The Duke's
Widow
Preview
Prologue
“Brother!”
Josiah looked up from his business papers, only to immediately roll his eyes, a slight twist in his gut at the sight of his approaching brother. “You cannot be in your cups already, Pembroke. It is only the early afternoon!” Rising, he came from around his desk to stand directly in front of it, eyeing his brother shrewdly. Why had he come to call?
“I have news.” With one heavy hand setting on Josiah’s shoulder, the Duke grinned broadly at him, though he swayed slightly as he did so. “News you shall be overjoyed with, I am sure.”
“Is that so?” Stepping back so that his brother’s hand was forced to drop from his shoulder, Josiah sniffed and folded his arms over his chest. “And what might it be?” He did not much appreciate his brother’s behavior at present. In fact, Josiah had not appreciated his brother’s behavior in many a year for, ever since he had taken on the title of the Duke of Pembroke, he had become ill-mannered, bad tempered, selfish and, truth be told, something of a drunkard – though, somehow, he still managed to keep his affairs in meticulous order. To Josiah’s mind, his brother imbibed far too much though he would never dare say anything, not after the last time he had attempted to do so. The black eye he had sported for some days after that conversation had been a reminder to him to never speak of such things again.
“I have decided to marry!”
The twist in Josiah’s gut increased all the more though he worked hard to keep any sort of surprise from his expression.
“The young lady has no living father or mother but is in the care of an uncle who, I think, has brought her up very well indeed for she is genteel and amiable, not to mention rather beautiful.”
“Is that so?” Josiah looked away, a slow growing tightness in his chest as he recalled the only young lady he knew who had neither living mother nor father. The very same young lady who had caught his eye, the one he had been aware of for some weeks now and with whom he had been trying to find the courage to ask to court. The one with golden, cascading curls, dark blue eyes that reminded him of the sea on a stormy day and a smile which chased all darkness away. Surely it could not be her? He had confessed this to his brother in a moment of stupidity only a fortnight ago, his feelings growing to a point where he had been unable to hold them within any longer without speaking of them to someone. Surely it could not be the very same young lady? He knew full well that his brother was not a kind fellow, that he had very little of consideration within his heart but surely he would not have done such a thing as this?
“But it is her fortune that has captured my interest,” the Duke continued, with a hint of nonchalance. “It is indeed substantial, and considering my recent fortunes at play have been rather wanting,” he straightened his posture, as if to bolster his resolve, “I daresay she shall make a most admirable Duchess.”
“You… she…” Josiah closed his eyes tightly and let out a long, slow breath. “You mean to say that she has already accepted you?”
The Duke snorted. “What would possess me to ask the lady herself? I did not ask her, of course, but her uncle and he consented without question. So indeed, I am engaged and shall marry her within the month.”
Josiah’s heart squeezed painfully as he looked into his brother’s eyes, taking in the glint there and the way the corner of his mouth crooked upwards. “Might I ask the name of the lady you are to wed?”
The edge of his brother’s mouth tipped up all the more, a cruelness there which made Josiah crumple inwardly. He already knew who it was going to be, recognizing the look of darkness in his brother’s expression. For whatever reason, his brother had chosen to pursue the very same young lady that Josiah had spoken of to him, seeming to want to snatch any potential happiness away from him without even a thought.
“Why, it is Lady Martha.” The Duke’s eyes glittered. “I must thank you for your interest in her, for without it, I would never even have thought of her given that her father was only an Earl. But when I learned of her fortune and saw her beauty, I knew that I had to make her my own.”
“Why would you do such a thing?” Unable to help himself, Josiah threw up both hands, his upset rushing through him. “Why would you engage yourself to the one young lady I told you had caught my attention?”
His brother shoved him backwards, making Josiah stumble. “Do not think you can question me! I am the Duke, I am the one who holds the title and I shall do whatever I please without concern from you!”
“Then you have done it in order to be nothing but cruel and selfish,” Josiah retorted, his voice rasping with emotion now. “You have done it solely because you can, because you knew that I would not rush forward to pursue her.”
With a snort, his brother turned towards the door, his steps a little more steady now. “You have always been much too considered and slow in your actions, my dear brother. That is your failing, not mine. And yes, I chose her because I am the one who ought to wed first – and I ought to be able to choose whomever I wish for my bride. Which is just what I have done.”
