by Jane Goodger
“Then it’s a very good thing I am your wife,” she said, giving him a gentle kiss, strangely at odds with what had just happened. “And it’s also a very good thing that I love you, too.” The relief was profound. “Did you doubt it?”
He shook his head, more in wonder than anything else. “I suppose I did. You love me.”
“It’s rather difficult not to.”
Oliver turned his head away, for he was desperately unsure whether he might cry. “I am glad.” A vast understatement if there ever was one.
Chapter 9
“We’re all delighted His Grace is gallivanting about,” Darlene said as she took one last pin and speared her hair, narrowing her eyes as she did.
“I would not call a moonlight stroll gallivanting, but I am glad you are all delighted,” Rebecca said. Darlene smiled at her warmly in the mirror. It was true; the household, which had seemed so dark and gloomy, now seemed light and filled with joy. The curtains were still pulled closed, the blinds drawn, but for some reason everything seemed brighter. Maids no longer froze or skittered away if the duke entered a room, and Oliver had taken to walking the halls rather than skulking about in the passageway. The servants were still nervous around him, for old habits were difficult to break, but Rebecca could tell they were all making an effort. To a one, they seemed happier, as if a great weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Imagine, living in fear each day, believing wholeheartedly that if they caught a glimpse of the duke, they would perish.
Rebecca would not have believed how quickly she would come to love the duke had someone told her the day she arrived. He was charming and thoughtful and made her laugh as no one had in a long time. Indeed, he reminded her a bit of her father—when he wasn’t off losing a fortune at the gambling table. In the week since they’d giddily proclaimed their love, the two had been nearly inseparable. Rebecca had taken to sewing little pieces to put into his miniature houses, bits that gave each house a tad more comfort. A tiny blanket left on a chair, as if someone had just gotten up and would be returning shortly. A small strip of ribbon lying carelessly upon a bureau.
Her heart ached for him, watching him work, knowing he could hardly see the house in its entirety unless he leaned quite close. He had difficulty going down stairs if he was unfamiliar with them, not able to detect whether the ground was flat or the step dropped sharply. The few times they had ventured outside, always after dusk, he’d carried a walking stick. Rebecca learned quickly it was not an affectation but a needed tool to help him traverse the grounds. Even walking the uneven path that led to the gardens, he had to tread cautiously.
“How is it that you can run about the passageway but have difficulty on the garden path?” Rebecca had asked.
“I have memorized the passages. I rarely venture out of doors.”
That would change, Rebecca announced after their first outing. “A person needs to breathe in fresh air once in a while. Even if it is ice cold.” Compared to St. Ives, which rarely saw freezing temperatures, Horncliffe was bone chilling. She’d had to borrow one of the maid’s thick coats to bear the weather. Mrs. Habershaw was deeply disapproving of their walks and claimed His Grace would catch his death in the night. Rebecca noted, of course, the termagant never expressed concern that she might catch her death.
“Where shall we go today?” Oliver asked as they stepped outside. Her hands were wrapped around his arm as she guided him toward the small pond, frozen over with a thin glazing of ice that would likely melt in the next day’s sun, but still pretty.
“The moon is lovely tonight. There’s a halo surrounding it,” Rebecca said, looking up to the starlit sky.
“I cannot see it,” Oliver said with a frown. “I wonder if the spectacles will help.”
“I imagine they will. Mrs. Habershaw seems to think I am not ready to go to London, but if all we do is visit the jeweler and a tailor, I don’t see why we cannot go. Certainly, I will not be put into a position to embarrass you.”
Oliver looked down at her and smiled before leaning to kiss her cheek. “We shall leave on Saturday.”
Rebecca couldn’t help herself—she gave a small jump, like a little girl who’d just been promised a treat. “Saturday? Oh, I cannot wait, Oliver.”
