Chapter
11
C
harlotte Calandra Hawkesworth, Fourth Duchess of Farminster, was laid to rest in the family plot on a hillside overlooking the estate lake. The funeral was private, the young duchess mourned by her husband, her sister, Lady Hawkesworth, and three servants. Sir Ronald said the Anglican service of Christian burial over the body, and at the duke's request agreed to explain to everyone that the family's grief was such that they could not bear the weight of a larger gathering.
“Understandable, understandable,” murmured the cleric. “A terrible loss, the duchess and her child both.” Then he left them to their mourning, grateful that Betsy and her husband had not been called back and their honeymoon spoiled. It had been generous of both the duke and his sister-in-law in their great trial and time of grief to think of the newlyweds.
“I must write to Mama,” Aurora said when they had returned to the house after the burial.
“I will write her too,” the dowager said.
“And I,” the duke told them.
“I cannot remain at Hawkes Hill for much longer,” Aurora said. “It is not proper with my sister gone.”
“You will remain,” Valerian Hawkesworth said firmly.
“I cannot!” she cried desperately.
“You can, and you will, and I think we both know why, Aurora,” he said coldly. “Besides, you have my grandmother to chaperon you. No one will think ill of you for staying.”
“St. John will not be happy,” she told him.
“My cousin's state of mind should be of no concern to you,” Valerian Hawkesworth answered her, “but I shall speak to him myself very shortly.”
Aurora fled up the staircase to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her as if the devil himself were after her.
“He knows!”
she told Martha, pale and wide-eyed.
“He knows!”
“Knows what, miss?” Martha was puzzled.
“That I am the one. The one he should have married!” Aurora replied frantically. “Oh, Martha! He looked like he wanted to kill me!”
“Oh, miss, how could he know?” Martha said. “Unless . . . oh, Lord help us! The doctor must have said something. He and your papa were good friends, being the only two of their kind on the island. The doctor must have known about your betrothal, and when he saw Miss Cally got curious as to why she was the duchess and not you.”
“He is going to speak to St. John!” she said frantically.
“Oh, the duke wouldn't make you marry him when he knows you love Mr. St. John, miss. Besides, it would cause a terrible scandal, and Miss Cally only just dead with her poor child. You're overwrought, miss. Now, you come and have a nice lie-down. I'll go get you some tea.”
“No!” Aurora clutched at her servant's arm. “We have to leave Hawkes Hill, Martha. We must!”
“And where will we go?” Martha said in practical tones. “You can't go to Primrose Court even with Mr. St. John's mother in residence. It would cause a terrible calumny. Besides, your wedding is going to have to be postponed for a year. We're in mourning now, y' know.”
“I could shelter with the Bowens,” Aurora said desperately.
“In that rabbit warren of a house, and with all those daughters, not to mention that little devil, Master Willie? There's no room for you there, miss. Come, now, and lie down for me, dearie.”
“Then we must go home to St. Timothy!” Aurora decided. “I have my mother's house!
He
cannot take that from me, and in a year's time St. John can come for me, and we will be married. We do not have time to get to London to catch the
Royal George,
but there will be another sailing of another ship in a few weeks' time. That's it! That's what we shall do, Martha! We shall go home!”
“Yes, miss, now, lie down and try to rest while I fetch you a little tea. You're all upset with Miss Cally's death.” She settled the girl, and then, leaving the room, the curtains drawn, hurried to speak with the dowager.
“Poor child,” the dowager sympathized. “My grandson would glower at her darkly, and frighten her.”
“Does he know, ma'am?” Martha ventured. “Excuse my boldness, but I love Miss Aurora. I've raised her since she was a baby.”
“The duke knows he was deceived,” the dowager answered the servant. “What he will do, I do not know, but I promise you I will do my very best to protect Aurora from his anger and caprice.”
“It was the doctor, weren't it?” Martha said. “When I first saw him I was so glad to see him, I didn't realize he might be the key to our undoing. How am I to keep my mistress calm, ma'am? How am I to keep her from running away back to St. Timothy?”
The dowager arose, and opening a small drawer in her desk, drew out a little ivory box. Opening it, she drew out a small, gilded round pellet. “Crush it and put it in her tea, Martha. It will make her sleep the night through, and after a good night's rest Aurora will certainly think more clearly and forget this nonsense of running away. Then I will speak to her myself tomorrow, and we will decide upon a course of action that will calm her fears.”
“Oh, thank you, your grace,” Martha said gratefully, curtsying. She departed the dowager's rooms and went to the kitchens, where she fixed a small tray with bread and butter, some dark, rich fruitcake, and a small pot of tea. Then, carrying it, she returned to Aurora, finding her up and pacing the bedroom. Martha placed her tray on the piecrust table and said briskly, “Now, you sit down and have your tea, miss. Then I'm going to tuck you up in bed, and after a good night's rest we'll plan our journey, eh?” She smiled at the girl, drawing her to the table.
Aurora sat down, taking the saucer of tea from Martha, sipping it nervously, nibbling on the bread and butter, eating a small slice of the fruitcake. Gently Martha encouraged the girl to finish the tea, and poured her more, until the little pot was emptied. Aurora's eyelids grew heavy, and she did not protest when Martha helped her to her bed and tucked her in beneath the down coverlet. She was asleep even as Martha blew out the bedside taper. Taking the tea tray, the servant returned to the kitchens and then hurried back to her mistress. Entering the bedroom, she gave a small cry at the figure looming over Aurora's bed.
“It is only me,” the duke said, quickly calming her fears. He turned to face her, and Martha thought how handsome he was.
“You shouldn't be here, your grace,” she gently scolded him.
“She is so lovely,” he responded. “Why is she sleeping so heavily, Martha? Is she all right?”
