Chapter 9
9
Modesty entered through the large doors of the women’s almshouse, twisting the fabric of her gown in her chilled hands. Familiar sounds echoed through the large brick building, a stark contrast to the comfortable silence of Pryde House. A breathtaking but lonely place.
Since the butler had refused to call the carriage for her trip to Whitechapel, she’d had to hire a hackney which she paid for with her pin money. Her husband was not going to be the end of her freedom.
She saw Grace sitting with a group at one of the large tables in the common area, reading aloud while the women took notes. She must be giving a lesson in calculus or writing. This was one of her ideas to help women acquire more sellable skills and find work as a maid or a housekeeper, even if it would be in a modest household.
George was slicing bread in the kitchen area while two women peeled potatoes at the large kitchen table. His face brightening, he excused himself and hurried to her. Grace beamed at her but couldn’t come leave her lesson just yet.
“Miss Fairchild,” George greeted her.
His dark hair needed a cut, his once-white shirt had seen better days, and his waistcoat was dusted with breadcrumbs and flour. He was a stark contrast to the perfectly dressed and coiffed duke. She wished she could tear her husband out of her mind, but he’d become imbedded in her thoughts like a mollusk attached to a rock.
“Please, forgive me,” he said, frowning. “I meant to say Duchess. What brings you here?” His eyes widened as he took in Modesty’s distress. “What’s wrong?”
“I—I don’t know why I came here. It’s just…I have no one in that house. This is the only place where I feel like I have friends.”
George led her towards a small area that served as a parlor with three old sofas and several threadbare chairs. He directed her towards one of the sofas and sat next to her, though not too close for propriety’s sake.
“What did he do?” he asked gently.
Grace appeared and sat on the sofa on her other side. “Modesty, darling, what’s the matter?” she asked, holding her hand.
Modesty appreciated the warmth of her friends, the concern. Her own husband had very little regard for her at all—for anyone but himself. It must be nice to live that way, within the safety, the protection, of selfishness. He must feel so proud of himself. While she was writhing from worry for Augustus.
The words tumbled out, a torrent of pain and anger. “He sent Augustus away. Without even telling me. He won’t say where. I—I don’t know what to do.”
She’d always loved this sitting area, surrounded by bookshelves arranged like walls. There was a large window here, letting in plenty of light to read any of the volumes on botany, natural science, astronomy, and even mechanics, not to mention novels and poetry. The scents of old books lingered in the air. Modesty sank back into the sofa.
Ophelia had passed only two weeks ago. Two weeks since Modesty’s life had been forever altered. And then it had changed again yesterday when she’d married the duke. She didn’t even know who she was anymore—though she knew very well who she was supposed to be. Who her husband wanted her to be. A duchess. A woman eager to give her husband an heir. An elegant hostess for balls and grand dinners, and an excellent conversationalist.
She was probably supposed to be a little like him. Confident. Knowing her worth, her position, and her status. Being proud of herself and her heritage.
God knew, she wished she could be that way, could put her needs and wishes first for once in her life. Could feel she had the right to do so.
That was most definitely how the duke lived.
And now, poor Augustus had been torn away from her. She felt his absence like an amputation. She was so used to cradling his little body, to nights with interrupted sleep, to washing and changing his nappies, to worrying if he’d begun to feel lighter.
“Oh, Modesty,” Grace murmured, squeezing her hand. “I’m so sorry. How horrible!”
George’s expression darkened. “That’s unconscionable. Miss Fairchild…Duchess…Modesty, if I may be so bold.”
She nodded. She didn’t care for titles, anyway. They’d known each other since childhood, and he had called her Modesty as they were growing up.
“You should have never married him!” he said, his eyes blazing. “I have always known it was a mistake.”
Grace gave him a stern look. “That is none of your concern, George. Modesty can make her own decisions. She did what was best for Augustus. Wouldn’t you have done the same thing in her place?”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Modesty murmured. “I thought it would be best for Augustus to be raised by his father. That is why I married him. But his father wants nothing to do with him. So what am I to do now? Can you help me find Augustus?”
“Of course we will—” began Grace, but George shifted closer to Modesty on the sofa.
“I know what you can do,” he exclaimed. “Word has reached me of an expedition departing for Egypt in a few weeks, to explore the ancient ruins near Thebes. I intend to apply for a position with the party, and if it pleases you, I shall put forward your name as well. I have no doubt they would greatly benefit from someone with your knowledge of antiquities.”
For a moment, Modesty’s heart soared, and she sat up straighter. Egypt! The land of pharaohs and pyramids, of hidden tombs and ancient mysteries. She could almost feel the desert sun on her face, taste the excitement of discovery. To be free of societal constraints, to pursue her passion without judgment…
To escape the cold duke…
She imagined a different life. George was kind, gentle, shared her interests. If he had proposed… But even as the thought formed, her traitorous mind recalled Constantine’s commanding presence, the way his deep voice made her skin tingle, how his mere proximity in a room left her breathless. George’s friendly smiles had never made her pulse race like Constantine’s intense gazes. Had never made her wonder what it would feel like to be held, to be kissed like the duke had kissed her last night…
And that realization made her angry with herself. How could she still be drawn to a man who clearly held her in such contempt? Who could cast aside a baby without a second thought?
Augustus’s face swam before her eyes. His tiny hands, his toothless mouth crying for her. No. She couldn’t abandon him, not when he’d already lost so much.
“I…I can’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I made a promise to Ophelia. I can’t leave Augustus.”
George nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Of course. I shouldn’t have suggested it. Running away won’t solve anything.”
“What will you do?” Grace asked gently, breaking into her thoughts.
Modesty squared her shoulders, feeling a new resolve settle over her. “If the duke doesn’t return Augustus soon, I’m going to find him. I cannot be separated from the little boy.”
But she didn’t trust that he would ever bring the baby back to her. There was something in Constantine’s eyes whenever Augustus was mentioned. Not just cold indifference but real fear. What secrets was her husband hiding? What could make a powerful duke so terrified of a child?
“And then,” she continued, stiffening her spine, “then I’ll take the boy and get as far away from Pryde as possible.”
“An admirable endeavor, Duchess.”
His deep voice made her blood freeze.
She turned her head.
Constantine stood in the doorway, his tall frame filling the entrance, his expression unreadable, his dark gaze on her.