Duke of Disaster – Get Extended Epilogue
Duke of Disaster – Extended Epilogue
Three years later . . .
Bridget’s back was pressed against the willow tree’s trunk as she examined the canvas before her. She tipped her head to one side, her lips pressed together. She held a piece of charcoal in her right hand, rolling it between her index finger and thumb as she considered the work.
Something was missing in her latest piece, but she could not figure out what it was. The painting she was working on was one of her most cherished subjects—her beloved husband.
Once completed to her satisfaction, the painting would be a gift for her mother-in-law, in honor of her birthday in a fortnight’s time. Bridget knew she had to hurry for color would have to be added, and, over the past few weeks, it had rained more than usual in Hertfordshire. Cold, damp weather was no friend to her oil paintings, a passion she had never lost.
Still, the present day was pleasant, and perhaps she could at least apply the first layer when they returned to the solarium later. If only she could figure out what the sketch was missing…
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him on how to load and bless
With fruit, the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples, the moss’d cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core . . .”
Graham’s voice sounded nearby, drawing her from her thoughts. She smiled as she soaked in his warm voice, which was as comforting as a steaming glass of milk with honey on a cold day. Even after all these years, she never grew tired of hearing him speak. No matter if his voice spoke mundane words or poetry—it was music to her ears.
She loved that they could spend their afternoons together, each following their passions. She would paint either in the solarium or outside, while he sat and read. Sometimes out loud, sometimes quietly to himself. Their favorite pastimes complemented each other just as they did. They were, in a way, made for one another.
“What is this poem called?” she asked gingerly, adding a hair curl to the picture.
“To autumn. It is by…”
“John Keats,” she completed his sentence with a chuckle.
“Am I so predictable?” he teased.
“There is nothing predictable about you other than your favorite poet,” she answered. She gathered her skirts and lowered herself onto the black and red checkered blanket where he was sitting.
“Are you quite finished with your sketch?” he asked, evidently surprised.
“No, not yet. I am having some trouble completing the outline,” she said and came to rest beside him, her legs pressed against his.
“Mayhap looking at the inspiration will help you,” he said with a wink. Bridget’s heart leaped as it always did when she was exposed to his mischievous ways.
“I dare say it shall distract me more than anything.”
“Either way, if it brings me your attention and company, I shall gladly accept it,” he replied and placed his book aside. Then, he patted his lap, and Bridget swiftly turned, resting her head on it.
The sensation of his strong legs under her head was comforting and familiar. They often rested that way, either under their beloved willow tree, or in front of a fire inside Foxglove Hall. Graham had installed a lovely, thick carpet in front of the old fireplace to add to their comfort. There, they would while away the hours while reading or talking.
It was peaceful, as was this afternoon’s interlude. She glanced up and saw a breeze shifting the leaves. It was autumn now, so Keats’ poem was entirely fitting. Soon, the lush green hue that was so dominant in the Hertfordshire countryside during spring and summer would make for a gorgeous symphony of orange, yellow, and brown. It would feed her inspiration to see the colors; she already knew there would be hours of painting the landscapes before her.
“I can see your artist’s mind working,” Graham said with a chuckle as he ran one hand through her hair, a loving smile on his lips. A rush of warmth overcame her as she shifted enough to look at him directly.
“I was contemplating my next painting, yes.”
“I take it that it is no longer me,” he teased, and she felt her cheeks redden.
“I meant in the future. I…” she smiled. “I had a mind to paint a landscape for Warren and Jane. As a wedding gift. Or do you think people think my paintings are foolish gifts?”
She knew she was talented; she had been told so by many. Still, a part of her was always insecure. The curse of an artist, as Mary had once told her.
“No, love. They would greatly appreciate it. You know they found one another by taking long walks between Foxglove Hall and Sedgwick Manor. I’m sure they would love a reminder of that for their marital home,” Graham assured her. “And your depictions are wonderful. Recall how my mother shed tears when you presented her with the painting of Mary?”
Bridget had, in fact, painted Mary from memory for her mother-in-law for their first Christmas together as a family. She’d drawn Mary there, under the willow tree, with leaves in her hair. She’d then used her best colors to bring the painting to life, and when it was finished, she’d given it to Fanny as a gift.
“Good, I shall commence it once I complete this one,” she said and closed her eyes, allowing the gentle wind to graze her cheeks.
“I hope you are not taking on too much,” Graham said, a hint of worry in his voice. “In your condition, you ought to rest more.”
Her eyes sprang open again, and she placed one hand on her slightly rounded stomach. She was with child, but only at a very early stage. The lovely stage when a flowing gown could easily conceal the condition. She adored that time, when nobody but her and Graham knew. And Tilda, naturally, for she helped Bridget dress every day and noticed the condition before anyone else. However, the rest of the world was blissfully unaware.
Graham placed his hand on hers as if to shield their unborn from the world together.
“It is still early. Besides, remember, I painted until I had to go into my confinement the last time.” She smiled as she remembered the final months of her first pregnancy. Mary was almost two years old, but it seemed like only yesterday that they’d held her for the first time, heard her cries, and gazed into her beautiful blue eyes. Her eyes had turned to a rich green, always reminding her of the countryside. Her hair was a lovely auburn, and her face, freckled, bore a resemblance to her late aunt that struck Bridget both pleasantly and painfully at times.
