Devotion (29 page)

The cold, fresh air of the overcast day appeared to revive her duke of his morning doldrums, as did their time spent in the company of
NapPerl
and her frolicking filly. In yet another paddock paced a sleek, silvery stallion that snorted to his mare occasionally,
then
pranced, knees breaking level and neck arched, from one end of the paddock to the other. Now and again, the horse tossed its head in a circular motion, then turned its muzzle into the breeze and nickered.

"Drinkers of the wind," Salterdon explained. "The Arabs are known for their ability to withstand extraordinary challenges. They drink in the hot desert winds
then blow them out. Their nostrils are like fire. Their stamina and endurance is unsurpassed."

"What do you call him?" she asked, awed by the brilliance of the gray stallion.

"
NapPoleone
."

"He seems, Your Grace, to challenge. Is he dangerous?"

"If I could leave this chair I would show you how dangerous he is.
Dangerous?
A child could climb on his back, Miss Ashton.
A girl as fragile and delicate as . . . you."

A blush touched her cheeks. She looked away, into the trees, then toward the sky whose horizon had grown dull throughout the day and dark with impending weather.

"Tell me, Miss Ashton, if that filly were yours, what would you name her?"

A moment passed before she could find her voice.
"
NapPerl's
filly, Your Grace?"

He nodded, causing his woolen scarf to fall askew.

Busily, she adjusted the scarf more closely around his shoulders and neck, allowing her fingers to brush lightly against his hair—to linger, to toy, unbeknownst to him, with a singular curl that lay coiled upon the back of his chair. Odd that that which she had once found so repugnant now drew her hand to it like a magnet.
"I
would call her
NapTeesta
Rose, your grace."

"Why?"

"I . . . don't know. Because it sounds so
feminine,
and she is feminine.
Rose, of course, to honor your home."

Silently, he watched the filly ran across the brown grass, then he said, "Then
NapTeesta
Rose it shall be."

For the next hour they sat beneath a tree, and she listened as he read aloud from
The Vicar of Wakefield.
Like the music he had spun the night before, his words seemed lyrical. Had it only been days ago when he had managed an occasional slur or groan? When his very presence had appalled and frightened her? Now she could only lean upon the strong and knotty trunk of the old oak and, with eyes closed and her shawl drawn more tightly about her, for the weather was changing rapidly, and not for the better, listen to the tenor words and feel as if she were floating on the swirling, chilling breeze. The idea occurred to her suddenly that she could remain here—at Thorn Rose—forever—see to Salterdon's every need and wish—forever. Spend every waking minute of every day in his company, float on his music at night, and pray that once more in her lifetime he might reward her with an embrace.

Only when the sudden silence struck her did she look up to discover Salterdon staring at her, a shadow of his old anger in his dark eyes, the book tossed on the ground at his feet.

"
Your
Grace?"

"Tell me what good that will do me," he demanded and made a dismissive motion toward the book, "without my goddamn legs."

Like the sudden, unexpected slash of freezing rain and the pitiless east wind that swept over the moor, driving both human beings and beasts inside, the

Duchess of Salterdon arrived at just after
noon .
.
, with no warning.

Maria was perusing the library shelves for some tome that might stimulate the duke out of his apparent dismal mood, when Gertrude burst into the chamber, arms flapping in agitation while behind her servants were scattering like frightened hens. "It's the duchess," she cried simply, then dashed from the room again with a flounce of skirts and petticoats.

Her gaze fixed on the empty
threshold,
Maria swallowed and said, "Oh God.
The letter.
I
forgot about the letter." Her spirits plummeted even further when she learned that the duchess was not alone . . . obviously Her Grace had wasted little time in locating another companion for her grandson.

Maria was immediately summoned by the duchess.

For two hours Maria sat outside one of the half dozen salons, waiting to be received by Her Grace and watching the staff, most of which had traveled from
Wyndthorst
with the duchess, hustle up and down the corridors, arms full of bed linens, silver chocolate services, and vases of fresh flowers brought up from the conservatory. One would have thought King George had arrived instead of an eighty-odd-year-old duchess.

There were a minimum of four chamber and parlor maids, a laundress to wash only the duchess's garments and a linen woman to iron them, a maid whose entire job consisted of packing and unpacking the duchess's trunks, a butler who snapped orders constantly at the four footmen whose job was to jump at his every command. There was also a French chef (with two
assistants in tow), who sent Thorn Rose's cook scrambling from the kitchen in a huff, not to mention a
pâtissier
to cook the duchess's daily bread, tea cakes, and confections. By the time the duchess had been in attendance an hour, the entire west wing of the stately mansion had been dusted, swept, furniture rearranged, and windows washed. Smells of cinnamon tea cakes wafted from the kitchen.

