As they left the house and walked across the gravel to the waiting carriage, a young child not much older than Theodore ran out of the front door towards the carriage horses. A nurse bolted past the two ladies and launched herself at the boy.
“I wanter see horsey!” the boy exclaimed, trying to wriggle free of his nanny’s grasp.
The nurse lifted him onto her hip. “I do apologize,” she said, curtseying.
“What a little darling,” Charlotte said, walking up to the pair. “And what’s your name?”
The boy took one look at the two of them and hid his face against his nanny’s dress.
Mary turned to Charlotte and said, “I didn’t realize Mr. Cian Starrett had come from London. This must be his boy, though I had thought his son was older. Why didn’t he join us for tea?”
The nurse interrupted before Charlotte could respond. “No, he’s not come, milady. This is the young master’s son.”
Charlotte and Mary exchanged curious glances.
Charlotte spoke first. “And here I thought all of the Reverend Starrett’s children were girls. You’re not a girl, though, are you, sweetie?”
The boy lifted his head long enough to shake it with vigor.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” the nanny said. “This is the young master’s son, Colonel Starrett the younger. Brought him home from war, he did.”
Mary’s world crumbled.
However much she wanted to swoon to escape the moment, she was not the swooning type. Instead, the blood drained from her body, a chill shivering through her limbs. How she made it to the carriage, she could not say, but not a word was spoken for the return journey to Lyonn Manor.
Chapter 5
Brushing a curly lock from Bernard’s forehead, Duncan bade him goodnight. The boy muttered unintelligible words, eyelids fluttering closed. He favored his mother, God rest her soul, with large, soulful eyes and brown curls.
It had been an awkward conversation to introduce the boy to his family, all knowing his origin. But without judgement, they accepted Bernard as one of their own. At some point, sooner rather than later, Duncan would need to introduce him to Mary. He was not at all certain that would go well. It was one thing to claim an illegitimate child was a person as any other and quite another to accept one as a son. He refused to hide the boy. He would raise Bernard in the open, a proud father, and damn anyone who said otherwise. Could Mary accept those terms? Could she raise another woman’s child?
His bedroom suite was down a flight of stairs from the nursery. Gripping the rail with knuckle-white fists, he traversed the planes one steady step at a time. His feet were numb, and his legs prickled with thousands of needles. The base of his spine had ached with a dull heat all afternoon, but the pain had evolved to a sharpness that stole his breath.
Even with the ball in his back, he had not felt this way. Pained, yes, but of a different nature. Post-surgery, the sensation had been less pronounced. He had been weak and sore rather than pained. All he could do now was hope this passed.
His valet saw to his evening care then retired for the night. Duncan took measured steps to his four-poster, a distance that stretched for miles. How the devil was he to proceed with courtship in this condition?
There was nothing for it. He would need to take a day or two to rest. Come the end of the week, he would be fit as a fiddle and ready to sweep Mary off her feet.
Ah, yes, he would invite her for a ride. Her brother was an avid horseman, so Duncan would call on them both with an invitation to ride. Some women enjoyed a promenade in a curricle. His woman would enjoy a vigorous ride across the countryside. She had always felt more at home in the saddle, as was how they first met at the lake, both out for a ride. He grimaced a smile at her confession of becoming a horse breeder. Whatever the conditions of the Sidwell Hall stables, he would make sure they were tip top, for her dream would come to fruition if it were the last thing he did.
It was a relief to know she would be taken care of when he returned to the regiment. He did not have to worry about leaving her in the care of his parents. No, she would have a house of their own and could set about achieving her dreams until he took leave between campaigns to be with her and their family.
With a grunt, he eased himself against the bed, careful not to put pressure on his lower back. It took three tries to lift his legs onto the bed. They felt heavy and unresponsive. A good night’s sleep would relax his muscles. The riding earlier and the lengthy walk to and from the orchard had exhausted and overworked him.
Snuffing the bedside candle, he turned onto his side, folded his arm beneath his pillow, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
Eyelids shot open. Pitch black met dilated pupils.
Gripping a fistful of sheets, Duncan gritted his teeth. Was this a dream? Was he in hell? His skin tingled from a fine layer of sweat sheathing feverish flesh. This must be hell. This must be retribution for all the lives he ferried to Hades.
A hot poker stabbed into his back, sending waves of heat lashing at his limbs. Nothing, he could see nothing. But he felt everything, every heartbeat, every breath, every twitch of muscle.
Before he could stop himself or realize this was reality and not the pits of hell, he cried out for mercy. Please, God, forgive my sins, forgive my transgressions. He screamed for salvation.
Tossing the blankets aside in a fiery fit, he launched himself out of bed, ready to run for safety. He landed with a thunk on the floor, his head colliding into the nightstand, his legs tangled in sheets. Like the hands of the undead, the sheets clung to his thighs, pulling him, weighing him down. His legs. He could not move his legs. He could not pull them free. Swatting at the sheets, he cried out. Frantic. Desperate. He had to get out.
