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“No need.Miss Stone, may I introduce, Lady Deborah Langley, Dowager Marchioness of Ashford,” Duke Westwood spoke, then to Louisa added,“You may clear the tables now.”
Swiftly, Louisa cleared the table and with a polite farewell, left the room to the kitchen. Her fears were tumbling inside her mind and she felt a little ashamed of how she had blurted out, without any class or dignity, how she could not afford to get dismissed.
Thankfully, His Grace had not let her go, and it seemed to her—she hoped—that he would not do so, unless, as he had said, she did something egregious enough to warrant it. She took in a breath of relief and hoped that somehow, in the next few days and months, that she could do the same.
***
The garden was so peaceful at near-dusk and its tranquility seeped into her chest and calmed the lingering worry Louisa held there. The faint sway of the trees and the warm vibrancy of the flowers around her was such a far cry from the scraggly flowed bushes in the orphanage’s backyard, that Louisa laughed.
“To think we thoughtthatwas a garden…” she snorted softly.
She tilted head up to the dying sun and smiled at the warmth that splayed over her face. The soft perfume of the flowers in the airwas heavenly, but most of all she loved the tranquility around her.
“It seems we meet again.” Duke Westwood’s voice jerked her out her reverie.
Louisa nearly jolted out of her seat, as if, somehow, she was doing something wrong, or being somewhere she was not to be, but her fingers fastened onto the edge of the wooden seat and she stayed still. Duke Westwood stood at the mouth of the garden, his tall frame haloed by the dying sun behind him. One of his hands was stuck into the pocket of his buff trousers and again, he was in his shirtsleeves.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said. “I do hope that I am not intruding.”
“I think I am the one who should be saying that.” Duke Westwood strode closer.“You were here first.”
Knowing that his guests had left an hour ago, Louisa made to ask him why he had not joined them—but bit her tongue. She had no right to ask him anything of the sort and only smiled. “That is very gracious of you, Your Grace, but I think the garden has enough space for us both.”
He turned and the sun turned the darkness of his light chestnut brown, “Do you know the story of this garden, MissStone?”
“Regrettably, Your Grace, I do not,” she said. “I do know that it is beautiful and utterly sublime.”
“It was my mother’s personal garden,” he said, his eyes flitting over the landscape.“Without fail, after she did her duties, she was here, planting flowers and pruning bushes. She dubbed it a sanction of serenity from the pressure of handling the Dukedom.”
Unsure of what to say, Louisa kept her answer short.“Her Grace had a good eye for color.”
“Yes, she had.” His tone dipped to regret—remorse?
Dipping her eyes to her feet, Louisa felt utterly inept. The more she interacted with the Duke, the moreshe realized that she knew so little about him, or his house. The snippets she knew about him, how he was, that he was cold, and detached, began to come into sharper focus.
Is he truly cold all the time? Whatturned him this way?
He plucked his timepiece out and peered at it.“I think it might be best for you to rejoin the kitchen staff, Miss. Stone.It is nearly supper time.”
“Oh, good heavens—” She stood. “Time slipped away from me. Thank you, Your Grace.”
Hurrying to the path that led to one of the servants’ entrances, Louisa paused to look over her shoulder; the Duke had taken her seat. But he still looked rigid, still, and solitary. An air of isolation around himbrought a pitying twinge inside her heart. His dark clothes would soon meld into the starry night sky, and he looked... alone.
Tis as if he carries the weight of the world upon his broad shoulders.
While Louisa wanted to linger, her duties took her inside and she hurried to the kitchen.She decided to ask more questions about the Duke and his family. His tone told her that his mother was dead, and it was a possibility that his father was too. That certainly would make one grow reticent.
“Miss Stone,” Cook Morna said.“Good timing, will you take His Grace’s meal up?”
“I—” she hesitated.“I would wait until he rings, Miss Morna; he is outside at the moment.”
“Is he now?” The older woman’s lips ticked down sympathetically. “In his late mother’s garden, I presume. He has not been there in a while.”
The chance to ask about Duke Westwood’s family was ripe and Louisa took it.“May I ask, what happened to his parents?”
Fixing her hat and apron, Cook Morna shook her head, “They passed away in their beds, Miss. Stone. Her Grace, god rest her soul, had His Grace, rather late in life. She was three-and-thirty, and her husband was in his late forties. His Grace had an awfully close connection with both, Miss Stone, it cut him to the quick when they died.”
“Oh…” she whispered.
Cook Morna asked, “Did you ask for a particular reason?”
“No,” Louisa said, “It occurred to me that I came here but that I know little about this estate. I do not want to feel inadequate if I am asked about it.”
“Ah, Miss Stone,” Cook Morna sighed. “His parents passing is one of the lesser hurts His Grace has endured.”
There’s more grief? What more happened to him?
She made to ask, but knew it was not the right time, so Louisa hurried off to the servant’s dining room to have her supper—but the questions still lingering with her, all the way to her time she went to bed.
Is it that he is not distant…but lonely?
