Chapter 2
Chapter two
Tillman loosened his hold on the bridle as the white mare, Buttercup, lowered her head to the trough. A drop of water flicked into the air as she blew, and it landed on a small brass plaque fixed to the decorative arch. He should have known what name he’d find engraved there, but he read it anyway.
To the hallowed memory of
Duke of Osborne VII
who was once a student here.
1811–1848
It was one of many small monuments scattered across different grounds and parks. Some had been created especially for the purpose of commemorating the man. Others, like this one, had simply been slapped onto existing troughs, benches, and archways.
Death made saints out of the most mediocre of men.
It wiped away their faults and let their small moments of kindness or concession shine brighter than their intention.
It turned duty and everyday work into sacrifice.
It trivialised transgressions and made them understandable, relatable. Even inevitable.
That’s what had happened to the memory of the late duke of Osborne, William West, a man with a name and list of titles so long he had to draw breath halfway through reciting them to finish.
He’d been an average student and a lazy one.
A boy who copied notes off his lower-ranking peers—which meant almost everyone.
The others had been obsequious. Tillman, who’d worked hard for a free place at this school and worked even harder to keep it, had taken offence.
He’d thumped His Bloody Grace William West, Duke of Osborne, Earl of Something and the Rest, then told him to figure out the circumference of a circle for himself.
And as so often happened with schoolboys, that had been the start of a solid friendship.
Tillman stuck a wheat stalk between his teeth.
It jutted hard against his tongue, and he chewed the end to soften it.
He rolled it from side to side, almost in sync with Her Grace’s steps along the path.
She kept casting furtive glances at the door, then back to the pavers before she raised her black skirts to turn and retrace her steps along the path.
It had been so long since she’d worn anything but black, mourning a man who did not deserve her tears.
Buttercup raised her head, water clinging to her whiskers.
Tillman led her back to the carriage. He fastened the traces, checked buckles, tightened straps, adjusted the yoke.
He ran his palm over her flank, then repeated the process on the other side for Melody, who barely shifted as he worked.
Only the calmest, strongest, and most predictable horses were allowed to pull his duchess, and these two were the best. Not only from the estate’s stables, but possibly in all the county.
The Duke of Stoneleigh appeared at the door. ‘I told you to go home.’
‘Do you really think he’s gone to London?’ The duchess raised her skirts as she patted up the stairs to meet her father. ‘It’s such a long way, and he’s just a boy.’
‘He is not just a boy. He’s almost a man, and a duke at that.’ The duke thumped down each step until he stood before the carriage, his daughter matching him. ‘William would be horrified. You mollycoddled him when he was young. He should have been sent away sooner.’
‘He went to the preparatory school at eight, then here at twelve. Was I supposed to send him away the day his father died?’
The duke surveyed his daughter. No applause for guessing what the older man was thinking.
It was a wonder he did not argue whenever the duchess brought her son home for Christmas, Easter, and birthdays, even though the boy spent his time sullen and keeping to himself, refusing to engage with anyone beyond monosyllabic responses and grunts.
‘Why do you think he’s gone to London?’ she persisted. ‘He’s barely been there before. Or anywhere besides school.’
‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘How can I not worry?’
The Duke of Stoneleigh grumbled into an exhale. ‘The headmaster said he was asking some of the older boys about their fathers. And sometimes about his own. The places he frequented when he was alive, what clubs he might have been a member of, that type of thing. He wants to learn about him.’
‘Did anyone talk to him about… about her?’
‘I don’t think so. But gossip like that doesn’t die. For all his efforts to keep her a secret, everyone knew.’
‘Everyone but me.’
A chill not borne from the breeze ran along Tillman’s spine, and he fumbled a harness. Luckily, Melody stamped a hoof, which smothered the clunk.
It was the first time she’d shown any kind of emotion about her husband’s mistress, if the brief, bitter quip could be called emotion.
Even on the day they’d read William’s will, she’d barely flinched as the solicitor read out the paragraphs about the other woman and the son she’d borne him.
William, typical arrogant arse that he’d been, hadn’t even shown any remorse on paper.
