Chapter Seventeen
The next day, Hugh threw himself into his work, meeting with his steward to discuss addressing his tenants’ complaints, arranging for new fencing to be built around livestock and fields, and debating at length whether to raise or lower the price of corn when harvest came around.
This, alongside responding to various letters of inquiry, took him a large portion of the day, and it was only when he emerged from his study that he allowed himself to think about Christiana.
How she had appeared in her dressing room.
The expression in her eyes when he had kissed her fingers.
He couldn’t allow himself to get lost in thoughts of this nature.
“Mr. Arnold,” he said to his steward, who was in the midst of packing up his papers. “I need you to travel to Yorkshire for me.”
“Yorkshire?”
“I am seeking to make a substantial investment there. Barnsley Hall, I believe it’s called. It may be a little dilapidated now.”
Mr. Arnold frowned, evidently puzzled. Although Hugh worked hard to maintain his land and the people who lived on it, this was the first time he had shown interest in anything outside of that. “You wish to make a purchase, sir?”
“I do. I shall write to my solicitors in London and see which assets may have to be liquidated in order to make the purchase. Report to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wish to know the state of the estate, its dependents, and what work you estimate requires to be done in order to make it functional and profitable.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Arnold said cautiously. “May I ask what has inspired this change of heart?”
“The estate belongs to my wife’s father. I wish to purchase it for her before it falls further into ruin.”
Mr. Arnold’s face didn’t change, not even a flutter crossing his expression. “I understand, sir.”
“Good.” Hugh adjusted the hem of his gloves as he strode away, finding Amelia, not Christiana, in the library.
“I believe she has gone to visit the village,” Amelia said, raising her head from her latest novel.
Hugh believed in the value of literature, but he did not believe that Amelia was necessarily the best recipient of bad ideas written into novel form.
She had altogether too many bad ideas of her own; she hardly needed any more.
“The village?” he asked. “Why?”
“Mrs. Partridge reminded her that it’s her duty as duchess to visit the poor.” Amelia looked down at her page again, a frown crossing her face. “I offered to attend, but she said it wasn’t necessary.”
A sliver of ice slid down Hugh’s spine.
His tenants respected him, but the occupants of the village did not—after he had dismissed almost his entire household in a fit of rage shortly after the accident, rumors had spread about his fearsome temper.
If Christiana went there alone… He didn’t think anyone would harm her, but he hated the thought of his shame infecting her, too.
It was one thing for people to believe the worst of him. He was the Beast of Somerset—he had failed to save his parents; he was monstrous to look at. But Christiana was his wife, and it was his duty to protect her.
Turning on his heel, he strode from the room, calling for his horse to be brought around. Riding was never pleasant at the best of times, but he would suffer this and far more to protect the things that were his.
In marrying him, Christiana had cast herself on his mercy and entitled herself to his protection. He would stop at nothing to offer her that, if nothing else.
After checking his mask was in place, he shrugged into his greatcoat—all the better to conceal whatever ruin his flesh had suffered—and swung onto his horse. He didn’t hesitate a moment before setting off for Grancott.
Once, his parents had been patrons of the village, engaged in local practices and festivals, making frequent appearances together and separately.
But he had closed himself off. This was, in fact, the first time he had ventured into Grancott in years.
Familiarity barreled into him, and he exhaled a long, slow breath at the stone houses huddled together.
Some thatch, some tile. Chickens clucked in nearby gardens, and the tiny windows of the shop fronts refracted sunlight against the cobbled ground.
He had played here as a boy. Run from Somerset Hall to the oak tree in the village green and accepted treats from the greengrocers. Swung from a rope that still hung limply from the oak’s lowest branch.
The memories felt alien to him now.
A small boy played with a ragged chicken by the well in the village square, and Hugh dismounted, leading Julius with one hand. At the sight of him, the boy’s eyes widened and he paled.
Hugh withdrew a shilling from his pocket, holding it up so it caught the light. “Can you look after my horse for a few minutes?” he asked. “I’ll give you the shilling when I’m done.”
The poor child looked terrified. A mother came running out of the house, coming to stand before the boy, her bony chin jutting out defiantly. “If you please, Your Grace, don’t involve Jeremy in your business dealings.”