Josiah could find nothing to say, could not open his mouth to fling a retort at the retreating figure of his brother. Instead, all he could do was put out one hand to hold onto the desk as the Duke quit the room, leaving him with nothing but pain and anger swirling through him.
He has done it simply because he could. And because he cares for no-one but himself.
Closing his eyes, Josiah dragged in air into his tight lungs, fresh pain crushing him as he slowly came to understand that he would never again be able to consider Lady Martha in the same way. She would now be his sister by marriage, wed to his brother and made his in every way. Placing the other hand on the desk, Josiah dropped his head forward, rounding his shoulders as he struggled to breathe steadily, the pain within him so great, it felt as though it was shattering his bones.
She will never be mine.
Letting out a groan of upset, Josiah squeezed his eyes closed, hoping the sorrow would fade but instead, it only lingered. Thumping the desk with his fist repeatedly, he let out another cry which faded into nothingness, leaving him only with regret that he had not acted more quickly, that he had not chosen to step forward with his intentions as regarded the lady.
Now, it was all much too late.
Chapter One
Some months later
Martha started violently, her tea catching the side of the cup and pooling untidily around the saucer. The sudden shout that now reverberated down the hall towards her caught her entirely unaware, her stomach cramping with an immediate flurry of fear.
“My lady!”
Her lady’s maid, Bessie, stumbled into the drawing room, not stopping to close the door.
“You must hurry, Your Grace,” she gasped, catching Martha’s hand as she rose to her feet, her skirts an impediment to her hasty departure. “He has returned sooner than we expected.”
Martha moved with as much swiftness as she could, one hand at her throat as she hastened towards the door. Bessie paused for a moment, craning her neck to see into the hallway before continuing onwards. Martha’s heart was pounding so violently that it was almost painful, but it would be nothing compared to what her husband would do, should he find her.
“Quickly, Your Grace!” Bessie whispered, trying to pull Martha along beside her. “You must hurry. Please!”
Martha struggled with her skirts, her slippered feet sliding on the highly polished floor as she attempted to run towards the grand staircase that would lead to the safety of her bedchamber and the double lock that she had ensured was fastened to the inside of her door.
It was her refuge. She had spent so many days and nights within, fearing that her husband would, one day, manage to break through the strong, thick wood of her door – but he had never once succeeded. Whenever he was called away to London, as he appeared to be very often, she would have the servants check her door thoroughly, making quite certain that it would protect her.
Her husband’s roar of rage ran through the house and Martha’s breath caught with a sudden, stifling fear. He was closer than she had realized, the sound of his voice chasing after her, nipping at her heels.
“Martha!”
He was there now, his footsteps hurrying towards the staircase. Twisting her head to look over her shoulder, she saw him cling to the rail, trying his best to put one foot in front of the other. She could tell he was thoroughly inebriated, which in itself was both a blessing and a curse. There was little chance of him catching her now, but it also meant that she would have to remain in her room for some days. She knew full well that the Duke of Pembroke would continue to drink until he passed out from the near-constant infusions of brandy and whiskey he consumed.
Bessie had the door to Martha’s bedchamber already opened by the time Martha reached it, slamming the door shut behind them both. Martha helped her to turn both of the heavy keys that sat, ready and waiting, in the locks, before pushing the heavy dresser in front of the door as well, ensuring that no-one could come in and no-one could get out.
“Here, Your Grace.” Bessie handed her the keys and Martha took them at once, feeling the cool metal in her hand. It gave her some reassurance, knowing that the locks were strong and that she was the only one with the keys. The Duke could not get in.
She was safe.
Despite that knowledge, the pounding on the door ripped a shriek from her mouth. Bessie was by her side at once, as tears began to prick at Martha’s eyes from the shock of what had just occurred. Carefully, Bessie led her towards the warm, welcoming fire that burned in the grate, seating her carefully beside it.
“There you go, Your Grace,” Bessie murmured, softly. “You are quite safe now. I am sorry there wasn’t a lot of time to get you here, but none of us expected the master to return so soon.”
Martha closed her eyes against the moisture that threatened to fall from them. She would not cry over her husband, not again. There had already been too many tears and too much sorrow. It did nothing to help her and could do nothing to change her situation. She simply had to remain strong, determined to protect herself and her staff in any way she could.
