Chapter Three
There was nothing quite like galloping through the Cambridgeshire meadows after a productive day, the sun on his face and the soft, late spring breeze blowing through his hair.
Despite his normal self-assured demeanour, and a deep-seated confidence that came from having been raised to inherit the dukedom from a very young age, Will had doubted his decision to come to Cambridge.
It had seemed self-indulgent to step away from the business of overseeing the running of the various properties and estates that were part of the Duchy of Ashmead, yet he believed in the importance of a promise, and he could not break one made to his dear sister on her deathbed.
His reservations had been unfounded. These past couple of days had been restorative in ways he hadn’t even realised he needed.
There was discipline in his regime that he enjoyed.
Each morning he rose at seven and went for a brisk walk through the village.
At eight his breakfast was waiting for him, and thus far it had not been a disappointment.
Amelie might have been working as a housemaid in his service, but it was clearly not where her true talents lay.
Every day she surprised him with a different delicacy: pastries fresh from the oven, eggs cooked to perfection, bacon that was crispy but never dry.
Even the bread she made herself was light and fluffy inside, with a beautiful crust on the outside.
He would have to be careful to stay active or he would return to London after these few months with a changed physique.
After breakfast he collected his horse from the stable nearby and then rode along the banks of the river into the university at Cambridge. His days were spent in the library or in discussion with the fellows, the book he had thought only a dream already starting to take shape.
Some of his happiest days were those he’d spent in Cambridge as an undergraduate; it was one of the reasons he had chosen to return here when he had decided it was time to fulfil his promise to his sister.
Although his path in life had been clear from the very start—he had been born to inherit the dukedom and take his ancestral seat in the House of Lords—his father had encouraged him to take a few years in his youth to discover his own interests and build his character.
For Will, that had meant three years at Peterhouse in Cambridge before returning to Ashmead Hall to take on the responsibilities of his birth.
Ever since, he had secretly pined for the academic rigour of his university days and had long harboured an ambition to return to Cambridge to further his studies.
His area of interest was the natural world—in particular flora and fauna of Great Britain.
He found the study of their habitats fascinating, enjoying the interplay of how the effect of changing one small thing could have such a wide impact.
As an undergraduate, he had often thought how much easier his studies would be if there was a definitive text on the plants and animals of Great Britain, and a few years earlier this vague notion had developed into an ambition to become the author of such a book.
For a long time he had collected snippets of information wherever he went, making notes and sketches in a notebook, but until recently the idea of actually writing a book had seemed nothing more than a dream.
Then had come the promise to Catherine. His beloved sister had worried about him until the very end and, in making him vow to take some time for himself away from his duty, had given him this opportunity to perhaps fulfil his dream.
He had four months in Cambridge—four months of access to the library at Peterhouse, as well as letters of introduction which would allow him to access the libraries of other colleges.
Four months of access to the fellows and the professors of Cambridge, four months to focus solely on writing his book.
He grimaced. Four months was not all that long, but it was all he could spare from his normal life. He had to remind himself that much of the work was already done, sitting in note form in his collection of notebooks. There was time enough to accumulate more and edit it over the summer.
The cottage came into view and Will realised he was smiling. It was liberating to know the most taxing thing he would face that evening would be considering what colours would best show the magnificence of the male peacock’s feathers.
It took him a while to remove Agamemnon’s saddle and tack and brush him down for the night, finishing off by making sure the horse had plenty of fresh hay.
He was even enjoying the act of doing this for himself, although he did not have to muck out the stable—there was a boy at the inn where Agamemnon was stabled who did all the heavy lifting.
As he approached River View Cottage, he paused, listening to the faint sound of Amelie’s singing as she worked.
It was a warm day, and she had all the windows of the cottage open to provide a little air, so her voice carried down the path through the immaculately tended roses that were just beginning to develop their buds.
She sang a song he vaguely remembered from childhood, probably sung by one of his nursemaids in the nursery.
It was slow but not melancholy and he was unsurprised to find Amelie had a beautiful voice.
They had been thrown together more than he had anticipated these last few days, and Amelie had demonstrated remarkable resourcefulness and talent in everything she’d tried her hand at.
Normally he liked to keep a good distance between himself and his staff; otherwise, there was a risk of allowing emotional intimacy.
He saw Mrs Potter and some of the other servants every day.
They were privy to his routine and witness to his emotions.
He did not want anyone getting too close; he did not want anyone seeing how fragile he still was after his sister’s death.
One kind word and the whole facade he had built might come tumbling down, and no one wanted a duke who allowed his emotions to show.
His father had been the epitome of the perfect duke and Will often sought to emulate him. Kind but distant with the servants, he had employed the same strategy with his family. Will had known his father loved him, but that love would never get in the way of duty.
When Will had been upset about being sent away to school at eight years old, his father had not allowed his son’s tears to sway him, instead giving him a squeeze on the shoulder and telling him it was his duty to get an education so he could best serve the people he would one day be responsible for.
When Will had opened his trunk a day later at school, he’d found his father had slipped in a note to tell him how proud he was.
That balance was exactly how his father had raised him—duty had come first but Will had never felt unloved.
It was different here, impossible to remain aloof even though that was his instinct. Even he had to admit it would be a miserable few months if Amelie did not greet him cheerily and enquire about his day when he walked through the door.
The cottage was small, painted white with a thatched roof, with only a couple of rooms on each floor. The windows were latticed and old, but in the heat of late spring it did not matter about the draughts they let in.
The front door opened into a narrow entrance hall, with doors off to the right and stairs on the left. There was a good-sized parlour and behind it a kitchen. There were two bedrooms upstairs, his much larger than Amelie’s, but he did envy her the view out over the garden to the river beyond.
As he stepped over the threshold, Amelie came out of the kitchen, her cheeks rosy and her hair slipping free of the low bun she wore at the nape of her neck.
‘Good afternoon, Your Grace, I trust your day was productive?’ She reached out to take his hat and then quickly divested him of his jacket too, tucking them away into the small cupboard at the end of the hallway for him.
‘It was, thank you, and the ride back along the river glorious.’
‘It has been a lovely day again today. I keep wondering when this weather is going to break.’
‘I hope not for many months.’
She ushered him into the kitchen and looked pointedly at his boots.
Never before had a servant been so direct in ordering him around, but after an initial grumble he had to admit she was right.
If he clomped around with his muddy boots on in the small space it would make things worse for both of them.
Every day now he dutifully slipped off his boots in the kitchen and walked around in stockinged feet.
‘I have a present for you,’ she said with a smile as she bent down to pick up his boots and deposit them on the mat.
‘A present?’
‘Don’t look so scandalised,’ she laughed. ‘It is nothing intimate, nothing outside the realms of propriety.’
He balked at the idea of Amelie spending what little money she did have on him.
It was unheard of for a servant to buy their master or mistress a gift.
Even at Christmas, when he instructed Mrs Potter to tuck a little money into an envelope for each of his servants—from the butler down to the stable boys—he never expected or received anything in return. It just wasn’t done.
She turned and disappeared into the small dining room which opened off from the kitchen and returned with a parcel in her hands.
‘I cannot accept this, Amelie.’
‘You do not know what it is yet.’
‘Even so…’
He would swear she started to roll her eyes before she caught herself.
‘Open it,’ she insisted.
It was impossible to do anything else. Slowly he untied the string that held the brown paper together, unpeeling it to reveal a pair of slippers inside.
‘Slippers.’