Only a Promise

by Mary Balogh

  But in the meanwhile, she said at last, and before doing anything else, they must all take a few moments to return to their rooms to dress. Goodness knew when they would have another chance, and any visitors who arrived later might consider it odd to say the least if they found all the servants and other residents of the house in their nightgowns and nightcaps.

  She was suddenly acutely aware of her own nightgown and old dressing gown and of her frilled cap—and of the fact that this had been her wedding night and the servants were all fully aware of the fact.

  Her words drew a weak laugh from everyone as they dispersed.

  In the absence of a black dress—it had not occurred to her to bring any of her old mourning clothes to Manville with her—Chloe donned a dark blue one. It would have to do for now. She left her hair braided about her head.

  By the time she came back downstairs, she had thought of a few other things that needed to be done without delay. Robert had just returned with the physician only to learn that they had arrived too late. Chloe comforted him with the assurance that Dr. Gregg could not have saved the duke’s life anyway, and she sent the footman back to the village to fetch the vicar even though it was still night. The presence of a clergyman was needed, and the Reverend Marlowe would not mind the hour. Indeed, he would probably be hurt if he was not summoned until after daybreak. It was not often he was called to the deathbed of a Duke of Worthingham.

  She sent the footman who was on duty in the hallway to fetch something with which to muffle the sound of the door knocker, black crepe if possible.

  And then there was nothing left to do that she could think of. She stood in the hall for a few moments and glanced up the stairs. Ought she to go back up there? Was that where her place was, at her husband’s side? But there was nothing she could do, and the thought of going back into that room with its silent, empty presence was daunting. If she had not left at all, it would be different. But she had.

  She could not go back.

  She went into the drawing room instead and pulled Her Grace’s chair closer to the fireplace. She picked up the fire tongs and heaped a few more coals onto the fire. The room still felt chilly. But she was too restless to sit. She went back down to the kitchen instead, to make sure everything was proceeding smoothly. It was. Mrs. Loftus had recovered both her poise and her authority and was instructing the chambermaid who had already finished her breakfast to check all the rooms to make sure the curtains were drawn across every window. As soon as the others were finished, she assured Chloe, they would be sent to dust and polish in the main rooms, though they had all been done just three days ago. The footmen were being sent back to their rooms to change into their best livery. Miss Bunker had volunteered to make black armbands for them.

  Chloe arrived back in the hall just as the vicar was coming through the door. He strode toward her, both hands outstretched.

  “My dear duchess,” he said, squeezing hers tightly. “Under what sadly different circumstances we meet today. Please accept my deepest sympathies and those of my dear wife. But the Lord is merciful, you know. Yesterday it was very clear that His Grace was happy he had lived long enough to witness the nuptials of his only grandson.”

  She led the way upstairs, but she was glad to relinquish him to the care of Weller, who was waiting on the upper landing, all stiff, formal dignity.

  She sat in the drawing room after that, waiting, and gradually dawn grayed the room through the curtains. It struck her fully then. The duke, that gruff but kindly old gentleman of whom the duchess was so very fond, was dead. Gone. Leaving a heavy emptiness behind, even for her. She could only imagine what Her Grace and Ralph were feeling. And indeed she could imagine it. Her mother’s death still felt recent.

  When the drawing room doors finally opened, Chloe got to her feet and pulled the bell rope before turning. It was a moment she had been dreading.

  Ralph had his grandmother on his arm. Both were fully dressed, both in black. Her Grace was straight backed and regal, her face looking as though it had been sculpted of marble. Ralph’s was ashen, stern, and forbidding. Dr. Gregg and the Reverend Marlowe came behind them.

  Choosing which one to comfort was instinctive. Chloe hurried across the room and drew Her Grace into her arms. They clung wordlessly together for several moments before Chloe led her to her chair by the fire and spread a lap robe over her knees.

  “The tea tray will be here in a moment,” she said, “and a plate of scones.”

  “I could not eat or drink a thing, Chloe,” Her Grace said, “but Dr. Gregg and the vicar will be glad of some refreshments, I daresay. I regret that they were dragged from their beds at such an hour. Perhaps they would prefer something stronger than tea, though?”

  Both men held up staying hands and shook their heads. Dr. Gregg assured Her Grace that a cup of tea would be much appreciated.

  “And you will drink too, Grandmama,” Chloe told Her Grace firmly, “and have a bite to eat. You must.”

  The duchess smiled wanly.

  “I just asked Weller how the servants are faring,” she said. “He told me they have been under your direction and that everything is running smoothly. Thank you, my dear. I might have guessed you would take charge without any fuss or panic. I will drink tea since you insist. And I will try half a scone.”

  Ralph meanwhile had crossed the room without a word to anyone and stood now at the window. He had opened the curtains back a few inches and was staring out at the gray dawn, his hands clasped at his back.

