Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  Jeremiah had exuded coal from every pore of his body. The fine black dust permeated his hair, skin, and lungs, making him cough all night long. He had stopped trying to scrub it out of his nails long before his only daughter was born. She had grown up thinking her father had been born with greyish black skin. She had lived in fear that she would grow up looking the same.

  When she was six years old, her mother had died of pleurisy. Jeremiah had affectionately lifted her into his lap the day after he buried his wife and asked, “Wilt thou come down with me into the mines? Thou shalt have a little basket of thy own to carry the coal in …”

  “No!” she had declared resolutely. “I shall not ever, go down there with thee, Father!”

  “And why not little bairn?”

  “I am a fairy, and I shall go live with the Duke in his castle!”

  Jeremiah had laughed with delight at her cunning idea. However, he had worried for many days about what to do with her. He durst not leave her alone in the hut while he went to work. He had grown up working in the mines as had his father before him. Entire families of men, women, and children would go to work together at the colliery, and yet he could not bear to take his daughter with him. He did not want to see her pretty little face blackened with coal dust or hear her coughing at night. So he spoke to the old foreman and suggested that his daughter be presented to the Duke’s wife as her servant.

  The Duchess had taken a fancy to the girl and agreed to keep her. So it was that Abigail’s dream came true, and she had gone to stay at the Duke’s castle. However, she soon realised, she was no fairy. The Duchess had grown tired of her and sent her to the kitchen. There she grew up amongst the pots and pans, running around at the beck and call of the cook.

  When she was 12 years old, the Duke had passed away, and his wife followed a few months later. Their son, Augustus Eldridge, inherited the Duchy. Suddenly, Abigail was aware that the new, 25-year-old Duke was exceedingly handsome. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with thick, black, wavy hair. His eyes were a deep brown with warmth in their depth that belied his usual brusque demeanour. When he smiled, which was exceedingly rare, the hard angles of his jaw and face softened, making her heart jump wildly.

  The cook gave her the task of taking the Duke’s meals to him, and she took advantage of the opportunity to study the way his dark hair curled around his ears. She loved looking at the rich colours of the cravats he wore and the fine silk of his waistcoats. She wondered if the buttons on his coat were really gold; they shone so brightly.

  One day, the cook found her daydreaming over the dishes she was supposed to be washing up.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing, little miss?” she demanded.

  “Are you suddenly grown too fine to do the washing that you sit there dreaming?”

  “I’m tired of working in the kitchen, Aunt. I want to be a housemaid!” Abigail answered abruptly.

  The cook stared at her astounded. She had taken care of the girl and been so kind to her that Abigail had informed her at the age of eight that she would call her aunt from then on. Being fond of the child, she had raised no objection, and yet she often felt that she knew very little of the inner workings of her mind. She knew not how she could be so obedient and efficient one minute and the next make a determined decision without once mentioning it before. However, she knew that Abigail would not change her mind and so she spoke to the housekeeper. The housekeeper had at first been annoyed.

  “What makes you think you can suggest who should be a housemaid and who should not?” she demanded. “You should pay attention to your own work and leave the running of the house to me!”

  However, she had to admit to herself that Abigail seemed to be a remarkably neat and skilled girl, picking up new tasks quickly and easily. So it was that Abigail Blunt graduated from being the cook’s assistant to being a housemaid.

  The tears that had hitherto refused to come, now crept down Abigail’s face as she remembered how proud Jeremiah had been of her.

  “Oh, Father! How could you leave me all alone?” She wept, taking his stone cold hand and pressing it against her cheek. The first rays of the morning sun shone through the cracks in the door and lit up the hut. She had sat up all night, and now the day had come when she would bury her father.

  Abigail wiped her eyes and stood up to open the door, for she heard the voices of men outside and knew they had come for her father.

  Chapter 4

  The Duke rose early the next day, and as he dressed, the miner’s daughter again entered his thoughts. Contrary to her beliefs, he had been well aware of her presence in his house as the youngest member of his staff. He had often seen her playing at his mother’s knee as a child before she had been sent to work with the cook. She had been a sweet looking, chubby child with long, honey blonde ringlets and blue eyes. He remembered the first time he saw her again as a housemaid.

  He had been enjoying himself with a young woman he had invited to his castle, six months after he had inherited the title of Duke. The Duke groaned with pleasure as he collapsed on top of the young woman. He buried his face in her neck as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. She lay silent and unmoving underneath him, and yet he could sense her growing impatience. He raised himself up on an elbow and looked at her.

  She smiled up at him as he slid his fingers into her, and he grew irritated with the cold, insincerity of her eyes. Abruptly, he moved away and getting out of bed walked naked to stand in front of the fireplace as he lit a cigar.

  “It is time for you to return to your chamber,” he said.

  “Have I offended you in some way, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “Not at all. You were tolerable enough, but you know I always sleep alone, and I wish to retire now,” he said coldly.

