Regency Romance: Fallen Duchess (A Historical Victorian Murder Mystery Love Regency Romance)

by Tracey D Morgan

  After a moment, she stepped back in. “You have a special guest.” She said looking a bit worried.

  “Well go on, tell me who it is.” I asked curiously.

  “It’s Emily.”

  I froze, not knowing how to take that news. “Let her inside.” I finally urged as I leaned over to look.

  Olivia opened the door, and sure enough Emily was standing there, as radiant as ever. She glanced around the room, looking to Brandon, then to myself, and finally her eyes rested on Lilly. “She’s gorgeous Vanessa.” She said looking up at me with a smile.

  I did not smile back in response. I was trying to find all of the energy God had given me to forgive and remember what I had vowed to do before a wobbly grin graced my own features, “Thank you Emily. What brings you here?” I asked.

  “To apologize.”

  Brandon looked between myself and Emily, “I think I’ll let you ladies be. I’ll come back in once you’re done.” He said nodding politely to Emily, and kissing my lips. He left Emily and I alone.

  “There’s nothing to apologize…”

  “Yes there is.” She interrupted me.

  I shut my mouth for a moment to allow her the time to speak her mind.

  “I slept with Lawrence. He complained that your marriage was growing stale and he was running out of options with how to keep it together. He said it was taking much too long to try for a baby, but he was too embarrassed to admit that it might be his own fault.” She said looking sad, “He asked me to help him get his spark back. At first I declined, but I started getting jealous. I haven’t been married yet, or even courted. I’m more than worried it’s about my father’s position. Everyone’s afraid to date me.” She explained.

  I smiled gently at her, “Emily, I already figured it out when I saw the paper. On everything, on the infidelity, on the slander, I say it’s alright. God has forgiven you, and he will forgive me too for my bitterness. I don’t want you to shoulder that regret anymore. Besides, Lawrence was right. We had little in common, and it was more of a political move than anything else.” I explained.

  Emily seemed grateful. “Thank you Vanessa. I only wish that I could have been stronger, but you’re right.” She said softly. “I’m sorry to have bothered you at such a time, but I do want to ask…May I visit with the baby?” she asked curiously.

  I didn’t decline her, and we spent a long time discussing the way of things. Before she left for the day, she vowed to clean up my name back in Connecticut.

  By evening I was watching Lilly sleep peacefully in her bassinet, and I rested for the first time all day since she had been born. Brandon came into the room, the happy expression on his face now worn and tired. “I suppose it’s just us for the rest of the evening then.” He said, “I only wish we could allow Ruth in to see you now. She’s begged all day, you know.”

  “After the baby has rested for the first few days, she can come in. The doctor says it may even be sooner than that with how healthy she turned out to be. I was stunned myself.” I admitted.

  He climbed into the bed next to me, wrapping his arms gently around my midsection and drawing me near. “I believe I really lucked out when you answered my ad.” He said quietly.

  I took his hand in my own, and we kissed once more under the fading glow of the oil lamp. His hand intertwined in mine, and our love only began to grow stronger still.

  I never thought I would meet a man like Brandon, or have my life back. I could only see us growing stronger together, despite the pasts we came from.

  THE END

  Return to the TOC for Bonus Content

  The Widow’s Heart

  Chapter One

  Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick was where he could always be located on a Thursday afternoon: sitting on a little bench beneath the old weeping willow tree with its branches stretching downward sorrowfully toward his late wife’s grave and the few flowers that poked their heads out bravely against the cold wind. After a long and arduous illness, Elizabeth Fitzpatrick, a beloved wife, mother and daughter, passed away peacefully exactly seven months prior.

  Even though time had passed, Frederick still couldn’t get accustomed to the idea that his wife would never again greet him bright and early in the morning with a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He would never hear her sweet laughter ringing through the house again. She would never tend to their garden, which was now overgrown with weeds.

  The little ones, Angelina and William, were adjusting to the new situation in their own way. William was still too young to remember much of his sweet mother’s countenance, but Angelina was stricken with a sorrow that brought heaviness to Frederick’s heart. She would miss her mother for a long time, and he knew exactly how that felt because he shared her state of mind.

  As the wind howled through the trees, rustling the branches, Frederick remembered his sister’s latest letter and how she reminded him that, even though he was a bereaved husband, he was also a father who needed to provide for his children. However, there was only so much he could offer himself, which was why his sister’s suggestion was to find a new wife, one that would be good to both him and the children.

  “You all need it,” her letter stated gently, without urging or pushing for something that he wasn’t ready for. But at the same time, he also knew that the longer he waited, the more time his children would spend without a mother, an essential figure in bringing up two little ones.

  He buried his face in his hands and wished his wife were here to comfort him. She had always been a great source of comfort in dire times. Her sweet countenance, her strength of character and her faith always kept him on the right path. Now, without her guidance, he felt lost in the world, as if there was nothing left for him but to lead a solitary life, waiting for the sweet Lord to take him away and reunite him with his beloved Elizabeth.

