Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke: A Regency Romance Novel

by Audrey Ashwood

  It was absolutely possible that her mama would send for Antoinette once her father’s nerves had calmed a little. After all, even from a young age, she had always had someone to help her get dressed and style her hair. She was sure that her mother would not allow her to walk around with wild hair or to visit people with a loosely-tied bodice. A smile twitched around her lips when she imagined not wearing that much-hated thing at all.

  She wondered what her aunt and uncle did all day. What was there to do out in the country? What if you wanted to have a conversation? Apparently, her Aunt Catherine was a passionate whist player and a good one at that. Minerva remembered one evening when she and her aunt had beat her parents together, as partners, with an incredibly high score. It had been a very pleasurable party, especially since Minerva had won. However, playing whist every single day was not really something she was looking forward to. In addition, there would be only four of them. Minerva groaned quietly, as she imagined her aunt and uncle might invite some of the marriageable gentlemen of the area and force her to sit down at the card table with them, every night.

  On the other hand, Minerva could not really imagine her uncle following the activities that gentlemen who lived in the countryside usually followed. He did not like to ride horses, as he himself had admitted, which also ruled out hunting as another pastime.

  So, what did a gentleman do all day, if he did not work, as her father did, or like the noblemen who sat in government during the season? To her, it was an enigma – and not a very interesting one.

  However, there was one thing that lifted her desperation slightly. She had packed a new blank notebook, and she very much intended on using it. Perhaps being away from everything, out in the countryside, would have some advantages after all. Minerva wanted to start a new novel, and she hoped to find some peace and quiet down in Kent for a book that she was planning to offer to a publisher under a false name. So far, her stories had found no mercy before her own eyes.

  However, she was determined to change that and write a novel that would be the equal of those written by the female authors whom she very much admired.

  She and her mother had already been travelling in the carriage for a full day and a half. Until now, Minerva had only experienced the tiny village in Kent through her aunt’s eyes. Her aunt was a passionate letter writer and would fill long pages, where she wrote all about her latest acquaintances and the incredibly beautiful landscape of the shire in which she lived. Minerva had only listened half-heartedly as her mother read the letters, which was something she now regretted.

  The journey had been extremely exhausting, despite an overnight stop at an inn last evening. The “Graveyard Inn” had been loud, dirty, and overcrowded. Minerva had observed it all with wide eyes, memorising every single detail, before her mother had dragged her into the tiny bedroom upstairs, for which she had paid the host a handsome amount of money. The bed was worth its weight in gold – those had been her words – but Minerva did not even notice, as she was very much occupied with finding out where all the nasty smells that tickled her nose were coming from. The aroma of the establishment, with its untrustworthy name, was a mixture of fire, rancid bacon, and the bodily odours of the visitors. As concerned the latter, she was not entirely sure what it was, as she had never been confronted with such a stench before. In London, everything was overpowered by the smog that regularly engulfed most of the streets of the entire city during the night, regardless of the time of year.

  Her mother took bedsheets from her overnight bag and instructed the maid, who had accompanied them upstairs, to exchange the inn’s sheets for their own fresh ones. This cautious measure turned out to be very wise indeed, for Minerva saw bed bugs running away in fear as the young woman began the task.

  They woke early the following morning in order to cross the border to the shire before noon; Minerva was tired, but oddly happy. She had not slept much (the tiny creatures had come back to tease her), but so far, her objection to marrying Mr Meade had not caused her too much discomfort. Quite the opposite – she enjoyed the adventure of their long journey, and she could not get enough of all the faces of the new people she saw as the carriage passed by.

  All the praising stories about living in the country, which she had read about in her novels (but which had always seemed strange to her), started to make sense. The people seemed so content, Minerva thought. They smiled and waved, and Minerva waved back happily, despite her mother’s stern admonishment. As soon as the wheels of the carriage had carried them past, the waving workers would turn back to what they were doing. Sure, they were poor and had to live off what the land provided, but Minerva envied them for the poignant simplicity of their lives.

  She leaned back into the plush cushions of the coach bench and imagined how she would kiss her husband goodbye in the mornings and busy herself preparing a delicious meal for when he returned, using all the goodies she would harvest from their garden. She saw her children running happily around the house, and she saw love shining in her husband’s eyes when he thanked her at night for the thoughtful way she managed the household.

  “We have everything we need,” he would say.

  She would hand him his slippers and his pipe, and they would settle in to read the latest accomplishments from Thomas Love Peacock or Miss Austen, together. A man such as her husband would not shun such works as Lord Byron, and he would also never prohibit his wife from reading them. Quite the opposite, he would encourage her to follow her most secret and greatest dream, and to make it a reality. She would follow straight in the footsteps of the mysterious and anonymous woman who had written those wonderfully entertaining novels.

  Minerva barely noticed the glorious English countryside that her mother continually pointed out to her, she was too preoccupied with her dream of a simpler life. It was only when she could hear nothing but the noise of the turning carriage wheels that she realised how quiet it had become around her. It was completely different to the overcrowded streets they had experienced when they left London. Even Hoskins, their driver, had fallen silent, instead of hurling his usual threats at those who would not let him pass.