He laughed and pulled her into his arms. “I have already procured a hotel suite for us. I have a townhouse, but it’s currently rented and I could hardly throw the poor family out. I don’t expect to be in London long enough to rent a place; I’d like to be home for the holidays. Perhaps next year we can open the townhouse and stay there. It’s a grand old place and my father loved it. I haven’t been there since I was a boy, of course, but I remember a sweeping staircase and a chandelier with so many candles, my eyes hurt to look at it. I imagine it’s gas lit now, though.”
“It sounds lovely, but a hotel will suit for our brief visit. London shall be wonderful, don’t you think?”
“No. To be honest, I dread it,” he said, causing Rebecca to laugh and making him smile at his own curmudgeonliness. “You cannot know how difficult it is to traverse a city when you cannot see. I am unused to crowded streets, but I shan’t ruin your visit by complaining overmuch.” He kissed the tip of her nose, overwhelmed with the love he felt at that moment. Talking of going to London, looking forward to the holidays—these were things that had been beyond his imaginings not long ago. The thought they might have a baby by the Christmas after was nearly unmanning. Even now, Rebecca could be carrying his son. Or his daughter.
“Have you memorized Debrett’s?” he asked, just to tease her.
“As a matter of fact…” She paused for greater effect “…no. I am helpless and a little bit rebellious. Mrs. Habershaw—”
“Means well,” he said with mock sternness, and Rebecca pressed her lips together until he kissed her.
“How long do you think we’ll be in the city?”
“No more than three weeks, though I hope to be there and gone in two. We’ll both be fitted for a proper wardrobe and the clothing can be shipped home. I cannot imagine my spectacles will take longer than that. Mrs. Habershaw recommended we go to Hatton Garden for the spectacles and Bond Street for our clothing.”
Rebecca looked down at her plain and serviceable gown. It would be nice to have the latest fashions, to actually look the part of a duchess. Perhaps if she wore the costume of a lady, she would find it easier to become one.
London in November could be mild, but that was not the case when they departed the train. It was overcast and raw, the sort of bone chilling, damp air that no amount of clothing could protect one from. Having only stayed in London a single night on her way to Horncliffe, Rebecca felt exactly like what she was—a country girl completely out of her element. All around her were masses of people, every one in a hurry to go somewhere. The air seemed oddly thick and carried with it the scents of horse, stagnant water, garbage, and smoke. It was so unlike what Rebecca was used to, she found it difficult to take in a full breath.
“Air is a bit pungent, wouldn’t you say, Your Grace?” Oliver said next to her.
“I have never in my life experienced air that I could chew,” she said, and he laughed.
They stood on the platform waiting for their servants to disembark and gather their luggage. Though their stay was set to be less than a month, it was necessary to bring Darlene, Oliver’s new valet, and the underbutler, a Mr. Davis, two footmen and three maids. Of course Mrs. Habershaw brought her own maid, a dour, homely woman whom Rebecca had never seen smile. It was no wonder, given her employer. Mr. Starke had requested to stay behind and Mr. Winters readily agreed.
Mrs. Habershaw, who had complained incessantly the entire trip about the lack of accommodations, stood next to Mr. Winters a few yards away, glowering at the workers who were removing the luggage from the baggage car. Rebecca had been a bit dismayed to find both Mr. Winters and Mrs. Habershaw were accompanying them, but she had to admit
it made sense that they did. Mrs. Habershaw knew London far better than any of them, and Mr. Winters had insisted he come along to supervise the servants.
“Neither of you have any experience with such matters,” he’d said, and neither Oliver nor Rebecca could argue the point.
Though the day was overcast, Oliver squinted his eyes against the light and Rebecca gave his arm a squeeze of sympathy. “Your spectacles will surely make this sort of light more tolerable,” she said, and he looked down and gave her a smile.
During the trip to London, Rebecca had gained a better understanding of what Oliver must endure—not only with his eyesight, but with the bold stares and finger-pointing. Thankfully, his eyesight was so poor, he was not acutely aware of the rudeness, but his hearing was excellent and more than one person commented on his appearance. Each time, he would stiffen and his cheeks would redden. Rebecca had become so used to him, she had turned blind to his unusual appearance. He was her husband, the man she loved, and nothing more. If there was any positive side to his albinism, it was that the beggars were wary of them and so kept their distance.