  A tray on which there was both a coffeepot and a teapot was carried in almost immediately. Chloe busied herself pouring and carrying around the cups and saucers and then the freshly baked scones. The Reverend Marlowe had seated himself close to the duchess and was speaking quietly to her. Dr. Gregg stood at his shoulder, listening and looking down at the duchess with obvious concern.

  Chloe crossed the room to her husband, set a cup of coffee down on a table close by, and rested a light hand on his sleeve. She felt his arm stiffen, though he did not flinch quite away from her.

  “Ralph,” she said softly.

  “Everyone,” he said without turning his head, “keeps calling me Your Grace.”

  “I have poured you some coffee,” she said. “And there are fresh scones.”

  “I want nothing,” he said.

  “He went peacefully,” she told him. An utterly foolish thing to say, of course. But what did one say?

  “You became a countess yesterday,” he said, “a duchess today. It is the stuff dreams are made of.”

  Her hand tightened a little on his arm before she removed it. Did he mean . . . ? But of course he did not.

  “I beg your pardon.” He turned his head sharply to frown at her. “I do beg your pardon, Chloe. I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

  For once there was something in his eyes more than the usual blankness. There was apology there, and pain.

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “But it is the truth nevertheless, and I wish it were not so. Drink your coffee, or I will bring you tea if you prefer. And try to eat a scone. I shall fetch some for both of us, though I have no appetite either.”

  Such mundane matters when there were worlds of emotions to feel and realities of which to think and speak! One of the most horrible realities about the death of someone closely related, she remembered, was the necessity of going on almost immediately with the trivialities of living. As though nothing of any real significance had changed.

  “Coffee will be fine,” he said, his eyes straying to the cup. “I’ll share a scone with you.”

  She went to fetch it and to pour herself some tea, and then she returned to stand beside him again. They ate half a scone each from the same plate before he took up his coffee. Last night, just a few hours ago really, they had consummated their marriage. It seemed an eon ago. She was suddenly terribly glad they had married in time.<
br />
  “Weller and Mrs. Loftus have ruled Manville with an iron thumb apiece for longer than I can remember,” he said. “I understand they came close to falling apart last night, however. They were quite devoted to the duke, of course. But you held them together and now, I understand, all is running smoothly again.”

  “They would have done very well without me,” she said.

  “They would have managed, of course,” he agreed, “but they looked to you for leadership and you gave it.”

  She set down the empty plate, pleased at his approval, and picked up her cup and saucer. “I am your wife,” she said. And she was. In every way.

  “You are my duchess.” He frowned at her. “Which fact makes me the duke. Hell and damnation.”

  He did not apologize for his shocking words. Perhaps he did not even realize he had spoken them aloud.

  “I had better start behaving like one,” he said, setting down his empty cup and saucer. “Come.”

  And he moved toward the fireplace and waited for Chloe to seat herself before speaking.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the physician and the vicar, “I thank you for coming out so promptly in the middle of the night and for the words of comfort you have offered to Her Grace, my grandmother, and to my wife and me. We are indeed grateful. We will need to discuss the funeral, Reverend Marlowe. Not now, though. I will be sending my grandmother and my wife to bed soon. They both need to sleep or at least to rest if sleep is not possible. Perhaps you will return later.”

  Both men recognized their cue to leave. Ralph saw them on their way, and Chloe was alone with his grandmother for a few minutes. Her Grace was staring into the fire, but both the cup and the plate beside her were empty.

  “It is the strangest feeling in the world,” she said. “One moment someone is there, speaking one’s name. The next moment his body is still there but he is not. And never will be again. There is no calling him back. What was not said before he went will never be said now. His body is still upstairs. It looks like him and yet does not. He is not there.”

  Chloe clasped her hands and refrained from offering words of meaningless comfort.

  Her Grace turned her head and smiled at her.

  “But we celebrated your wedding yesterday,” she said, “and we were both happy, Worthingham and I. Perhaps it was selfish of us not to persuade the two of you to wait and marry with all the proper pomp and formality in London. But I cannot feel sorry we were selfish. Somehow it felt like the loveliest wedding I have ever attended, with the possible exception of my own. And you cannot know the comfort it is to me today, Chloe, to know that Ralph is married and has a wife to see him through this difficult time. And to know that you are no longer just my guest, my dear Clemmie’s granddaughter, but my own granddaughter by marriage. I could not bear to be the duchess any longer, you know. I am so glad that your position as Ralph’s wife has relegated me to the position of dowager duchess. Oh, Chloe, my love.”

  Her eyes welled with tears, and Chloe hurried over to perch on the arm of Her Grace’s chair and wrap an arm about her shoulders.

  “How am I to go on without him?” Her Grace asked, tipping her head sideways to rest on Chloe’s shoulder. “Oh, the selfishness of the man to go before me.” She laughed shakily and fumbled for a handkerchief. “But in some ways I am glad he did. I shall do better without him than he would have done without me. He would have been lost . . . I just wish we could have gone together.”

