by Jane Goodger
“I know I am not to blame. I know you are not to blame. But in the eyes of the ton, and to everyone in my village…I am ruined. Mrs. Habershaw said as much.” She looked up to the ceiling and let out a bitter laugh. “I’m not a duchess. I’m a whore.”
“You are not,” Oliver said, and walked over to where she stood. “You are not.”
“You can say that over and over, Oliver, but the truth of the matter is that I have had relations with a man I was not married to. Even now I could be carrying your child. An illegitimate child.”
Oliver laid his hands on her shaking shoulders. “Rebecca, we shall simply get married in truth as we discussed. Please, my love, I know this is difficult, but we can make it right. We can.”
She took a deep, shaking breath. “We’ll discuss this in the morning with more level heads,” she said, giving him a tremulous smile. Before leaving, she gave Winters—attempting to look dignified despite his blooded nose—a scathing look, one that he seemed to find amusing, and Oliver clenched his fist again.
When Rebecca was gone, Oliver said, “I want you gone tomorrow. Pack your things and never return.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace,” he said, tugging on his sleeves.
“If you do not leave of your own volition, I will have you escorted out.”
“Very well,” he said, mockingly. “We can settle our accounts tomorrow morning.”
Oliver’s brows snapped together. “Accounts?”
Giving him a level look, Winters said, “I have spent my life caring for you. Since the time you were six years old, I have sacrificed everything to keep you safe, to give you some sort of life. I managed your estates, handled all grievances, made all decisions. For years.” This last ended on a shout. “I believe that deserves some compensation, do you not?”
As much as it galled Oliver to pay him, he knew denying Winters would only delay his parting. “Very well. I shall give you an income of one thousand pounds per year.”
“Five.”
Much to his humiliation, Oliver had no idea how much money he had or even if he could afford one thousand pounds, never mind five thousand. “Two. Or nothing.”
Winters gave him a brief smile. “Very well. Good evening, Your Grace.” He gave him a mocking bow, then turned away.
Oliver left the room, closing the door softly behind him, feeling utterly exhausted. He pulled his spectacles off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was glad Winters was going, but he had no idea what he was going to do to save Rebecca from the ton. The weight of the disaster he had created was very nearly crushing.
On his way back to his suite, he stopped by the portrait gallery and looked up at the image of his father. The painting was the only thing he had left of him, and he prayed it was an accurate depiction. As he stood there he realized that other than his pale skin and white hair, he looked exactly as his father had. “What have I done, Father?” he whispered, feeling closer to weeping than he had in a long time.
Before he returned to his wife—for he would continue to think of Rebecca as his wife—he gave the gallery a long look, pausing when he heard what sounded like a woman singing. His hearing was excellent, and he stilled, tilting his head to listen. Silence. With a small chuckle, he realized he’d just heard the famous ghost of Horncliffe Manor.
Shaking his head, he left the hall and headed to his rooms. Just picturing Rebecca lying in his bed waiting for him made him quicken his steps.
Exhausted, Rebecca had made her way back to her rooms, her feet feeling as if her shoes were filled with lead. How stupid she was, to have allowed Winters to trick her so. Hadn’t her mother or father made certain the documents were correct and valid? They probably knew as much about proxy marriages as she did. And she could not believe Vicar Smythe would have done something so nefarious as knowingly conduct a ceremony he knew would not be legitimate. Then again, people often did terrible things in the name of money.
Now, her stomach rumbled loudly. Despite the events of the day, she still had an appetite, so she decided to head to the kitchen as she’d originally planned. Her fear that Oliver and Mr. Winters would get into a physical alteration had prompted her to follow her husband. She almost wished she hadn’t. Mr. Winter’s words, the derision in his voice, would stay with her for a long time.
Something sweet would make her feel better, certainly. In her house in St. Ives, she would often sneak into the pantry and grab a late-night snack, and she saw no reason not to head to the kitchen now. As she walked past the portrait gallery, a sound cause her to stop still.
