Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Did the duke arrange for the healer to come?” Valerie asked in what she hoped was a nonchalant voice.
Esther, who was in the midst of sweeping away the dust and ash, turned and nodded. “He did, Miss. Rode through the snow himself to deliver the message, but Yvonne—that’s the healer—was already out helping a laboring lass.”
“And wasn’t I surprised to hear that,” Kate interjected, giving a low whistle.
“I can’t recall the last time His Grace went beyond the orchards, but Yvonne’s cottage is all the way on the western border of the grounds.
Miles, it is. Why, go much further and you’d be in town.
Must be ten years since he went so far.”
“Ten years?” Valerie said with a soft gasp.
She was thrilled to discover that the housekeeper was the chatty kind but bewildered by the fact that the duke had gone to the trouble of riding through the snow for her. More bewildered by the information that he had, in essence, been a recluse for a decade.
She could not imagine a life spent willingly cooped up, regardless of whether or not that coop was the size of a castle.
“Oh yes,” Kate replied, as she took the poker and stabbed it around in the blaze.
“He keeps himself to himself. He never leaves, and no one dares to visit, not even his tenants. There are stories about him, you see, but I’ve never seen a bit of stinginess or cruelty from him; he just… keeps himself to himself, as I said.”
Esther nodded. “We don’t see much of him. Mama and Mr. Jarvis probably see him the most.”
“Has it always been like that?” Valerie prodded, curious to learn more about her unfriendly, unfairly handsome host. “Why, even at Gramfield, where I am from, my father would occasionally arrange a party or a dinner. And he hates such things.”
Kate paused what she was doing, a wistful expression falling across her face.
“Oh no, Miss Wightman. It wasn’t always like that at all.
At this time of year, the late Duchess loved to host parties and gatherings and festive soirées.
All the way up until Christmas, there would be some occasion or other every week, and, my goodness, no one could resist one of her parties. ”
“I never got to attend one,” Esther lamented, adjusting her lace cap.
“You did,” Kate protested. “When you were three, you danced around the Great Hall like a wild thing and drank so much blackberry cordial that you made quite the mess of Mr. Jarvis’ shoes.
You had holly in your hair, and the late Duchess picked you up and danced with you in her arms; I shall never forget it. ”
Valerie cleared her throat. “Forgive me—the late Duchess used to host parties for the servants?”
Her mother had often made that same suggestion to her father, insisting that it would be a delightful thing to invite the staff and tenants to a party in their honor.
Her father had sneered at the notion, asking if her mother meant to make a laughingstock of him, that they would invite peasants to enjoy a gathering at his expense.
“For everyone, Miss Wightman,” Kate replied with a smile.
“She would decorate the castle for the season, and arrange events for the servants, the tenants, and every village and town in the dukedom. There are only three, but still—everyone used to look forward to those events, especially at Christmas.”
Turning her gaze toward the softly falling snow, Valerie sighed. “I imagine it was rather magical.”
“It was, Miss,” Kate replied. “Now, the only person who visits at this time of year is the Duke of Delamere.”
“And you, Miss Wightman,” Esther added with a grin.
The girl’s mother chuckled. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. The more, the merrier, I say—but then I am not the duke of this household.”
“Delamere?” Valerie frowned, the name somewhat familiar to her.
“His Grace’s friend,” Kate explained. “The only one he has left, I daresay.”
Had the duke mentioned this friend last night?
Was that why the name sounded so familiar?
Valerie chewed her lip in consternation, then shrugged off the feeling; the Duke of Delamere was likely someone she had met in passing during the Season, or a name she had overheard someone else whispering about.
“Mrs. Mullens,” she said, a little thrill of excitement sparking, “I do not suppose you would escort me on a tour of this castle, would you? And, perhaps, that tour might include a short wander outside. I am simply desperate to walk in that fresh snow.”
The housekeeper dusted off her hands, her expression brightening. “I would be delighted, Miss Wightman.” She paused, squinting at Valerie. “But first, let’s see if we can’t find you some warmer clothes.”
Valerie breathed into her gloved hands and tilted her head upward, sticking out her tongue to try and catch a falling snowflake.