Footsteps in the distance clamored a crescendo. A door opened. The light from a myriad of candles blinded him. Shielding his eyes, he continued to cry out for forgiveness, for freedom, for home.
Strong arms embraced him.
“I’ve got you, son. Dadaí is here.”
Duncan clung to his father, mumbling incoherent pleas to liberate his legs from the hands of French soldiers.
The soothing coos of his mother were heard somewhere nearby. More hands joined those of his father as Duncan was lifted full bodied onto the bed. As Duncan’s eyes adjusted to the candlelight, he just made out the face of his valet before his father’s came into focus.
“I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything.” Duncan clawed at his father’s arms, trying to sit up.
“I’ve got you, son. I’m here.” Sean repeated the mantra until Duncan calmed.
Mouth dry, eyes heavy, Duncan tried to focus on the voices around him. They eddied, swirling in a mist at the coffered canopy of his bed.
“I’ve given him enough laudanum to last the night,” a voice said, reverberating inside Duncan’s skull. “I’ll return in the morning for an examination. We will need to bleed him at once for the fever.”
Duncan moved his tongue to speak, but it held fast to his teeth, refusing to be so abused by the faculties of speech. No more bleeding, he pleaded into a thought cloud that he wished in the direction of the voice.
“He could require amputation,” came the disembodied sound, ebbing in a tide of cyan. “I’ll administer more laudanum on the morrow. There’s a physician in Edinburgh who may be able to help. Keep the curtains closed.”
Disjointed. Fragmented. Sounds the color of daffodils, cacophonous in the meadow of violins resonated.
Duncan struggled against the effects of the laudanum, the latter taking the form of a bilious French infantryman beckoning with an invitation to a ball. Relaxing, he rode the rip current into the pleasure dome.
Chapter 6
After another tasteless bite, Mary forfeited her attempts to eat dinner.
Nearly a week had passed since taking tea with the Starretts. Whatever promises Duncan mad
e to call on her must have been forgotten, or more likely, he learned she met his son and was avoiding her.
He had not the courage to face her and admit his betrayal. All this time, she had waited for him while he was finding love elsewhere. Had he married the girl? Had he loved her? Had she been a camp follower who meant nothing but a way to slake his needs and overcome boredom? Mary was uncertain which was worse.
For the first couple of days after seeing the boy, she had suffered a range of emotions varying from denial to fury. By mid-week, she had convinced herself this was normal, and she was taking it too personally. All men had mistresses, did they not? Many of them had children by those mistresses. It had been five years, so could she really expect him to remain faithful during all that time? Men had different needs than women, after all. They might not be capable of loyalty. If his heart had remained chaste, would that not be enough?
By the end of the week, she accepted the situation, though she felt no better about it. Regardless of reason, what was done was done. She had two choices. She could confront him about it, demand an explanation, and try to understand the situation from his perspective so that they could move forward with their future. Or she could walk away.
This was the alternative she was not ready to consider seriously.
Six years she had devoted herself to their companionship. Six years was a long time to throw aside because of a single unmet expectation that had never been voiced. However serious she had been in telling him she did not have to marry, the future seemed bleak without the promise of their union.
For one and twenty years she had been alone. She never knew her father, he having had little involvement with her and passing when she was little older than a toddler. Her mother had no use for a daughter. Mary’s brother had been at Oxford and then his Grand Tour while her nanny and governess raised her. Aside from Arabella, who had lived not far from Lyonn Manor and came from a family approved of by Mary’s mother, she had experience few interactions for the majority of her life. Charlotte was a dear friend now, and her brother was supportive and involved in ways he had never been before, but she was, essentially, alone.
Duncan offered a companionship that both pleased and excited her. His family was her ideal of what a family ought to be, of what she wanted to be part and create for herself. Could she have these things with another gentleman? Perhaps. But she had not lied to Duncan when she said she was not tempted by any of her suitors during her first Season. Had her heart not belonged to Duncan, she may have taken them more seriously, but none of them gave her butterflies. None of them made her toes curl with a single glance. None of them took her passion for horses seriously. They only saw in her good lineage, social connection, and a lucrative dowry.
She could not, in good conscience, throw away happiness over a transgression.
What she would demand, though, would be his loyalty from this point forward. If he could not promise that, she would walk away. She wanted a life’s companion, not a husband in name only.
With her mind decided, she should have a hearty appetite. Her stomach disagreed. However ready she was to make this work, Duncan must feel otherwise. The silence of the week spoke volumes.
“I’ve had quite enough of this behavior.”
Mary’s head snapped up, her cutlery clattering against the dish.
Her mother, Lady Catherine Mowbrah, the Dowager Duchess of Annick, stared at her with eyes of coal.
Drake set down his own cutlery, dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, and said, “I’ll not have you antagonize her, Mother. You only join us for dinner once a week, and I’d like it to be enjoyable. Tell us more about Lady Pennington’s visit.”
Undaunted, her mother said, “I’ve lost my appetite watching her poke at her food. Ladies do not poke food. I did not move into the dower house for my daughter to become a heathen.”