“Hello?” she called, stepping into the long, dark room. She turned up the gaslight sconces and peered cautiously toward the spot where she’d thought she’d heard—
There. Again, a woman talking or laughing, so faint it was easy to dismiss, but she moved forward quietly and heard the distinctive sound of someone singing, a lilting, haunting tune that made the hair on her arms rise. When she reached the end of the room, where the paneled walls held no sconces, she stopped. Remembering the secret passages, Rebecca ran her fingers along the wood, searching for a secret opening, a latch or handle hidden in the thickly carved wood. Slowly, she moved, pressing here and there, growing more excited as the woman’s voice became more clear. Suddenly, her hand felt the faintest breeze, a small bit of air seeping through a small crack in the wood. As she pressed her ear against the crack, her heart picked up a beat—the woman’s voice was even more clear. Perhaps it was only a servant. Perhaps this secret passageway led to the servants’ quarters.
Moving her fingers along the crack, she searched blindly for something that would open the hidden door. Up and around, tracing the edge of a door so small, she would have to duck to enter it. And then, quite by accident, her foot touched something on the floor, a trigger, and the door sprang open, a sharp blast of air hitting her face. Rebecca gasped. Even though she’d suspected the paneling concealed a hidden passage, she was still surprised to find one.
Cautiously, she opened the door further and peeked in. It was nothing but utter blackness and the smell of damp. When she pulled the door completely open, the dim light behind her glinted off a bit of glass—two oil lamps on a shallow wooden shelf. The singing, still faint, was a bit easier to hear now. If this was a ghost, she had a pleasant voice. Brushing her fingers along the shelf, Rebecca found a box of matches and quickly lit one. She lifted the lamp’s shade and lit the wick, turning up the light so she could have a good look around. To her surprise, she found herself looking at a set of steep steps that wound around until they were out of sight, dropping down into the dark. The walls were lined with stone that glinted near the bottom with water. Behind her, the door began to shut, and Rebecca, her heart hammering at the thought of being trapped, wedged a match between the edge of the door and the wall to stop it from closing completely.
Hiking her skirts up in an unladylike fashion, Rebecca checked the level of oil in the lamp before holding it up high and beginning her descent, all the time moving toward the lilting voice that drew her.
As she made her way down the steps, she was aware of a chill that permeated the air. Her travel gown, even with its high neck and long sleeves, did little to keep the cold air out, and she found herself shivering, the light from the lamp dancing shakily on the stone walls. The steps spiraled downward seemingly endlessly, but as she made her way, the sound of the woman’s voice kept her going.
Finally, her legs aching from the long descent, she reached a long passageway, its stone floor stretching beyond the reach of the lamplight. When the woman suddenly stopped singing and let out an eerie laugh, Rebecca stopped, her heart beating madly in her chest. This was no ghost, but a living person. Who could she be and why was she in what appeared to be Horncliffe Manor’s dungeon? The thought occurred to Rebecca that she should probably turn back and fetch Oliver to explore with her, but a slice of light in the distance had her moving forward once ag
ain.
Walking as silently as possible, Rebecca made her way closer to the bit of light that sharply cut through the darkness of the passage. And then she found herself standing outside a thick wooden door, the only thing that separated her from the woman who now hummed softly as she moved around on the other side. A shadow passed over the light, and that was when Rebecca noticed a small opening at the bottom of the door, covered by a sliding bit of wood and iron. Next to the door was a large ring holding two skeleton keys, a big one that looked like something from another century and a much smaller one.
“Hello?” she called out. The humming immediately stopped. All was quiet but for the sound of dripping somewhere nearby. “Hello?” She repeated. “I heard your singing—”
In a flurry of movement, the woman rushed to the door, her feet and her body hitting the wood with a jarring sound. “Who’s there?”
“Rebecca. My name is Rebecca.”
“Oh, sweet Mary, you must release me. Please.”
Release her? Was this woman being kept prisoner? Her gaze darted to the keys. If the woman were mad or some sort of criminal, should she be the one who let her out?