Graham let out a sigh and leaned forward a little. “There she is,” he said, his tone full of delight. Bridget sat up, feeling a familiar pinch in her back. She’d had the same when pregnant with Mary. The discomfort was forgotten when she spotted her daughter running toward them through a field of lavender, Tilda behind her. The little girl’s hair had come out of its confines and tumbled around her shoulders. Her dress, a simple, yellow cotton gown, swayed as she ran.
Bridget spotted a bunch of flowers in the child’s chubby right hand, and her giggles mingled with the chirping of a small flock of sparrows which made their presence known nearby. Tilda hurried after the child, her blue skirt raised slightly to keep it from dragging on the ground. She had one hand on her head to keep her bonnet in place as she rushed after Mary.
Bridget got up, joined by Graham, and then they each squatted down, their arms open. Graham wrapped his right arm around Bridget and slung her left around his back, thus creating a large opening for their daughter, who promptly ran into their arms.
They enveloped her and created a perfect circle, with Mary at the center. The little girl laughed, balm to Bridget’s ears. The scent of lavender and lye soap entered her nose, remnants of the field the child had run through, and the bath she’d had to take that morning after an enthusiastic jump into a puddle.
When they let go, Mary beamed at them. “For Mama,” she said and parted the bunched flowers down the middle, her little tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. She handed Bridget half of the daisies, while giving another half to Graham. “And Papa.”
“Well, thank you, little lady,” Graham said and kissed her cheek. Mary looked at him adoringly, and Bridget’s heart skipped a beat. He was as wonderful a father as he was a husband. She had been fortunate, that she would never deny. Graham might have left her, indulging in years of bachelorhood in London when he was younger, but he had come back. Indeed, he had left a boy and returned a man in many ways.
He was a man who was more than she ever could have asked for. A brave, loyal, good-hearted man who loved her—and their child. As she watched, Mary leaned forward and extracted one flower from Graham’s hand. Then, carefully, she tucked it behind his ear and giggled, her small hands in front of her mouth as she bent at the knees in delight.
“Well, that is lovely,” Tilda said as she caught up to them. She wore a crown of daisies draped over her bonnet, and Bridget smiled. Of course, Tilda wasn’t a governess. Still, after Bridget and Graham had decided to forgo the usual convention of hiring a nurse and then a governess in favor of raising their child on their own, Tilda had proven to be a godsend.
She was wonderful with the little girl, patient and loving yet firm when needed, unlike Fanny, who did nothing but indulge Mary’s every whim. However, she was a grandmother and, therefore, more prone to being soft with her granddaughter. Sarah, Bridget’s mother, likewise liked to spoil the child, although she had less occasion to do so.
Lady Sedgwick had relocated to a cottage at the seaside in Brighton. She claimed the sea air was better for her health, but they all knew it was because she could not stand the sight of the manor that held so many memories of her failings.
No matter how often Bridget assured her none that of what had happened was her fault, her mother continued to blame herself. The distance had done her good, and when she had last seen her earlier that summer, she had returned to the woman Bridget had once known. Composed, almost regal. However, the shadow of the past remained in her eyes. Meanwhile, her father remained on the Continent, her parents’ separation all but legal.
That was better for everyone. Her father’s gambling had caused them so much distress, and he’d never apologized. Instead, he’d quietly accepted Graham’s offer to run Sedgwick House and all of their holdings in exchange for a monthly stipend to fund his lavish lifestyle.
“Bridget?” Graham said gently, and she blinked. “You were miles away.”
“I was thinking of my father. He is missing so much,” she said, her voice hitching slightly. “I wish it could have been different, with both my parents here to see their grandchild daily, as your mother does.” Then, she shook her head. “But it cannot be.” She watched as Tilda gathered their cups and the small decanter they’d brought outside.
“His Lordship is better off where he is, and your mother is contented. Once Jane is married, all will be right in the world, and that dreadful man will be forgotten about.”
Bridget gulped. Oliver Bragg would, unfortunately, never be forgotten for he had left indelible reminders of his presence in their lives, altering them forever. However, Bridget knew better than to talk about him. Whenever she did, melancholy overcame her, which was not a good state of being in her condition. The man was locked away in London at the notorious Newgate Prison, and he’d be there for the rest of his life. The nobility could get away with much but murdering one of their own was not one of them. All lords agreed that crime had to be punished—for if it was not, any of them could be next.
“You are right,” she said quietly, and Tilda nodded.
“It is all for the best, I say,” she added. “We had better leave. There’s a storm coming.” She nodded her chin toward the horizon, and Bridget looked up. Indeed, dark clouds had gathered, and distant rolling thunder sounded. Graham rose and lifted Mary, settling her on his hip with his book in his other hand. Bridget gathered her canvas and charcoal, and a footman, who lingered nearby, carried the stool upon which the canvas had rested.
They made their way to the carriage, which stood a few feet away, and as they stored their belongings in the small crate at the back, their daughter yelped with delight.