“It is not your fault, Bessie,” she said softly, patting her maid’s arm. “You need not apologise.” Opening her eyes and ignoring the shouts, the screams and the constant barrage of insults that were making their way from the door to her ears, Martha tried to smile. “I just pray that my tea tray was brought up.”
Bessie, who had done this a good many times before, let out a dry chuckle that seemed entirely out of place given the circumstances. “Indeed, my lady. The moment the carriage was seen coming up the drive, the cook was ordering everyone about like they were in the infantry! Your dinner tray is here also, and I have all that we shall require to make as much tea as you desire.”
Slowly, the banging on Martha’s door began to lessen, the shouts becoming quieter as her husband began to give up his attempts to get at his wife. Martha let out a long breath which shuddered out of her, taking with it the trembling that had settled in her limbs since she had found sanctuary in her room.
“The dinner tray, then,” she stated to Bessie, who smiled and brought it over at once, as though it was quite normal for her mistress to be taking dinner in her room whilst her bedroom door was locked and bolted like a castle in order to keep her husband away. “I thank you.”
Bessie nodded, with a slight flicker of concern in her pale green eyes. “May I make you a pot of tea now, Your Grace?”
Martha assented, hearing her husband kick the door in one last attempt to gain entry, which was just as futile as the last. Then, there was nothing but silence.
“Yes, I think so,” she murmured, her heart now back at a fairly normal rhythm. “Thank you, Bessie. You have, as usual, proven yourself more than dedicated. I do not know what I would do without you.”
Bessie smiled, inclined her head and disappeared into Martha’s dressing room, which was a small adjoining room where Martha would sometimes take her baths, when she had the opportunity to do so. On occasion, The Duke of Pembroke had attempted to sit outside Martha’s rooms until she was forced to remove herself from it – and since no dinner trays or the like could be brought up, he had thought himself very clever indeed. He had not known that, these last few months, Martha’s dressing room had been transformed into a small pantry with enough staples placed within it to keep Martha and Bessie free from hunger for a good many days. It had been Bessie’s idea and Martha was indebted to her for such wisdom, knowing full well that she might not have survived so long into her marriage were it not for her loyal staff.
Closing her eyes tightly, Martha let out her breath slowly, desperate to compose herself completely. This was not an unusual occurrence but neither was it what she had expected her marriage to the Duke of Pembroke to be. When they had first wed, he had seemed to her to be everything a gentleman ought to be – handsome, well-spoken and seemingly quite unaffected in his manner, which had been something of a surprise to her given his title and fortune. Unfortunately for her, she had discovered too late that her husband was nothing more than a violent drunkard, spending as much of his time as he could throwing whatever liquor he could find down his throat. Martha felt herself shudder involuntarily, recalling how he had called for her that fateful night, when she had been so innocent about her husband’s true character. She had approached him as a newlywed bride, only to discover that the Duke of Pembroke intended to assert his dominance over her. He was unyielding in his ways, ensuring she understood her position within both his household and his regard. His cruelty left her feeling diminished, bruised and alone.
He had not accounted for Martha’s quiet inner strength though.
When she had awoken, bruised and sore, Martha had determined that she would never again let herself be treated in such a fashion. She would not retreat to the shadows of fear that her husband so obviously wanted her to cling to. No, she would be strong. She would not allow his physical strength to dominate her, no matter how much he wanted it to be so.
And so, now a few months later, it had come to this. A life where she never saw her husband. He would either be in London and she would have the house entirely to herself, or he would return home and she would live in her rooms. She had not conversed with him for months and had no intention of doing so in the future. Of course, the Duke of Pembroke railed loudly and often at her through the door of her bedchamber but Martha was quite determined. She would not do as her husband expected and give herself to him willingly, so that he might treat her with such disrespect and dishonor – and certainly would not even consider allowing herself to bear his child given what sort of father the Duke of Pembroke would be!
“You haven’t eaten a single bite, Your Grace.”
Jumping in surprise, Martha’s fork clattered from her hand back down onto the tray.
“Here now,” Bessie said, gently, handing it back to her. “The master has gone, I think. You need to keep your strength up, Your Grace. There isn’t any good in sitting here letting that food go cold.”
Martha smiled, hearing the note of concern in Bessie’s voice. “You are quite right, Bessie. I was lost in thought for a moment, that is all.”