  He opened a drawer in a nearby dresser and taking out a small bag of coins tossed it onto the bed. Then he strolled towards the screen set up in a corner of the apartment to wash and relieve himself. The young woman sat up and pulled on her robe. She picked up the money and rising made towards the door.

  Just as she opened it, the Duke stepped out from behind the screen with a towel gripped around his half erect, tumescence. Standing there in the doorway, he saw his mistress and a very young housemaid. The girl stared at him, and he recognised her deep blue eyes and soft childish features. He was astounded to feel himself getting stiff again and turned away angrily.

  “Shut the door behind you, and don’t stand there gawping!” he snarled.

  The door closed abruptly, and he was left alone. He pulled on his robe and got into bed. He was almost half asleep when he heard a knock at the door. Annoyed, he got up and opened the door ready to castigate the intruder. It was the housemaid again standing there with a glass of milk.

  “What am I to do with that now?” he demanded.

  “I apologise, Your Grace, but I was told you wanted a glass of milk before retiring for the night,” the girl said innocently without a trace of embarrassment.

  “I wanted it an hour ago!” growled the Duke.

  “You do not usually retire so early, Your Grace, so I brought it at the usual time,” she replied.

  “How do you know what time I retire?” he asked, annoyed.

  The girl lifted up her chin determinedly. “It is the duty of your servants to be familiar with your habits, Your Grace.”

  “And yet I have not seen you before. The housekeeper usually brings my milk!”

  “Shall I leave, Your Grace? Perhaps you no longer desire it,” the girl replied.

  The Duke snorted and took the glass from her hand. “Be gone!” he said and closed the door.

  Abigail happily skipped off to tell her aunt she had succeeded in delivering the milk.

  The Duke had a few days later politely informed his mistress that her services were no longer needed. The fact was that he had grown tired of her and wanted someone new. Someone who would gaze adoringly at him and participate enthusiastically in their nightly revels. However, no matt
er how many young and beautiful women he invited to stay at the castle and discreetly visit his chamber at night, he could not find one that did not annoy him. They were either too cold, or too talkative, or too self-obsessed jumping up to smooth their hair in his dressing room mirror as soon as he was done. Not one was able to interest him with her conversation.

  The Duke impatiently took his cravat from the hand of the servant assisting him and tied it on himself. Then he sat down and allowed the boy to help him on with his shoes. He knew not why he remembered that insignificant event six years ago. For the last year, he had refrained from sharing his own bed with any woman, preferring to make the occasional visit to an old friend he had in town. Yet he still desired the company of someone to talk to. The thought entered his mind that he would eventually have to marry if he desired an heir to inherit the duchy.

  Yet I have not the time to go courting and searching for a sensible woman that can talk without simpering or dissembling!” he thought.

  “A pox on the whole business of marriage! It is a confounded nuisance and yet a necessity … I have no time to sit here thinking about such nonsense!”

  He rose and quit his chamber, ready to meet Tobias and ride with him to the colliery.

  Abigail wept as she watched her father’s simple casket lowered into the grave. The priest said a few words, and the miners that had helped carry him to his cottage for the last time now helped to bury him. A simple wooden cross was placed to mark the grave. Abigail sank to the ground beside the grave and sat there, her face buried in her hands. One by one the mourners left, and then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw old Mother Grey standing beside her.

  “Get up wench and come with me,” she whispered.

  “There is much thou must learn now that thou hast been left alone and friendless.” She turned and hobbled a few steps away and then stood to wait. Abigail at first regarded her uncomprehending and then seeing that the day was fast melting into dusk decided to accompany Mother Grey back to her hut. She had known the old woman since childhood but had not seen her for many years now since she had left to work for the Duke.

  “Why are you so quiet, Mother?” she asked. “Why did you stay at a distance and wait till everyone had left before you approached me? I do not remember you being so shy before.”

  “All in good time, wench. Thou shall hear the whole story from me.”

  They reached the old woman’s hut and entered. Abigail saw that the tiny hearth had been laid with fresh firewood. She insisted on lighting the fire and putting the kettle on for tea herself, telling Mother Grey to sit down and rest.

  “Listen to my words, wench. I am used to doing my work alone and unassisted. Samuel Cooper thou mayest recall was the foreman thy father worked with. That evil ruffian hast maligned me to the miners and their families so that they believe that I am a witch. They wouldst have burned me at the stake but for the Duke, who warned them not to come near me. His men see to it that I want for nothing and do not have to work in the mines anymore.”

  She stopped and patted Abigail’s arm. “That is not why I have detained thee here. I have something that thy father gave me many years ago to keep for thee. He gave it me when thy mother passed away and charged me to keep it secret till his death. Even after his death, I wast to hold my tongue and inform no one except thyself. It is time now to carry out my duty …”

  Mother Grey rose with some difficulty and opening a wooden chest in a corner of the room took out a silver chain and locket which she placed in Abigail’s hands.