“Horsey!” she pointed at the two horses, a bay mare and a black gelding, who stood patiently in the grass, waiting to carry the stately carriage back to the house. “Horsey!”
“Yes, that’s a horsey,” Graham said, walking to the front so their daughter could pet them. Bridget stood back, her fingers fidgeting as they always did whenever Mary got close to a horse. Like her namesake, the child adored horses, a circumstance that, at times, alarmed her. While the late Mary had been an excellent rider, she recalled many times when her friend had been a little too daring when leaping over bushes and streams with abandon. The idea that her little Mary might do the same struck fear in her heart. Then again, everything did, for the child was precious to her, and she could not imagine anything happening to her.
On the other hand, Graham had decided to take a more optimistic approach to life. While he’d lost his sister, he still carried hope for the goodness in the world in his heart. He believed that all would be well, and thus, in his mind, he had concluded that their little Mary would be an accomplished equestrienne as her aunt had been.
She caught his eye as he carried their daughter to the horse, allowing her to pet the bay mare, who stood perfectly still.
“She’s becoming more and more like Mary every day,” he said, and the girl turned, a lock of hair falling in her face.
“I am Mary,” she declared with pride, and Graham kissed her temple.
“You are, but I meant your aunt,” he explained, and the girl tipped her head to the side. She was too young to understand the notion of an aunt, given that Bridget had no siblings, and Graham was now, sadly, an only child.
“Your Grace,” Tilda urged, and Bridget noted another rumble from the heavens, louder this time.
“Yes, we must go.” She hurried toward the carriage, taking Mary from Graham as they sat down inside. Soon, they moved away, swaying on the uneven road. Tilda sat at the front of the vehicle with the coachman, allowing them privacy. Bridget rested her head against Graham’s shoulder as they rattled along, and he wrapped his arm around her.
“It shall rain soon,” he said. “But if we are lucky, we won’t get drenched again.” He chuckled, as the pair had often made it a habit to get wet, just as they had that awful night when the truth had come to light. Not that they wished to. It was just that both had a habit of being outdoors, walking or riding, and frequently time passed them by. If not for Warren or Tilda, they would be soaked to the bone more often.
“It will be a lovely afternoon to sit in the solarium,” Bridget said and looked up. As she did so, she saw that Graham had placed another of the daisies Mary had gathered behind his ear, and suddenly, she had a bit of an epiphany.
“Faith, now I know what is missing in my painting!” She grinned and raised her hand. “This. A little detail. Such as this flower.”
Graham tightened his grip on her. “Indeed, a lovely idea. Mother will adore it too.” The two of them sat, their daughter settled in Bridget’s lap, and locked their eyes on one another.
“Bridget, you are the beauty of my life; I trust you know. I shall never stop missing Mary. But in a way, she brought us together more than once, and for that, I will always be grateful.”
“As will I,” Bridget replied. “Mary has blessed us even from the grave. Sometimes, I think of her as my guardian angel.” His smile widened.
“I do too. She’s brought me happiness in the form of you and this little lady. And soon, our happiness will increase once more.” Bridget’s heart pounded as he rested his hand on her stomach and leaned in close. She closed her eyes and soaked in his presence when his lips found hers, knowing he was right. Their happiness, born of tragedy, would only grow because they had discovered the one, rare, precious thing that so many people had searched for their entire lives and never found. True love.
The End
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Duke of Disaster (Preview)
Chapter One
It was a night like any other when the Duke of Hertfordshire’s world turned upside down.
At nine o’clock in the evening, Graham Barnet set off from his home in Mayfair to enjoy his usual residency at his gentleman’s club in the West End. The carriage ride was uneventful, if a tad foggy for midsummer. Graham watched the city streets with keen eyes as he took in his surroundings: huddled masses at the edges of London’s boulevards and alleyways, occupants of the liminal space between his home and the club.
Graham hated seeing people like this, the wretched masses of London, begging for a single coin to survive as he rode in luxury. He couldn’t resist the urge to stop and provide a pound or two to the city’s unfortunates, wishing he could do more to assist them in their hour of need.
He was in a sour mood when he arrived at the club, unable to cease the stream of never-ending thoughts of sickly people at the fringes of High Society. Indeed, he had a difficult time seeing them without picturing his mother among them; she had been in ill health as of late, and he never seemed to tire of worrying about her. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to return to the country and visit his home, preferring to stay in London, where he could carefully guard his independence.
Visiting his mother meant more questions about taking a wife, and those were not questions Graham was willing to answer.
So, he did what he had to in order to keep his mind occupied during the Season. He went to the club and avoided every social event for which he received an invitation. At the club, the stubborn bachelors of the ton conversed and gambled, attempting to escape the inevitability of marriage to some Society girl. In the gambling hells of the West End, Graham and men like him could pretend they would forever be free to do as they pleased—free of responsibility, of family, and most of all, free of love.
By the stroke of midnight, Graham had played several hands of cards and was feeling warm and tired, with a belly full of brandy. His head spun with just a touch of intoxication, the laughter of his friends and patrons brightening his otherwise dour mood.
“Barnet, are you listening?”
