Loving Tales of Lords and Ladies Page 3

  He wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  He heard the light tappings of his children’s feet as they approached, guided by Sally. Sally slid through the door along with them, her footsteps much louder. But the Duke protested, making a flat wall with his hand. “Sally, now, please. You know what my request was. Why would you push it?”

  “Yes, my Duke,” Sally said, turning from the room. She clipped the door closed behind her, leaving the four children to face their now-blind father.

  Silence seemed heavy across the Duke’s chest. He heard a sniffle and couldn’t quite place it: was it from Lottie? Max? Christopher, who blamed himself?

  “Father, what did the doctor say?” Claudia demanded, taking the first stand. From her voice, the Duke sensed that she was far off to the left in the room. He imagined her with her arm wrapped around Lottie, perhaps, rubbing her shoulders. Ensuring that she didn’t lose her mind with fear.

  “Doctor says that I’m blind. Temporarily,” the Duke told them.

  Christopher let out a slight wail before smacking his hand over his mouth and halting it. The Duke tried to turn his head directly towards that noise but could have been off; he wasn’t entirely sure. “Christopher, I don’t want anything like that out of you,” he said. “It’s a difficult enough road without you shrouding this room with blame on yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” Christopher said.

  With a horrific jolt, the Duke felt frightened he might never see his children’s faces again. What if they grew into adults, had full faces and large hands, and he could never see them? What if his daughters grew to look like their mother—and he couldn’t be around to see them flourish?

  “In the meantime, I will be hiring another governess,” the Duke continued. “And I want the four of you to promise that this time you will be on your best behaviour. We can’t have her escaping into the night, as I’m blind and incapacitated and simply unable to handle you. I haven’t been able to sleep in weeks.”

  “I’ve heard you playing your violin at night,” Claudia whispered.

  “Then you understand just how essential it is for me to get my rest, so that I can become well again.”

  “Yes, Father.” All four of them said this together. Their voices created a kind of chord. The Duke turned his face towards the window, feeling the September warmth as it coasted in through the glass.

  He remembered just a year ago when Marybeth had still been alive. She’d carted little Lottie in on her hip, calling out to the Duke to come outside with the five of them—they were preparing to have a picnic. Didn’t he want to join?

  On that day, he hadn’t joined. He’d remained inside with his violin, thinking that he could steal a few hours away from the children, from the chaos. Now, he ached to be together in that way—all six of them, preparing to take over the world. Somehow, it had felt that way when his wife had been around.

  “You can’t know how sorry we are,” had been the ultimate refrain of the townspeople of Leeds and the surrounding estates dotted along the countryside. But now, he was blind, an invalid. And his children were so comically horrific that governesses escaped in the middle of the night for better lives elsewhere.

  They hadn’t been so horrible, before. Or rather, it had been a comical thing: their tricks and tantrums had had elements of humour to them, making both him and Marybeth devolve into laughter.

  What would come of his little family? That electricity that had shot between his and Marybeth’s fingers when he’d first encountered her in the woods: hadn’t it meant big things were coming their way? Hadn’t it meant that they were “chosen” for something more?

  Perhaps it had meant nothing. Perhaps it was foolish to think that life was any breeding ground for everlasting love. He had to centre his mind, now: focus on the facts—that his children needed rearing and education, and that he needed to build back up the musical instrument store to protect it from ruin …

  And now, of course, that he needed to see again.

  “Run along, now,” he told his children. “I have much to think about, and much to do. Please, keep your noise levels down. And let me sleep.”

  The children scampered off, with one of them (probably Claudia, although he couldn’t see to affirm this for certain) clipping the door closed behind them.

  The Duke felt the echoey emptiness of the great room around him, conscious that it felt so much bigger—like a weight upon his chest—when he had to lay there alone.

  Perhaps this was precisely why he’d been unable to sleep for all this time. He couldn’t simply lie there, knowing that when he awoke, Marybeth wouldn’t be there, then, either. It was safer to live in consciousness.

  And now, in some ways, it was safer to live blind. At least he couldn’t see the devastation on his children’s faces. At least, now, he couldn’t see the flickering, dark green eyes of both Claudia and Lottie—so like the eyes of his wife’s.

  Blindness was a protective shell.

  Chapter 4

  Marina’s mother, Odetta, was a grumpy woman who’d had Marina when she was far too tired of children to care about her whereabouts, about her socialising, about anything concerning her at all. And since that fateful day in October when Marina had been born (this very day, twenty years before), Marina had felt the weight of that knowledge. That she’d been unwanted—the very last in a series of eight ragamuffin children, in a world where money never stretched far enough. And now, she was the last at home.