Bessie nodded and moved away, leaving Martha sitting quietly by the fire, captured still by her own thoughts. Would she ever be free from the Duke? It did not seem like it, for despite his near-constant state of inebriation, he still appeared fairly hearty and, from what she knew, managed to conduct his business well enough whenever he was in London. Divorce was not something he would even consider and certainly she, as a lady, would never be allowed to bring such a thing to the courts. Therefore, there was nothing else open to her other than to continue to live in the way she was now.
Martha ate absentmindedly, trying not to allow her spirit to become fatigued and drop low. To do so would bring her only more difficulty. For a moment, her mind flickered towards the only other person who might be able to come to her aid – the brother of the Duke, the Marquess Josiah Elkins, if she remembered correctly. Her brow furrowed, recalling that she had been introduced to him long before she had been introduced to the Duke himself. He had been a quiet sort, seeming reflective and considered but once she had become engaged to the Duke, he had become almost statue-like. He had chosen to keep well away from both herself and his brother, as though he thought the idea of his brother marrying an orphaned – albeit wealthy – young lady of the ton to be a particularly wise idea. She could still remember him now, his dark eyes wreathed in shadows as he had watched the Duke and her accepting the congratulations of every other person in attendance at their wedding. He had not said anything to her at all, had not even come to congratulate them both. Instead, he had remained quite silent, glowering from under half lidded eyes.
I do not think he will come to my aid. I do not even know where he resides. With a sigh, Martha shook her head to herself and speared another piece of chicken. Even if she knew of his place of residence and wrote to him, what if Lord Elkins, instead of helping her, spoke to his brother about what she had done? A shiver ran down the length of her spine, sending an icy hand to grasp her heart. It would be all the worse for her then. The Duke might decide to use his brother’s strength to help him break down her door and finally get himself inside, breaking apart her haven. The truth of it was, Martha realized, she had no knowledge whatsoever about Lord Elkins character. Mayhap he too liked to drink himself into oblivion, perhaps he also enjoyed using his fists to beat others into submission.
She shuddered violently, forced to set down her fork for a moment. The reality of her present, dire situation was that she could trust no-one but herself and the staff that had already proved their loyalty. Looking at the locked door, Martha felt the walls begin to slowly close in around her, her breathing quickening. There didn’t seem to be any way out. She was trapped in a prison of her own making, too afraid to leave in case the punishment outside would be greater than living her life inside the barred door.
There was no way out.
Chapter Two
Three days later
“Your Grace, I do not think this is wise.”
Martha let out a sigh, feeling her very soul shaking with fear. “I know, Bessie, but I cannot abide staying in this room another minute! If he has gone out, then I will take the opportunity to go to the library and collect a few new books. And also my embroidery, I think.”
“I can do that,” Bessie pleaded, her face a little white as her eyes urged Martha just to stay inside her chambers. “You need not go out. We do not know where the master has gone! He might have only gone to the stables to see about the horses, or even just to the gardens for a short stroll!”
Martha drew in a long breath, settling her shoulders and forcing her courage to the fore. They had heard three short knocks on the door in quick succession, which had alerted them both to the fact that The Duke of Pembroke was no longer sitting outside her door but had, in fact, gone out. Martha had prepared herself to leave the room almost at once but Bessie, who was always anxious to ensure her mistress’s safety, was determined that she should not. “Bessie, I cannot let my husband force me to hide away even when he is not within the house! I have to have enough strength to allow myself a little escape from the confines of my room for a time. We are running short of coal for the fire and water for the tea,” she finished, with a quick smile. “And you know that I cannot abide being without it.”
Bessie hesitated.
“There will be enough time for the maids to come in and clean whilst you organize whatever it is we need to endure a few more days inside,” Martha continued, firmly. “Now, do let us go, Bessie. I do not want to waste any more time.”
Even though her words were firm and her voice steady, Martha could feel the anxiety climbing up her throat, making her breath quicken as she unbolted the door.
“You are quite safe, Your Grace.”
She jumped, her hands slipping on the key as she turned it, hearing the butler’s voice coming from just outside the door.
“Thank you, Matthews,” she murmured, throwing the door open and stepping out into the hallway with a huge sense of freedom. “Where has my husband gone?”
