Chapter 2
From the relative safety of his study, Benedict Ashcombe, the Duke of Harrowmere, lit a cigar and passed it to his longtime friend, Captain Whitcomb, as the distant sounds of his two rowdy boys echoed in the halls outside.
“They are rather more rambunctious than I remember,” Whitcomb said, taking a slow drag on the cigar and smiling ruefully at his friend.
“They grow more chaotic every day,” Benedict said drily.
“It is truly astounding to me that a six-year-old and a ten-year-old can cause as much damage as they do, but some days I wonder if I am losing control over my own household. Since Eleanor …” he trailed off, staring into the flames flickering in the fireplace.
For a long moment, Whitcomb was silent. He had been by Benedict’s side throughout the trying years of grief following his wife’s tragic death four years before and knew his friend’s pain better than most.
“I did not see a governess in the hall outside,” he said at last, pulling their conversation back to the present lest it dig up painful memories of the past. “Have you sent another away?”
“I did not send her away,” Benedict sighed, knocking ash off his cigar.
“She left, abandoning her post in the middle of the night after losing patience with Edward and Henry once and for all. She even left a note to that effect and asked that I forward her reference to an address in the north. I do not expect to hear from her again.”
“And you shall give her one?” Whitcombe pressed.
“I do not agree with her leaving so suddenly, of course.” Benedict shrugged. “But I cannot argue with her reasons. My boys are difficult, at best.”
“Are the boys really that bad?” Whitcombe asked. “They seem merely full of life to me.”
“They do not care for the rules, and flaunt their governesses most dreadfully,” Benedict said drily.
“If you think I indulge them, you are much mistaken.
I feel I have been most strict in my discipline, removing all rewards and favorite pastimes in the face of their disagreeable behavior.
I have even been known to hide Edward, once or twice, when he was impertinent.
It seems to do nothing. I think, often, of how Eleanor would have known how to manage them. She had a way with wild things—one time, I saw her walk up to an unbroken colt, and it was as peaceful under her touch as a kitten would have been.”
“She was a rare woman,” Whitcombe agreed quietly.
Suddenly, the study door burst open, admitting the two boys of whom they had just been speaking. The eldest, Edward, was leading a charge into one corner of the room, holding a small wooden boat aloft and just out of his little brother’s reach.
They were both dressed in muddied clothes, indicating their recent unfortunate brush with nature, and Henry was red in the face with fury.
“Give it back!” he cried, balling up his little fists in frustration. “It is mine, and you know it, Eddie!”
“Do not call me Eddie,” Edward snapped. “I hate it.”
“I will call you anything I like until you give me back my boat,” Henry wailed.
“Boys!” Benedict set aside his cigar and jumped quickly to his feet, his voice low and threatening, bringing a sudden stillness to the room. “That is enough. What sort of behavior is this, and in the presence of a guest, no less?”
Edward seemed to notice the captain for the first time. “I am sorry, sir,” he said sullenly.
“No matter, Edward,” Captain Whitcombe intoned. “Come over here and let me look at you—you have grown so much as of late. I fear if I blink for a moment, you will be a foot taller.”
Edward looked at his father, and then back at the captain. He seemed wary, as though he guessed that some further reprimand was coming. “I am going to be as tall as Papa one day.”
“No, I am,” Henry cried, pushing himself in front of Henry.
“He was not talking to you,” Edward said with alarm, pushing back.
“That is enough,” Benedict said quickly, pulling both boys apart by a firm grip on either shoulder. “If you cannot honor each other when in the same room, then you shall be forced to spend the remainder of the day apart.”
He prepared to send them to their rooms, but before he could do so, the butler arrived with news that the newest governess, a Miss Cresswell, was in the parlor waiting to meet the duke and his sons.
Benedict eyed the two boys with a warning glance. “We shall go to her at once, but if I sense any disrespect, I shall remove you from the situation at once.” He nodded to Whitcombe. “You may join us, if you will.”
They walked as a foursome to the parlor, where they found a tall and reedy woman of middle age, her already greying hair pulled back in a severe bun, her grey gown stretching all the way up her neck, down her wrists, and over her ankles.
