Duchess

by Nicolette Andrews

  Contents

  Copyright

  Love Free Books?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Cast of Characters

  Copyright © 2014 Nicolette Andrews

  Cover Art by Nadica Borshivka

  Edited By Pauline Nolet

  All rights reserved.

  This novella would not be possible without the following people: Mel for her love of Damara, this book is for you. I want to thank Monica for her enthusiasm as she read my first draft. I thank Nadica for another gorgeous cover and Pauline for her editing and great feedback. I cannot neglect to mention my husband and children who are endlessly supportive. And last but not least, you dear reader, without you all of this would be for naught.

  Be sure to check out Diviner’s Prophecy the first book in the Diviner’s Trilogy and for a limited time you can get the second book in the diviner’s trilogy for free as well when you sign up for my reader’s newlsetter.

  Click here for Diviner’s Prophecy: books2read.com/divinersprophecy

  Click here for a free copy of Diviner’s Curse: http://www.fantasyauthornicoletteandrews.com/diviners-curse-free-ebook/

  Chapter One

  There are moments that change your life forever. The day my husband had ridden off to war I had known this moment was coming. Every day that passed, I was waiting without realizing what I was waiting for. The messenger was shown into the parlor by my maid. I was working on a bit of embroidery when my maid announced him.

  The world slowed down around the two of us. I stood up, my heart thumping in my chest. In his hand he clutched a roll of parchment; the royal seal dangled from the ribbon that tied it. I had known this message was coming, but I still denied the truth. It’s just a letter. Someone is inviting me to a party, perhaps.

  The messenger fidgeted, stepping from one foot to the other. He squeezed the parchment tight as he held it out to me. His garments were blue, with silver stitching on the border. On his breast was a silver oak tree. He was a palace messenger. It was strange that I would focus on such a small detail at a time like this, but I did. I reached for it, my fingers touching the soft vellum of the parchment. He avoided looking me in the eyes, but I saw the pity reflected there. I don’t need your pity. I have been waiting for this moment. I broke the royal seal with shaking hands. My eyes scanned the paper, devouring the words written there.

  I wanted to deny the truth, to lie to myself, but lying would do me no good. No matter how much I had prepared myself for this moment, it did not make it hurt any less. The truth was printed there in an elegant hand.

  Duchess Damara Florett,

  We regret to inform you of the passing of your lord husband, Duke Artor Florett. His grace died valiantly in his service to King Dallen Raleban, King of Danhad. It is in part because of his efforts that we are winning in our fight against Neaux…

  I could not stomach reading the rest. I crumpled the paper and considered tossing it into the fire.

  “I’m sorry to bring you these sad tidings, your grace,” the messenger said. His voice sounded as if it were a thousand miles away underwater.

  I felt as if I were drowning. I couldn’t breathe.

  I glanced up at the messenger. He was wringing his hands, perhaps for want of something to say. Nothing you can say will restore his life. The messenger was young, perhaps in his fifteenth year, not even a man. All the men are dead because of this bloody war. They only have boys left to comfort widows like me. I swayed on my feet and collapsed into a nearby chair. An embroidery needle stabbed me in the thigh. The pain brought me back to reality. I pulled the needle from my flesh, and my hand was streaked with blood.

  I stared at my bloody hand, and a host of horrible images flashed through my mind: Artor lying on the ground, blood congealing around him. Artor’s body twisted, his limbs bent at unnatural angles, his clothing torn and bloodied. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. He’s dead. Artor is dead… I had been expecting this for so long, yet I had also prayed that I would never have to face this moment.

  “Your grace, is there anything else I can do?” the messenger asked. His voice was hesitant, uncertain.

  He sees me as breakable. He’ll return to the palace, and the rumors will fly about how I lost control when Artor died. I will not let them think me weak. Under normal circumstances, I would not have shown my true feelings so openly, but no matter how you prepare yourself, you cannot harden your heart to the death of a loved one.

  I reached into my pocket where I kept my coin purse. I stood up and tossed my hair back over my shoulders. I am strong. I will not let anyone think otherwise. I crossed the room to the messenger and pressed a coin into his hand. “You may go. The cook will see you fed, and my housekeeper can find you a place to stay the night.” I showed him to the door. Even in times of grief I must show hospitality.

  He sputtered his thanks upon seeing the silver coin. I smiled as he bowed out of the room.

  I closed the door after him and leaned my forehead against the polished wood. I let go a ragged breath. This has to be a nightmare. I will close my eyes, and he’ll come through that door and tell me everything is going to be fine. I stayed there a moment and let my breathing return to normal. Artor didn’t come. He wouldn’t ever come again. I have to tell Layton. Emotion was tangled in my throat. Be strong. You are a rock. I checked my appearance in the mirror above a table on the far wall. My eyes were swollen and red with unshed tears, with bags beneath them besides. I straightened a stray auburn curl and dabbed my eyes where the tears had gathered against my lashes.

