The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Read online

  She was thoroughly soaked — rain had found its way into every fiber of her clothing and hair, and both clung to her every movement, dragging across the carriage. She was dressed as a commoner would be, in simple garments beneath a heavy traveling shawl, and her face was shockingly pale from the cold of the rain. Yet even in her distressed state, there was a certain beauty about her features.

  “Come now, child, you’re in good hands now,” Phyllis said, reaching her shaking hands outwards. “Ruth! Take her in!”

  The woman seemed faint as Phyllis’ abigail led her into the house, taking the entire stack of towels from Thomas as they passed.

  As Phyllis went to follow, Neil caught her attention.

  “What have you done? We know nothing of this woman and you have brought her into our house! What of Kaitlin? It is bad enough we must have so many servants about, and now this stranger? I will not have it!” Neil was becoming angrier by the moment, as he often did, and felt himself clutching at his own palms in a nervous tick.

  “We shall see,” Phyllis said defiantly and went off to find where Ruth had taken the mysterious woman.

  Neil was fuming and angrily dismissed Mr. Marton for the evening. He went back into his favorite living room, that overlooked the south hill of his estate and tried to calm himself by watching further strikes of lightning. However, he found himself quickly dissatisfied with the view and partook of some brandy that he had in the room. He paced back and forth, grouching to himself, poking his toes at the corner of the rug and then folding it back over obsessively.

  He hated it when his grandmother took action over him, but what could he do? It was so rare that she found the sense of presence to boss anybody around; evidently, the arrival of this stranger had awoke something within her. Neil also hated not knowing what was going on; it wracked at him incessantly.

  “Can I get you anything, Your Grace?” Thomas asked tentatively from the doorway.

  “What sort of Banbury tale have we found ourselves in, Thomas?” Neil asked. “Who is this woman to appear at a stranger’s door in the middle of the night, made wild by the weather?”

  “I do not know, Your Grace,” Thomas said, pouring him another brandy in hopes it would settle his nerves.

  “The indecency of commoners today,” Neil lamented. “It seems more and more that those of lower status cannot adhere to the regularities of our civilized world. Something must be done about it. And quickly!”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas poured another brandy.

  “Ah, but what is the use,” Neil said, draining the last glass and slumping into his chair. “It is all for naught.”

  “There you are,” Phyllis said, coming into the room. “Have you found my hand mirror? Thomas, have you seen it?”

  “No, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “I shall endeavor to discover it,” he said, hurrying to the exit.

  “Come to gloat, have you?” Neil asked his grandmother.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said. “Who are you to turn away a woman in need?”

  “It was not a woman I would have turned away, but a stranger, whom I might add, arrived in the most peculiar circumstances.”

  “You must not mistrust everyone you come across, Neil,” she said. “It will leave you lonely and afraid.”

  “Thank you for the lessons, but in fact, I am past university by some time.”

  “Do you not want, at least, to know of her health and status, now that she is under your roof?”

  “Very well,” Neil sighed audibly, turning back to look at the storm outside. “What has become of her?”

  “She is sleeping now, dried as best Ruth could do. She seems such a sweet, lost thing.”

  “Alright, so when she wakes up, she must be gone,” Neil said.

  “What if she has nowhere to go?”

  “Well she had to have come from somewhere, did she not?”

  “And perhaps that somewhere is the reason she has appeared under these circumstances.”

  “Perhaps,” he mumbled. “What is it you wish of me, Grandmother?”

  “Do not send her away,” Phyllis said. “Allow me to care for her, and to see how she might recover.”

  “Recover? This is our house, not a hospital.”

  “And it was my house before it was yours,” she said, defiantly. “You are going to London on business tomorrow, are you not?”

  “I am,” he said. “I am meeting Mr. Bastable.”

  “Those trips into the city last you several days, do they not?”

  “They do,” he said suspiciously, hearing the angle of her plot before it was delivered.

  “So, when you return, she will undoubtedly be awake, and we will know of her origins. Then, God permitting, we can see she lands where she belongs.”

  The Duke knew he was beaten. His grandmother knew that if she pressed him, his defenses would fold like conscripts beneath French cavalry sabers. He worried about her, and the older she became, the sourer and more lost her overall attitude. The only things that seemed to ease it was time with Kaitlin and listening to the piano. Now it seemed she had found another; the care and well-being of this woman from the rain.

  “Very well,” he gave in. “When I return, we shall have the truth of it.”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling wide, then something went out of her head, as it always did eventually, and she looked to Neil, puzzling. “Have you found my hand mirror?” she asked, somberly.

  “No, Grandmother, but Thomas is looking for it.” Neil’s heart fell through his chest at her lapse. “Now I must be to bed, for as you have kindly reminded me, I must travel to London on the morrow. Goodnight, dear Grandmother,” he said dramatically and fumbled his way off to question Ruth about Phyllis, then to bed.