The air was crisp, the moody skies making her yearn for hot tea by a roaring fireside, the snowy gardens so beautiful that she could have wept, if the tears would not have frozen to her cheeks.
And to think that all of this looked so eerie in the darkness.
Not that she had seen this part of the castle last night.
After touring most of the castle, where Valerie had admired the history of endless rooms that, in truth, all looked the same, Kate and Esther had left her to wander the private gardens alone.
They had duties to attend to and, feeling a little guilty at distracting them, Valerie had insisted that she would be quite all right by herself.
“I don’t know if it would be appropriate,” Kate had tried to protest, though Valerie could see that the older woman was anxious to continue with her usual responsibilities.
“I shall be quite well, and I stand no chance of disturbing His Grace out here,” Valerie had replied in earnest. “You said it yourself; he rarely leaves the castle, so we cannot possibly cross paths outside.”
It had been enough to satisfy the housekeeper and her daughter, and the peace was more than satisfactory for Valerie. Attired in the warm, fur-lined cloak that Kate had found for her, she could have stayed out there in the wintry gardens all day.
But her boots, which had not quite dried after last night’s endeavors in the snow, had begun to numb her feet.
She did not want to mar the experience with that unpleasant feeling, so, with a promise to the snowy world that she would soon return to make more footprints, she turned to head back inside.
She did not even make it a step before she realized the problem: she could not remember which door they had exited from. There were three that all looked alike, embedded in the thick stone walls, and she had wandered a fair way away from where they had begun the garden tour.
I am certain that my bedchamber is on the other side of this part of the castle, she mused, peering up at the westernmost edge of the towering structure.
With that in her mind, she chose the farthest door on the right, relieved when it opened with ease. If it was a door she was not supposed to enter, it would surely be locked.
Rather than a hallway, as she had anticipated, a room lay beyond.
Stark in its decoration, with bare stone floors and a bureau and chair at one end, a single bookcase at the other, it somewhat resembled a monk’s cell.
She had never seen one, of course, but this was what she imagined it would look like: sparse and spartan and free of distractions.
The fire that warmed the room should have been her first indication that she was, in fact, somewhere that she was not supposed to be. Somewhere that was occupied. But her frozen feet drew her toward the blaze, and she was helpless to resist.
I shall only stay a moment, she told herself, glancing around. There was nothing and no one there, and no sound to indicate anyone’s imminent arrival.
Hastily, she unbuttoned her shoes and sat right down on the bare stone. Taking another look around, just to be sure, she peeled off her wet stockings and lifted her cold feet up to the heat.
“Oh my goodness,” she moaned in pleasure, as the warmth brought feeling back, soothing the chill away. “Oh… that is heavenly…”
She was enjoying herself so much, savoring that glorious heat, that she almost missed the faint echo of footsteps.
Someone is coming.
Her head whipped toward the far door, opposite to the one she had entered through. And as she heard the jingle of keys, she did not hesitate. Grabbing her shoes, she jumped up and darted toward the bureau, diving underneath it as a key turned in the lock.
It will be Mrs. Mullens, she told herself, breathing hard. Who else would carry the keys? It had sounded like more than one key jingling. A cluster of them, no doubt carried on a chatelaine.
At that thought, Valerie relaxed a little, though she did not come out from her hiding place. Rather, she decided that she would play a little trick on the housekeeper, leaping out to give her a playful fright.
Oh… oh, no…
Her stomach plummeted as, through a gap in the side of the bureau, she spied hessian boots that stopped just below the knee, and muscular thighs above, restrained by tight trousers.
Unless Kate’s entire physique and fashion had changed, this was not the housekeeper.
Nor was it the butler, who had a much more slender frame than his master.
She watched, breath held, as the duke—for, with thighs like those, it could not be anyone else—walked over to the fireplace. There, he stooped and retrieved something from the floor.
You fool! You silly, silly thing! Dread splintered through Valerie’s chest as the gauzy fabric of her stocking hung like some strange, limp creature from the duke’s hand.
“Who is in here?” he snarled.
Valerie cringed, for there was no possible way she could stay in hiding. There was only the bureau to hide beneath; it would not take him long to find her.