earl of Barford well, was not at all surprised to hear of her father’s overblown reaction to such a simple friendship.

  Between the two of them, Celia and Charles Topwell had done their utmost to make her not only at home at Ivy Manor but to try to ease the sadness she had arrived with. And even though it was sadness that Catherine knew would never relent, it meant all the world to her that her aunt and uncle would even try.

  As Catherine lay in her bed and smiled rather vaguely at the ceiling, she was suddenly gripped by a sweeping, undeniable queasiness. It was the third time that week, only this time it did not seem that it would pass if she curled into a ball and went back to sleep.

  This time, the queasiness would not be denied, and she was instantly propelled from her bed as if her body had been overtaken by another.

  She raced across the room to her little washstand and was violently sick.

  As Catherine splashed cold water on her face, she found she did not feel very much better. She staggered slowly back to her bed and slithered in under the covers once more.

  Even as the sun came out suddenly so brightly, lighting the little room beautifully, Catherine’s spirits sank. What had been nothing more than a vague worry but days before was slowly becoming a certainty.

  And it was a certainty that she felt sure, even in a kindly home such as Ivy Manor, would not be well received. Perhaps she would now know what it was like to be disowned entirely.

  Chapter 11

  Thomas sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree and stared out across the flat water of Stromlyn Lake. Summer was finally here, with the scent of warm, fragrant tree bark on the air and the constant accompaniment of such varied birdsong here there and everywhere.

  And yet Thomas felt as flat and sad as he had done every day of the last three months.

  Ever since Catherine had been taken from him, Thomas had gone down to Stromlyn Lake daily. Even when Catherine was still at home, they had mostly just met once a week, occasionally twice when they could not bear the parting.

  Now, after three long months and finding that his heart was not healing at all, Thomas would have given anything for just five minutes. If only he could have five minutes with her every week for the rest of his life, Thomas could swear that he would be content.

  But instead of a paltry five minutes, Thomas faced a lifetime of not knowing where she was and never seeing her again. And it most certainly was not for want of trying.

  More than once, he had thought to try to get a message to Philip Ambrose to see if he could at least get an address in Derbyshire for the mysterious aunt. After all, Philip had certainly seemed decent enough when he had engineered their final meeting.

  But as time passed, Thomas had to wonder if that final meeting was simply a parting gift to his sister. Perhaps, deep in his heart, Philip Ambrose blamed Thomas for the whole thing. After all, if Thomas had never approached Catherine, brother and sister would not have been wrenched apart.

  And yet he could not think that of him, for his momentary dealings with him in arranging the thing had been cordial enough, not to mention the fact that Catherine had proclaimed her brother to be the finest of men.

  Still, he could not guarantee that any message he sent to Philip would be safe. The Earl of Barford was a far crueler man than Thomas could ever have imagined. And, as much as he did not care for his own father, Thomas was certainly glad that his father was not Oscar Ambrose.

  Thomas was sure that his own father could not have dreamed up a punishment so vile and so complete; one which destroyed the lives of three people if he included Philip. Still, perhaps that was because his father seemed to lack that sort of imagination. As far as cruelty was concerned, perhaps the Duke of Shawcross and the Earl of Barford were evenly matched, even if the Earl was a little more creative.

  “You are here again, Thomas?” He looked up to see Pierce walking his horse down the steepest slope that led to the water’s edge.

  Pierce spoke in a tone which was newly adopted, one he had only been using these last few months. It was a friendly, pleasant tone, with an edge of concern about it. Given that Pierce was the absolute cause of Thomas’ current malady, the tone always seemed inappropriate and almost always left Thomas clenching his fists at his sides.

  “I am here again as you see me,” Thomas said in a flat tone and stared in a disinterested way at his brother. “But I do not see what it is to you.”

  “Can I not ask a simple question? Make a simple inquiry?”

  “I do not see what good it does you,” Thomas said sharply. “I am here every day as you well know. To comment upon it when you already have that knowledge is simply ridiculous.”

  “Can you not see that I am searching for something to say?” he said and looked at him beseechingly.

  Thomas had known that Pierce had almost instantly regretted his interference, his telling of tales. As soon as he realized the devastating effect it had had, not only on Thomas but on a young lady with whom he ought never to have any argument, his remorse was clear.

  And Thomas had equally realized that Pierce had never imagined that things would go so far. But he had only not imagined it because he had not bothered to think about it, being so lost in his own gains.

  But, in the end, there had been no gain for him, and certainly not the gain that he had hoped for. Instead of finding that he had finally received some approval from their father, the news had simply angered the old man too much for him to bother with such trifles as praise.