  As he lay there, in his feather bed made up with silk sheets, gazing up the intricate woodwork that adorned the bedposts, his mind would not slumber. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the woman falling from the carriage, and her pale, freezing frame seemed stuck in his mind’s eye.

  While he slowly drifted off to sleep, he asked the same question again and again. Who was she? And where had she come from? The mystery of it all consumed his thoughts as he dozed off, and still, her face lingered in his mind’s eye.

  Chapter 2

  Julian Bastable was an enormous man. When he was standing, which was not altogether that often, he boasted an impressive six-feet tall, which was a great deal taller than most people he ever came into contact with. Besides his height, which was notable, his waist slumped out over his breeches and was cleverly contained by elegant sashes that he had acquired from a contact he had in India. The forty-six-year-old rather liked the colourful, comfortable bolts of cloth, and thought that they were far more successful at disguising his obesity than they were in all actuality.

  On that particular Wednesday, Julian sat at his wide desk specifically constructed from Amazonian timber. He ran his thick, calloused fingers over stacks of banknotes and leather-bound notebooks that were full of scribbled annotations.

  Every once in a while, he flicked a guinea between his knuckles because he liked the way it felt and it took away from the monotony of counting and then recounting.

  The sun rose with a particular brilliance that occurs only on days after a terrible thunderstorm. The bright day came through the foggy glass windows of his London counting house, and he grumbled at the noise welling up outside by the street goers and their hollering, by the carriages and the clomping of horses’ hooves on cobblestone, and by the bells ringing out from Old Bailey and St. Martins.

  Julian stood slowly from his desk, shifting the whole piece of furniture with his body weight and it groaned across the oak floors. He sauntered then, ever so slowly, to his second-story window, and looked down on the bustling street below. He flicked open the intricate, gold pocket watch that he carried, and noted the time with a click of his tongue.

  “Quarter past ten,” he growled. If there was one thing Julian hated, it was w
aiting on a business meeting. He believed that business, like all things, only functioned properly when all parties played their respective parts and played them as was proper.

  “Randolph!” he barked. He flicked a subtle amount of spittle against the window.

  “Yes, sir?” a nervous-faced young man of fourteen scurried up the stairs. He was dressed as a clerk would be, but was a sight dirtier than one would expect, due to the fact that he did the duties of both clerk and custodian in the counting house - as Julian had let go the custodian some months ago for personal reasons. So, bounding up the stairs that morning, Randolph carried with him a flagon of whale oil to ensure all lamps were lit.

  “What the devil are you doing?” Julian blinked at Randolph, who squirmed nervously in his boots.

  “You called for me, sir?”

  “With the oil, dash it!”

  “Lighting the lamps, sir?” Randolph asked, knowing that at this point, anything he said could and would be turned against him.

  “The sun is up, is it not, master Randolph?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Then why, I ask you, my good man,” Julian began, turning slowly from the window, letting one of his hands rest comfortably in his belly sash. “Why are you lighting the lamps when there is sun to see by? Do you take me for some elegant Corinthian, by chance, who does not care the least for his extravagant spending, and in fact may row out to sea and take a whale myself, as to add to my storehouses?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Indeed!” Julian spat. “Put it away, man. It is only October, and we shall not have need of it for the rest of the month!”

  “Yes sir, of course, sir,” Randolph began to shy away, red faced, hating his employer but needing the job too badly to walk away.

  “Wait!” Julian shouted, realizing that he had called his assistant to him for a reason other than berating him. “At what time are we expecting the Duke of Rutland today?”

  “The letter said he was coming from his estate, sir,” Rudolph said. “And to expect him at one o’clock.”

  “One o’clock?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, off then,” Julian shook his head. His morning engagement was running late, and he was worried about a possible scheduling conflict with the Duke. The Duke was a massively important client, and Julian would spare no expense to finalize their agreement.

  Finally, the wool merchant arrived with the notary, and after some brief pleasantries over tea, and a laughing splash of brandy, they signed a series of documents and bank notes. They all shook hands, stamped the pages, and Julian became a good deal richer than he was before.

  Afterwards, he relaxed with a heavy lunch, including a good deal of wine, and gleefully boasted to Randolph about the day’s success before noon, then had him clean it all up before the Duke arrived, which he did precisely at one o’clock.

  The doorbell jingled as the Duke pushed in the door, accompanied by Thomas.

  “Mr. Bastable,” he called out.

  “Your Grace,” Julian called down. “Please come on up. Randolph, get their coats.” The servant did so, and the two advanced up the stairs, taking in the sights of sturdy boxes, filing cabinets, and crates of various wool samples.