He’d just made a pathetic plea from beyond the grave that, while he’d done what he could to financially buffer them, would the estate step in to support them if their fortunes changed?
Would his family show some compassion for these people he cared for?
Young Arley, not quite six, sitting in the chair opposite the solicitor with his feet hanging off the edge of the cushion, had perhaps not even understood.
He had watched his mother, blinking, brow creasing with the news that he had a bastard half-brother he was expected to look out for in life.
Like the Duke of Stoneleigh said—everyone knew.
And as she’d remained immovable as stone, Tillman had assumed she knew, too.
‘I’ve sent men to look for him,’ the duke continued without a pause to acknowledge his daughter’s admission. ‘We’ll find him. But I will not tolerate my grandson making a spectacle of himself. He will have to learn.’
‘What can I do? There must be someth—’
‘Go home, Lorelei. I’ll send you a note when everything’s sorted.’ He gave his daughter a familial peck on the cheek. His arms stayed stiff at his sides, as did hers.
The duchess watched her father as he walked up the stairs and disappeared into the foyer. The light from the carriage lamp encircled her, and as a cloud lazed across the moon, it cast a shadow over her form. Her shoulders rose, then fell, squaring with an exhalation.
‘Mr Masters?’ she called, still facing away from him, although her words carried.
‘Your Grace?’
‘You heard all of that?’
‘Apologies, I did not mean to eavesdrop. I was checking the—’
She raised a hand to silence him. ‘Good. I won’t have to repeat myself. Sit with me in the carriage. I wish to talk.’
Tillman held her hand as she climbed into the vehicle.
Once she had gathered and smoothed her skirts and seemed comfortable and ready, he shouted a command to the driver, then hauled himself into the carriage, shutting the door behind him.
He knocked the roof with his fist, the driver whistled, the reins snapped, and they eased forwards into the night.
In all the years he’d known the duchess—and he’d known her a good many years—he’d never seen her flustered.
Never seen her express emotion in any overt way.
He’d learnt to read her pleasure or displeasure as conveyed in a glance, a wave, or a sigh, and while she might now be drawing a simple circle on the inside of her gloved palm with her other thumb, and only the smallest frown creased her brow, he could tell that she was racked with worry.
But then, her son was missing. It was natural that she’d be worried.
She stared out the window as they cut along the drive. The clouds had settled into the night now, and only the scantest glow lit passing branches and tree stumps. The air felt cloying. A storm was brewing, but the carriage windows must be holding on to the cold, as her breath misted the glass.
‘Did you ever go to London with my husband?’ she asked, still staring outside the window, her gaze soft and unfocused.
‘A couple of times, when we were younger. After we finished school and before he went to Oxford. Once I was settled in my position as estate manager though, no. That was no longer my place in his life.’
Once it had become apparent that the invitation to manage the sprawling ducal estate had also meant a permanent end to a schoolyard friendship, Tillman had mourned for a harvest, then left his resentment where it belonged—in the detritus of his childhood.
He’d lost friendships before. As a boy he’d taken to numbers and letters as easily as to swinging a scythe or to hitching a horse, and so he had been selected from the dregs of the parish school for a place at the new academy to help round out the cohort.
When he visited his parents, the other boys in his village shouted taunts, no longer invited him to play games, and occasionally pulled their caps with mocking spite.
However, it was hard to carry resentment for either dukes or village children, as his position had allowed him to send money home when his parents became too old to work.
He sent shillings and pounds, not pennies, to his sisters when the years were tough.
And had the thought appealed to him, he’d have been able to support a wife and family.
There were many good things about landing where he had, even if it made him everyone’s forgotten friend.
The duchess threw him a quick glance of understanding. She stopped drawing the circles inside her palm, and let her hands rest on her lap.
‘If Arley has gone to London for an adventure, are there places you know of that he might visit? Taverns, theatres, and the like? When William spoke of his time in London, he only mentioned the Lords and some social events. He never went into much detail, and I must confess, I never asked. I was more suited to entertaining at the estate. And after Arley was born, I… I lost my desire to visit Town.’