He sighed and led Julius away to a nearby post, wrapping the reins around it. Hopefully, no one would attempt to steal his horse. Then again, the rumors of his nature were widespread enough that they would fear his rage too much for that.
Small mercies.
Hostile eyes watched as he strode along the single road that made up the main street. Doors slammed at his approach, and he felt the weight of his failure press down heavier than ever.
When he finally saw Christiana, a basket on one arm, he felt near weak with relief. She was whole, no rotten eggs or tomatoes on her dress or face.
The basket, he noted, was still full of food.
Her stiff shoulders spoke of hurt.
More impotent rage filled him. One mistake, and the world had turned its back on him—and now it turned its back on her. The people had refused his food, as though it might be tainted in some way.
She caught sight of him, and a smile spread across her face. Relief and genuine joy at seeing him.
That someone could feel relief at the sight of his face hardly felt real.
“Hugh,” she called, hurrying to join him. “If I’d known you’d intended to come to the village, I would have joined you.”
He tucked her hand possessively in the crook of her arm, squeezing her fingers. The gesture seemed to soothe her somewhat. “I hadn’t intended to come until I’d known you had. Are you all right?”
“Perfectly,” she assured him.
“No one has been rude?”
Her gaze dropped, providing all the answer he needed. “Not as such.”
“Forgive me. My reputation among my tenants is good, but the wider village is less accepting. I should have warned you.”
“I shouldn’t have come alone,” she said lightly, offering him a smile. “Why do they dislike you? Because of your scars?”
Hugh glanced at the end of the road, where the greengrocer’s stood. Beside it, the butcher. A cluster of village women gathered around their baskets and gossip, no doubt spreading how he had approached little Jeremy with the intention of doing something terrible.
“Partially,” he said. “But not exclusively. After the fire, I was angry and in pain. Rumors spread about my appearance and my temper.” He spared her a brief, rueful glance. “They were not exaggerated.”
Her mouth twisted. “You lost everything.”
“Not everything.” Not Amelia, and for a long time, she had been the only reason he’d gotten out of bed. “Nothing excuses my behavior in those early days, Chris. And, when things were particularly bad, I dismissed almost all the servants in a fit of rage.”
She made a tiny sound beside him, and her fingers gripped him more tightly again, flexing under his. “Worse things have happened.”
“Many people from the village lost their livelihoods. Some had to travel far farther afield to find other occupations. They have never forgiven me for it.”
She was silent for a long time. Finally, when she spoke, she said the last thing he had expected. “I don’t think you want their forgiveness.”
“Pardon me?”
“You haven’t forgiven yourself, and so you have no interest in the forgiveness of others.” She glanced up at him. “If you had wanted to repair your reputation with them, Hugh, you could have. You are no monster.”
He huffed a breath. “As my wife, you are under obligation to think so.”
“Then you have not met many wives,” she said wryly. “If I, your wife, living under the same roof as you, think you a kind and considerate man, then others can think so, too.”
Perhaps she was right—perhaps he had no interest in forgiveness—because the prospect of asking for these people to accept him again made him feel hot and itchy all over.
“Amelia said Mrs. Partridge told you to come here,” he said, changing the subject. “Rest assured I will handle it when we return.”
“No, Hugh.” She placed her other hand on his arm. “Let me handle it. If you fight all my battles, no one will think me capable of fighting my own.”
“Will you dismiss her?”
“Do you want me to?”
No was the honest answer. Without someone to step in as replacement, he could not countenance dismissing a servant as vital as Mrs. Partridge. Kitchen maids were a very different matter. No matter her offenses, he wanted to trust his housekeeper.
Or maybe he just wanted to maintain a little of his world from before the fire.
“I see,” she said. “I understand.”
“Do as you see fit,” he replied, with momentous effort. Yielding control did not come easily to him. “Did you bring a carriage?”
“I did. Was that wrong?”
“Not in the slightest. I’ll walk you there and ride back before some youth makes away with Julius.”
She laughed a little. “Steal a duke’s horse? They would never dare.”
His spirits lightened a little at the sound of her laugh. At least her experience here had not scarred her. “What was the nearest village to your father’s estate?”