  Ralph came back into the room as she was blowing her nose. His eyes met Chloe’s and he came toward them and went down on his haunches before his grandmother’s chair. He held out his hands to her as she tucked away her handkerchief.

  “Grandmama,” he said when she took them. “I will send you up to your room now and have Bunker summoned. Chloe will accompany you and then go to her room. You must both lie down and try to sleep.”

  His voice was quiet, even gentle, but there was a thread of implacable will in it, and Chloe guessed that he might be somehow transformed by his new role, that he would take his responsibilities very seriously. Perhaps, she thought, they would even be his salvation, though she did not know quite what she meant by that.

  He drew his grandmother to her feet and Chloe stood too and offered her arm.

  “But perhaps you would be more comfortable in one of the guest rooms, Grandmama,” Ralph suggested.

  “Because only our dressing rooms stand between my room and your grandfather’s, do you mean?” she asked. “But I am not afraid. He would never have harmed a hair on my head while he lived. Why would he harm me now that he is dead? Besides, he is no longer there, you know. No one is.”

  He looked bleakly at her as she took Chloe’s arm and they went upstairs together. Chloe was back down no more than five minutes later, however. He was still in the drawing room, gazing into the fire, one arm propped on the mantel above his shoulder. He turned his head and raised his eyebrows at sight of her.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked him.

  “No one knows anything of what has happened here in the last twenty-four hours,” he said. “No one knows of our marriage. No one knows of the duke’s passing. It is a dizzying thought, is it not? There were no guests at our wedding. We chose not to wait. Now, for the next big event, we must wait, for there are all sorts of people who will want to be here for the funeral. He was the Duke of Worthingham. There are family members to inform—about both events—and friends and his closest associates as well as some dignitaries to inform of my grandfather’s passing. There must be no delay if they are to have the chance to travel here in time. Notices must be put in the papers. And there are all sorts of other details to attend to, some of which I have probably not even thought of yet. I have summoned my grandfather’s secretary to meet me in the study. He is my own secretary now, I suppose. He is probably waiting for me there already.”

  Something inside Chloe turned cold and still.

  . . . for there are all sorts of people who will want to be here for the funeral.

  Of course. Oh, of course.

  There would be no setting out today or tomorrow for Hampshire and then, after a visit with Papa, for Elmwood Manor and home. There would be no setting out until after the funeral, which would be attended by all sorts of people. There are family members to inform and friends and his closest associates as well as some dignitaries. And perhaps—even probably—there would be no setting out even then. For surely Elmwood would no longer be their principal home. Manville Court would be.

  She felt a moment’s dizziness and shook it off. This was not a time to think of herself.

  “There will be letters to write, then,” she said briskly. “Many of them and not all of them identical. And the notices to the papers will need to be composed and copied several times. That is a great deal for two men to do with so little time. I shall come with you.”

  He turned fully away from the fire and frowned at her.

  “You need not concern yourself,” he said, his tone almost chilly. “You have been up half the night, and you have been busy. Go and rest.”

  “You have been up just as long,” she pointed out. “There is a great deal to do, and I shall help you do it.”

  He looked as if he was going to argue or perhaps issue orders. He appeared suddenly haughty and autocratic. And then an expression almost like a smile flitted across his face before it was gone.

  “I am reminded,” he said, “that I really do not know you at all, Chloe. You intend to be more than just the mother of my children, do you?”

  “What I agreed to be,” she told him, “and what I promised to be yesterday in church, was your wife. Having your children is just one of my obligations.”

  “Obligations,” he said softly.

  “They are not always negative things.” She smiled at him suddenly. “I like writing letters.”

  But she felt a
s though something cold was clutching her heart. She had not been expecting any of this. How foolish of her. Despite all the signs and warnings that had stared her in the face since she arrived at Manville Court, she had not even thought of this happening in the near future. And now the future had become the present.

  “Come, then.” He strode past her to the door and then stopped and looked back at her, still frowning. “I suppose trotting along at my heels is another obligation, is it? Take my arm.”

  * * *

  Arthur Lloyd, the late duke’s secretary, already had lists drawn up of people he considered needed to be informed and things that had to be done. Chloe sat down beside him and Ralph looked over their shoulders, though the secretary had tried to relinquish his own chair to His Grace. And together they completed the lists and divided up the tasks.

  Chloe had made it clear that she was not going to simply go away. She undertook to write to her brother and sister and aunt and uncle—Lord and Lady Easterly. She also wrote a letter to her father to be included with the more formal note Ralph composed. She made several copies in an elegant sloping hand of the wedding announcement and the death notice that Lloyd had drafted and Ralph had approved after Chloe had suggested a few minor adjustments to the wording. Ralph wrote to his mother and sisters and his six fellow Survivors, while Chloe and Lloyd dealt with the formidable number of more formal notes that needed to be sent to various other people of importance for whom the announcement in the papers would not be sufficient.