by Joan Wolf
He did not answer but put his arm around her and drew her close. The long firm pressure of his arm, the feel of his warm body against hers, comforted her more than any words. “Adrian,” she murmured and for a moment he held her closer. Then he turned the horses and started the long drive back to Steyning Castle.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. Bodmin’s London lawyers contacted Tracy. “Papa had his will drawn up in America and sent to Mr. Spencer in London,” she said to the Duke in a carefully collected voice. “Mr. Spencer says that he wishes to make me acquainted with the contents. He will come down to Sussex at our convenience.”
The Duke had just come in from a ride and now he laid his gloves down on a table. “Write to tell him to come next Tuesday,” he said calmly. “It will be as well to get the business over with before Christmas.”
“Yes,” said Tracy. She felt suddenly old and sad and tired. “A will. I had forgotten there would have to be a will. It makes it so final somehow. It makes him seem so—dead.”
Mr. Spencer came, a surprisingly young and vigorous man. Tracy had vaguely supposed that all lawyers were old and dusty and dried up. Mr. Spencer’s firm, it turned out, had handled many of William Bodmin’s affairs in the past. He had been personally acquainted with Tracy’s father, and sincerely expressed to her his sorrow at her loss.
They went into the library and Mr. Spencer read the will out loud to Tracy and the Duke. Tracy made an effort to listen, but her attention kept wandering. The legal terms, the sums of money, it all seemed to have so little to do with her father. Adrian will handle it, she thought, as the lawyer went on about funds, and trusts. She looked alertly at Mr. Spencer’s big, fair face and thought instead of Salem. and the churchyard where her father had been buried.
When Mr. Spencer had finished he asked if she had any questions. “No, no, none, thank you,” she assured him. “I’m sure His Grace will know what to do about it all.”
Mr. Spencer gave her a puzzled look. “I think, my love, you and I ought to discuss what Mr. Spencer has told us for a little, and then, if you have any questions, you can ask them after dinner.” The Duke nodded courteously at the lawyer. “If that would be convenient?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the man said quickly, beginning to gather his papers.
Tracy smiled at him warmly. “We dine at seven, Mr. Spencer. I’ll have Wilton take you upstairs to your room.”
“Thank you. Your Grace,” Mr. Spencer said, visibly moved by that amazing smile.
The Duke watched him leave the room under the stately escort of Wilton, then he turned to his wife. “Did you listen to anything that man said?”
“Well...” She bit her lip. “No.”
“You should have. He was talking about a great deal of money, Tracy. Over ten million dollars, I gathered.”
Tracy looked at him in genuine bewilderment. “But, Adrian, I don’t know what to do with money like that. All I’ve ever had is an allowance. Aren’t you going to handle it?”
“I can’t.”
“But why?”
“If you had listened, ma mie, you would have discovered that the money is safely secured to you and to your children after you. Your father seems to have invested it wisely, and you will receive a regular “allowance” from the principal—an allowance a good deal larger than what you are accustomed to, I daresay.” He leaned a little forward, looking directly into the clear hazel of her eyes. “The money is yours,” he said steadily. “It is very carefully safeguarded for you. I cannot touch it.”
Tracy looked back at him, a small frown between her brows. “Why did Papa do that?” she asked at last
He sat back, faint amusement in his eyes. “So that if I ever took to getting drunk and beating you, you could walk away with all your millions safely in your pocket, I expect.”
She looked at him reflectively. Then, raising an eyebrow, “You knew he was going to do this, didn’t you?”
“It is not an uncommon action for him to have taken.”
“Was it your idea?”
He compressed his lips. “Let us say, both your father and I agreed that this would be the best way.”
She nodded thoughtfully, her mind not on the ten million dollars she had just inherited, but on her husband’s motivation in urging the arrangements he had.
“It won’t be so difficult,” he said encouragingly. “The lawyers will handle nearly everything. All you’ll have to do is sign your name.” He paused, frowned, then added, “But don’t sign anything until after I’ve seen it. I’m sure Spencer is first rate, but one can’t be too careful.”
“Yes, Adrian,” she said absently, still regarding him wonderingly.
His undisturbed manner gave nothing away. “Shall we go and change for dinner?” he asked, and held out his hand to assist her.
Chapter 18
But such was the respect we bore to the duchess’ will that the selfsame liberty was a very great bridle. Neither was there any that thought it not the greatest pleasure he could have in the world to please her and the greatest grief to offend her.
—The Book of the Courtier
Christmas was a quiet, family time at Steyning Castle. Even Lady Bridgewater did not expect the Duchess, who was six months pregnant and had just lost her father, to undertake any social obligations. In consequence, Tracy had a happier Christmas than she had thought possible. Her pregnancy helped to cushion her from some of the grief she would otherwise have suffered for her father, the coming baby being very much in her mind and heart most of the time.
