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Daniel gaped at him, his mind refusing to accept the words he had just heard. In an instant, his life had changed, utterly. He pushed aside the wave of grief which struck him, and rose – now was the time for practicalities, grieving would have to wait.
“Of course. Please send a message to the physician, and to the undertaker. Oh, and send some footmen to find my brother – no doubt he’s in one of the taverns hereabouts. And we’ll need the tailor and the seamstress too, for the making of mourning clothes and bands for all of the staff, as well as the family.”
“Yes, My Lor… Your Grace.”
That stopped Daniel. The man was right, he was now the Duke of Summerfield. It seemed impossible, even though he had always known that this day would eventually come.
He shook the shock off, and went – there was much to do, before his father could be laid to rest in the Bellbrook village churchyard.
Chapter One
Verity sat quietly in the corner, ready to take the children up to their beds when Lady Chittendom required it. It was Christmas Eve, and the children had been given their gifts, and were now showing signs of the irritability which comes with overtiredness.
There had, of course, been no gifts for Verity. As a governess now, she was little more than a servant. It did not matter that her late husband had been heir to a Baron, and that she was the daughter of an Earl – she had sunk to being dependent upon the charity of Lady Chittendom, for the wages she was paid as governess were minimal, and would not have supported her in other accommodation had Lady Chittendom not allowed her to stay on at Chittendom Park.
“Children! That is enough bickering. It is obviously time for bed. Mrs Millwood, please attend to your charges.”
“Yes, my Lady. Children, come along now. You may bring your gifts with you, and we will find suitable places for them in your rooms.”
For a moment, she thought that they would rebel, and gave them a very stern look. They hesitated, and then sighed in unison, and gathered their things, bowed and curtsied to their parents, and followed her from the room.
In truth, she was glad to be out of the parlour. Lady Chittendom was a rather… astringent… woman, who spared no chance to remind Verity of her place in the world. But there were no other options, so Verity smiled politely, and did whatever she was asked to do, grateful to have a roof over her head in the depths of winter.
But the situation meant that this was quite the most miserable Christmas she had ever spent in her life.
Upstairs, the children grumbled, but did not really make any great difficulty, and were soon in bed, new toys clutched in small hands, or settled on bedside tables. Once certain that they were truly asleep, Verity went to her tiny suite of rooms, which adjoined the children’s’ parlour at the end of the hall.
Only then, curled in a tight ball under the barely adequate covers, did she allow the tears to come.
Tears for Edward, her husband, who she’d had a bare four weeks with, as a wife, before he’d gone off to the war – and never returned. All that had come back was that official letter, informing her that he had died on the battlefield, and then the few small things he had carried – a miniature of her, and a small bundle of her letters. Not that there were many – he’d been there but a few weeks when he met his end. That death was barely four weeks ago now, and the grief was still raw.
Tears for herself, too, for the life that she had lost, for the emptiness that faced her, and for the difficult days ahead, if her suspicions were correct.
Somehow, she would go on, no matter what – she was determined – but the future seemed impossibly bleak.
*****
Twelfth Night had passed, and with the Christmas Season finished, Verity had settled back into the drab routine of her days.
Waking the children, assisting the maids with making them presentable, then attempting to educate them in the face of their rather stubborn resistance at times, followed by some time with their parents, before getting them off to bed again.
It was an endless round of exhausting activities which seemed to go nowhere, and left her feeling wrung out and miserable. That misery was only broken when, every second week, she was granted a day to do things for herself. It was a concession grudgingly given by Lady Chittendom, and one that Verity treasured.
How far had she come, from her previous life, that a day to herself was the only thing which was good in her existence?
Today, as she sat before the fire in her tiny personal parlour, with a blanket wrapped around her and a book in her hands, she was startled by a knock at the door – no-one ever came to her rooms! The moment was a horrible echo of the day that the news of Edward’s death had arrived. She shivered, then rose, and went to open the door, to find a footman standing there.
“Mrs Millwood, there is a letter for you.”
He held out a letter on obviously good quality paper, folded and sealed with dark blue wax, which bore the imprint of a seal. She took it, curious – she did not know anyone who used blue wax for their seals – certainly not her father – not that he would write to her, anyway.
“Thank you, Dobbs.”
The footman gave her the sketch of a bow, and turned away, his mission completed. She shut the door, and went back to her chair, studying the letter in her hand as she did so.
The imprint of the seal was not clear so, after a few moments of examination, she gave up attempting to discern it, and simply cracked it away from the paper carefully. Her fingers caressed the smooth texture of that paper – so much better than anything she’d had for so long now, and she sighed.
Then she unfolded it, and began to read.