  However, he knew that his sister was right. So that night when the rest of the house was soundly asleep, he took to his pen and paper. Under the soft glow of his candle, he wrote a personal advertisement to be sent the following day and published in the biggest county newspapers.

  He described himself as he was: in his late 40s, hard-working, a man of God who had been widowed and left to take care of two young ones by himself. He continued by stating what kind of a woman he was looking for, though in reality, he wasn’t sure. He’d like Elizabeth to come back, but since such thoughts were blasphemous, he decided it would be best to mention a few basic character traits that Elizabeth herself had: a pure heart, love for those around her, a profound sense of faith and a willingness to move to Texas, provided their correspondence leads to a fruitful and blessed union.

  Normally, he wouldn’t even dream of undertaking such an endeavor, but he knew time was of the essence. His children needed a mother. He was convinced when William, in his childlike naivety, said that this Christmas, he’d like to have a mother who would love him, play with him and take care of him, together with Frederick.

  It almost broke his heart. He hoped that in all her mercy and unconditional love, Elizabeth would understand why he decided to take another wife.

  Chapter Two

  A few days later, on the other side of the county, a young woman was sitting at her breakfast table with nothing but a cup of coffee. She knew she had to have something for breakfast, but her current state of mind refused any thoughts or desires of food. In an effort to forget about her troubles, she was leafing through the morning papers, mostly trying to find people in worse situations that she.

  Namely, Christina Rose Hubbard was all alone in the world. Even this house she was residing in would be hers for only a while longer, and then, seeing that she had no means to pay for the loan that was taken while her father—God rest his soul—was still alive, the bank would take it.

  She and her father were left to their own devices from an early age. Christina never remembered her mother, who died while Christina was still an infant and barely able to stand on her own two feet, let alone be cognizant of any memories tha
t could prove to be of much emotional value later on. The only item she had that reminded her of her mother was a tattered old black-and-white photograph showing a lovely young woman, who, despite not smiling, appeared warm and affectionate.

  “She was the sweetest person you could ever meet,” her father always said. “Always helped others before helping herself. I guess the good Lord decided to call her upon himself sooner than we’d like him to, but his will must not be questioned,” he’d add sorrowfully. “Now she is waiting for us up there,” he said, pointing up at the skies, “and looking upon us and keeping us safe.” There was always a tinge of melancholy in her father’s voice every time he spoke of her mother.

  Later on, she wondered why he never remarried, but she dared not ask him. She always found it too personal, as if such a question might hurt him, and that was the last thing she’d ever want to do, especially after he had gotten ill. It all started mildly enough, just a simple loss of appetite, fever and chills, and they had all thought that his condition would improve in a few days.

  Unfortunately, although the symptoms did improve, they eventually returned with a vengeance, increasing the existing symptoms in intensity and even adding some new ones, such as nausea, muscle pains and, the most revealing symptom of all, yellow skin.

  “I’m sorry to say, sweet child, that it’s yellow jack.” Christina remembered the words of their doctor upon his second visit. He recommended quarantine, or boarding up the house and putting up a sign on the front door, where she would stay with him. Because it was possibly that she too had contracted the disease, the doctor added that it would be best. Other than that, there was little that could be done to prevent the inevitable.

  What they knew of yellow jack was that once the skin turned yellow, it was just a matter of time. Naturally, there were people who claimed to have survived the dreaded illness and sold what they referred to as miracle cures.

  Christina was desperate. She couldn’t bear losing her father, yet she had no money to pay for those cures that might help her father get better. Going against her own moral standards, she did what she thought was unspeakable and obtained the money necessary for the medications.

  She quarantined herself and cared for her father until his very last dying breath. The cures did not help, but the shame at what she had done had remained. After some time, when her father was given a burial and once she was given a clean bill of health, she was able to go on with her life, though not as before. She was all alone in the world now, with no one to love or anyone to love her back, and with a smirched consciousness that wouldn’t let go of her, even in her dreams. She caught herself subconsciously shying away from the authorities, as if they’d immediately know what she had done because, to them, it was as if it were written on her forehead.

  That morning, like any other, she was trying to forget all her sorrow, at least for a precious few minutes, after which the cold hand of reality would be upon her shoulder once again.

  Then she saw it: the personal advertisement in a section of the newspapers that she would not normally dare look into, but now, there was no shame, nothing left to grasp desperately for, for it was all gone. There was a certain gentleman by the name of Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick, who was in search of a wife and a mother to his two children. The “mail-order bride section,” they called it. He was obviously well-established and well-educated. She could deduce that much from his writing and his eloquence.

  His open letter felt warm, inviting and perhaps a little embarrassed of what he was searching for. Perhaps both of them were embarrassed in their own way: he by advertising something so shocking and she by reading—contemplating—answering him.

