Authors: Denise Patrick
“Do you miss her?”
A shadow passed over his features and she wished she hadn’t asked the question. The carefree young man who had just smiled at her with warmth and tenderness vanished. He looked up, staring out the window behind her for a short time before he looked back down at her.
“Sometimes I do,” he answered with a sigh.
Chapter Eleven
“Edward knows nothing of his mother’s background. What he might learn from the locals around St. Ayers should not tarnish his memories of her, but I leave to you whether to tell him more.”
John, 6th Duke of Warringham in a posthumous letter to his son, Brand, 7th Duke of Warringham (May 1864)
She was already awake the next morning when Irma entered the room carrying a tray. She watched, from the depths of the bed, as the young woman put the tray down on a small table then crossed the room to open the drapes.
Light flooded the room, and she sat up as the maid turned toward the bed.
Irma set the tray in Corinna’s lap. Pouring herself a cup of steaming chocolate, Corinna savored the taste as the maid disappeared into the dressing room and returned with her riding costume.
“His lordship asked if you would join him this morning,” she said, laying it across the end of the bed.
Corinna put down her cup and picked up a scone. “When?”
“In an hour,” was the reply.
The maid finished gathering the items necessary for her toilette while she finished the light repast on the tray.
Approximately fifty-five minutes later, Corinna descended the stairs and found Marcus waiting for her in the front hall. Once they were on their way, Marcus looked over at her. “I trust you slept well?”
“Like a log,” she responded brightly. “It still feels strange not to wake up in the nursery. I’m so used to hearing the children moving around in the playroom.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Neither,” she replied. “Just different.”
They reached the end of the drive and Marcus turned and headed down a narrow track across a field. She followed, enjoying the sight of his broad shoulders encased in a black riding jacket. Soon they came upon another road and he slowed down as she came abreast of him again.
“Are we going anywhere in particular?” she asked, as they headed down the lane.
He turned and grinned at her, and she was suddenly struck by the change in him. He seemed to have shed the sorrow she had sensed in him since his arrival. He appeared more carefree and more like the Marcus who visited her childhood home.
“I thought I’d show you the estate,” he replied. “It is quite extensive. I consider myself lucky that I haven’t gotten lost yet.”
They talked as they rode. Marcus told her about his and Douglas’s escapades, both at school and in India. She talked about her time at school and the friends she had made. They relived some incidents from their shared past, reminiscing about Douglas.
Reaching the first village, Marcus stopped at the small inn and introduced her to the innkeeper and his wife, a thin couple in their late forties. The Hedgespeths greeted them warmly, the missus insisting they have a spot of breakfast.
“It’s all so exciting, you know,” Fanny Hedgespeth told her. “What with the earl coming home and now you being here. It will be nice to have a family up at St. Ayers again.”
“Has the estate been vacant long, then?” Corinna asked her.
“Well, no one has actually lived there for nigh on fifty years. Ever since the last earl was disgraced. We knew the estate belonged to the Duke of Warringham ’cause Mr. Boggs told us, but the duke only came around occasionally, and never stayed long. It wasn’t till the new duke came and buried the last earl’s daughter, that anyone even knew what happened to her.”
Corinna nodded. That would have been Marcus’s mother, the dowager duchess. “Did the previous earl have any other children besides the one daughter?”
“Nope, there was just the one girl. Pretty little thing, she was too, according to my mam.”
“What of her mother, the countess?”
“Me mam said she were nice enough, but when her brother came to visit, none o’ the locals took to ’em. I s’pose it was ’cause they was French, and with the war an’ all, no one hereabouts really trusted ’em.”
They looked in on the village school before they left and she noted that the room, although small, was neat and clean, and the children were orderly and well-behaved.
They rode over desolate moors and skirted fertile fields, from small stands of trees into wide open meadows, and from the top of rocky cliffs down to wide, smooth beaches, and hidden coves. The estate was a checkerboard of contrasts.
In one of the fishing villages dotting the coastline, Marcus introduced her to Old Ben, an old sailor who had known the previous earl and his family. She listened as Marcus asked Ben a few questions regarding his mother. As they left, she asked him a few questions of her own, learning more about the former Earl St. Ayers.
Marcus seemed deep in thought as they reached the top of the path. He turned and looked back over the water and she wondered if he was seeing France in his mind’s eye.
“She should have let it go,” he finally said, his voice sad. “But I don’t blame her for not doing so. I’m not sure I could have either.”
“Let what go?” Corinna asked as they picked their way across a patch of moor.
“Her revenge,” he answered after a long silence. “I’m not sure, though, that I could have ordered the deaths of two small boys.”
“Ordered the deaths…?”
The eyes Marcus turned on her were dismal, reflecting his thoughts.
“She hired some men to kidnap and kill Brand and my other brother, Michael, but they apparently thought to capitalize on the kidnapping and sold them to a slave runner who shipped them off as slave labor. Michael died anyway, but Brand survived, and returned.”
Corinna heard the horror and shame in his voice. “She wanted you to inherit?” When he nodded, she thought she understood and said, “It was her way of getting St. Ayers back.”
“Partially,” he replied. “My father was one of the witnesses against my grandfather. He and five other operatives had been the ones to discover and investigate what happened. As a reward, if you will, the King gave my father St. Ayers. So I suppose you could say it was her way of getting St. Ayers back, but it was also her way of avenging her father who, by the way, was indeed, innocent. Unfortunately, my father did not know that until it was too late.”
The next village they visited was the one near the tin mine. Once again they were greeted warmly. Marcus left her chatting with the baker’s wife, Mrs. Horn, while he went down to the mine office to check the progress of the new pump’s installation.
“There’s never been an earl in residence since I been livin’ here,” Mrs. Horn told her.
