The Rusticated Duchess (3 page)

Walking relieved the isolation and broke the monotony, but there had been too few days of sunshine recently. Instead, the wind whipped the house and dense fog accompanied weekly bouts of snow blowing in off the Irish Sea. Inside the harbour entrance, the sea now lapped gently at the stony coastline past her feet. At high tide it would wash over the rocks and at low tide would retreat to display a glorious sandy surface, surely tempting local children into its lap in the summer months. Even Gloria, who knew better, was tempted to throw off her shoes and wade in. She wondered if she would have the opportunity—if she would be here that long.

She stood at the edge of the rocks and breathed in the invigorating air, savouring the scene before her and the scents around her before looking about. In one direction, towards the rapids into Strangford Lough, stood the small hamlet of Kilchet, and beyond that the road to Strangford. Before Mrs Sinclair and her daughter Astrid had come to Blessing Cottage, they had mistakenly hired a local woman as housekeeper. Gloria allowed that any of the other villagers might have been a better choice, but Matthew had been given the commission of hiring someone when he’d arrived at the cottage—before Gloria and her household—and he’d selected a woman who had satisfied every one of Lennox’s requirements—neat, dignified, self-controlled and intelligent.

Mrs Lawson had not stayed long. Sadly, her soul had been too full of judgemental preconceptions and harsh condemnations to make her suitable for the household. After the first day, Gloria had sent Matthew to Lennox’s country seat in Wales for someone more suitable. Mrs Sinclair and her daughter Astrid had arrived a week later, but the damage had been done. Mrs Lawson had returned to Kilchet and spread the word that Blessing Cottage was inhabited by a purported widow, presently rusticating under some financial constraint or scandalous cloud so severe that not even the servants would use the lady’s supposed title. She had mocked to the villagers about the circumstances of the ‘duchess’ in residence, without ever knowing that Gloria had once had every expectation of becoming one in truth.

It hadn’t helped that Gloria had expressionlessly dispensed of her diamond betrothal ring before she’d left London, and vowed never to wear it again. She’d told Lennox to melt it down and sell the diamonds for cash to donate to the poor, but he’d deposited it in the dukedom’s vault, full of jewels fit for the duchess she’d never become.

He suggested her son might someday have a use for it and Gloria had caustically replied that Eynon would do better to purchase a ring that was not dirtied by March’s shame.

Gloria had never had any notion of becoming one of the villagers in Kilchet, but their subsequent suspicion and questioning of her servants had ranged from offensive to ridiculous. On the day Gloria discovered Mrs Pitcher and Colman debating whether County Down still conducted witch trials, Gloria had directed everyone to begin driving into Strangford for market days instead of patronising the little shops in Kilchet. The change might not reduce any gossip, but at least they didn’t have to listen to it.

Without a further thought, Gloria turned her back to the road into Kilchet and set out on her desired constitutional. In the opposite direction there was only one destination. Killard Castle sat proudly on the stony headland to the open sea, guarding the harbour and the treasures of the lough. From the castle battlements, Gloria imagined, one could see across the harbour opening to the lands’ end of Ards Peninsula, a mile distant. The castle was originally of Norman construction, built to withstand the assault of the sea. Its walls came down to the very stones that rose from the depths of the earth and cradled the headlands. In the days of old, Gloria mused, at high tide boats of warriors could have been lowered down the walls directly into the water, and archers could have stood in the battlements and behind archery slots notched in the walls to defend the castle. Cannon still were arranged in regimental precision on the facing Gloria could see, and she knew soldiers of the Revenue still manned a watchtower and operated a lighthouse glass that rose above the farthest tower.

Even if Gloria had not been in hiding and had been able to call at the castle, no one of consequence was in residence to call upon. Thus, she had never been inside, but instead remained fascinated by this behemoth structure of stone that sat so brazenly on the windswept expanse of land. Her face chilled and numbed as she walked slowly and deliberately along the road, simply enjoying the sunshine and view. Glancing back at Colman, Gloria grimaced. She ought not go closer, but didn’t wish to go back. He scowled in reply and shrugged his shoulders, stopping ten feet behind her. He’d heard her injunction the first day months earlier about staying back and leaving her to her own remembrances and had not since interfered.