  “This is thine inheritance,” she said.

  Abigail turned the locket over in her hands as she looked at it.

  “But why Mother Grey? Why did Father keep it from me till his death, and why did he give it to you?”

  “Open the locket child and see what is inside,” said Mother Grey.

  Abigail gently snapped the locket open and stared uncomprehendingly at the miniature portrait placed inside. It was of a young woman with honey blonde hair and blue eyes.

  “It looks like me!” she exclaimed.

  “Is that my mother, Mother Grey?”

  “Yes, it is thy mother but not the miner Jeremiah Blunt’s wife,” answered the old woman.

  “I do not understand, Mother; what do you mean?” asked Abigail.

  “Thy mother was the sister of the old Earl of Aldrich and the aunt of the present Earl Horace Blakemore. When she gave birth to a girl after ten years of being barren, her husband, thy father Marquis Archibald Claremont grew impatient. He could not understand why his wife had not borne a son and heir. So he called for me and charged me to take thee away and place a newborn male child in his wife’s arms when she awoke.

  As luck would have it, Jeremiah Blunt’s wife had been delivered of a male child that very morning. I brought the girl child to him and warned him that if he did not take her, she would be killed, and his own son would lose the chance of growing up to be a Marquis. Jeremiah and his wife agreed and gave up their son to keep thee.”

  Abigail listened, and her face grew pale as she struggled to understand the story.

  “Mother Grey, is this a jest? It is most unkind of you if so, to jest with me on the day I buried my father …”

  “I do not jest, child. Heed me for I speak the truth. The features of thy mother’s face pictured in that locket should bear testimony to my truth!”

  “Where did you get it from?” demanded Abigail.

  “Thy mother gave it to me six months after thy birth when she had the courage to call for me and enquire where her daughter had gone. She charged me to give the locket to the miner who took you in.”

  Abigail rose to her feet and backed away from the old woman.

  “I do not believe you. It is all a lie. My father was Jeremiah Blunt, and I am a housemaid at the Duke’s residence ...”

  She reached the door and opening it ran out into the darkness away from the old woman who came hobbling to the door calling her name.

  Chapter 5

  The Duke was riding home from the colliery alone, and he was not in the best of moods. He had observed the funeral service of old Jeremiah Blunt from a distance and had seen how some of the miners leered at the dead man’s daughter. She had looked completely out of place amongst the small crowd of mourners, even though she was simply dressed in her housemaid’s black gown. Her soft, smooth, white skin and delicate features were distinctly unlike those of her father and his relatives. Her blue eyes seemed to have as many different shades as the sky.

  When she got up to leave with Mother Grey, he saw that they appeared to be a dark grey. He followed at a slight distance and observed that the two women entered the older woman’s hut. Then he had met Tobias and directed him to investigate the collapse of the mining shaft where Jeremiah had breathed his last. He instructed the workers to keep the elderly, the women, and the children away from the collapsed shaft till it could be cleared and secured.

  As it grew darker, he left Tobias to supervise the work and headed back home.

  Suddenly, his horse stopped abruptly and shied. The Duke pulled at the reins and spoke gently to it, thinking it had been startled by a stray animal on the path. Peering through the darkness, he could just see a figure walking on ahead of him. The woman, for so it appeared to be, walked slowly and quietly. Then he heard a sob, and a feeling of dismay overtook him as he realised it was the miner’s daughter.

  He spurred his horse forwards and called out to her. “Stop girl! It is too late to be out alone. Why did you not remain at Mother Grey’s home?”

  She stopped and looked up at him, her face pale in the moonlight. “Your Grace, it is kind of you to stop and enquire after my health; however, you must realise that I have a name and that it is not ‘girl’!”

  The Duke smiled in spite of himself at this not entirely unreasonable complaint.

  “What is your name then?” he asked.

  “Abigail B … Blunt, Your Grace.”

  “You seem to be unsu
re,” he observed.

  “Not so, I am as certain of my name as my father was.”

  “In any case, you should not be out at this time.”

  “I would imagine, Your Grace, that you would be more likely to be accosted on the way than one such as I.”

  “Enough, I have not time to stand here arguing with you. I shall escort you home.”

  So saying the Duke dismounted and held out a hand to help Abigail mount his horse. Once she was seated, he joined her and set the horse off at a steady trot. Abigail felt strangely calm as the warmth of the Duke’s muscular chest and arms drove away the chill of the November night. She was tired and wanted only to sleep. In a short while, her head nodded, and she laid it back against the Duke’s shoulder as she fell asleep. The Duke gathered her closer to support her and involuntarily his eyes fell on the rounded softness of her cheek and bosom. He was suddenly aware that she was indeed no longer a child.