At the sound of the unusually informal address—for only his closest friends dared to break convention and refer to him by his first or last name—his eyes darted to his old friend, Jack Fairfield, sitting at the table across from him with a deck of cards. Graham nodded, though he hadn’t heard a word the man had said.
“Of course,” he said. “My apologies—I seem to be somewhat absent-minded tonight.”
“Must be something in the air,” Fairfield chuckled. “I was just discussing potentially taking a trip to the country with Everett here. Would you fancy joining us?”
“For what?”
“To hunt, of course,” Fairfield laughed. “Fox season is nearly at an end, my friend, or have you forgotten, trapped in London as you are?”
“I believe he’s merely trying to avoid his dear mother and sister,” Everett laughed. “Unless I’m mistaken, Barnet?”
Graham barked out an answering laugh, raising his hands. “Guilty as charged. Every time I leave the city, I fear my mother will soon catch me unawares with a marriage proposal from some rural lady.”
“Can you even imagine?” Everett said, looking between the two of them. “His Grace, the Duke of Hertfordshire, trapped with a little country mouse so far from London. Whatever would he do without his gambling hell and his little Mayfair estate?”
“Isn’t Hertfordshire just a day’s ride away . . . ?”
Graham cut off Fairfield with a scowl. “Come off it, the both of you,” he said. “The irony of hearing that from two second sons who can remain bachelors as long as they’d like is baffling. You know nothing of what it’s like to be the first son, with all your family’s expectations laid upon your shoulders.”
“Would taking a wife really be all that bad?” Fairfield said. “Wasn’t there someone in Hertfordshire all those years ago? I thought I remembered you talking about her when we were at Eton.”
Graham knew exactly who Fairfield was talking about, the beautiful, wild girl with whom he’d spent a summer flirting in what felt like a lifetime ago. Hertfordshire was close geographically, but far from his heart now, too painful to return to after his father’s death. He wondered if that wild girl still carried a torch for him after he’d left her behind so long ago—and never written.
“Your poor mother,” Everett teased. “To have her son be forever a bachelor and no heir to carry on the dukedom”
“I never said I would not have an heir, but if I do not, my late father’s brother will be more than willing to take on the burden of the title and the lands,” he said defensively. It was not as though he was leaving his family members in the poorhouse if he didn’t have an heir. “Besides, Mary will wed a lord and will be settled into whatever home he owns. Thus, I shall do as I please,” ” Graham muttered. “And besides—the issue isn’t marriage so much as it is my reticence to trust any young lady who courts me. Every Season it’s the same song and dance, anxious mothers sending their daughters in to try to land a duke.”
“More excuses from a man who does not even know how good he has it,” Fairfield chuckled. “Poor Graham Barnet, with every beautiful heiress seeking his fortune. Well, if you won’t join us for a hunt, then how about breakfast tomorrow? Maybe we can convince you to return to the country after all.”
Graham smiled. “Perhaps. For now, though, gentlemen, you must excuse me—my carriage is waiting.”
Graham rose and made his way down the stairs, through clouds of aromatic tobacco smoke and the drifting scent of fine liquor. His friends were still making quite the ruckus upstairs, serious betting and cards only now getting underway. Yet, Graham was tired in a manner that he hadn’t been in some time, as if the exhaustion was seeping into his very bones.
Perhaps there was, as Fairfield had suggested, something in the air.
By the time Graham finally made his way out of the club, there was no carriage to be found. While it struck him as odd, Graham never minded walking the streets at night; he was a tall and muscular man, and not even the most dangerous vagrants posed any real threat to him. So, rather than wait for his valet, Graham chose to stroll from the West End back to his home in Mayfair.
The cool night air was crisp and chill, the fog having dispersed while he was inside the club. The moon was out now, draped in grey clouds and casting strange shadows across the streets. Graham did not baulk at the shadows. Instead, he peered into them, considering why exactly it was that he did not wish to return home. It had been far too long since he’d visited his mother and sister, and his mother had only recently written to him that his sister, Mary, was being courted by a local lord. As the man of the family, it was Graham’s solemn duty to maintain his sister’s honor by vetting any possible suitors. Yet he couldn’t seem to force himself to return, haunted by memories of his father’s death. Besides, Mary was probably still wild as she’d ever been, riding her horse across the rolling green hills.
He hoped that at least Mary loved the man courting her, as silly as all that was. Contrary to his late father’s wishes, Graham had always been somewhat of a romantic—and it was for that very reason that he refused to play the ton’s marriage games each year. A youth spent reading Lord Byron and John Keats meant Graham had an inclination toward a love match, and those were hard to come by for a duke.
The only young ladies interested in him were those interested in his money. They had no idea who he was—what he dreamed of, how he longed for someone to ravish at night and care for by day.
The moon had once again disappeared behind the wispy threads of cloud by the time Graham reached his home, a light drizzle beginning to fall on the grey streets of Mayfair. He pulled his key from his pocket as he considered his friends’ requests at the club; perhaps he should visit the country for a hunt, or at the very least agree to Everett’s invitation to breakfast. He never knew what young debutantes might be waiting for him at such breakfasts, but he thought, perhaps, it was time to start looking for someone to make a life with.