As they waited, a small boy, whose parents were distracted by the disembarkment, approached Oliver and, with a wide-eyed stare, tugged at his sleeve. Oliver looked down at the little boy, who showed only curiosity as he looked up at him.
“What happened?”
Oliver looked about for the child’s parents before directing his attention back to the boy. “Do you mean why am I all white?”
The little fellow nodded, and Rebecca smiled.
“When I was very small, I wandered away from my parents at a train station very much like this one. There was a man there, quite odd looking, and he frightened me, and ever since, I’ve looked like this.” Oliver sounded so serious, Rebecca nearly burst out laughing.
“Truly?”
“Truly,” Oliver said solemnly.
“I’m not afraid of you,” the boy said boldly.
Rebecca could see Oliver was suppressing a smile. “I believe your mother is about to become quite worried about you.” He nodded to the boy’s mother, who indeed, seemed a bit frantic. When she spied her son, she rushed over, admonishing him for wandering away.
“Thank y—” She stopped when she looked up at Oliver. “Oh. Th-thank you.”
“I’m sure His Grace was once a small wandering boy,” Rebecca said kindly.
“His Grace. Oh!” The woman dipped a curtsy. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace.” As she pulled her son away, the little boy asked his mother what a grace was, and Rebecca imagined her explaining a duke’s title.
“You handled that quite well, Your Grace,” Rebecca said, smiling.
“I have noticed that children are merely curious rather than cruel. The adults, however, are another story entirely.”
Rebecca was about to ask what he meant when Mr. Winters and Mrs. Habershaw came up to them to let them know a carriage had been arranged for them and another for the servants and luggage.
No one would ever know the terror Oliver felt at that moment, knowing people stared at him, knowing he could not see them, only hear the whispers. The little boy’s tug on his sleeve had made his heart nearly jump from his chest, for he had not seen the child approach and, with all the noise around him, could not hear his footsteps as he neared. The only things that stopped him from going back into the safety of their train car was knowing he would not be able to find his way on his own and Rebecca’s comforting and calm presence by his side. Her hand remained on his arm in silent support. When Mr. Winters and Mrs. Habershaw came up to them, Rebecca dropped her hand, but he could still feel her warmth.
The platform was crowded with people, some still waiting for luggage, others hoping to get on the train when it departed. It was noisy, porters yelling, carts of luggage rumbling past, children crying, and an old lady holding a small, skinny dog that would not stop barking at everyone who passed. It was in that chaos that Oliver realized he was alone. The small group had walked off without him, and he stood, like a statue, uncertain what he should do. Should he try to follow them? Remain where he was? He was jostled and took a small step, suddenly feeling vertigo. Even with his walking stick, a necessity to discern the depth of steps, he felt uncertain and unsteady. His breathing became short, his vision even more dim as fear paralyzed him. How long had it been? One minute? Ten seconds? It felt like an eternity. A humiliating wash of fear left him shaking. What sort of man was he, who could not manage by himself in a train station, who became lost, like a child, when left alone?
“Your Grace?”
A woman’s voice sounded softly next to him, and he turned, seeing the vague outline of a woman. He knew, because she wore a hat, the same hat worn by the little boy’s mother.
“I-I seem to have lost my party,” he said. “My eyesight is quite poor, you see.” God, he tried to appear nonchalant, but he feared he sounded as terrified as he felt.
“There they are,” she said. “Is that woman your…”
“The Duchess of Kendal. Yes.”
“A duchess,” the woman breathed. “Oh, my.”
He could see an image rushing toward him and knew it was Rebecca, and his body immediately relaxed, to a remarkable degree.
“Oh, Oliver, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t next to me and then I turned around and you were nowhere to be seen.” She clutched his arm and he smiled.