“What is your name?” Rebecca asked, her breath shallow as she stared at the rough wood of the ancient door.
“Molly. Molly Holly.” A sob. “His Grace has been keeping me here for years.”
Rebecca stared at the door as the woman’s words penetrated her mind. Molly Holly, the little maid who had disappeared ten years ago—ten years—was on the other side of this door. How was this possible? It was unfathomable. Yet even though her heart rejected the notion that Oliver had kept this poor woman prisoner, she could not deny what her eyes and ears were telling her. With a shaking hand, the drew the ring over the hook that held it and grabbed the big key, putting it into the keyhole and giving it a hard turn. Weights tumbled and the door opened slowly. What met her eyes was so unexpected, Rebecca was momentarily disoriented.
Molly, wide gray eyes staring at her, backed into a small room, a thick chain dangling from her wrist. She had been tethered to the wall like some sort of animal. A thin mattress lay on the floor and a threadbare carpet covered the cold stone beneath her feet, but the room held little else except for a chamber pot, pitcher, two lamps, and an odd collection of cloth dolls. Dozens of the things sat propped on the bed and along the wall, their macabre stitched faces gazing at her. Molly herself was dressed in a clean, serviceable gown, her hair in a long braid that fell over one shoulder and down to her waist. She was a tiny thing, with blond hair and gray eyes that at the moment were filled with a mixture of fear and relief.
“I don’t understand,” Rebecca said, looking around and finally settling her gaze back on Molly.
“Shut the door,” she whispered fearfully. “If he comes, you’ll be done for.”
“Who?” Rebecca asked, making sure the door would not lock her in before shutting it.
“The duke.” Molly ducked her head but not before Rebecca noticed a faded bruise high on her cheek. “What year is it?”
Rebecca was loath to tell her. How would the poor woman react when she learned she had been held captive for ten years? “You’ve been here a long time, Miss Holly,” Rebecca said in an attempt to lessen the blow.
“How long?” Her gray eyes were now filled with utter despair.
“It is eighteen seventy-nine.”
The woman covered her face with her hands, letting out a low keening sound. “Ten years, it’s been.” She dropped her hands. “All this time… My mum must be beside herself. If she’s still alive. He kept me here all that time because I saw him. A monster. Surely you know, if you live in this house that—” She stopped, her eyes scanning Rebecca, taking in the expensive and fashionable traveling dress she had yet to remove. “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.
“As I said, I am Rebecca, Duchess of Kendal. His Grace’s wife.”
Molly backed up as is she’d just sprouted devil’s horns on her head. “Oh, Lordy, please don’t hurt me.” Tears filled the woman’s eyes.
“No one is going to hurt you, least of all the duke,” Rebecca said, knowing that despite what she saw in front of her, Oliver could not have harmed this woman. It was beyond belief.
Molly looked at her as if she were daft. “I tell you, he kept me here a prisoner. Don’t ya think I would have left right off if given the chance?” She held out her wrist, which was manacled to a long chain attached to a thick ring in the wall. It was positively medieval.
“The man I know would never do such a thing.”
“His Grace is a monster,” Molly said, looking about the room frantically, before she began grabbing up a few items that apparently meant something to her. “Do you think I’m the only one he done this to? There was another one.” She jerked her head. “She was already locked up when I first was put here. He kept her in the next room over. She got sick and died. I listened to her moaning for days, and then it was silent.”
It was impossible. Oliver could not be responsible for this woman’s imprisonment, and yet…
“When was the last time you saw His Grace?”
Molly stopped collecting her dolls. “Ten years ago. I was new here and only sixteen. I was warned not to look at him, told I would turn to stone if I did, but I thought that was a bunch of nonsense. I was so stupid. When I saw him walking toward me, like some sort of ghost, I looked. It scared me good and right, it did. Those strange eyes staring like he could send me straight to the devil. I was scared and ran to the kitchen. That night, he come to my room in the attic, blindfolded me, and brought me here.” She started to weep. “Ten years ago. Oh, Lord, my little sister is twenty-two.” Her face crumpled for a moment before she regained control.