  The servants were whispering in the entryway as I exited the parlor. When they saw me, they scattered. Either they had heard from the messenger about Artor or they had made the deduction themselves. No one received a royal missive during times of war unless it was ill tidings. The servants were well trained enough to stay clear of me.

  My son, Layton, was in his chambers with his tutor. I eased the door open and stood watching him for a few moments. His hair was long, down to his shoulders. Its hue was similar to mine, but his had less red and more blond. His cheeks were round and flushed. I suspected he had just come in from practice with our master of arms. Short curls framed his face and softened his features.

  At least I still have you. The emotions were threatening to bury me once more. I clutched at the front of my bodice; the fabric threatened to tear beneath my fingers. Perhaps this should wait until my thoughts are more organized. Then Layton turned his head and spotted me. His emerald eyes lit up, and he ran for me, hands outstretched.

  “Mama!” he cried.

  I kneeled down and gathered him into my arms. I buried my face into his neck and inhaled his scent. He smelled like grass and the faint scent of lye soap.

  I must have hugged him a little too tight and for too long because he asked, “Mama, what’s wrong?”

  I gazed upon his face. His eyebrows were pulled together, and it pinched his features, but I thought him precious despite it. He looked so much like me. I saw so little of his father in his features. Just the sweep of his nose and those darling rose-petal lips belonged to Artor. The rest—his chin, his eyes, his hair even his temperament—all me. Goddess, help me.

  I brushed a few errant tears away.

  “Layton, there’s something I need to tell you,” I began.

  He clutched my hand
tight. His shoulders tensed as he frowned at me. I led him over to one of his child-sized couches. We sat down, with him in my lap. Since it was made for a child’s size, the skirt of my gown enveloped the entire thing. I pulled my son close to me and nuzzled him, breathing in the scent of him. My boy.

  “Mama?” he questioned me.

  I took another deep breath. I must be strong for him.

  “Layton, darling, I received a letter from the king… about Papa.”

  His small body tensed against mine. “When is Papa coming home?”

  Never again. I looked away to collect myself lest the tears fall unbidden. I pushed back his curls from his face to avoid answering for a moment. “Papa is not coming home, darling.”

  “He promised me!” He pushed against me and withdrew from my grasp. He stared at me with hands balled into fists. Tears were brimming along his lashes and falling over his cherubic cheeks.

  “Darling, I know it’s hard to understand, but Papa went to fight for the king. He fought very bravely… however, even brave men die…” My voice shook, and it was difficult to continue.

  Layton took a step back, shaking his head. “No. You’re lying. Papa wouldn’t leave me.” Layton ran from me and out of the room. I watched him go with tears falling down my face.

  The tutor had snuck out some time after I had come in. I was left alone among my son’s things—his petite writing desk, the books and parchments with childish scribbles strewn about. I sat there a while, letting the tears fall and focusing on nothing in particular. I should move, go find my son. But I did not have the energy to do anything but sit and cry.

  After a while, I stood up. I had to find Layton. I couldn’t let our conversation end this way. I had to help him accept the truth.

  When will I be able to accept the truth?

  I went out into the garden. I knew where he would go. Whenever he was upset, he always went to the same place.

  The garden was empty. The gardener had finished for the day. My footsteps echoed off the paving stones, and in the distance, I could hear the ocean’s roar. The manor was not close enough to see the ocean from the garden, but I could smell the salt in the air and the slight tang of fish. At the edge of the garden, beside a wall, was a large oak tree. It was ancient, and if you climbed up high enough, you could see the ocean, and that is where I found my son.

  He was sitting in the crook of the tree, his knees drawn up to his chest as he stared at the ocean in the distance. I sat down at the base of the tree and said nothing. I spread out my skirt to give my idle hands something to do. Layton did not acknowledge me. His feet scraped along the branch as he shifted about to turn further away from me. We sat like that in silence for some time, both lost in our thoughts.

  “He promised me he would come back. He said he would take me on one of the ships when he came back,” Layton said after a long time.

  “I know, darling,” I said. I would not make excuses for my husband. I had known the risk when he had marched off to war.

  He was silent for a while longer. After a few more minutes, I heard the scrape of his shoes upon the bark again, followed by a few leaves drifting down. He plopped down on the ground beside me. He stood a few feet from me, and under one arm he carried a small carved box.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Our secrets,” he replied. He glanced down at the box with a frown wrinkling his cherubic face.

  “Secrets?” I asked, trying to inject some levity into my tone, but I feared it fell flat.

  He nodded. “Papa asked me to guard his secrets. He told me I was to protect them with all my might.”

  My heart skipped a beat in my chest. He left Layton something to hold onto, but me, nothing at all. It was a selfish thought that I had to squash quickly. Layton was a child, and I was his wife. I knew the risks, I reminded myself.

  “Are mothers allowed in on the secret?” I asked.

  He nodded his head. “Papa told me you could see it, if you wanted.”