His mother would be devastated if he didn’t marry before she passed.
He had a family to take care of.
Even if he believed, deep in his heart, that unrequited love would be better than no love at all.
“Your Grace, is that you? The Duke of Hertfordshire?”
Graham turned, his fists clenched in case there was someone encroaching on his property. Yet all he found was a simple serving boy. The boy held his cap in his hands, twisting it in anxious knots. “I am he,” Graham murmured with a frown. “Who wants to know?”
The boy gulped, unable to meet Graham’s gaze. “My name is Arthur Miller, Your Grace,” he said, his northern brogue strong. “I work for your mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Hertfordshire.”
“I don’t recognize you.”
“I was just recently hired on,” the boy said, then gestured over his shoulder at two horses with a simple carriage hitched behind them . “Spent the whole night on the road, Your Grace.”
Graham’s heart dropped into his gut; he had feared the news would come for months, but he still wasn’t ready for it. Certain he was about to hear of his dear mother’s death, he steadied himself against the railings by the steps to his home.
“And what is this regarding?” Graham asked.
“There’s . . . there’s been a terrible accident, Your Grace, the boy murmured.
“My mother?”
“No,” the boy gulped. “Your sister, Lady Mary. She’s . . . she’s dead.”
Mary?
Dead?
Graham tried to stop his knees from buckling, but it was no use; he was forced to brace himself against the stairs as dark spots flitted across his vision. The boy reached forward to grasp his elbow, but Graham waved him away to stand once again at his full height.
“How?” Graham asked, his voice a whisper. “She was so young.”
“She was out riding with Lord Bragg and Lady Sedgwick, and she fell from her horse,” the servant said. “There was nothing to be done. When they got her back to the house, she was already gone from a blow to the head.”
Graham closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself—but images of Mary instantly flooded his mind, drowning him in painful memories. She had been so youthful, so vibrant the last time he’d seen her six months ago at Christmas. With her chestnut curls and good nature, he’d been certain she would make a splash on this Season’s marriage market.
And now she was gone. Gone, just like his late father.
His mother must be devastated, now that it was only the two of them left.
“Ready the horses,” Graham said. “We ride tonight.”
“Where to?” the boy asked. “It’s past midnight.”
“They can rest when we return home,” Graham murmured. “We’re going back to Hertfordshire.”
Chapter Two
Lady Bridget Sedgwick woke with a scream.
Her heart raced as she scrambled in the bedsheets, clutching her white lace nightgown around her and staring out at the pouring rain on the moors. Lightning flashed, and Bridget was certain she saw the specter of her dead friend, riding her horse over the hills.
She didn’t know what to do—not since Mary had died.
Ever since that fateful afternoon in the hills of Hertfordshire, Bridget had been plagued by nightmares. Three horrible days had passed in the aftermath, news quickly spreading around the town of Hertford and the surrounding manor houses that Mary was dead. Bridget had been at the center of speculation over the manner of her death and was subjected to endless inquiries about how exactly an experienced horsewoman like Mary had come to take such a fatal fall.
It was a freak accident, Bridget told them. Tragic and horrible. Mary was gone too soon, her best friend in all the world, dead in an instant.
The door creaked open and Bridget’s maid, Tilda, stepped into the room with wide eyes. She was carrying a cup of tea , her grey hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, and she surveyed Bridget with a certain level of shock.
Bridget blushed as she realized how disheveled she was, her hair in dark tangles all over her head, her green eyes ringed red with tears. Even her nightgown was askew, hanging from one shoulder as she tried to right herself and the sheets.
“Lady Bridget,” Tilda murmured. “You were screaming—whatever is the matter?”
“It’s nothing, Tilda,” Bridget sighed, her chin still trembling from the sobs that had wracked her nightmares. “Just another nightmare.”
“About Lady Mary?”
Bridget nodded, and Tilda eyed her with sympathy as she took a few steps closer. “I brought you some chamomile tea,” Tilda said. “And I can get the laudanum if you need it to sleep.”
Bridget shook her head. She’d spent every night since her friend’s death drunk on the dream-like draught, lost in a medically-induced stupor . “No, thank you,” Bridget said. “It’s time to face all this—I can’t keep throwing myself into dreams when my dreams are almost as bad as reality.”
“Poor thing,” Tilda cooed. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you will feel better one day. With time, the pain will fade.”
Bridget tried not to begin crying again, swiping at her eyes with a crooked finger. “What if I don’t want it to?”
Tilda didn’t have time to respond; the door opened once again, and Bridget’s mother, Sarah, appeared at the threshold. Lady Sarah Sedgwick was a tall, imperious woman with the same dark hair and green eyes as Bridget, though a certain gauntness shaded her face. She didn’t appear to have slept much either, her fingers preemptively gripped around a bottle of laudanum.
“I’ll care for her from here, Tilda,” Sarah muttered, glancing at Bridget.
“My lady,” Tilda said, tilting her head and hurrying out of the room, the door thudding shut behind her as she left them alone. Sarah took the maid’s place quickly, smoothing out her dressing gown as she sat.