“Your grandmama gave me a little pill to put in her tea, your grace. Miss Aurora is heartbroken over her sister's death and wants to go home to St. Timothy. She would have tried to leave tonight if we had not stopped her. She ain't slept too good since Miss Cally died, and she ain't thinking clearly.”
“Her home is here at Hawkes Hills,” the duke replied.
“You ain't going to let her marry Mr. St. John, are you, your grace?” Martha asked him candidly. It was bold of her, but she had to know if she herself was going to decide what to do.
Valerian Hawkesworth shook his head. “Aurora was betrothed to me, Martha. That she and her family deceived me makes no difference. Under the law, Aurora is my betrothed wife. If poor Calandra had lived, if she had given me a son, it would have been a different matter altogether even if I had eventually learned of the subterfuge. Calandra, however, is dead, and our child with her. And Dr. Carstairs has exposed the trickery that was practiced upon me.”
“But, your grace,” Martha said softly, “you were married to
Charlotte
Kimberly, and you did receive her dowry according to the terms of the agreement your father and Robert Kimberly arranged all those years ago. Nothing was withheld from you.”
Valerian Hawkesworth chuckled. “Indeed, Martha, but it was the wrong
Charlotte
Kimberly. The agreement between my father and Aurora's was made even before her birth, before he wed his third wife, Oralia Spencer, and adopted her two children. The Kimberlys have defrauded me by palming the wrong bride off on me. Should my cousin, St. John, learn of it, and be married to Aurora, he would attempt to claim the island for himself. Not because he really wanted it, but out of plain malice and mischief. I cannot allow him to do that. Besides, your mistress is, by law, mine. I intend to have what is mine.” Then, in a great gesture of good manners, he nodded to her, and, turning, departed.
Martha was astounded by his politeness. After all, she was only a servant; granted, an upper-class servant, but a servant nonetheless. The duke had taken the time to speak with her at length, and answer her questions although he was certainly not bound to do so. She liked him. She had always liked him, and had never understood Aurora's antipathy toward Valerian Hawkesworth. Now, however, there would be war between the two. Martha decided then and there not to reveal a word of what had passed between herself and the duke tonight. It would only drive Miss Aurora to reckless actions, and even without knowing what Martha knew, her young mistress was going to behave in a hasty and foolhardy manner. Of that Martha could be certain.
The duke was the right husband for Aurora, and Martha had always believed it. Mr. St. John had been a good alternate, of course, but Martha suspected that he was as reckless and adventurous as Aurora herself. They might have been a good match, but on the other hand, it could have proved a disastrous marriage with St. John encouraging Aurora to hector the duke even as he did. Besides, Miss Aurora deserved to be a duchess even if she thought she didn't want to be. And it was what Mr. Kimberly, God rest his good soul, had wanted for his daughter. At that moment Martha decided that she would aid the dowager and her grandson to bring about the marriage between Aurora and the duke. It could be no betrayal of her mistress to do what Martha knew in her heart was the right thing. She had known it all along, as had George Spencer-Kimberly and his mother.
When she awoke in the morning, Aurora seemed calmer, Martha thought. She ate her breakfast, wrote to her mother, and complained of the headache, but she said nothing about leaving to return to St. Timothy. Perhaps, the servant thought hopefully to herself, she has given up the idea, and so she reported to the dowager. But Aurora kept to her bedchamber, claiming fatigue, and had both her later meals brought to her upon a tray as well. Her appetite, however, was quite good. She took to her bed early, reading until she fell asleep.
“Poor lamb,” Martha said to herself as she snuffed the candles and banked the fires in the fireplace before seeking her own little room.
Aurora awoke as the clock struck three. lying quietly in her bed, she smiled to herself. Since childhood she had always slept seven hours exactly unless she was ill. She had deliberately gone to bed early so she might awaken in the middle of the night and effect her escape from Hawkes Hill. Martha, she sadly realized, could no longer be trusted. She was almost certain her maid had drugged her tea the evening before. Obviously Martha did not approve of her plans, and that was unfortunate. She would have to leave her servant behind, but she knew the dowager would treat Martha well and keep her in her employ, so she felt no guilt over her decision.
She slipped from her bed, shivering at the chill of the November night. She was going to London. Once there, she would find respectable lodgings and book passage on the next boat to the western Indies. She had more than enough money, most of what she had come to England with, for the duke had paid for all of her expenses since her arrival. There was a single public coach that came past the main road outside the estate early in the morning once a week. That morning was the day. The coach would take her to the town of Hereford, and from there she would be able to get the London coach. She was taking none of her possessions so that no one would suspect she had gone far until possibly the morrow, at which point it would be too late to find her. She would dress plainly so as not to attract attention, and carry only a small reticule with her funds, and a brush to keep her hair neat.
The dress she chose was a simple dark blue silk, respectable but not showy. She wore several petticoats beneath it, including a flannel one, and knit woolen stockings. She would buy whatever else she needed in London before sailing. Pinning her hair into a neat chignon, she picked up her fur-lined cloak and slipped from the bedroom. She walked carefully, tiptoeing down the staircase and across the foyer to the front door. Cautiously she drew back the bolts on the front door.
“And where, my dear betrothed, do you think you are going?”
the duke's voice shattered the silence of the night.
Aurora whirled to see him in the dimly lit doorway of his library. “I am going home,” she said. “You cannot stop me, Valerian!”
Betrothed!
He had called her his betrothed. So he really did know.
“I think not,” he said coldly. Then he closed the distance between them, and snatching her cloak from her grip, flung it across the foyer. An arm reached out, wrapping itself tightly about her waist, forcing her body against his in a proximity that set her senses reeling. “Hawkes Hill is your home, Aurora. It was settled even before your birth, when our fathers pledged us in marriage. A marriage you sought to avoid with deception, putting your sister in your place.”