Sighing, she pulled the cloak wrapping she wore over her pelisse tighter around her and trudged on. Gloria had ruined the skirt’s hem weeks before and now wore the same one for each such outing, having seen no sense in ruining a decent skirt hem for every walk. Her nose was tight with cold when she dragged her feet to a reluctant stop.

She’d not wandered quite so close to the main gates before. The huge wooden beams bound together as gates standing open ten feet before her, and beyond that impressive sight rose a second higher wall that defended the keep. The current castle community resided in a small group of cottages to the south, eliminating the old custom of crowding cottages and workshops in the bailey, so she wasn’t surprised to see the old forecourt between the walls as a wide lawn that would be a rich green when spring truly arrived.

Biting her lip, she began to swing around and turn away, only to find two tall horses pausing in the lane just behind Colman. The wind was strong enough and the sea a static roar that she had to excuse Colman from hearing them. She’d not heard them either.

The surprise on her face must have shown, because Colman whirled around and drew his pistol almost before the men realised his intent.

Colman stepped backward, towards her, and Gloria pulled her hood forwards, hiding her face from closer inspection. “State yer business,” Colman rumbled, his brogue menacing in the open air and yet clear enough that he’d be easily understood.

Both strangers seemed surprised but more curious than threatened. Still, they kept their hands on the reins of their horses.

Gloria considered them evenly in the moment of silence. She’d always been good at assessing and placing people, so she hoped the skill would be useful now. The man on the right wore well-fitted, tailored clothing, and rode a high-quality hunter. His nose was straight but his jaw was square. She guessed he was a steward or caretaker of some sort, as his mount had saddlebags so full they could barely stay fastened shut.

On the left, however, was a man who eyed Colman through narrowed slits. He was too far for Gloria to identify the colour of his eyes but they were detailing what little he could see of Gloria with the same carefulness with which she inspected him. Under a hat, capes and gloves, and sitting high above her on a giant bay hunter, the man’s features were concealed despite Gloria’s inspection. In any event, his outerwear was of finer leather than the other and his boots were shined and definitely by Hoby. He was wary, not frightened or angry or even combative. His face was an inverted triangle that highlighted his prominent cheekbones and a nose so elegant that it might have come off a Greek statue.

Gloria had always been rather proud of her small, feminine nose, so her disgruntlement at his perfect one seemed childish.

“Colman,” she said clearly, loudly enough that he could hear her without looking away from the graven faces before her. “I don’t believe these gentlemen were pursuing us.”

“As you say, our destination is inside the gate. May we be of assistance, miss?” The man on the grey horse—surely a steward, for his face showed the kiss of sun even in these winter months—was the one to speak, and Gloria reluctantly turned her face from the intriguing one examining hers.

“It is kind of you to offer, but no. We were walking and simply came this way,” Gloria demurred, using one of her gloved hands to tap Colman’s stiff arm. “No need for this, Colman.” In an emergency she had her own pistol tucked inside her cloak but saw no reason to tell anyone of the fact.

Months earlier, she had left Lennox House in a town carriage one morning, to all observers out for calls, and had arrived instead at Devon’s villa in Merton. There she had been joined by her son, his train of attendants and their baggage in a series of staggered deliveries throughout the day. They’d stayed one night in Merton, where Meriden and Devon had spent the late afternoon and evening teaching her to shoot the weapon they’d brought her.

“Where have you walked from?” the man on the bay steed asked incredulously, even as Colman finally lowered the pistol. Gloria tensed, remembering that he would already have taken in her fashionable attire, complete with its muddy hem. “There are few places around here where one might walk in February. The road is hardly fit for a horse, let alone a lady’s shoes.”

“I walk as often as possible,” she said simply, then stepped to the side, forcing Colman to follow if he wished to remain between her and the men. “And we were only turning back here. Ride on, gentlemen, and pray excuse what must seem to you to be unnatural caution.”

Colman glared at the men, the pistol dangling at his side. Gloria knew he wouldn’t hesitate to raise it again in their direction, and the men understood his warning too. Nodding their heads, they released their horses and trotted forwards, past the pair and through the castle gate.