  There simply was no one to shout at, nor indeed any other traffic on the empty country road.

  “I hope we will arrive at Scuffold soon,” her mother said and dabbed her forehead. The air in the carriage was stuffy and the midsummer temperatures did not help to make the journey any more comfortable. “I would prefer it if we did not have to spend another night without the comforts of a proper bed.” The fact that her mother had mentioned this, meant that she really did not feel well.

  “I am sure that we will be there soon,” Minerva returned and felt more of a grown-up. “Aunt Catherine and Uncle James will have prepared everything for our arrival. I am already looking forward to a nice, hot cup of tea.” The tempting thought of the reviving brew did what she had intended it to do. Her mother’s face brightened up, and she even started to smile.

  “You are a good child, Minerva,” she said and took her daughter’s hand. “If only you were not so stubborn and outspoken. However, I suppose that your father and I are entirely responsible for that. We should never have allowed you to read so many books.”

  “Oh Mama, do not blame yourself.” Minerva pondered how she could best comfort her mother and squeezed her hand. A moment such as this was valuable to Minerva, since it did not occur often. Her father’s presence created an invisible barrier between her and her mother that Mrs Honeyfield never dared to cross. Then again, was this invisible barrier just another one of Minerva’s wild imaginations? “Maybe, in Scuffold, there will be a gentleman I might actually like.”

  “Your uncle might be retired, but I am certain that he knows a few gentlemen who would be suitable. He is still highly regarded in society. As I have heard, even the Duke of Scuffold consults him for his advice, now and again.”

  Minerva sighed silently and tried to suppress her rising impatience. There were so many other, more exciting things she could
think of, rather than having to converse with her uncle’s former colleagues. She imagined they were all old, musty, and boring. Uncle James was very much like her father. These men always talked about the things they had done in the past. What on earth was so fascinating about the things that had long since passed into history? At almost twenty-one years old, she lived completely in the present. What was important to her was what happened here and now! But she was sure that, even when she was forty years of age and happily married, she would never wallow in the past.

  Minerva vaguely remembered the last letter they had received from her aunt, where she had mentioned a minister who was young and seemingly quite modern in his ways. Presumably, what Aunt Catherine and Uncle James called “quite modern” was in fact an advance of progress that was just to Minerva’s taste. In her heart, she nurtured the faint hope that she might find a like-minded companion in the wife of the priest, or maybe even a friend?

  They reached their destination just as the sun began to sink slowly beneath the horizon. Her relatives’ house sat right on the main road – or what they would call a main road here in this corner of England – and from the outside it looked rather neat and surprisingly large. The main doorway was framed by two large pots that held tidily trimmed little bushes, which at closer inspection resembled a dog and a cat staring vigilantly at each other. It was such a delightful and surprising element that Minerva felt some of the weight of worry fall off her shoulders, which had appeared when she noticed that the road was completely empty. Someone resided – well, lived – here who had a real sense of humour.

  At least, that was what she was hoping for.

  * * *

  A small sliver of light appeared on the horizon. For Lady Marianne, it was the epitome of hope after the longest night of her life.

  “Goodbye, mama.” Minerva waved after the carriage, which quickly disappeared into a veritable cloud of dust. Her mother had recovered for three days from their long journey here, before she had grown restless and wanted to return to London. Her husband needed her now more than her daughter did, she had said, since she knew that her child was going to be very well taken care of.

  The first few days in Scuffold were wonderful. Minerva received her elders’ approval to explore the little village, accompanied by Anna, one of her aunt’s servants. Before Minerva’s arrival, Anna had been responsible for many different chores in the Buckley household, and now she was also serving as Minerva’s maid, looking after her wardrobe and doing her hair. Anna did her best, but between all the tasks she had to do inside the house, she had very little time to attend to Minerva’s needs.

  Minerva decided to try to convince her aunt to employ a girl from the village to tend to her needs. Even if the girl did not have the slightest idea about fashion, as Minerva fully expected, Minerva could at least try to teach her the basics.

  Her aunt and uncle had allowed her to look around everywhere (except the tavern), as long as she was not unaccompanied, and if she did not go further away from the village than an hour’s walking would take her. Much to Minerva’s misery and, she supposed, much to Anna’s relief, the maid’s household responsibilities often kept her from accompanying Minerva on excursions through the small hamlet. The only other distraction was a weekly dinner that her aunt organised, and to which the ‘modern priest’, whom Minerva had heard of, was also invited. Unfortunately, the man did not seem half as daring as the letters from her aunt had led her to believe. He also did not come with an adventurous young wife.