“What is this I hear about not wanting to feel better?” Sarah asked, tucking a strand of hair back behind Bridget’s ear.
Bridget took a shuddering breath, her brow furrowing. “It’s just that I don’t want to forget about her,” she said. “Mary was my dearest friend, and she’s gone. If I forget about her, then who will remember?”
“It isn’t your duty to hold vigil for Mary,” Sarah said. She rested her hand over her daughter’s, her fingers curling in a comforting show of solidarity. “What Mary would want is for you to live on and to love, my darling. She would be devastated to watch you grieve forever.”
“But it’s only been a few days.”
“And every day you spend weeping for her is a day you’ll miss out on the joy in life, which Mary would have wanted you to experience,” Sarah said. “Grieve now, and after the funeral tomorrow, think about the good in your life—all that’s yet to come.”
“Like what?”
“Love and marriage, of course,” Sarah said. “Children, a family. You’re so young, Bridget. At nineteen, you should be looking forward to the life ahead of you, not behind at the friends you’ve lost along the way.”
“It feels so senseless,” Bridget said. “Mary had a life ahead of her too.”
“I know, dear girl,” Sarah said. “Now, do you think you can sleep, or . . . ?”
Bridget shook her head, knowing that if she went without the draught she would be in for another sleepless night. “No,” she said. “I think I would like it—if only for this one night.”
“All right,” Sarah said, then handed her the little bottle. “You have tea?”
“Yes, Tilda brought me some.”
Bridget reached toward her bedside table for the glass, and Sarah handed her the vial. Bridget braced herself for the bitterness as she took a swig of it, then quickly washed it down with the tea, which did nothing to dilute the horrid flavor of the laudanum.
“I’ll have Tilda set out your mourning clothes tomorrow,” Sarah said. “You can expect us to be some of the chief mourners there, as Mary’s mother is still in ill health. Although . . .”
She paused, her voice lingering on the precipice of something she seemed certain would upset her daughter.
“What?” Bridget asked. The laudanum was already clouding her senses, a dreamy haze settling over her. “What aren’t you telling me, Mother?”
“Well, I thought you would want to know,” Sarah continued. “The duke has returned to Hertfordshire for his sister’s funeral.”
Silence hung between them. Sarah well knew that Bridget had once harbored a deep, childish love for the young Lord Graham Barnet. When he’d left, she’d wept for days, requiring laudanum to sleep then, too.
“And why should I want to know about the duke?” Bridget asked, stiffening.
“You don’t have to pretend he didn’t break your heart, darling,” Sarah said. “I know you’re older now, but some heartbreaks never quite heal.”
“My best friend is dead,” Bridget murmured. “That’s all the heartbreak I have capacity for at present.”
And with that, Sarah left Bridget alone in the room.
Bridget lay on her side to stare back out of the picture window, watching as rain streamed down the glass panes. The laudanum came over her like a shroud, fogging her mind as she pictured Mary riding like a lightning strike over the hills on her white mare.
Laudanum could numb the pain, yes . . . but it could also bring back horribly painful memories and make them real.
As soon as she drifted off to sleep, Bridget flashed back to the moment when Graham Barnet—for that was how she’d always thought of the Duke of Hertfordshire—had left Hertfordshire six years ago. His father had just passed, and Bridget had been a mere sixteen years old, but with the dazed eyes of a lovestruck girl, she had idolized the strapping young lord. She could picture him climbing into his carriage, sweeping back his dark-blond hair and staring at her with dark eyes. She’d thought he’d felt something for her, too—but it had all been a dream. Bridget had realized that when he’d embraced her and bid her the same fond farewell as Mary, just as if she was his sister too.
Since then, she’d thought of him often, though they had never spoken. Even at Christmas he’d avoided her, staying on his family’s property and returning to London with haste. When she’d written to him, he hadn’t responded.
Loving Graham Barnet was painful indeed, especially when her lineage was not such that she could hope to marry a duke.
But it wasn’t as painful as the loss of his sister.
Bridget dissolved into tears once again as the rain poured down the windows, holding herself in a cloud of laudanum. She clutched at her own shoulders, wondering if she should call for Tilda or if her mother would allow her maid to sleep in her room, though she was no longer a child.
Then a voice whispered to her through the darkness, the voice of a man she hadn’t seen or heard from in half a decade.
“It will be all right.”
Bridget knew Graham wasn’t truly there—that it was all a dream, a result of the laudanum clouding her mind. But she let the comfort of his imagined presence lull her to sleep regardless, wishing he would join her in bed.
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A Governess’ Guide to Lust and Desire – Get Extended Epilogue
A Governess' Guide to Lust and Desire
A Governess’ Guide to Lust and Desire – Extended Epilogue
Never had guilt plagued Henry so brutally as it did that day.
Screams came from the end of the hall that seemed to reverberate around the room and make Henry shudder in fear. They were Florence’s screams, as she endured the hardship of labor. He had never known it would be quite so terrible to bear. If he had, then perhaps he would have thought twice about having her carry his child. He didn’t wish for her to endure such pain.
