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“Your Grace.” There was O’Mara, standing before her, taking her hand with fierce strength. “Believe me when I say His Grace and Bates will do everything in their power, in their considerable power, with mine added to it, to clarify this matter. Know, please know, none of us would ever abandon you. We will see this put right.”
“Miss O’Mara, I am honored.” She squeezed the chamberlain’s hand in return.
Felicity closed her eyes, and even before she opened them, Alfred had taken the place before her. His hands, those warm, strong hands, cupped her face, and made her look into his eyes, his ferocious, brilliant, blue eyes.
“I have resources you cannot imagine,” he said. “I have might to call upon that you know nothing of. But know that in whatever way necessary, I will secure for you the promise you believe your father made.”
“I thought I had everything, but I have nothing at all.” As near as she was to the hearth, she was cold, so cold. “And no longer any reputation to treat cavalierly.” She moved away from the vigor of his hold and from the seduction of his scent.
“If you could trust in us, Your Grace,” Bates urged. “If for only a little while longer, you would carry on—”
“I have done nothing but carry on,” she said. “Never mind that I have been persisting since the age of twenty. That I put my faith in one I knew had no love lost for me or my father. That my uncle would disgrace the memory of his sister so…” She moved to the door, the train of her glorious gown feeling like nothing more than deadweight. “I believed him. How he must have laughed. I don’t mind his spite, but I cannot abide his lies.”
She stood on the threshold once more. “I accept your petition for my hand, Your Grace.” Her voice was composed, and frosty with it, but the hand she pledged trembled. “It seems you have won, for I have lost everything.” She blinked and swayed, and the duke was at her side before she took another breath. “I shall see myself up.”
“You look to be about to faint.”
“I do not faint,” she declared, as her eyes rolled back in her head, and she swooned into his waiting arms.
Felicity felt the duke lift her into his arms and hold her fast against his chest. There was a pause, a tightening of his embrace, and she heard him say, “We will destroy them. Utterly, completely, comprehensively—destroy them” before she gave herself up to darkness.
* * *
In the darkest hour, before the dawn, a mouse scurried out of a shrub and sat on its haunches, looking up at the state bedchamber’s window. She was soon joined by more of her own kind who had raced up the long drive. This nest of mice kept well away from the clowder of cats who had slunk down from the stables, and close behind them, solemn for once, a herd of colts followed suit and took up sentry. Soon, it seemed that any animal that one might find in the English countryside was represented: a colony of beavers, a knob of wildfowl, even a caravan of stoats appeared. A dove floated above the assemblage and joined the clattering of jackdaws perched in the topiary. They bowed their heads and bared their necks as one as the leading members of their eclectic pack joined them, the largest of them bristling with the kind of power that inspired fear or safety, depending upon one’s loyalty. All here were loyal to him and to hisvera amoris, whose heart was broken. They gathered their own powers, as small as the mouse’s, as eager as the colt’s, as fierce as the wolf’s, gathered and spread them like a blanket over their grieving lady, sent to her in sleep so she might heal, and yearned for her to know them, complete in their dual natures, with her whole heart and soul.
Thirteen
After two days of hiding away in the staterooms, Felicity decided she’d had enough of her own company and made her way below. As she reached the foyer, she found it bereft of Mr. Coburn and the halls curiously unpopulated by footmen. Immediately, when Mr. Bates had brought his news, she had been listless and bewildered but in short order had become impatient with herself for indulging in such maidenish behavior. Slipping behind the green baize door, she followed her nose to the kitchens.
She would not be a maiden for much longer. Her choice had been made for her. She was not an heiress; she was not to be independent and a woman of means and of business. She would marry the duke, be a wife and a duchess, thriving under the care of the staff of the house and doing all in her power to improve their lots in life.
She paused before a painting of a horse whose rider was occluded by shadow. There would be kissing and the other carrying-on…and if that carrying-on was anything like the kissing, she would have babies. As many babies as her advanced age allowed. “Or pups,” she said to the horse in the picture. “When in Rome, as they say.” How fiercely he had promised to champion her cause, as he appeared to champion all in his care, with brusque kindness and dry good humor. How fiercely he would defend his child, love his child. He would be stern, no doubt, but as playful as he was with his miscellany of footmen. An image came into her mind of His Grace rolling around on the carpet with squealing children crawling all over him, pretending he was at their mercy. His hair was terribly mussed, and he laughed and looked up at her, so handsome and relaxed and joyous, it took her breath away.
The power of the fantasy stunned her, her heart so full of love and contentment, she felt disloyal to her herd. She ran a finger down the painted muzzle and worried for her mares. Aherne had assured her they were safe, but she feared that her uncle knew everything about her horses; it would not surprise her to discover he was aware of her hiding place for the band. She would insist they be brought here and that she be permitted to cultivate them. Would His Grace allow such a thing? She could see in his relations with his staff that while he was gruff and abrupt, he was not an autocrat. He took in anyone from anywhere and gave them employment under his roof, and his fostering of the talents in the village alone were unheard of—yet she sensed that an uncivilized aspect to this character was very near the surface. His notions of marriage could be as old-fashioned as Lowell Hall itself. They must compromise or…or else she knew not what.
As she approached the kitchen, voices rose in a dull roar. She heard Mary Mossett shout, “It’s time for thecognominatio.” Whatever could that mean? She stood before the door, tempted to eavesdrop, but no, she would not betray the staff in any way. She knocked briskly and opened the door. “Excuse me.” She smiled and accepted the bared necks, curtsies, and bows.
“Your Grace!” Coburn dispelled the crowd, flapping his arms about as he was prone to do.
“Here, now, Your Grace, will I get you a nice cup o’ tea and a bitta toast?” Mrs. Birks gestured her toward the door.
“No, thank you,” Felicity said. “I wish to take exercise in the park and wondered if Lady Coleman was still in residence and she would join me.”
“Here I am.” Jemima appeared from the corridor and handed a length of fabric to Mary. “If you would finish this off for me, Mary? It is well within your capabilities.”
“Oh, milady, I will, of course, and whatever else you ask.” Mary skittered away.
“I was working on a new piece with Miss Mossett,” Jemima explained. “You were correct, Miss Templeton, she is very gifted. I may steal her away from you, er, from the duke.”
“His Grace is in his study,” Coburn offered. “If I may bring you to him?”
“No, thank you,” Felicity said again. “I would not dare interrupt his day. Shall we, Lady Coleman?”
“I must fetch my cloak,” Jemima began, and a whirlwind of activity commenced: Jemima’s cloak and bonnet were fetched, and Felicity was handed a small picnic in a sack; they were led through to the kitchen and out a side door and exhorted to enjoy the fresh air.
As they made their way through the park, a pattern to the apparent unbridled wildness asserted itself. While the acreage was vast, there seemed to be a series of groves, dells, and nooks laid out in a clockwise procession. It was a robust and challenging walk, with embankments, fallen logs, and a variety of gradients that required adeptness of foot to manage them. What was likely a tributary of Edenbrook wound its way amongst the groves and obstacles. The weather was brisk, the sky gray, and a light wind at their back helped the ladies in their exertions.
“You are far more fit than I,” huffed Jemima, as she leaned against the bole of an enormous oak. “I do not walk often.”