Was she telling the lies for his benefit, or for her own?
Perhaps both. Because Tillman knew that once William had obtained his heir, he’d not encouraged her company whenever he went to the city.
He’d only left long lists of tasks and directions about the boy’s routine.
And for the first few days after her husband’s departure, she would always follow his orders diligently.
She wrote letters to her sisters, did not disrupt her son’s governess, and saw to all the mundane work she’d been entrusted with.
But by the second or third day, she was knocking on the nursery door.
She interrupted lessons to take her son on walks through the grounds, and on rainy days, they sat by the hearth or raced raindrops down the windows.
They spent endless hours in sunbeams, drawing lines in the thick rug, creating pictures that only the two of them could see.
The only routine that ruled the manor was the one that made her happy.
And not once did she seem to think about where her husband was, or who he was with.
In her ignorance, she had been blissful.
‘We never went to places like that.’ Tillman picked a careful path between his words. ‘But drinking and bawdy houses… It wasn’t his style. He was too controlled.’
Too controlling.
‘Am I being na?ve in believing my son is like his father? That he’s also reserved and has not gone to London in pursuit of… of pleasures?’
He shook his head. ‘Not na?ve at all. I think you’re right to question those who say otherwise.
I’m sure he’ll find his way in that direction soon enough, but even then, it doesn’t strike me as his nature to play the part of a rake.
He’s not one for crowds. Or perhaps I should say, he’s not one for attention, as much as it chases him. ’
The carriage slowed as it came to the end of the drive. Tillman pounded the roof, and they stopped. ‘Which way, Your Grace? Home?’ He nodded to their right. ‘Or Town?’
Her breath misted as she stared out the window, and little silver plumes drifted against the glass. She drew a simple flower in the fog, then swiped it away.
‘More boots on the ground can’t hurt, can they?
To Town. It’s been months since I’ve seen him.
And if… if he doesn’t want to return to that school, then he doesn’t have to.
I’d like to ask him what he would prefer, myself.
’ A hesitant smile crept to her lips, and while it wasn’t wide, it carried purpose. ‘Maybe he would like to come home.’
‘There’s an inn ahead. We can stop there for the night. I’ll send a message to the estate to have Cecil organise some staff to take the train and open the townhouse. If anyone can work a miracle, it’s him. We should arrive by late afternoon tomorrow.’
‘If the horses don’t need to rest or if we can swap them, can we drive on? I don’t mind a little discomfort.’
‘Yes, you do,’ he said. Settled in the closeness of the cab, the words slipped out before he could swallow them. It was too familiar a comment, and she levelled him from across the carriage, her eyes perceptive and cutting. Then she huffed a laugh.
‘Fair observation, Mr Masters. How is this, then? I will tolerate discomfort if it gets us to London faster. I am too worried to sleep.’
‘As you wish, Your Grace. We shall drive through the night.’
When they paused at the next coach stop to feed and water the horses, Tillman swung out of the cab.
He closed the door softly. Once he’d found an energetic stable hand to ride a message to the estate on the promise of fair coin now and more on delivery, he climbed back onto the seat beside the driver, and they set off again.
The crunch and jingle of the conveyance and the steady clop of the horses’ hooves synthesised into a metronome.
After a mile or so, he leant to the side to squint into the cab.
Her eyelids drooped, and her chin dipped against her chest. If they kept a steady pace, she might even sleep.
The night cast a shadow across her face, and a star kissed her lips, turning her eyes sombre, dark and beautiful.
No tug at his chest.
No ache in his heart.
No desire to reach out and comfort her. To hold her.
Nothing.
His longing did not even raise his pulse.
It had taken years, but he’d choked himself into obedience.
Love had caught him out like a bumbling fool the day he’d met her, when William had brought her home to the estate with futile hope in her eyes.
And as her light faded over the years, he’d taken a hold of himself.
Had kept conversation narrow and focused on the fields and the farm.
He’d stopped himself from hurting, from wanting what he could never have.
Still…
She looked lovely like that, forehead against the glass, watching the road go by and resting.