“I’m not a child; I would have found my way to you somehow,” he said, forcing a light tone. He turned. “And this good lady and her husband would surely have helped me.”
“Oh, yes, Yer Grace. Of course!”
“Thank you, madam.” He dug into his pocket, withdrew a sovereign, and handed it to the woman.
“I couldn’t, Yer Grace.”
“I insist.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
When they were alone, Oliver let out a shaky breath. “I am glad you came back,” he said with a small laugh.
“I know you will never admit it, but I am sure you were a bit out of sorts to be left alone, especially in such a place as this.”
“I only cried a bit,” he jested. “But it was edifying. I really would like for you never to leave my side in such a place. Perhaps when I have my spectacles it won’t be quite so disconcerting.” Terrifying was a much better word.
“I am sorry, Oliver. I forget, sometimes, just how poor your eyesight is since you get around Horncliffe so easily.”
He brought her hand up and kissed it, through her kid glove. “I am sorry that you have married a man who must be treated like a child.”
Rebecca laughed. “You’re hardly a child, Oliver,” she said, her tone teasing. “I shouldn’t want to kiss a child right now the way I want to kiss you.”
“Madam, if you persist, I will have to find the closest hotel and have my way with you, regardless of the conditions.” He was bending his head to kiss his wife when he was interrupted by a harsh throat-clearing.
“Such public displays are highly unseemly.” Mrs. Habershaw had caught up to them and was glaring at the pair as if they were miscreant children. Oliver reluctantly pulled back and dropped his wife’s hand as well as any notion that he might kiss her in the midst of this bustling crowd. “If you insist on gazing upon your wife in such a fashion, people will come to the worst possible conclusion.”
“That I am madly in love with my wife?” Oliver asked calmly.
“That your wife is unworthy of you, Your Grace. I am only looking out for her best interests.”
Oliver sighed, recognizing there was some truth to what Mrs. Habershaw was saying. “Very well, Mrs. Habershaw, I will wait to ravish my wife until we are safely in the carriage.”
The old lady gasped, outraged by his comment, which only gave Oliver a bit of satisfaction. The group continued on their way toward the waiting carriages, where Mr. Winters was directing
the staff. “You mustn’t antagonize her, Oliver,” Rebecca whispered. “It only makes her angry.”
“That was my intent,” he said, and he felt her shake with silent laughter.
The cold streets of London were filled with traffic and pedestrians, all trying to reach their destinations as quickly as possible to get out of the cold. With all the rushing, traffic was nearly at a standstill and it took nearly an hour to arrive at the Brown’s Hotel in the West End. It was not ideally situated, for it was located quite far from the shops where the two intended to make their purchases, but Mrs. Habershaw had insisted it was the only establishment worthy of a duke. When they stopped in front of the hotel, Oliver pulled back the velvet curtains, squinting his eyes against the light. In front of him was a large, white structure that seemed to stretch nearly an entire city block.
His eyes stung from the light as a footman opened the door and dropped the steps. “Welcome to Brown’s, Your Graces,” he said, stepping back. Rebecca exited first, murmuring her thanks to the footman, and no doubt winning a frown from Mrs. Habershaw, who insisted Rebecca stop acknowledging servants in such a manner. Oliver saw no harm in being polite and thought it rather endearing of his wife. Putting his walking stick out in front of him, Oliver was able to gauge how steep the steps of the carriage were and stepped down without incident. Still, he was grateful when Rebecca instantly came to his side and wrapped her hand around his arm. It had been years since Oliver had been outside of Horncliffe grounds, and he knew it would take some practice to remember all the possible obstacles he might encounter. Something as small as a single step down, no matter how shallow, could end disastrously, with him careening forward as if he was falling from a cliff.
They entered the grand hotel, their heels clicking on the gleaming marble floor. “Oh, a lovely thick carpet,” Rebecca said, and he smoothly stepped up slightly, giving Rebecca a grateful squeeze. “I do believe the hotel manager is heading our way,” she warned.