She looked like an enormous piece of charcoal, rigid and ready.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying deeply. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance in person. I have enjoyed our written correspondence exceedingly. May I surmise that these are my two charges? Master Edward? Master Henry?”
Both boys stepped forward after a nudge from Benedict, but neither spoke.
Miss Cresswell cleared her throat. “It is polite to speak when you are spoken to, boys. Master Edward, perhaps we should begin with you. How old are you?”
“Ten, ma’am,” he responded.
“I am not married,” she said coldly, “and so you may refer to me as ‘Miss’.” She turned to Henry. “And how old are you?”
Henry stared at her with wide, frightened eyes, and said nothing.
“You will answer me when you are spoken to,” Miss Cresswell intoned coldly.
Henry shot a look at Benedict, who nodded encouragement. “Six,” he mumbled.
‘“Six, Miss,’” she corrected him.
She turned to Benedict, crossing her arms with an expression of self-satisfaction on her face.
“After your written description of the situation, I expect a bit of an uphill climb for me here, but I assure you I am undaunted. I believe firmly in obedience, routine, and proper conduct. Children such as these require structure above all else.”
She spoke as though they were not even in the room anymore, looking past them to Benedict.
“If they are out of line, I hope you will support my discipline, Your Grace. I know it is uncomfortable at the start, but I am certain that in the end, the boys will thank me for the rigidity I bring to their lives.”
Benedict nodded slowly. He felt that anything, even this odd woman’s cold severity, would be preferable to the chaos currently consuming the house. When his late wife had reigned at Harrowmere, it had been a peaceful and ordered place.
He could not help feeling that every flagrant behavior from his boys was a reminder that he had lost the anchor in the home. He wondered, when he let himself consider the matter honestly, if his wife would have been disappointed in the way things had deteriorated.
“If your methods are within reason,” he said calmly, “you can expect my utmost support in all things.”
“Your boys must be brought into hand if they are to become good gentlemen,” Miss Cresswell went on.
She turned back to the lads at last, who were looking at her with wide and uncertain gazes.
“I shall withdraw presently to settle in my rooms, but I expect to see both of you at dinner in your normal eating quarters. We shall begin with a lesson in basic manners, and work from there.”
She clapped her hands together, as though she had solved all Harrowmere Hall’s problems with this brief proclamation, then sailed out of the room in search of her luggage.
The boys left shortly after, subdued and uncertain in the face of this new authority.
When they had gone, Whitcomb cleared his throat and walked over to Benedict’s side.
“Do you want my opinion on all this, Benedict, or ought I to keep it to myself?”
“You know I treasure your wisdom,” Benedict said with a small smile. “Though if you dispense it regularly, I will be forced to limit the dosage.”
Whitcomb laughed. “Then let this be a momentary suggestion. In my opinion, the boys require not merely instruction and discipline, but stability. They have had a rotation of governesses ever since their mother’s passing.
It would do them well to be influenced by a capable woman who could bring refinement and consistency back into the household. ”
Benedict froze. He could not believe how close to his own thoughts his friend had come, apparently by accident. It was the real reason he had asked Captain Whitcomb here today—because he wanted to share a bit of news relating to this very matter.
“I confess,” he said slowly, “that the failure of another governess has only confirmed a decision I had been considering seriously over the last few months. I … I intend to remarry.”
Captain Whitcomb’s eyebrows flew up in astonishment. “What? After all these years as a proclaimed bachelor, you are marrying? Please do not mistake me, Benedict—I think it very wise indeed—but I had not ever imagined you seeking out romance again.”
Benedict smiled and shook his head. “You mistake me, friend. I have no interest in romance of any sort, nor a desire to recreate the emotional attachment I once shared with Eleanor. No, I seek only practicality—a calm, sensible woman capable of bringing order and steadiness back into my sons’ lives. ”
Whitcombe shook his head. He was a young man, a few years younger than Benedict’s thirty-five, and he possessed all the gentle romanticism that his friend lacked.
“You are proposing sharing the rest of your life with this woman. Do you not think that she should, at the very least, be attractive to you?”
“I think she should be honored in society and able to bear the burden of my family,” Benedict said quietly. “Nothing more is needed. It will not be a marriage in the way you are thinking—I will ask nothing of her romantically, only that she serve as a mother to my two boys.”