  Minerva had had great hopes for the first dinner. Beforehand, she had imagined how she would dazzle all the guests with her wit and spirited conversation. However, the conversation had mainly been about legal quarrels in court, such as was to be expected from a former lawyer and his male friends, and none of it satisfied Minerva’s lust for adventure. Who cared about a squabble about property lines or a cow that had mysteriously switched its branding? Definitely not Minerva. She had thought herself lucky when one of the gentlemen had suggested a round of whist, and they had played cards for the remainder of the night. But even the game had not excited her for long as all the surprises had vanished after the second round, when she remarked that the lawyers and judges played the game exactly as their characters would have them play – extremely cautiously and with no one being inclined to take any risk.

  At least there was a pianoforte in the household of Mr and Mrs James Buckley – not that Minerva felt a sudden urge to play it. Much to the disappointment of her parents, she was so musically untalented that even Minerva’s governess had implored her mother to forego any musical presentations from her daughter, particularly if she wanted to find her a suitable husband in the near future. As Minerva let her fingers glide across the beautifully made instrument, she wondered if this wouldn’t be a suitable method of scaring away all the unwelcome suitors.

  She sat down on the cushioned seat, placed her fingers onto the piano keys and played a small melody. If she were to start singing right now, to accentuate her rendering of the broken note sequence with her voice, she would surely scare every man into fleeing – unless they truly loved her.

  “Oh, how lovely,” she heard a voice behind her. It was her Aunt Catherine, who had followed her into the salon, unnoticed. “Would you like me to turn the pages for you?”

  “No, thank you,” Minerva replied, attempting to rise from the chair. “Unfortunately, this instrument exceeds my capabilities… however, I wonder if we could not organise a small dance event? Whenever it is suitable, of course,” she quickly added, since she anticipated her Aunt Catherine’s reaction. If they were to roll up the carpets and move the furniture to the walls, then the salon of the Buckleys’ house would offer enough space for three or maybe even four dancing couples.

  Her aunt stepped aside so that Minerva could stand up. “Maybe that would not be a bad idea,” she admitted slowly, and for a moment her eyes glittered with mischievous excitement. Or were they memories of her own youth?

  When Minerva realised that her aunt was not opposed to her idea, she clapped her hands. “Oh please, Aunt Catherine! It would make me happy to have the opportunity to make the acquaintances of some of the younger ladies nearby and maybe even find some friends amongst them. I am sure that Uncle James would not mind.” The statement was entirely made up, but Minerva had the feeling that she had to take advantage of the moment.

  “That may be true,” her aunt confirmed. “Back in the day, your uncle was a formidable dancer, and he has never objected to young people having fun in his house, as long as it is in a befitting manner.” Minerva resisted the impulse to throw her arms around her aunt’s neck, so she stood on her tippy toes instead and kissed her cheek. “Regrettably, all the young women, who seem suitable for you, are currently spending their time in London for the season.”

  “But…” Minerva wanted to object, but her aunt lifted her hand firmly.

  “No back talk, my child. I am responsible for you, and therefore I am responsible for the people you come into contact with.” Her face softened. “I understand that it must be hard for you having to leave London and being sent out into the country, but your father had good reasons for his decision.”

  Minerva sank down onto the sofa slowly and stared into her hands, which she had folded neatly in her lap, just so she could hide her tears.

  “However, I am certain that your uncle and I are allowed to take you with us to the horse market in Crowell on Friday.”

  Minerva had no idea how to react to this new piece of information. She had no idea what to expect from a horse market. Horses, of course, and presumably plenty of other animals. It really was not easy for Minerva to imagine the excursion as something positive, but she was willing to try. After all, it was not her uncle or aunt’s fault that there were not the same pleasurable and exciting things to do here in Kent as Minerva was used to doing in London.

  And… what on earth was she supposed to wear?

  * * *

  Minerva had worried f
ar too much about her appearance than was suitable for such a small country event, but in the end, she was pleased with her decision. Although she had spent entirely too much time choosing her dress and had had to wait even longer for clumsy Anna to close all of the buttons in the back, she was glad she would not have to hide behind all the other beauties as in London. She secretly wished that her dress was of a livelier colour, but she had to admit that the slightly creamy tone of the white dress accentuated her beautiful complexion. The light blue violets on the upper skirt matched her eyes, as did the colour of her spencer. She had thought long and hard about what kind of jewellery a young woman would wear to a horse market and had decided that the least valuable necklace and earrings with semi-precious stones would do. It was a set her parents had given her for her twelfth birthday. A bonnet in dark blue with only one artificial flower and a little back bag completed her look.

  The only thing she was still worried about were her shoes. She had immediately known that her delicate silk slippers would be unsuitable for such an outing, so she had chosen the roughest pair she owned, which, while made of leather, were by no means sturdy enough for a walk in the countryside.

  Sometimes, when the weather demanded it, her mother wore metal shoe protectors, which were equipped with a small stilted heel in the middle. Minerva had laughed those ugly devices off as absolutely atrocious, but now she knew that they would have served her very well for her day at the market. She wrinkled her nose when she realised that all the animals there would undoubtedly contribute to the state of the walkways – and not in small amounts either. Well, she would just have to watch where she put her feet, and if her petite little ankle boots were ruined afterwards, her aunt and uncle would have to order a new pair for her.