“You don’t know what I’ve lived through. You cannot imagine what that monster… When he comes down, he makes me turn off all the lamps before he…”
Rebecca found herself holding her breath. “And when was he last down here?”
“Last night.” She pulled out a watch. “I’ve been keeping track of time so I know when it’s day or night. It helps for some reason, to get through the day.”
Rebecca sagged against the wall, relief making her knees weak. Yes, she’d known in her heart that Oliver could never have kept this poor woman prisoner, but knowing for certain did ease her mind considerably. “We were not home last night,” she said. “His Grace and I arrived from London just this evening.” Then she slapped a hand in horror over her mouth. “Mr. Winters,” she whispered.
Molly’s eyes grew wide. “Mr. Winters? No. I would know…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s been him all this time?” Her brows furrowed as she thought this through. “But he makes me call him His Grace. He gets angry when I don’t.” She dipped her head and absently rubbed at her manacled wrist before sinking down onto the bed. Rebecca rushed over to release her wrist from the manacle.
As Rebecca struggled to put the small key into the lock on the thick band of metal, Molly looked up at her. “Why would Mr. Winters make me call him Your Grace?” she asked softly.
“I have no idea. But I am certain of one thing. The duke and I were not here last evening. Perhaps it is not Mr. Winters. Perhaps it is someone else. It doesn’t matter who. Not now. We must leave immediately. Leave everything here. Anything that’s dear to you can be retrieved later.”
Rebecca bit her lip as she jiggled the key in the lock, getting more and more frustrated when it wouldn’t turn. Perhaps this was not the key to the manacle, after all.
“Lights out!”
Rebecca very nearly let out a scream at the loud order outside the cell door, but Molly’s hand over her mouth stopped her. “Hide in the corner,” she whispered, her eyes wide and filled with terror. “I’ll turn out the lamps. He usually doesn’t stay longer than he has to.” She went about dousing the first lamp. “No matter what you hear, don’t make a sound.”
> “What do you mean?”
Molly sprang to her feet. “Just a moment, Your Grace,” she called.
“Where the hell are the keys?” he said, low and harsh, and Rebecca had to suppress a shiver. She could not be certain whom the voice belonged to, though in her panicked state, it did sound a bit like Mr. Winters.
Molly darted a terrified look to Rebecca, who stood in a far corner, the keys clutched in her hand.
“Y-you left them on the nail just inside the door, Your Grace.” Molly jerked her head toward the nail and Rebecca tiptoed over to the door and placed the keys there as quietly as possible, given her hand was shaking uncontrollably.
Molly waited until Rebecca was safely in the farthest corner of the room before putting out the second lamp, plunging them into complete blackness. Rebecca, her entire body aching from the effort to stay still, to keep her breathing silent, stood with her back pressed into the cold stone, her eyes squeezed closed.
“Get on the bed,” he said.
“N-not tonight, Your Grace. Please.”
Rebecca’s mouth dropped open as she realized what was about to happen. How could she stand there and allow it? But if she made her presence known, would she not be putting her own life in danger, or even Molly’s? Never in her life had she been so conflicted, as she listened to the man slip his braces from his shoulders and unbutton his trousers.
“Please, Your Grace.”
Rebecca started at the sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by a cry of pain and soft weeping.
Soft scuffling, accompanied by a soft, pain-filled sound from Molly. “You filthy whore, open your mouth.”
“Stop!” Rebecca blurted out. Stupid, stupid. But what was she to do?
“Oh, no,” Molly said, a world of fear and despair in those two soft syllables. “What have you done?”
“Well, well. You have company this evening,” the man said. “I do not recall issuing an invitation.”
And that was when Rebecca definitely recognized the voice and a chill went up her spine. It was as she’d suspected. “Mr. Winters,” she said.