“So you weren’t born and raised here?” Corinna asked between bites of a melt-in-your-mouth scone.
“Oh no,” she replied, pouring Corinna a cup of tea. “My parents live in Truro. That’s where Henry and I met. We first come here for Henry to work in the mine ’bout five years ago, but his eyes turned bad so he took up bakin’. We been real happy for that.”
Corinna glanced around the small but tidy room. Sitting just off the kitchen with its large ovens, it was the perfect place to “put a body’s feet up”, as Mrs. Horn told her earlier, while waiting for something to come out of the oven.
The trim woman sitting across from her wasn’t much older than the duchess, she guessed. With her blonde hair scraped back into a tight bun, her slightly rounded face wreathed in a seemingly permanent smile, Corinna found herself relaxing in her presence.
“Old Ma Cotter was once the housekeeper up at the house. She don’t see so well these days, but her mind is still sharp and she loves to tell stories about the earl, his wife and daughter. Near everyone, it seems, doted on that little girl.”
“She must be pretty old then,” Corinna ventured. “The old earl died over fifty years ago.”
“She ain’t talkin’, but I’m guessin’ she’s near ninety if’n she’s a day.”
A wail came from a large basket Corinna hadn’t noticed in the corner, and Mrs. Horn jumped up.
“So soon?” she asked no one in particular as she bent over the basket. “Ye should be sleepin’ a mite longer,” she said to the infant she lifted from its bed. “Ye must’ve known we had company.”
Mrs. Horn sat in her chair again and Corinna could just barely see the top of a small, dark head peeking from the blanket the child was swathed in.
“And who might this be?” she asked.
Mrs. Horn beamed. “This is Jeremiah,” she answered proudly. “He’s but three months.” She partially unwrapped the blanket so that Corinna could see the tiny face.
When Marcus entered the room with Mr. Horn a short time later, she was holding Jeremiah, marveling at his size and perfect features. Jeremiah, in turn, was gurgling up at her as she cooed at him. She had no idea how revealing her expression was when she looked up at Marcus. She only knew that the moment Mrs. Horn had allowed her to hold Jeremiah while she checked on something in one of the ovens, she had felt the sharp ache of desire rise within her breast. And when the infant seemed to smile at her, delight flowed through her like warm honey.
Mr. Horn noticed the bundle in her arms and smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “I see you’ve met my Jeremiah,” he said proudly, and Corinna thought she could see his thin chest swell. The baby turned toward the sound of his voice, another gurgle coming from him. “He even knows me voice already.”
“He’s quite handsome,” Corinna told the baker as she reluctantly released the blanket-wrapped infant to his father. “I’m sure you must be very proud of him.”
Mrs. Horn bustled in just then, distracting Corinna from her preoccupation with the baby. “It’s time for his feedin’ now that you’re here and can watch the ovens,” she said to her husband. “Did you find everything satisfactory at the mine, my lord?” she asked Marcus.
“Yes,” he responded, distractedly. “All is in order.”
“That’s good,” she responded.
Corinna thanked her for her hospitality and promised to come visit again, then they were on their way. On the way back, she mentioned Mrs. Cotter to Marcus, who hadn’t known of her existence.
“Perhaps we can visit her one day,” he agreed. “I’d like to know more about my mother. Despite her quest for revenge, she was a good mother. Eliza and I wanted for nothing, and never once did we feel we were a burden. Perhaps, as children we were not as sensitive to the undercurrents, but never did I sense she harbored any ill will toward my father or he toward her, although there were times when she was out of sorts with me.” The smile that lifted his lips caused his eyes to sparkle mischievously. “As I got older, though, she was a bit too overbearing for my taste. It was one of the reasons I spent so much time with Douglas.”
“To get away?”
“Some,” he confirmed, “but also because he was the only friend I had who accepted me for myself, and refused to be scared off by my mother. She could be quite intimidating when she wanted to be.”
He was quiet as they rode back toward the house, and she wondered if he was thinking of his mother. Just before they reached the stables, he stopped at a small chapel that seemed to sit alone in the middle of a flower-bedecked meadow. As they approached, she noted the fenced area beside it and realized what it was.
“The earliest St. Ayers are buried beneath the chapel,” he said, as he led her through the gate and into the small cemetery, “but the last three earls and their families are all buried out here.”
They stopped before a relatively new stone. It was made of simple gray granite, the inscription noting that Emily Anne Therese St. Ayers Waring had been born in 1806 and died in 1864.
“Do you miss her?”
“A little,” he admitted. “But I’m afraid she was too obsessed by her quest for vengeance. She would never have allowed Brand and Felicia to live in peace.”
Corinna moved closer to him and his arm slipped around her waist. “They don’t seem to resent you for it.” It was more of a question than a statement.
He shook his head. “No, but for what she wanted, the price was too high. I would have felt guilty stepping into my father’s shoes.”
“About the kidnapping, you mean?”
“No, not that. I think deep down I always knew she was behind my brothers’ disappearance. I never let on, but I was secretly glad when that gypsy told my father Brand was still alive and would return.”
“Why?”
“Because it let me off the hook, so to speak. My father had been half-heartedly teaching me about the various ducal holdings and I had been half-heartedly learning, but that gypsy made it so we no longer had to pretend. Her pronouncement freed me to be what I wanted to be. Unfortunately, only within limits. I still could not have a commission.” He took one last look at his mother’s grave then turned to look at her. “I don’t think my father wanted to rub it in by letting me have one before Brand actually returned.”
He turned her then and the two began walking toward the gate. “Now that I look back on it, that gypsy also gave me back my self-respect. I’m not sure I thought much about it then, but I know I would have always felt I had stolen the title if Brand hadn’t returned.”