Maria paced up and down the gallery, then to the staircase where she stood with one foot on a step and one hand gripping the banister.
Silly ill-tempered child to have written that detestable letter of resignation.
How could she have allowed her temper to so overwhelm her?

Would the duchess allow her to see him—the duke— one last time before she was sent packing back to
Huddersfield
? Even now Gertrude was with him, bathing, shaving, dressing him in his finest when it should have been herself brushing his hair, preparing him for this most auspicious moment.

The door of the salon opened.
Sydney, the duchess's butler, a tall gaunt man with a hooked nose and lips like a cod's, looked down his nose at her and sniffed.
"Her Grace, the Duchess of Salterdon, will see you now."

Sydney led her into the salon where the immense Italian marble hearth roared with fire, even as a cold breeze tumbled into the room through the open windows.

The duchess, wearing a loose-fitting vibrantly red silk kimono, waited until Maria had curtsied before pointing to one of two chairs—one empty, the other
occupied by a roundly built fellow with a scattering of hairs brushed over a wide bald spot atop his head . . .
Edgcumbe
, the duchess's physician.

The portly gentleman immediately leapt to his feet and rewarded her with a nod of his head and a smile, peering at Maria through a monocle that made one of his protuberant brown eyes look bigger than the other.

"How do you do, Miss Ashton.
I'm—"

"I know who you are," she declared with a sudden burst of emotion that made the rotund little man rock back on his heels, and the duchess to raise both eyebrows. "You, sir, have come here to take His Grace away."

"Indeed," he said.

"It must be stated," she said, drawing back her shoulders and lifting her chin, "that upon commencement of that dismal missive I was not of a rational mood. I . . . am not certain, exactly, what sort of fit had overcome me; I fear occasional failure, no matter how brief, can make even the most
stoutminded
and -hearted falter in their endeavors."

The man exchanged looks with the duchess, then Maria said, "Not that His Grace's temper can't yet be decidedly reprehensible—yes, I believe that's how I described him in the letter," she stressed to the duchess, who regarded her with bemused brow and slightly pursed lips. "I feel, nay, I'm certain you'll find him much improved."

"You don't say," said
Edgcumbe
.

"Oh, yes. I do. Much improved." She smiled and nodded.

At last, the duchess relaxed in her chair. "Sit down, Miss Ashton."

Maria sat stiffly on the lip of the chair; a servant appeared from nowhere to present her with chocolate in a gold-rimmed black china cup.

The duchess waited until her own cup was refilled before speaking. "I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about, my dear. I've received no letter. My purpose in coming here was to have
Edgcumbe
visit with my grandson one last time before I make my decision."

"Decision?"
She peered at the duchess through a ribbon of rising steam, the words "I've received no letter," rolling over and over in her mind.

The duchess had not received the letter of resignation—the hysterical plea to employ a replacement as soon as feasibly possible because she could not survive another fortnight in the company of her reprehensible grandson.

It was not too late after all.

She would simply explain that she had reconsidered—

"Disturbing rumors have reached me of Trey's recent behavior."

Boiling chocolate caught in her throat, Maria briefly closed her eyes.
The Ladies Draymond.

"Of course I summoned
Edgcumbe
immediately," said the duchess in a tight voice, casting the physician a despairing look.

"Oh, but—" Maria began.

Edgcumbe
leaned forward. "I'm certain you're
aware, conditions such as Salterdon's show a distinct tendency toward intense melancholy with sporadic displays of extreme aggression—not uncommon with the sort of injury he sustained, being the blow to his head, of course. I fear our hospitals are overflowing with such dementia and will continue to be so until we have a greater understanding of the workings of the mind."

"Yes, but—"

"Therefore," the duchess interrupted, "we have come to the regrettable conclusion that, in the best interest of my beloved grandson, he be taken to an environment that more suits his situation and needs."

"Someplace where he'll be attended by individuals more . . . shall I say, possessed of a level of efficiency and ability to better govern his behavior and well being,"
Edgcumbe
intruded.

"Royal Oaks," Maria gasped aloud, her cup clattering on the saucer and sloshing chocolate across her knee.

"Certainly not."
The duchess raised one eyebrow.

"But a hospital, nevertheless.
To be housed with lunatics who howl like dogs!"

"Good God," said the duchess under her breath. "A very
melodrâmatic
portrait I'm sure, but unlikely. We're speaking of the Duke of Salterdon, my dear, not Tinker Tom or Billingsgate Moll."