“Well, is that likely to be trouble now?” Colman growled, as Gloria stepped past him. She didn’t fuss as he forsook his ten paces distance and walked beside her, the pistol finally slipping away. Her heart pattered faster as she considered his question. She hadn’t recognised the aristocrat, and she’d lived in London long enough to know everyone who frequented there. He might have been of Norman descent, but he didn’t patronise the ballrooms and banqueting tables.

“Doubtful,” she finally said quietly. “His Grace felt sure we would be safe here, and I didn’t recognise him. He’s probably a distant relative of whoever holds the title.”

“Aye, an’ one who wears London finery?” Colman asked. “I saw his boots, m’lady.”

They trudged along silently while Gloria thought, until finally she conceded, “We won’t walk anywhere near so close again.”

“I think not,” Colman grumbled and paced silently beside her, stiff and still and watchful, until they reached the gate to Blessing Cottage and she escaped his hovering presence.

* * * *

“Who is she?” Clare asked directly, dismounting in the forecourt and dropping to his feet.

His steward, Jamie Seton, shrugged. “Never seen the lass before,” he claimed.

“I know she’s no local chit, Seton,” Clare rasped, staring off into the distance as he thought. “She’s as blue-blooded as I am or I’ll eat my hat. She may have had mud on her hems, but she didn’t give a damn and they were black silk.”

Clare didn’t bother to say it aloud, but the young lady had been wrapped in unrelieved black velvet as well, a sign of prolonged mourning very few could afford, particularly someone so young who ought to be looking forwards to a happy marriage and a nursery full of children. Still, her actions had been more telling. Unlike young women of other classes, she’d looked right back at him with all the regal bearing of a queen, uncowed by Clare’s aristocratic features or age, their fine horses or her own audacity in traipsing so close to the main gates. In addition, she had a guard—a guard who walked diligently in her train and not beside her as a father or brother or lover would have done. She had a guard who had aimed a high-quality pistol at Clare’s head without batting an eyelash, with shades of infantry training in his gait and posture. But without a doubt, her words as she’d stepped aside had been the most clear. She was giving them
permission
to pass, not moving aside for their convenience.

Clare frowned and flipped open Seton’s saddlebag, dragging out the spyglass he knew resided there. “I’m going up. Find out what you can from the men, I want to know who she is, and where she came from.”

He didn’t bother to glance back at Seton’s astonished expression as he strode towards the inner wall and up the stone path to the great doors of the keep. The butler was already throwing open the doors, but Clare barely nodded. He was focused on the keep’s battlements.

The truth was that he had to know where she was trudging. If she was far enough away that the spyglass lost her—though that seemed terribly unlikely—he’d simply take his horse and head off in her direction. He had to know. The desire burned in him, illogical and unexplained, but very real. It vaulted him up the main stairs, then up the old stone stairs past the tower rooms, and finally onto the stone landing with its small guardroom at the highest point of the central tower in the keep.

He pushed aside the door to the castellated battlement. This part of the castle was reserved for family only now, and the tower had no real value as a military installation, but it was still the tallest point other than the lighthouse and the watchtower that marked the harbour entrance.

Leaning against the stone, he glanced about idly, noted Seton climbing to the watchtower and lifted the spyglass.

She was there, on the Shore Road. The man with her now kept doggedly to her side, though at a respectful distance. She walked confidently, without pausing, as if she was accustomed to the chilly weather and the wind and the glorious view. Clare pondered her for a minute, disturbed by his reaction to the hooded young woman in black. He could hardly claim to have even seen her, with nothing but her fine facial features revealed, but those lines were already alive at the back of his brain.

It had been longer than twelve years since he’d even seen a lady as more than a distraction. Why now?

The question was one Clare had no desire to ponder, especially when she confidently walked up to the gate that surrounded Blessing Cottage. His mouth opened in surprise, then he slammed it shut when someone from within promptly opened the gate and she walked through, leaving her guard to chat with the waiting servant. Without pause, she marched up to the door, which opened for her from within, and she bundled through it, out of his sight.