  And, the fact that Pierce had seen fit to contact the Earl of Barford about the matter had made it all the worse for him. The Duke had been furious that Pierce had given his old adversary any warning at all, wanting the punishment of his second son to be entirely in his own hands.

  And whilst the Duke had been pleased to see the devastating effect the separation had on Thomas, it was still clear to see that he was somewhat peeved not to be the one to inflict the pain in the first place.

  “Why must you search for something to say? In fact, why must you say anything at all?” Despite knowing that Pierce had not foreseen the dreadful outcome, still, Thomas could not forgive him.

  Had they been much closer as brothers, perhaps he might have found the smallest slice of mercy in his heart, but since they were not, Thomas was content to nurse his anger.

  “You went to see a friend last week in Northampton, did you not? Hugh Weatherby, your old school friend?” Pierce spoke in a conversational manner, but Thomas could already sense that his brother knew it to be a lie.

  Thomas had not been to see Hugh Weatherby; in fact, he had not set eyes on his old friend from Eton for some years. He had known at the time that it would be an easy lie to discover, and yet he had not cared.

  Even now as he looked at his brother, certain that he knew the truth, Thomas could not have cared less. What did it matter to him now? What could his father do to him that had not already been done?

  “What of it?” Thomas said solemnly.

  “You did not really go to Northampton, did you?” Despite the accusation, Pierce still sounded friendly and concerned.

  In days gone by, Pierce would have sounded arrogant and self-satisfied. It seemed like a long time since Thomas had heard that old tone from his brother. And yet still he knew he would never forgive him.

  “No, I did not,” Thomas said simply and looked away from his brother to stare out across the glassy flat surface of the lake.

  He looked at the opposite shore, staring at the trees caught upside down in reflection, seeming for all the world as if they pierced the water and carried on down for twenty feet, even though he knew the water to be much shallo
wer than that.

  The green of the leaves and the blue of the sky were reflected faithfully, almost nothing to choose between the reflection and the real thing. He tried to imagine himself and Catherine there, hand-in-hand and strangely upside down as they walked alongside the reflected trees.

  “You went to Derbyshire, did you not?” Pierce’s tone had become almost gentle.

  “Yes, yes, yes. I went to Derbyshire, Pierce. I went to the Peak District, as a matter of fact, and searched for Catherine Ambrose.” Despite his confrontational tone, Thomas did not bother to take his eyes off the lake to even look at his brother as he spoke. “Now run along and tell Father, there’s a good fellow. He might even notice you this time.”

  “Thomas, I am not asking you because I seek information with which to regale our father, far from it.”

  “It matters not to me, Pierce. You may tell him or not tell him as is your want. Do you not see, there is nothing left to be done to me that you have not done already? You have won, Pierce. You are the victor as always, so why are you not satisfied? Why are you not rolling around in your victory? It is complete after all.”

  “Because it is not a victory to me.”

  “Dear me, then it would seem that you wasted your time,” Thomas said sarcastically.

  “Did you find her?” Pierce said with a sigh, clearly intent on carrying on regardless of his brother’s mood.

  “No,” Thomas said and felt as deflated at that moment as he had at the time.

  With no information whatsoever, Thomas had travelled to the Peak District of Derbyshire. He had never been that far north before and had no idea what to expect. He had somehow thought that it would be much smaller than Hertfordshire and that a few simple inquiries would soon lead him to the homestead of the sister of the Earl of Barford.

  He had travelled post-chaise all the way from Hertfordshire, all the while trying not to think of the inevitable foolishness of his journey. Thomas knew he had to try. He had to do something.

  But when he had first seen the very beginnings of the Peak District itself, he quickly realized that he was never going to find her.

  It was immense, so vast that he could hardly believe it. It was rugged and remote, and it spanned so many miles that he knew that it was all so pointless.

  His first inquiry had been at a coaching inn on the outskirts of a small town called Glossop. He had asked a sceptical looking northerner if he knew of a young woman from the South moving in with her aunt of late. The man had asked him which town or village, and he could not say.

  The man then asked the name of the aunt, and when he could not respond to that either, the man had screwed up his face, snorted, and walked away as if he thought that Thomas would be better placed to head back down South and present himself at the bedlam.

  Thomas had not even stayed a full day in the Peak District, knowing that the whole thing had been an exercise in futility. There was nobody to ask, no names to give that would be recognized, nor even an idea where in that vast, beautiful landscape she might be.

  And so, in the end, he had travelled back to Hertfordshire post-chaise, utterly defeated and sadder than ever. It had made their separation so final, so permanent.