Eyes narrowing, Mary said, “I am not a heathen. I am an adult who will poke my food if I wish.”
“This is what happens to women who surpass the age of marriage. They become willful.”
Charlotte tittered, making light of the situation. “Mary has always been independent. I find it an admirable trait most becoming of her. Mary, why don’t you tell us your plans for the women’s archery competition during the October shooting party?”
Before Mary could take the bait at turning the conversation, her mother harrumphed. “Independence is not an admirable trait. It’s a trait that encourages a woman to associate with bumpkins.”
Mary straightened her posture and lifted her chin.
In a commanding voice Mary rarely heard from her brother, Drake said, “I’ll not have you speak ill of the Starretts in my household, Mother. They are of good stock and deserve our respect. If you so much as imply otherwise, I will have Mr. Hunter escort you back to the dower house.”
Mother pursed her lips but remained silent.
The following morning, Mary sat in the conservatory with Charlotte. The morning light was perfect for her embroidering.
“Not all men stray,” Charlotte said, nursing a cup of chocolate.
“I shouldn’t ask this. I don’t want to know the answer, but …” Mary stabbed at her silk. “Has Drake ever, you know, strayed?”
“Heavens no. He values his life.” She giggled.
“What keeps him constant? Is it merely a matter of keeping him, um, satisfied?”
Mary’s stomach was in her throat for asking such a sordid and personal question, but she had no one else to ask. If she were to ensure Duncan’s continued loyalty, she had to know how.
“Oh dear,” her sister-in-law muttered. “Let me tell you something about your brother, though I can’t say it helps your situation. Drake doesn’t differentiate between emotional love and physical love. For him, physical love is a display of emotional love. He can’t, you know, share himself with someone he doesn’t love. And when he loves, it’s soul deep.”
“I’m the same. At least, I think I am. I have no interest in anyone outside of my heart’s desire.” Mary knew she was blushing feverishly. “But all men aren’t like that.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed. “All men aren’t like that. I would venture to say most aim to keep the emotional and the physical separated. As many see it, emotional love means respecting a woman enough not to physically harass her, and so they take care of their needs elsewhere.”
“I shouldn’t expect him to remain loyal?”
“I would expect nothing less.” Charlotte set her cup aside. “But what do you want?”
“I want loyalty.”
“Right. Then why aren’t you standing behind your convictions? You’re ready to forgive him even when it goes against what you want.”
“I know. But this is different.”
Charlotte arched a brow.
“Well, it is. We had no official understanding. And he was away all that time.”
“So?”
Mary sighed, setting her embroidery aside. “I at least want to understand his position. From there, we can set rules.”
“And what about his son?”
The door from the house opened, interrupting them. Drake walked in, his face ashen, his expression grave.
Charlotte was on her feet and closing the distance before he spoke. “Where’s Theo? What’s wrong?”
Drake shook his head. “It’s not Theo. Theo is in the nursery painting you a picture. I hope I didn’t spoil the surprise.” Blue eyes moved from Charlotte to Mary. “It’s Duncan Starrett.”
The foyer of Cois Greta Park was a wide, two-story gallery decorated with landscapes of the home and surrounding property. Mary stared, unseeing, at a painting of a river. Her brother’s hand was tucked under her elbow.
Colonel Sean Starrett’s letter to the duke had been brief and hastily scrawled. Two sentences.
Come quickly. He may not survive.
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It was a missive she had expected to receive any day during the long stretch of his absent years. Never had she anticipated reading those lines after his safe return. They had so little time together. Three afternoons, half an hour each. All three had been shared with family looking on and little opportunity to talk.
She wanted to rail at Fate. She wanted to cry until her soul was drained of feeling. She was too numb to do either.
Mr. Starrett stepped into the foyer, his cheeks gaunt, his eyes red and sunken.
In the moments it took him to walk across the space, eternity stretched, and Mary’s breath seized.
“He’s sedated,” the colonel said. “I wanted him conscious for the visit, but the strain was too much to bear. Thank you both for coming.”
“What’s happened?” Drake asked, tightening his grip on Mary’s elbow as though he expected her to swoon.
“Don’t know. He woke in a fevered delirium, unable to move or feel his legs. I can only blame those butchers.” Mr. Sean Starrett rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.
A glance to Mary, Drake asked, “What’s being done for him?”
“We sent for the very best, a physician all the way from Edinburgh. I’m at my wit’s end, I tell you. He has no more answers than the local leech. All the way from Edinburgh to close the curtains, bleed my boy, and keep him fed with soup so thin it wouldn’t nourish a dog. I don’t know what to do. If I send the physician away, what will happen?”
Forgetting himself, he grasped the duke’s arm and choked a sob.
They waited for Mr. Starrett to collect himself, and then followed him upstairs.
Once outside Duncan’s chamber door, he turned bloodshot eyes to Mary and said, “This is no place for a lady. You should wait out here. You’re coming means the world to us, and I can convey any messages you have when he’s conscious.”
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