  Odetta smashed her broom against the far wall, collecting the crumbs from the bread she’d baked for the funeral dinner they’d held at their home. She grunted at the crumbs, pouring them into a waste basin. Marina busied herself with the dishes, her shoulders slumping forward.

  “Stand up straight, Marina. You can’t expect that any man will come to collect you if you look like a question mark,” her mother said, scowling.

  Marina hadn’t thought her mother would give her a moment’s notice. Not on this day, the day of the funeral of her husband, Marina’s father. He’d crumpled over in a field the previous week, in the midst of a hunting expedition. It had been his heart, the doctor said. He’d always had a faulty one—one that left him frequently breathless, his hand stretched across his chest. Now, it had finally taken him. And nobody had been ready for it. Least of all Marina, the only child at home.

  “Yes, Mother,” Marina said, trying to draw strength enough to lift herself upright. But the many hours of tears the night before had left her exhausted, her muscles weary. It took every grain of effort for her to stretch the towels over the dishes, pile them into the cabinets. It took every part of her to ensure that she didn’t fall to the floor and scream.

  She so yearned, in these moments, to speak to her mother about it. About the death in a way that both of them could handle. But rather than speak, her mother was far more into pushing forward: doing the chores, speaking realistically about finances, and wondering if they should consider moving into a smaller home. “With your brothers and sisters off with their own children, it makes not a lick of sense for us to remain on here. All these empty rooms. Just so much dust for us to mop up, Marina.”

  Marina’s oldest brother, Martin, remained upstairs with his two sleeping twin girls and his wife. They were packing to return to Leeds, the nearby city, in the next hour or two. And as such, they’d avoided the cleaning, the storing of leftovers. Odetta had shooed the wife out of the room, saying, “Don’t be foolish. You’ve your own children to attend to.”

  She was very much a “carry your own cross” kind of woman. This was something Marina respected about her mother, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

  Martin stomped down the steps, as if on cue, his boots making scuff marks on the newly-cleaned kitchen floor. He paused, pressing his fists on either side of his boisterous belly. He was the most prosperous of all the children—a banker in Leeds, and Odetta spoke of him like a prized possession.

  Martin looked at his sister ruefully, almost like a teacher would look at hi
s problematic student. His eyebrow arched high. “Marina. I don’t suppose you’re going to carry on this way, are you?” he demanded.

  Marina stopped short, a plate still lodged in her hands. She twirled it around and around, muddying it up with more fingerprints. Every instinct in her made her want to sigh heavily, but she kept it in. In front of Martin and Odetta, she had to be silent, respectful. They had her best interests at heart.

  “She absolutely must find something to do, if she’s not going to marry,” Odetta said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it was this very fact that led to the stress that killed my Thomas. Always so worried about his youngest. About how she was representing the family.”

  Marina opened and closed her mouth, wanting to declare that this was unfair. That she’d always been so dutiful with her house chores. That she’d always strained herself to go to church alongside her mother, to say her prayers, to be the kind of girl and woman her parents would have liked to raise. But of course, to nearly every man they’d put in front of her—hoping she might marry … she’d been remarkably uninterested. Very detached. And she knew that gave her mother pause.

  “It’s pertinent that you get some kind of position,” Martin said, his voice booming out over their kitchen.

  “I feel certain that she’s unfit for most positions. Although if you hear of anything in the city …” Odetta said.

  “Perhaps I could work at the bank?” Marina asked, shrugging slightly.

  “Your posture, Marina!” Odetta cried. “You’ll never be collected this way. Not a man will notice you. And now that you’re nineteen years old …”

  Marina pressed her lips together, turning back towards her dishes. She didn’t want to cry out that that day was her birthday. That as of ten in the morning she was twenty years old. It felt like a childish thing to declare at that moment, now that her father was being laid into the ground. What a horrific thought that was: his coffin, being doused with dirt. His body, never animated again …

  “I’ve heard of a position at the Duke of Wellington’s home,” Martin said. “I deal with his accountant frequently, and apparently, since the death of his wife, it’s been terribly difficult for him to find a governess to suit his needs. He has four children.”

  Marina’s ears perked up at mention of the Duke of Wellington. She knew that the Duke was the owner of the prosperous musical instrument business in Leeds—a place she’d marvelled at, as a child, when she’d been first learning the violin (the only craft she truly enjoyed). She’d spent hours scouring the shop, her fingers dancing across the keys.

  Once, she’d spotted the truly handsome Duke: his dark hair, curling towards his shoulders, his volatile, dark face. And, at just thirteen years old, she’d felt something. Was it attraction? Intrigue? She didn’t know. But as she’d watched him, he’d lifted a violin from its case, tucked it against his neck, and begun to play. She’d never seen anything more handsome.