  Thomas had made the journey back over some days without speaking to a soul. As he climbed into each new post carriage, he kept his eyes averted, not wanting anybody to strike up a conversation with him. He realized that made him a most disagreeable travelling companion, but he did not care.

  From then onwards, Thomas had been even more withdrawn and sullen than he had before embarking upon his trip to Derbyshire. He let the hopelessness settle about him like a shroud and did not care what became of him from there onwards.

  All he had for himself was bitter castigation. He had gone to Derbyshire with the idea of finding her, taking her hand, and running away. He wanted to escape with her, marry her, and live simply. And they would live simply too, for he had very little money to his name and no skill with which to earn any more. That did not matter to him if only he could find her.

  But worse was the idea that he had failed to come up with the plan before. He was sure that if he had taken Catherine’s hand that night at the Lodge on the edge of the Barford estate – if he had beseeched her then to run with him, to live in poverty even, she would have done it.

  But why had he not thought of that at the time? Why had he let shock and disbelief overtake him and render his thoughts useless and impractical?

  “Thomas, I am sorry that you did not find her,” Pierce said, and for the first time, his voice was welcome.

  If nothing else, it pulled Thomas out of the wheel of self-blame that he fell into every time he was left alone.

  “Are you?” Thomas narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother.

  “I know you will not believe me, but I am. I am sorry for all of it, every bit of it,” Pierce said and looked down at his feet. “And if I could take it all back, I would.”

  “The thing is, my dear brother, you cannot take it back. It is done now, and it cannot be repaired. There is nothing left in my life that I care about anymore, and that includes you. I cannot look at you without seeing my own loss; do you not see that? You were the cause of it, Pierce. And what had I done to deserve such treatment from you? When had I been so unutterably cruel? What had I done to you that you hate me so?”

  “It was not that; it was never that. I have never hated you, Thomas,” Pierce said and let out a great sigh.

  “But that cannot be true. You cannot have hatched such a plan and carried it to fruition without hating me.” Even as he spoke, Thomas knew that even he did not believe that.

  What Pierce had done from beginning to end had been very little to do with Thomas or his feelings for him. It was entirely centred around their father and an immature young man’s desperate attempts to have his approval. Thomas’ pain was nothing more than a coincidence, a byproduct of such searching.

  “Thomas, I do not know how to begin to explain my actions. And even if I did, you are too good and steady a man to understand my motives. It would make no sense to you, for you have always been very sure of yourself and your place in the world.”

  “Is that so?” Thomas was sullen again.

  “Yes, it is so,” Pierce struggled on. “All I can do is apologize to you for what I did and for everything that followed it. Had I known how bad it would be, I would not have done it.”

  “Your explanations and apologies are all very well, Pierce, but they do not change anything. Not only do they not change my world nor do anything to make it better, but they do not change how I feel about you. I am not ready to forgive you, and I doubt that I shall ever be. You have effectively destroyed my life; you have killed me in your own way.”

  “Thomas, please.”

  “No, it is true. Perhaps the only thing that you can do for me is to die yourself, for at least then I would not have to look at you. Do you not understand that you are dead to me already?”

  Pierce, with nothing left to say, slowly turned his horse and led him back up the slope. And as he watched him go, knowing that Pierce had only moved to disguise the fact that his eyes were filling with tears, Thomas regretted his words.

  He knew why Pierce had done it, and even if he could not forgive him, he did not truly want to hurt him so badly. After all, at the root of it all was their father. If there was anybody who should accept the blame for it all, it was the Duke of Shawcross.

  But that was never going to happen, and Thomas’ heart was so broken that he needed somebody to blame.

  Pierce would just have to do.

  Chapter 12

  As Catherine packed the last gown into her trunk and closed it down finally, she wondered what Lytham would be like. She had never been to Lancashire before and only knew it to be either further north than Derbyshire was.

  Celia had told her that it was on the coast and that they would be able to see the Irish Sea crashing onto the shoreline from the window of their lodgings. At least
she thought they would, for she had left the arrangement of their lodgings to Agnes Price.

  Catherine liked Agnes Price and imagined that if she said their lodgings were close to the sea, then they would be. She was an extraordinarily efficient woman of around Celia’s age, and she held a position at Ivy Manor that was hard to describe succinctly.

  For the most part, it struck Catherine that Agnes was somewhere between being a paid companion and a housekeeper. She was a woman who had been widowed young, and never having any intention or inclination to marry again, had found her unique position in the home of Celia and Charles Topwell.

  Agnes regularly took tea with them in the drawing room, and she and Celia often went out together to play bridge or to go into Glossop to order fabric and other such similar sundries. They were certainly friends, that much Catherine had discerned with ease.