Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Wait outside,” Benedict told the driver. “I will make sure your compensation is sufficient for the late hour.”
“Tis my duty, Your Grace,” he said with a tip of his hat as he pulled out a book and began reading. “I’ll be right here when you are ready.”
Benedict strode into the dimly lit common room of The Swan’s Sea, a tavern that was a few villages removed from his grand estate, in search of some space.
The place reeked of stale ale, pipe smoke, and wood polish. It was a harsh but comforting scent. It meant that he had escaped.
He looked about the crowded room and spotted him instantly. Kenneth Arnold, the Marquess of Murkwood, his oldest friend and the only man in the ton whose company he could tolerate for more than five minutes, was nursing a tankard by a stone fireplace.
He grinned as Benedict approached, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled, pushing a chair out with his boot. “The newlywed Duke deigning to grace us with his presence. I thought you’d be occupied. A man should be in bed with his wife at this hour, not drowning his sorrows in a provincial pub.”
Benedict growled, the sound a low, rumbling thing in his chest as he sank into the chair with a thud.
“Save your jest for someone else, Kenneth. I am not in the mood.”
“Can I get you anything, Your Grace?” A sweaty barkeep asked, wiping his brow with a rag as he approached them. “Some ale perhaps?”
“Yes,” Benedict replied sharply.
“Thank you, Carlton!” Kenneth said over his shoulder, shaking his head with a laugh at Benedict. “You are most sour, Your Grace.”
Benedict leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Tell me, is the ton satisfied?”
Kenneth raised an eyebrow and took a long sip of his ale. “Satisfied? Satisfied by what? The state of the world? The weather?”
“You know very well what I mean,” Benedict said as he took a mug from Carlton, drowning half the contents with a single slurp. “I told you not to play with me tonight.”
“Satisfaction is a touch strong,” Kenneth said, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “The ton calls her… strikingly unconventional. But a Duke marrying someone who isn’t the usual parlor-perfect choice? That has them all aflutter. And truth be told, I can’t help being a bit curious myself.”
“Good,” he said, a flicker of relief crossing Benedict’s face as he downed the last of his ale. He motioned to the barman for a small whisky. “And now, back to that ancient rumor? Have you found who started the thing to begin with? And why?”
“It’s a tangle of whispers,” Kenneth said, throwing up his hands with exaggerated exasperation.
“Very difficult to track down an original source, even for me, and that is saying something. A moot point, is it not? The ton thrives on conjecture, scandal, and the occasional half-truth. Don’t let it bother you, Ben.
Honestly, it’s all smoke and mirrors, and far more entertaining from a safe distance. ”
“I know,” Benedict muttered, accepting the new drink and downing half of it in one go. “But it still irks me. You know I do not like unsolved mysteries.”
“Yes, and I can see it certainly does irk you,” Kenneth said with a wink of his eye. “And so does she, apparently.”
Benedict stiffened, gripping the glass tightly. “What are you talking about now, Kenneth?”
“Isla,” Kenneth said as if talking to a child. “I ask again… why are you here and not with your wife?”
“I have no wish to discuss my marriage with you.”
Kenneth leaned back, hands draped casually over the chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Ah, come now, Ben. You’re far too… deliberate to be truly unaffected.
If you didn’t care in the slightest, you’d dismiss the question with your usual cool composure, as you do my teasing.
Instead, here you are, all tension and restraint. Fascinating.”
“I said I do not wish to discuss it,” Benedict gritted out, slamming his glass down on the wooden table. “That should be enough.”
“To quote the old bard, I think the lady doth protest too much…”
“Watch yourself.”
Kenneth merely shrugged then. “Deny it all you like. But you made a new beginning for yourself, old friend. You’re married. You have a chance now to put it all behind you. All of it. Don’t let your past interfere with the life you’ve built for yourself now.”
Benedict closed his eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath as he rubbed his hand over his brow.
“I only care for my son,” he said, his voice hard, firm, and final. He looked his friend dead in the eye, the whiskey burning a clear path down his throat. “And that’s all.”
After a few more drinks and quiet conversation, Benedict climbed into the carriage and knocked sharply on the roof with a clenched fist.
“Ealdwick, and quickly,” he commanded the driver through the small hatch.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” the driver called sluggishly, clearly waking up from a catnap.
The carriage lurched, and the heavy wheels began to roll over the uneven dirt track in the dark.
Benedict sank into the plush, velvet cushions, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The ale and the whiskey, combined with the late hour, had settled into a dull ache behind his eyes. He was impossibly rattled, but even more tired.
Don’t let your past interfere with the life you’ve built for yourself now.