  “And you suppose she’s up for it?” Odetta asked, arching her brow. She seemed to give Marina a once-over, then another. Was her daughter truly “enough” for someone like the Duke of Wellington’s children? Even Marina wasn’t certain.

  “If you could get me an interview with the Duke …” Marina began, thinking only of those aisles and aisles of instruments. “I would absolutely love to try.”

  Martin snuck a cigar between his lips, paused to stare out the window. He seemed to be acting like everything about this was very difficult. Like he hadn’t brought it up first. Marina returned to the dishes, her cheeks turning bright pink. Why had she assumed that her family might help her?

  “I can certainly try,” Martin said, sounding hesitant. “In fact, why not? I will call upon the accountant tomorrow and send word to you immediately if the answer is yes. I can’t imagine it won’t be. As I said, he’s struggled finding someone …”

  Marina listened as her brother and mother spoke above her heads, seemingly marvelling about why she hadn’t yet been “picked” by anyone, why it seemed that she would live her life alone. “Well, perhaps she can be of service to someone else’s children.” Odetta sighed, dropping her broom to the far wall and placing her hands on her hips. “Now that my Thomas is in the ground, it’s time for us all to move forward. Such is the Lord’s bidding.”

  Marina stayed up long into the night, waiting for her mother to stop shifting around her bedroom. Since her father had fallen to his knees in that field, Odetta hadn’t slept through the night—leaving Marina to ache, her ears at the door, waiting for her.

  Ordinarily, throughout the previous five or so years (since it had been certain that Marina was meant to be hunting for a mate), Marina had spent many nights in the barn over the hill—her violin atop her shoulder, leaning into it, crafting a gorgeous tune. She was a lover of music, a “dreamer,” as her mother put it. And allowing them to see the depth of that dreaming was dangerous for Marina. She had to keep her playing to herself.

  Just after one in the morning, her mother stopped her pacing. Marina paused for a long time, waiting, before bolting out of her bedroom door, stuffing her feet into boots and scampering across the greying grass, towards the barn. Her head felt alight, her cheeks fresh with the feeling of the autumn air. It was the night of her birthday, and she yearned to celebrate it with song.

  In some respects, she was celebrating her father’s life, as well: fuelling a gorgeous tune, from her strings into the heavens. Perhaps, on some level, her father was reminded that they’d once been close. He’d once told her he’d loved it when she’d played for him. “Your talent is unbridled, my dear,” he’d said once before twirling her through the air—making her skirt whirl up around her. That had been one of the happiest moments of her life.

  “Papa,” Marina sighed, turning her eyes to the twinkling stars. She dotted her bow to the strings of the violin, waiting. “Papa, I want you to know that you were loved when you were here, and you are still loved now. Nothing about you is forgotten.”

  As she played, Marina’s mind raced through all of her siblings—feeling reminded of the fact that while she would uphold her father’s memory, her siblings had memories of their own to craft. They were fathers and mothers themselves. Was that what life was meant to be? Just creating memories to go over the ones that no longer mattered? If so, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to buy into it.

  Perhaps this governess position was perfect for her, as she’d be allowed to dip into someone else’s life, not dealing with her own. Perhaps this meant she would never become a mother, in the traditional sense. Perhaps it meant she would never find love (the way she’d so often dreamed).

  But, if it meant she could play the violin—even into the dead of night? Perhaps it was enough. One had to pick your battles in this life. And that also meant choosing the things that were worth it.

  Towards the end of the week, Marina and her mother received word from Martin regarding the interview at the Duke of Wellington’s home. By this point, Marina was four days into age 20, and still, no one had noticed. She felt she was walking with a perpetual shadow, sensing her time was ending at her parent’s home.

  On her last morning, just hours before embarking for the interview, she walked along the tiny town’s market, trying her best to memorise each and every stall. She paused at Mr Walters, who sold buckets of ruby red apples—all shining, despite the grey clouds above. She stretched her fingers across the softness of Madame Claude’s newly-knitted scarves, while listening to that same Madame blabber on and on about the affairs of her husband (never up to any good, it seemed, was Sir Claude).

  Marina had been the ears for many of the people in her tiny town, the person with whom many felt comfortable, although they could never verbalise why. Always, after they’d completed with their daily tirade, they paused, blinked at her, and sighed. “You know, my dear, it’s certainly true that you’re not as beautiful as your sisters,” Madame Claude had said once. “But there’s a light about you. Those electric green eyes, darling. Some man somewh
ere must come choose you. I know it will happen.”