She was reflecting on her own surprisingly tranquil state of mind one morning a few days after Christmas, when the mail brought her an unexpected reminder of the past. She and the Duke were having breakfast together in her sitting room, a comfortable habit they had kept up after their honeymoon. Adrian was reading the newspaper and she was idly sorting through her letters when she came upon one that riveted her attention. It was from America. She opened it slowly. The handwriting was familiar and one glance at the signature confirmed her suspicion. It was from Adam Lancaster. She put down her coffee cup and read it through.
It was a letter of sympathy and pertained mainly to her father. Adam, she knew, had always thought very highly of William Bodmin, and his words moved Tracy very much. It was the concluding paragraph that made her uncomfortable.
“Your marriage was a source of great happiness to your father,” he wrote. “I hope it is the same to you. My own feelings for you have not changed, Trace. I love you and I desire most of all that you should be happy.” She bit her lip, feeling guilty once again about Adam. He signed himself “ever your devoted friend.”
Her husband had put aside his paper and was watching her. “Is anything amiss, ma mie?” he asked quietly and Tracy jumped noticeably.
“No.” She flushed a little. For some reason she did not want to tell Adrian about Adam. “It’s from a friend of mine in Salem,” she said quickly. “He wrote to offer his sympathy about my father.”
“I see,” he answered. He had been quick to pick up that “he,” but with the beautiful manners that were such an innate part of him, he forbore to question her further. She put the letter down and began to chat to him with cheerful determination.
A week later the doctor came to check on her progress. She was having an extremely easy pregnancy and only recently had begun to assume a noticeable bulk. Dr. Brixton was pleased with her health and stayed to talk sympathetically about her father’s death. The Duke was waiting for the doctor downstairs and invited him into the library for a glass of wine. Adrian was very careful not to annoy Tracy by being over solicitous, but he was also very careful to assure himself that such solicitude was not necessary.
“Her Grace is doing splendidly,” Dr. Brixton said with a smile. “She is perfectly healthy. A great deal healthier, I may say, than many women who are not enceinte.”
The Duke gave Dr. Brixton a glass of Madeira. “I am happy to hear that.” He sipped his own wine. “Do you have any recommenda
tions, Doctor?”
“No, Your Grace, I don’t think so. Her father’s death was a misfortune, of course, but she seems to be accepting it well.”
“Yes. I believe Her Grace has a great deal of resiliency,” said the Duke.
The doctor nodded. “We talked for a little about her father and I gather she might have inherited that trait from him. He appears to have been a remarkable man.”
“I believe he was,” his son-in-law said sincerely.
“Her Grace told me that she was so glad he lived to know about the child. ‘Papa was a secret snob,’ she said. ‘He was thrilled by the thought of his grandson being a future duke.’ I believe she feels comforted that she had given him that, at least, before he died.”
There was the faintest of frowns on the Duke’s handsome face. Dr. Brixton, noticing it, was afraid he had offended. He put down his wineglass. “Well, thank you for the refreshment, Your Grace,” he said somewhat gruffly.
The Duke nodded a little absently, but when Dr. Brixton moved to leave insisted upon escorting him to the front door. This courtesy considerably soothed the doctor’s uneasiness, and he left Steyning Castle in a gratified and comfortable state of mind.
The Duke’s state of mind was not so easy. By itself, Dr. Brixton’s comment about Tracy’s happiness in pleasing her father would have meant nothing to him. But Adrian had not been able to get the letter from her American “friend” out of his mind; he had not been able to get the look on her face as she had read it out of his mind either. He had seen the letter once again, on her dressing table when he had come looking for her and found the room empty. She had obviously been rereading it. He had stared at the bold, masculine handwriting on the envelope, and the temptation to pick up the letter and read it had startled him with its intensity. It had taken great resolution to turn away and leave the room.
All his life the Duke had had his own way with very little trouble. In fact, it is probably accurate to say that no one, with the exception of his father, had ever denied or thwarted him. Even his marriage had been easy.
Now, for the first time, he found himself wondering why it had been so easy. Tracy had not married him for his title. He had thought he knew why she married him, but he was beginning to doubt his own happy conclusion. The letter from America bothered him. A girl like Tracy—of course she had had suitors in her own country. How serious might they have been? And, most worrisome, for the first time he remembered that Tracy’s father had been dying and that Tracy had known it.
Mr. Bodmin had wanted this marriage. Mr. Bodmin had arranged it. Had Tracy simply married him to please her father?
He had never doubted her love, but now he began to wonder. She gave him what he had never gotten from any other woman, but then she was passionate by nature, he thought. And she was honest. If she made a bargain, she would give her best. But he did not want his marriage to be a bargain. He tried to put these uncomfortable doubts from his mind, but he was not wholly successful. It was too important a question for him to dismiss it so easily.
Tracy was completely unaware of the doubts her mysterious letter from America had raised in her husband’s mind. She herself was feeling more secure in her marriage since their visit to Matching Castle. The terrible, menacing fear of his possible duplicity had been removed. No longer was she tormented by thoughts of another woman in his arms.
She thought, now, that he would be loyal to her. She was his wife. She was carrying his child. Adrian had a very strong sense of family. She would profit from that.