He wanted to do everything he could to take that pain away, yet he knew there was nothing he could do to make her feel better. It was something far beyond his capability, and he felt incredibly useless.
Over a year had passed since they had been married, and neither Henry nor Florence had expected her to fall pregnant. She had always been told it was impossible. The pregnancy had involved many fears and anticipated bad news, yet she had reached her full term healthy and happy, and now the baby was coming.
Henry couldn’t have been more terrified, especially not while her screams of pain showed no sign of relenting. He hadn’t prepared himself for quite how violent it all sounded. He paced the study as he tried to think of anything to occupy his mind. He needed to distract himself, but it seemed impossible. Those frightening sounds claimed his full attention, and he could only fear the worst.
He knew Florence was strong, and yet he also knew childbirth didn’t always end well. He could only hope and pray that both she and the baby would be all right by the end of it.
He hadn’t been sure if he would ever have children, or even wanted them. But upon learning Florence was pregnant, he couldn’t have been happier. It was then when he realized how badly he had wanted it despite being cautious of her predetermined inability to bear them.
Henry wanted to be a father so long as Florence was the one to carry his children, so that they could grow their family together.
Nerves soon got the best of him, and he felt a trembling that plagued his whole body. Each round of screams and commotion from the birthing room increased his fears. While a part of him was relieved to not be in the room, he also wished to be with Florence, to make sure everything was all right.
He needed to know Florence was safe.
Henry cursed at a particularly loud scream, and he could stand it no longer. He crossed the room and reached for the brandy, pouring a large snifter, which he raised to his lips with a shaking hand. Henry felt as if he was about to go insane. He wanted it to be over, to ease his nerves and ensure she was all right. He wished he had someone there to distract him and reassure him that all would be well.
Yet, Henry was forced to bear those unrelenting nerves on his own, to reassure himself and remain the strong-willed future father and husband he was meant to be. He could only hope all fathers in the same position felt the same fear.
Heaving a breath, Henry resolved to leave the study, for it wasn’t doing him any good. He closed the door behind him and ventured down the hall, arriving outside the birthing room.
The shouting and screaming only got louder, but Henry knew he needed to be as close as possible to her, should anything happen. He wanted Florence to know he wasn’t hiding, and that he was offering her his full support from a safe distance. Yet, he didn’t want the midwife to scold him for getting in the way.
His heart thrummed with anticipation, eager to see his wife again. It had been too long, and the wait was fraying his nerves.
Then, Florence’s screaming stopped altogether. The brief silence was a relief, but only for a moment as dread filled his chest. It felt as though something must be wrong, and he could only imagine the worst outcome. He paused in his pacing and debated going inside. He fought against the urge and ran a palm down his face. It was all too much.
Another painstaking moment passed before Henry heard a loud wail. He couldn’t tell who it was coming from, but he knew something wasn’t right.
Just as he was about to barge inside, the chamber door flew open and the midwife appeared before him, looking exhausted. It felt like a lifetime passed before she finally spoke, and Henry was almost delirious with fear by that time.
“You have a daughter, my lord,” she said, a broad smile splitting her worn features.
Those words were enough to almost bring him to his knees. Henry didn’t care whether it was a boy or a girl, for he was simply relieved to know the baby was all right. And, presumably, Florence was too. The relief cloaked him at once.
He was sure the midwife could see the true state of him, for she smiled again and beckoned to him. “Come and see for yourself.”
With a quick nod, Henry pushed through the door’s threshold and saw Florence propped up in bed, with a tiny, bundled-up baby in her arms. He felt he would finally break in that moment, for the sight was unlike anything he had seen before.
Florence looked exhausted yet radiant at the same time, gazing down lovingly at the little child, already the model of a doting mother. Her skin was flushed and glowed with a sheen of perspiration. But despite her tired, dishevelled appearance, he thought she looked more beautiful than ever. And his heart went out to her, and his daughter.
Henry was quick to reach the bedside and to gaze down at the small, wrinkled face that was so new to the world. Laughter bubbled from his lips unbidden, he was so amazed by the sight.
Florence did the same and stroked the baby’s head lovingly. “It is a girl.”
An immense pride filled Henry then, to his great surprise. While most men longed for a son, he was over the moon with his tiny daughter. He knew she would have the guidance of an excellent mother and teacher, along with her cousin Agnes and her antics.
Henry looked over at Florence hesitantly. “Are you unhappy?”
Florence met his eye and shook her head, and Henry noted how her eyes were bright with love and adoration. “Of course, I’m happy. After all, I knew it couldn’t be a boy.”
While the old supposition had been proved wrong about Florence’s inability to have children, she had given him a beautiful daughter nonetheless, and he was perfectly content with that.
Grateful for and pleased by his wife and all she had gone through to bring his child into the world, Henry cradled her and the baby in his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. He couldn’t have been happier with the outcome and reveled in the wonderful feeling, and the enormous relief he felt.
“If the second Murray girl managed to give birth at all, then surely, she is capable of giving me a son one day too,” he murmured and watched as a smile crept across her lips.
Florence laughed softly and gazed upon the baby. Henry was mesmerized by the small child, and took in her quiet sniffles and experimental sounds, stroking her rosy cheek and grinning down at her with delight.