  “What do I have to lose?” she spoke aloud, her voice echoing through the empty room. I have to leave this house soon, in either case, she thought. Perhaps it is time to look for comfort and safety elsewhere. Maybe this Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick could be someone I can rely on, count on and even love?

  Reassured by her own thoughts, she set out to write a reply. Without trying to make it too elaborate—that ought best to be left for any possible subsequent responses that might ensue—her first letter was simple and succinct, introducing herself modestly but not before she excused her boldness in replying. She went on to describe her own circumstances without embellishing anything too much but rather revealing just enough.

  Once she was satisfied with the outcome of her writing endeavor, she thought about adding a dash of perfume to the paper but then opted against it for it might send a wrong message.

  Too bold, she thought to herself critically.

  Folding the paper carefully with her slender fingers, she addressed it and went into town to mail it. Thoughts of changing her mind and simply returning home without revealing her morning activities to anyone plagued her all the way there, but something urged her to continue on her journey. As if an invisible hand was guiding her way right up to the post office where, finally, she dropped off the letter and exhaled heavily.

  Well, the deed is done, she thought, a little satisfied, a little scared.

  Due to numerous estate-related obligations she needed to attend to, she almost forgot about the whole affair. But one morning she saw a letter in her mailbox. The envelope and the letter were of heavy cream paper, with the letter itself bearing a monogrammed letterhead, sealed with red-colored wax. There was no outward ornamentation, nothing that would suggest any character contradictory to what letter-writing guides of the time suggested.

  She sat herself on a sofa, placed some biscuits and a warm cup of coffee on a little stand next to her, and carefully grasped the letter. It felt soft to the touch, and she almost felt sorry she had to read it immediately, as she was eager to preserve this feeling of anticipation for as long as possible. Ever since the dark cloud of her beloved father’s death had enshrouded her life, there was finally a glimpse of hope, and she welcomed the sun gratefully.

  Miss Christina,

  It has been long since I had the opportunity to express such personal preferences and desires in a form so impersonal as a letter, but necessity has forced me onto this path of requesting what they so crudely refer to as a mail-order bride. For this I wish to excuse myself, but as I have mentioned just now, it is a course I was forced to pursue as of late but not before having paced the floor of my room numerous times trying to decide the path to my duty.

  Among the replies I have received, of which there were none too many, your frankness and your kindness left me in a pleasurable state of honor for having received a response from someone as charming and open-minded as yourself.

  Of myself, I have little to say at this moment, apart from the notion that I am rarely deceived in my own feelings and decisions, my latest one being that I desire a closer intimacy with someone, which would grant me the privilege, if not the satisfaction, if you would allow me to be so bold, of identifying your happiness with mine.

  Ever since I read your letter, your image has been indelibly impressed upon my memory, and I do hope that my letter will be welcomed by encouragement. My destiny has not been a favorable one, but one does best with what one has, and I bear no objections to my life situation, as it has left me both beloved and bereaved. Now, I feel as if it is my duty to provide happiness, not only to my two young children but also to another, who will agree to give her life and accept mine.

  Whatever your reply might be, honor binds me to you, and therefore, I shall not pursue this matter any longer if you yourself do not desire it. All I ask is that you continue to show the kindness embodied in your previous letter and inform me of your decision.

  Leaving our possible future prospects entirely in your hands, I remain

  Ever your friend,

  Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick

  Christina had to admit that the letter impressed her greatly. The man in question was obviously educated, intelligent, well to do and most charming for all she could see. And he also seemed to have been impressed himself with her response.

 
; Could this bring me any good, or will I crash like Icarus with my wings broken, Christina wondered. In the end, she had nothing to lose. Whatever was worth something in her life had already been taken from her, and now, she was left to take care of herself. A woman left without means in a world of men, where her only chance was to become an indispensable part of someone’s life. Could this someone be Frederick Howard Fitzpatrick?

  She wasn’t really certain herself. What she was certain of though, was that she would not be allowed to remain here for much longer, so whatever she had to do, she needed to do it as soon as possible because later might be too late.

  Without any desire to prolong her pained situation, she decided that further correspondence with Frederick could prove to be extremely beneficial for her and could help her escape both her past and her present.

  The only thing about one’s past though was that it could track you down very easily, like a huntsman hunting down prey: slowly, meticulously, biding its time.

  Chapter Three

  Sometime later, as Frederick was supervising the reconstructions done on the west side of his mansion, he was informed of having a visitor. Leaving the construction workers to do their job, he retired to the front part of the house where he was greeted by an old friend.

  “Father Donovan!” Frederick smiled sincerely upon seeing the local priest on his door step. “Your presence always brings peace to our house.” He placed a loving hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Frederick, my boy.” He looked at the house and the reconstruction that was being done in the distance. “Your father would be so proud to see what great care you’re taking of his business and his property.”