The butler shook his head, his eyes – which she knew to be so kind and gentle – now dark with unspoken emotions. “He has gone to see Lord Seaton, I believe, Your Garce.”
“Oh.”
Lord Seaton was a viscount – and a poor one at that – whose estate bordered The Duke of Pembroke’s. The gentlemen often met together, simply to do nothing other than drink. It did not bode well for her.
“I think he will be a good few hours, Your Grace,” the butler continued, gently. “You will be warned just as soon as he is seen returning. I have one of the footmen watching from the window.”
Letting out a long breath of relief, Martha turned towards Bessie, seeing her white-faced, in the doorway. “You see, Bessie,” she said, gently, without a hint of censure but rather wanting to encourage her maid. “We shall be quite all right.” The maid nodded and made to say something, only for Martha to hold up one hand. “Now, you are to go and have some respite, Bessie. Take yourself to the kitchens, have something to eat and drink and a short time to rest. You need have no fear, you will be alerted – as you always are – about my husband’s return and will have more than enough time to make your way to the bedchamber.” She smiled gently as Bessie began to protest, only for the butler to shoot her a sharp look that silenced her immediately.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Martha watched as Bessie hurried away, her heart a little sad that her lady’s maid was also caught up in what was a rather miserable existence.
“I will send the maids to your room at once,” the butler said, as Martha began to walk towards the grand staircase that would let her descend to the rooms below. “Where might you be, Your Grace?”
She hesitated, the urge to go to the drawing room and play the pianoforte beginning to rise within her with a strength she had not expected. “The library first, I think,” she decided, “and then the drawing room.”
The butler inclined his head, a small, faint smile curving his lips. “Very good, Your Grace. I shall send a tea tray to you there.”
“Thank you.”
Martha allowed herself a quiet laugh as she walked towards the library, refusing to acknowledge the flicker of fear that kept attempting to dig its way into her heart. Her staff did not even have to ask her whether or not she wished for a tea tray, bringing her one without so much as her having to request it. It was rather odd for a lady such as herself to have a tea tray outside of the correct times for such things, but she had never much cared for propriety and expectation.
Sighing with a quiet delight, Martha picked up the books that she had left to one side of the library some days ago, setting them on the table and then going in search of her embroidery. She would have to have something to keep her busy during the next few days of her confinement and she was growing rather tired of reading. Her sewing was not exactly something she either enjoyed or found herself particularly good at, but at least it would give her some sort of useful employment. She looked down at the embroidery, such as it was, with a rather heavy sigh. If only she could have the pianoforte moved to her chambers, then she might play it whenever she wished! That was, aside from a fresh cup of tea, her only other joy in this life. To be able to lose herself in her music, to forget all about her pains and sorrows as she let her fingers run wildly over the keys…it was an experience like no other.
Not that The Duke of Pembroke cared about such things.
Shaking her head sadly, Martha picked up her books and her embroidery and quickly made her way to the drawing room, thinking that she would have as much time as she could playing the wonderful instrument. She would be wrenched from it very soon, she was quite sure, by news of her husband’s return, but even an hour with the pianoforte and her music would be enough to bring a sense of peace to her soul.
“Here you are, Your Grace.” One of the maids walked in just behind her, setting the tea tray down in the corner. “Oh, and let me take these for you.”
“They are to go to my room, if you please,” Martha said, handing her the books and the embroidery. “And I will not remove myself from this room until….” A sad smile tugged at her lips. “Until my husband returns.”
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy, her eyes revealing both her understanding and her sympathy for Martha’s situation. “I’ll make sure to tell the footman, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
Martha waited until the maid had quit the room and closed the door before walking towards the pianoforte, reveling in the solitude. Whilst she had never found Bessie’s presence to be burdensome, there was a difference between being in her bedchamber under Bessie’s watchful eye and being entirely without company. It let her breathe a little easier, her fear chased away completely as she sat down by the instrument, her fingers placed gently onto keys.
And then, she began to play. Her eyes slid closed, the music seeming to rush from her very heart and out through her fingers. The crescendo sent notes crashing through the room, bouncing off the walls and, to her mind, shaking the house itself. She let her anger and frustration lose, the music freeing her from their confines. Her heart was free, open to finding the relief that music brought her. Slowly, she began to quieten herself again, the music following the beat of her heart as the notes began to slow themselves, quiet themselves.