Kenneth’s parting words, delivered with infuriating calm and a knowing smile, had been the final blow.
He had a good life. A safe life. A manor, an estate, a title, a son, and now, a wife. All the requisite pieces of respectability were painstakingly collected and arranged.
Unlike the legacy his father had thrown at him.
Benedict had done it all for Oliver. He would not let the same fate befall his boy.
Oliver would not need to trudge through such murky waters.
The marriage to Isla, a woman who asked for nothing and expected less, was the last, most crucial block of the wall he had built around his son.
But it still irks me…
He leaned his head back against the leather, the whisky-induced heat starting to fade and replaced by a cold, sharp dread.
The carriage slowed, turning up the long drive. The silhouette of Ealdwick Manor loomed in the distance behind the luminous full moon and the ink black sky.
He knew she would be there. In his house, in the room adjoining his bedchamber.
The carriage stopped with a final, smooth jerk at the main entrance. Benedict took one more steadying breath, then shoved the heavy door open.
“Good night, Your Grace,” the driver said, touching his hat as he strolled out.
“Yes,” Benedict managed, his voice rough even to his own ears as he gave him a pouch of coins. “For your trouble at this hour. I know you have a young grandchild.”
“That is most kind, Your Grace! Thank you!”
Benedict didn’t look back. He strode toward the door, his boots as heavy as his heart as he went up the steps.
The grand hall was silent and dark, save for a single lamp left burning on a table near the grand staircase. The soft light cast long, shifting shadows that seemed to mock his agitated state.
He shucked off his greatcoat and tossed it onto a nearby chair. As he moved toward the staircase, a small noise drew his attention. Not from the floors above, but from the library, a room never used at that hour.
The door, usually closed, was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of warm light escaping from the gap. He hesitated, then walked toward it.
He reached the door and pushed it open just enough to see inside. He expected to find a drowsy footman banking the fire or perhaps a maid finishing some forgotten chore.
Instead, he saw Mrs. Callahan.
“Your Grace,” she murmured from a leather chair. “I heard you come in. I was just waiting for a moment of quiet before retiring for the evening.”
Benedict felt an unexpected wave of annoyance, his drink getting the better of him. “Waiting you say, Mrs. Callahan? You need not wait up for me. I am a grown man and Duke of this manor.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I just happened to be taking a moment to myself; I did not mean to indicate otherwise.”
“Of course, I am sorry for my hasty words.”
“While you are here though, I must say a word about Her Grace… I must offer a report on how the affairs of the house are settling.”
“What has she gotten up to now?” Benedict sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Be brief. And know that my son is the only concern of mine in this marriage.”
Mrs. Callahan looked at him for a long, quiet moment. “As you say, Your Grace. But I must tell you, this house and everyone in it is very much enraptured with Her Grace. The cook, the staff.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. “She is a wonder.”
“A wonder how?”
“In the days and weeks she has been here, she has memorized the names of every member of the staff, from the head footman to the lowliest scullery maid. She has asked each of them about their duties, not to criticize, but to understand the way things work.”
“Really?” Benedict asked, sitting in the chair across from her.
“The cook was complaining only this morning that Her Grace had spent two hours yesterday simply watching him work, asking about his suppliers and his budget. She made Miss Flaherty, the new head parlor maid with the poor eyesight, a simple poultice for her nightly pain, and she did it herself. She did not order me to do it…”
“Some sort of Highland magic I suppose…”
“Her Grace went to the stillroom, mixed it, and delivered it with her own hands. Someone of her standing, mixing herbs for a maid because she was in need…” Mrs. Callahan’s words fell away as she continued shaking her head.
“And my son?” he asked, the question escaping him before he could stop it.
Mrs. Callahan smiled, this time with a genuine, warm expression that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Lord Oliver adores her, Your Grace. Truly. He talks to her about his lessons, and she listens to every word. They share a love of stories from what I have overheard.”
Benedict leaned back, feeling the sting of the whiskey in the back of his throat.
A woman who asked for nothing and expected less.
That was what he had been told. What he had seen, however, was a woman who gave everything and took satisfaction from her work. A woman who was, in fact, everything he had hoped for in a wife.
“That is all, Your Grace,” Mrs. Callahan said, rising slowly to her feet. “Forgive me for the imposition on your late arrival; it was not my intention.”
She dipped a curtsey and walked toward the door.
“Mrs. Callahan,” Benedict said, his voice a little hoarse. “Thank you.”
She did not turn back but simply paused at the door. “Good night, Your Grace. I pray you sleep well.”
He watched the door click shut, leaving him in the dim light of the library and alone with his lingering thoughts.
Whatever will I do with this wife of mine?