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Prologue
Mrs Verity Millwood was sitting in her tiny private parlour, savouring an afternoon of peace. Lord and Lady Chittendom had taken their children to visit a neighbour and, uncharacteristically, had not required that she, as governess, go with them. That peace was not destined to last long, however, for there came a tap at the door. She rose, and went to open it, to find one of the footmen there.
“A letter for you, Mrs Millwood.”
The man held out a missive. She took it with a sudden feeling of dread – it was far too high a quality paper to have come from her husband, on the field of war, and it was sealed with a very large seal – something he could not even aspire to, at least for now. One day, he would be Baron Wexley, but that day was not yet.
“Thank you.”
The footman bowed, and left, pulling the door to behind him.
Verity went back to her seat, suddenly feeling as if the cheery fire had lost all of its warmth. The December day was cold, but not excessively so, but that letter seemed threatening, just by its existence. She examined the seal. It looked alarmingly official, and her sense of dread increased.
Steeling herself, she cracked the seal, and unfolded the thick paper. The words upon it were few, but they were words which, by their very existence, changed her life completely.
‘Mrs Millwood’
It is my sad duty to inform you that your husband, Mr Edward Millwood, did, on the first day of December this year, 1813, perish on the battlefield, stoutly defending his country.
In due time, his few personal effects, and his final wages, will be sent to you. The Army offers you condolences.
Yrs, Jos. White, Captain.’
*****
“For heaven’s sake, Daniel, do whatever you please — just provide me with an heir!”
The wheezing and laboured breathing of the Duke of Summerfield was indicative of his overall health. Although Philip Trowbridge was only fifty-three years old, he had led a full and rather indulgent life, although that, in itself, had contributed significantly to his condition. Presently he was concerned that his son, Daniel Trowbridge, the Marquess of Moorwood, though now aged twenty-nine, had no wife, and seemingly no desire to seek one.
At the words of his father, Daniel merely turned to blankly stare out of the bedroom window to the perfectly manicured gardens below. It was mid-December, but the winter had been mild so far, and the gardens looked well set to be spectacular come spring. After some minutes of strained silence, he muttered a response.
“All in good time, Father.”
The Duke pushed upright in his bed, as far as he was able to.
“You are a strong, handsome young man. You should have no problem procuring any woman you might choose.”
Daniel turned to his father.
“I do not desire just any woman. Mama was not just any woman,” he said in reply. “She was beautiful, kind, talented and wise in many ways. A gentlewoman in every respect. Yet she also bore you two healthy sons. And you cared for her, as she cared for you.”
“Louisa. Yes, God rest her soul. One of those sons became a drunkard and a womaniser, much to the family’s disgrace. The other,” he said, nodding at Daniel, “is the one destined to carry on the family line.”
“Father, I am perfectly willing to marry, and to carry on the line, but only with the right woman. These women I meet at Soirees and Balls in London are of no substance and are merely looking for someone to improve their station in life. I am weary of all of them.”
“Yet amongst those women you must find a wife who will help you conceive the children who will perpetuate the House of Summerfield. You must do that now...”
The Duke began to cough fitfully, then fell back against the pillows and lay there as he struggled to regain his breath. This seemed to be happening more often as time went on. Daniel rushed from the room and called in the nurse they had employed to care for the Duke. Leaving her to settle his father, Daniel walked down through the house. His father would sleep now, dosed with the medicine which eased his discomfort.
We have this same conversation again and again, he thought.And nothing comes from it. It seems that Father is more interested in perpetuating the line than in my happiness.
In his frustration he did what he always did in these circumstances — he saddled his horse and galloped at top speed to the only spot on the Summerfield estate where he could find solace.
*****
Finding that the hard ride did not clear his mind, Daniel slowed General, his horse, intending to walk the length of the meadow, letting the horse cool down after the gallop. He dismounted and led the horse to a small stream and allowed him to drink a bit. As General’s breathing had been rapid and his back sweaty, Daniel knew better than to let him drink too deeply, even though the horse was inclined to do so. Absently patting the neck of his favourite mount, he sighed.
“If only my thoughts were as easily quenched as your thirst, General. You may have more in a little while.”