“Have you a woman in mind?” Whitcombe asked.
“A suitable young woman has been recommended to me through her father, the Earl of Bamford, though I have not had the pleasure of meeting her myself.” Benedict glanced at the mantle, where the earl’s letter of proposition still lay.
“According to him, his daughter possesses intelligence, composure, and kindness—all that my household requires.”
At the mention of the Earl of Bamford’s daughter, Captain Whitcombe’s face froze. An expression that was not entirely discernible to Benedict—was it regret? jealousy?—came over his face. The moment was brief, and the expression vanished as quickly as it had come, but Benedict did not miss it.
“Why do you look in such a manner?” he asked, stepping toward his friend. “Do you know this girl—the daughter of the Earl of Bamford? Is she a worthy woman?”
“I am … acquainted with the family, yes.” Captain Whitcomb summoned an expression of supreme indifference.
“And I can confirm personally that the earl’s daughter is considered exceptionally graceful, well-mannered, and admired within society.
I myself have enjoyed more than a few evenings in her company and was the better for her presence.
” With a note of faint amusement, he added, “She possesses, in fact, nearly every quality a man could hope to find in a wife.”
Benedict examined his friend closely. “That is reassuring, to say the least. You rarely speak favorably of society’s polished young ladies.”
Whitcombe turned away, looking out the window. “In the case of this particular young lady, I will make an exception.”
“So, you approve of the match?”
Whitcombe turned back, his mask of calm indifference firmly in place.
“I wholeheartedly approve of you taking a wife, my dear friend, and you could not find a more worthy bride than the one you have chosen. You may even find yourself building affection despite your intentions to keep the matter only practical.”
“Affection is unreliable,” Benedict said quietly. “In my experience with my own love, it comes and goes. After years of grief and disorder, I no longer believe passion alone is enough to sustain a household. That was the view of a much younger man, who had suffered less loss.”
“So, this decision is entirely for your sons’ benefit, and not your own?” Whitcombe sighed.
“It is.” Benedict noted the expression on Whitcombe’s face and smiled despite himself. “You need not look so disappointed in me. I can hardly be the first man in your acquaintance to be choosing a pragmatic approach to marriage.”
“No, you are right.” The captain waved his hand dismissively. “I was only thinking of the lady herself, and how she might be hoping for a more romantic connection.”
“If that is the case, I will not force her,” Benedict said quickly. “I will meet her first and make certain that she is accepting of the match. If she is the sort of woman who expects a love connection, then she is not the wife for me.”
He let the conversation run its course, and after his friend bid him adieu, he strolled quietly to the library and settled in a chair by the fireplace, pulling out a book to peruse as evening fell. His attention, however, strayed again and again from the page.
Instead, he thought through the days’ events, his ears straining to hear any raucous noises from the boys’ room upstairs, as they always were.
He could hardly remember what it felt like to sit in a fully peaceful house.
He interacted with his own sons more like a magistrate with criminals, fighting at every turn to keep them in line.
It was not a peaceful or happy existence.
He hoped that his choice for a wife could somehow turn that around—but she would have to be a remarkable, level-headed woman.
As his thoughts turned to the women of the ton, another memory crept into the fringes of his musing—from only a few days earlier.
It had been an absurd scene at the Kensington Gardens lake, to be certain.
Benedict had been passing through briskly with business in mind when he suddenly witnessed a young woman nearly drown herself in the rescue of a stray kitten.
He could remember, even now, the sight of her yellow hair floating in the lake like some gruesome seaweed. He had not hesitated, diving in and pulling her out of the dark waters as quickly as he could.
She was still fit and healthy when he set her on the shore; she seemed to have had the presence of mind to hold her breath, the only intelligent choice she had made all morning, in his opinion.
It had angered Benedict to see a young woman put herself so wantonly in harm’s way. She may not have thought thoroughly through the consequences herself, but Benedict knew what trauma occurred in a household when one so young and full of life met an early grave.
It was foolishness in the extreme, and he was glad that the woman he had chosen to marry was, by all accounts, a more level-headed lass.