She enjoyed talking to Mary about her husband, and in so doing she discovered more about his character. Ever since the horseback riding lessons, she and Mary had been friends, and the long winter days saw them firmly cement that friendship. Adrian’s sister was shy and reserved, but her feelings ran very deep, and she was extremely attached to the Duke.
It was Mary who told her the details of her mother’s death. “I was five at the time,” she said, “but I remember the groom carrying her into the house. I remember the doctor running up the stairs. I was so frightened and lost. Then she died.”
They were seated together in Tracy’s sitting room with a warm fire blazing. Mary put down her needlework and stared at the flames. “I ran away and hid in the woods. Adrian came to find me. I can still remember how he sat next to me on a big rock and how he put his arm around me. I remember how comforting and warm his shoulder was. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid, Mary. I’ll take care of you. You’ll always have me.’“
A faint smile lifted Mary’s lips. “He seemed very old and very wise to me then, but he was only sixteen. And he kept his promise. He has always taken care of both Harry and me. When he was away in the Peninsula, and then in France, he wrote to me regularly every week.”
“Did he indeed?” said Tracy thoughtfully. She took a few stitches and then looked up. “Why did he join the army, Mary? He was a very good soldier, I know, but it doesn’t really seem like Adrian’s kind of life.”
“I think he went to get away from Papa,” Mary confessed. “They fought all the time. That is, Papa would shout and curse and Adrian would answer in that pleasant, controlled voice of his that always sends shivers up my spine.”
Tracy frowned. “But what did they fight about?”
“Papa’s gambling,” said Mary grimly. “He gambled all the time. And he lost huge sums of money.”
She sighed. “It seems a terrible thing to say about one’s father, Tracy, but I didn’t like him very much.” Then Mary reached out and put a comforting hand on Tracy’s arm. “Adrian is not at all like Papa,” she said reassuringly. “He will be a wonderful father, I’m sure. Just as he has been a wonderful brother.”
“I’m sure he will be,” said Tracy quietly and after a minute returned to her sewing.
Mary’s revelations only confirmed what Tracy had long known. Adrian had married her for her father’s money. She had seen the run-down state of the land and the cottages. She had seen the workmen descending in droves these last few months. She had heard the vicar after church thanking Adrian on behalf of the tenants for the repairs he was undertaking. She had realized that it must be Bodmin money that Adrian was using.
He had married her because he needed that money, but she thought he had come to care for her as well. Why should he not, she thought to herself in painful amusement, when but a single touch of his hand, of his lips, produced in her such absolute submission. She would do what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it. He could not ask for a more pliable wife, nor one who adored him more abjectly. And she would give him a son. A son would bind him to her more firmly than anything else in the world.
So when he told her he would be faithful to her, she believed him. But she did not think that he loved her with a fraction of the helpless, powerful passion that she felt for him.
Chapter 19
“The engend’ring,” quoth he, “of beauty in beauty aright were the engend’ring of a beautiful child in a beautiful woman; and I would think it a more manifest token a great deal that she loved her lover if she pleased him with this then with the sweetness of language you spoke of.”
—The Book of the Courtier
The month of January went very slowly for Tracy. Parliament reopened and Adrian went up to London for days at a time. She missed him. She felt ugly and fat and dull. She felt as if March would never come.
Her winter boredom was finally alleviated, but not in a pleasant manner. It was a cold, wet day in late January when she picked up one of the newspapers at breakfast, saw the headline, and went white and then red as she read the article.
General Andrew Jackson, on an expedition to West Florida, had arrested two British subjects as spies. He had had the two men, a Scot named Arbuthnot and an ex-marine named Ambrister, tried by an American military court, and then shot. All of this had occurred several months ago, but the news had just hit England. It exploded like a bombshell. All of the newspapers were clamoring for the government to take action against the United Sta
tes.
Tracy was terribly agitated. The Duke was in London. Richard Rush, her Ambassador, was in London. She decided that she had to go up to London too, and rang the bell with great vigor to order the carriage.
Wilton was almost as agitated as Tracy by her order. He was quite sure the Duke would not want his wife to be traveling in her condition, and, as he, a mere butler, could certainly not prevent her, he went to the one person whom he thought might have some success. He went to Miss Alden. The governess thanked him for his information and made her way with some misgivings to the Duchess’ bedroom.
She found Tracy pacing about like a caged tiger as Emma, looking distressed, packed her portmanteau. “Tracy, I must speak to you,” the governess said quietly. Tracy merely shook her head and kept on pacing. Miss Alden made a gesture to Emma, who turned and hurried out of the room.
Tracy turned on the governess. “How dare you send my maid away? I am going to London, Elizabeth. Haven’t you read the papers? England is going to declare war on my country!”
“Yes, I have read the papers, but I feel quite certain that there will be no war. You know the English papers, Tracy! They always exaggerate.”
Tracy’s eyes were green as grass. “I don’t know what to think and I am going to go where I can find out the truth of it. I want to talk to Mr. Rush. I want to see my husband.” The room was electric with her alarm and her determination. Miss Alden was a little overwhelmed, but she made another effort.