  He slid the box over to me across the grass. I took it with shaking hands. It was like holding a part of Artor. I opened the lid of the box. It was, as I should have expected from a box belonging to a little boy, full of odds and ends: a seashell, a wooden soldier, a few sticks and leaves, and then, in the corner, a locket. It had a stylized flower, the symbol of our house, House Florett. I plucked it out from the bric-a-brac.

  Layton inhaled. “Papa said this was my magic necklace. If I was ever missing him, it would bring him back to me.”

  I touched the flower, outlining the petals and then the stems and leaves with my fingertip. “Do you think it works?” I asked. My voice shook.

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve been holding it all day, and nothing has changed.”

  I put my arm around his shoulder and brought him close. We didn’t say anything for a long time. I stroked the locket, thinking of better times. My thumb caught on the edge of the locket, a latch to open it. I pressed it, and the locket opened. Inside there was an inscription.

  Remember the old oak tree. That is where I’ll be.

  I sat up straighter and stared at the words carved into the locket. They seemed familiar, but why? I must be grasping at straws. I’m desperate for a final message from him. I should save myself the heartache and quit looking for one. My husband was dead.

  Chapter Two

  As expected, the entire house had gone into mourning. We wore black, the paintings were hung with black sheets, and the entire manor seemed encased in silence, as if everyone feared to raise their voices. I spent much of my time in Artor’s study. It was a large room lined with books. The centerpiece of the room was the fireplace carved from stone with the stylized representations of the twelve houses of Danhad. In the center was a large oak tree. Its twisting branches reached out to the sides of the fireplace, and tangled within the limbs were each house symbol: a flower for House Florett, a craggy mountain for House Slatone, a bird in flight for House Magdale, and many others that had been worn smooth by time. The oak had a thick trunk with a round knot in the center made of granite.

  What do I do now? I wondered. Where do I go from here? Artor had raised me above my station, and now that he was gone, I was not sure I could stand alone. A knock at the door drew me from my own thoughts.

  I glanced up, startled. “Come in,” I called.

  My chambermaid slipped into the room. Her feet hardly made a sound as she crossed the floor. She carried in her hand a silver tray with a chalice and some meat and bread. She set the platter down at my elbow. I had no appetite, but I accepted the food without complaint. I would nibble on it, just for show. I refused to let anyone, even my staff, think that I was weak and let them see how this tragedy had affected me.

  “There is a letter that came for you, your grace,” she said in her soft voice.

  A folded piece of parchment was set on the tray beside my food. “Thank you, you’re dismissed.” I waved her away.

  She curtsied and slipped back out without another word. I ignored my food and stared out the arched windows that the desk faced. I could see the hint of the sea on the horizon, and gulls were wheeling through the air. If I could fly away, I would. I would sprout wings and rise above this grief. I would never look back, just let the wind carry me where it would.

  Tears were threatening once more, but I dared not let them fall. I am strong, I told myself; it was my twisted mantra. I can stand on my own without him. There was a stack of paperwork waiting for me. Until Layton reached his majority, it would fall to me to make household decisions—I must agree to the price for wool that our tenant farmers were selling. I had to decide if the tax for the merchant ships heading north to Jerauch was enough or not. We had a seneschal for these things, my husband had appointed one before he had left for war, but if I was to prove I could be mistress of this household, I needed to take a firmer hand with the running of the estate. The numbers and words only seemed to swirl about in my head. I pinched my brow and leaned my elbows on the tabletop. I
have to keep moving forward. If I don’t, my grief will catch up with me and I will drown.

  I stayed locked in the study for hours, trying to work. I pinched my brow. The light was starting to fade, and I had to squint to see. I had not touched my food or the missive which had arrived with it. I stood up and stretched, letting the tight muscles relax.

  What am I doing? I should leave this to more qualified men. I looked back to the desk and sighed. I’ve done enough for tonight.

  I went to bed and spent a restless night under the covers. Despite my best intentions, sleep often evaded me. My nights were haunted by Artor. Once I dreamed he rode back to White Crest on a white horse. When I cried and told him I thought he died, he only laughed and pinched my nose like he often did. When I woke from that dream, I cried bitter tears only to scrub them in the washing dish so my maid would not see that I had cried. Other nights I dreamed of his death. The official letter did not give details, but my subconscious was happy to supply a host of gruesome images to fill in the gaps. I returned to the study, exhausted, and my limbs leaden. Despite my fatigue, I was determined to get through the paperwork.

  The maid knocked at the door at her usual time. I called for her to enter and squinted at a document about the previous year’s barley harvest. The sums may have been in Neaux for all the sense I could make of them. The door creaked open, but I paid it little mind. I got up to look for a book that might help me translate the figures. I let my hands roll over the spines of Artor’s books. Artor appreciated the written word. He loved to read. He even collected books. He had a variety of first editions, everything from religious texts to collections of children’s stories.

  The footsteps had stopped, and the chambermaid cleared her throat.

  “Just take away the dishes, and don’t bother with supper. I haven’t much of an appetite,” I said without turning around.

  “I did not come here to clean up after you.” The voice was cool, and a chill ran up my spine.