The new parents cooed at their baby and remained in their blissful state together. Henry felt incredibly fortunate and wondered what the future had in store for them now.
***
A warm breeze drifted across the colorful summer landscape. The garden looked beautiful, and all the family was seated outside in the sunshine to enjoy the lovely day. Henry felt perfectly content—all those dearest to him were close by.
Florence’s father sat with the little baby in his arms, jolly and smiling as he fussed over the child. It was the first time Henry had ever seen the man look truly at peace. He was clearly delighted with his tiny and so unexpected granddaughter, and was happy to entertain her, even if she couldn’t yet speak back to him yet.
He noted how fondly Florence watched her father as he played with the baby, and it rather warmed him to see it. It was nice to know that they had been able to repair their relationship and find a common ground after all.
Henry took a sip of his brandy and listened while Agnes spoke of all the wonderful things she planned to do while the weather was still warm, apparently hopeful for what was to come. He noticed there was a new glow surrounding his niece, for she was, indeed, happier than ever.
When the sound of a carriage rolling up the drive echoed across to them, Agnes perked up at once. Immediately, everyone knew Lord Lockhart had arrived!
“He is here at last!” Agnes exclaimed and jumped up from her seat at once.
Not long after, Lockhart’s coach came to a stop, and he exited with a chipper bounce to his step. He approached Agnes with a wide smile and somehow refrained from embracing her despite how overjoyed she appeared to be. She linked her arm with his while they spoke to one another, and they began to promenade around the garden, as they often did.
Henry was no longer bothered by Lockhart’s intention to marry his niece. While he had favored him from the very first time they had met, the old protective instinct had tried to weave its way back in, until Florence had forced him to admit that he really wanted to forbid Agnes from marrying anyone. They had laughed about it then.
Yet if Henry trusted any man, it was Lockhart. The young lord had stolen Agnes’ heart, that much was clear, and he was just as smitten with her. Truthfully, it was a wonderous sight to behold, he had to confess.
“Agnes does look rather pleased with him,” Florence murmured as they both eyed the couple. Lockhart waved at them, and they both returned the favor, laughing softly.
“Indeed,” Henry commented. “They make a fine match.”
“I am pleased that you allow Agnes to explore their compatibility for herself. She will always remember that and recall it fondly.”
Henry grinned at that with a nod, for Agnes’ happiness was all he had ever wanted to see.
“Who am I to stand in the way of true love?” he jested.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
After some time relaxing in the shade, Henry watched as the courting couple returned, and Lockhart greeted them properly before Agnes released his arm and returned to her chair.
Henry had expected Lockhart to sit down as well, but instead, he removed his hat and held it in front of him, truing it nervously.
“Lord Gray, may I have a private word with you?” he asked, looking tense.
Henry was somewhat puzzled at first, but he stood all the same. “Certainly. Lead the way.”
The two lords walked side by side across the garden until they were some distance away from the others. Henry noticed how Lockhart was fiddling with his hat. The lad seemed much more anxious than ever before, and Henry’s curiosity was piqued.
Lord Lockhart cleared his throat and slowed his stride until they both stopped, and he turned to face Henry.
“Lord Gray, it has been an honor to have been able to spend time getting to know Agnes. It has occurred to me that she is the most important person in my life, I love her, and I fear I shall not survive much longer without her by my side. What I mean to say is, I wish to ask for her hand in marriage,” he managed with some difficulty.
It should have come as no surprise to Henry, yet he felt as if the world had stopped. He had known Lockhart’s ultimate intention, of course. But the thought of marrying Agnes away seemed much more daunting at that moment.
She had been like his own little girl once, and it was difficult to swallow that she wasn’t small any longer. Agnes was a grown woman, capable of growing her own family. Preparing her for marriage and life as a mother had been the whole reason Florence was hired to teach her in the first place.
Even so, the gravity of this new reality made him hesitant.
However, he knew he couldn’t expect her to remain unwed and under his roof forever. She was mature and wise for her age, and surely, she was ready. Even if Henry wasn’t prepared, Agnes’ heart most definitely was.
Before his protective instinct could foil the moment, Henry smiled. There was no reason to deny him, after all.
“You are a good, honest man, Lord Lockhart. Because of that and how well you treat my niece, you have my blessing.”
Lockhart’s elation overcame him, and he thanked Henry several times on their way back to the others. He and Agnes were all smiles while they sat with one another and chattered, and Henry hung back to watch the scene unfold.
Florence approached him with the baby in her arms, bouncing her gently all the while. She raised a curious brow at him.
“What was that about?”
Something about the shine in Florence’s eye told Henry she had her suspicions, and she was likely correct. Satisfied by the outcome of it all, he reached out to the baby and watched as she put her small hand around his finger. His cheeks were almost sore from smiling that day, he realized, and smiled some more.
“The family will be growing by at least one more very soon. Perhaps even two,” he said.
Knowing instantly what that meant, she leaned into him, and he soaked in the affection, his chest swelling with pride and love for his family.
With his heart full, Henry knew he had found his long-awaited happiness at last, and there was nothing he would do to change it.
The End
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