  “Mr. Bastable, so nice to finally meet you,” the Duke said, shaking his hand. Randolph and Thomas stood by silently, patiently waiting to be called on for any sort of service.

  “I thank you, Your Grace,” Julian said. “It is an honor to be of service.”

  “Well, then.” The Duke took the seat Julian offered him. “Shall we begin?”

  “It would be my absolute pleasure,” said Julian, leafing through a rather thick, labeled carrier bag. “First, this is the contract my solicitor has prepared, which would enter us into a business venture jointly, in this instance. I am referring, of course, to the establishment of the scheduled sale of wool from your estates into my possession.” Julian handed over a legal document, thick with embossed lettering. “Second is the deed to the warehouse upriver which you intend to purchase from me, at a low cost. And third I have here the proposed shipping schedule, which of course needs no signature.”

  “Thank you.” The Duke carefully inspected each of the documents. “As discussed by letter, I shall take these to my solicitor and return to you with any edits he may desire.” He handed the papers to Thomas who neatly slid them into a carrying case.

  “Of course,” Julian said, rising from the desk. “And I shall eagerly await your answer.” Shaking his hand, the Duke said, “Mr. Bastable”.

  “Your Grace,” Julian returned the farewell and watched them leave with a broad smile. After they had gone, Julian clapped his grubby hands together as his cheeks burst out brightly, bulging into tomatoes between his mustache and meticulously-groomed sideburns.

  “Randolph!” Julian shouted. “Randolph, fetch the celebratory decanter!”

  “Are you sure sir? You told me never to-”

  “Dash what I said, man!” Julian was exuberant, shifting his feet back and forth, tapping his knee, rubbing his palms together, and cycling through a number of preset grins. “Fetch it, for today we have just cause to break our own laws, come now,” Julian said, waving his hands at Randolph, who scurried over to one of the locked cabinets.

  “I have taken a great step today, Randolph,” Julian went on, shaking his head as he held his eyes closed as if he were swimming in his own achievements. “I have come from nothing, and now within the month I will have a consistent supply of wool, room to house it, and a clean route downriver to the wharf, where I shall whisk it away to the far corners of our globe,” Julian smiled as he ended his thought, and opened his eyes. “What’s keeping you, Randolph?” he pressed. “Get the brandy out!”

  Randolph sorted through an arrangement of keys around a small brass ring that was in turn, fastened to the inside of his waistcoat by means of a small iron chain and lock. The key to that lock sat comfortably in one of Julian’s side pockets.

  From the cabinet Randolph retrieved a decanter most extravagant; it was finely-etched crystal with rings of emeralds around the crest, and within it was the most expensive scotch Julian had ever stumbled across. It was a testament to Julian’s climb into a high class of living, and he drank from it only when he felt he had moved another step.

  “Of course, sir,” Randolph said, pouring a glass for his employer. Randolph moved to pour himself a glass as well, as it seemed second nature.

  “Stop,” Julian growled.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Randolph said, his face blushing. “I did not mean to offend you, I was not thinking properly,” he stammered.

  “Quit your whining,” Julian said, taking the single drink from the silver tray. “Do you know why I do not allow you to drink?”

  “No, sir,” Randolph said tentatively. “Only that you do not allow it.”

  “That’s right, I do not allow it,” Julian said, turning back to his large window with the drink in hand. “This, Master Randolph, is pear brandy from seventeen eighty-eight. It is only befitting of a gentleman, wasted on someone from too low a stock.”

  “Of course, sir,” Randolph said. He had grown used to Julian’s occasional ramblings about class and social status, which seemed always to be aimed at him, at least slightly.

  “It is nothing personal, of course,” Julian said, examining the brandy closely with his nose and eyes, savoring the stinging fumes. “What can one do? We are born a product of our evolutionary tracks, and if one’s lot is that of inferior intelligence and a lack of overall ambition, such as yourself, then one shall be condemned to their pre-destined station for the entirety of their miserable, wretched lives,” Julian snarled out his words, and then took back the brandy in a single swig, afterwards letting out a pleased exhale.

  “A mighty fine treat,” he said, licking his lips for any spare bead of moisture. Then his mood suddenly swung while his mind wandered, dancing back several nights to a tussle in the trees, and he cursed the brutal, indiscrim
inate cruelty of the world.

  Chapter 3

  When Mary-Anne opened her eyes, she thought for a brief moment that she was still dreaming. The bed she lay in was more comfortable than she had ever experienced. The sheets were white as were the walls, and the sunshine came through the wide, white shuddered window above her with a blazing dominance.

  It was the warmth of the sun that woke her, for it seemed such a stark contrast to the last thing she could remember; the cold and wet of the thunderstorm flooded back for a moment, causing her to jump, but she settled in the dry, comfortable sheets.