There were tears on her cheeks but she did not stop to wipe them away. Instead, she allowed them to fall, feeling them trickle from under her lashes and down her cheeks, dripping from her chin to fall onto her lap. Her emotions ran through her wildly, clinging together and then bursting apart until Martha could hardly continue to play. The pain of her marriage, of her daily agony, burned in her again, its fierceness stealing her breath. Sobs were racking her frame now as she forced her fingers to continue their torturous playing, feeling as though she had let loose the dam within herself, the dam that had kept everything back, had kept everything hidden, whilst she had been in her room.
Slowly, the pain began to die away, bringing a new light back to her heart. She thought of all the good she had – of Bessie, of the butler and the rest of her staff who were all so loyal and dedicated to her safety. She thought of her rooms, safe and protecting. She let herself believe that this would not always be the way of things, that this life would not always be the one she was destined to live. The music lost its somber tone and began to grow with light and hope, her heart quickening with a fierce determination that this place was not always to be her prison. The music grew in volume again, the crescendo bringing the piece to a close with a sense of victory, a sense of triumph – only for the door to burst open and a startled, terrified maid to rush in towards her.
“He has come back, Your Grace!” she cried, as the last few notes died away. “And has brought Lord Seaton with him!”
Her heart shriveled within her. “Where is he?” she asked, gathering her skirts and hurrying towards the door.
“The carriage has only just approached, Your Grace,” the maid gasped, holding the door aside for her. “Lord Seaton is too drunk to stand.”
Not even wanting to imagine just how much Lord Seaton and her husband had drunk in order to become so inebriated so quickly, Martha forced her courage to the fore and made her way along the hallway, back towards the staircase. Footsteps echoed towards her, her heart shaking with fear. Was it that her husband had already made his way inside?
Taking slow, careful steps, Martha edged towards the entrance hall, only to see Bessie rushing towards her, her face white and scared.
“Bessie,” Martha gasped, sagging with relief. “Where –”
“He is here,” Bessie cried, evidently unable to whisper such was her fright. “Please, Your Grace, you must hurry. He –”
The door crashed open behind them, just as Martha began to climb the stairs.
“We have a guest, Martha,” The Duke of Pembroke shouted, his feet sounding like thunderclaps as he began to hurry after her, evidently not as drunk as his friend. “You must greet him, my dear.”
His tone was dark and scornful, his words sneering and malignant with malice. Martha could not help the scream of fright that left her as she climbed the stairs, her eyes fixed on the very top, to where her security lay.
“Your Grace!” Bessie cried, taking her hand and pulling her all the faster up the stairs. “Hurry, I –”
Martha reached the top of the stairs, just as Bessie’s hand was pulled from hers, jerked back by something she could not see. With dread rising in her, she turned around, her back slamming hard against the wall.
Her husband had a tight hold of Bessie’s arm, a sneer growing steadily across his face as he began to slow his pace as he climbed the stairs.
“You had better stay exactly where you are, my dear,” he hissed, his breathing ragged as he reached the very top of the staircase, dragging Bessie beside him. “I know how attached you are to this maid of yours.” Tilting his head, he came to a pause only a few steps away from her, his eyes flickering maliciously. “I should hate it if she were to take a tumble.”
Martha gasped, her heart pounding violently in her chest. She could not see anything except the white face of her maid, her eyes screaming with fear and pain. The Duke of Pembroke’s fingers were digging into Bessie’s upper arm, making her whimper with pain.
“Go, Your Grace!” Bessie whispered, despite the fear etched on her face. “Go, please!”
Martha could not move, not even when her husband began to laugh, his voice seeming to fill the entire house.
“You have much too soft a heart, my dear,” he replied, advancing slowly towards Martha as he dragged the hapless Bessie alongside him. “She is just a maid.”
“No,” Martha replied, her voice shaking with all the terror she felt. “No, Pembroke. She has become my ally against you.”
The Duke of Pembroke’s expression changed at this remark, his color rising. His lip curled, giving him every appearance of a ferocious wolf ready to attack its cornered prey. Martha felt herself freeze with the fear of what he might do to her, but yet could not bring herself to leave Bessie alone with her dangerous and rage-filled husband. Bessie had been nothing but loyal to her, dedicated to her safety and welfare in every moment. How could she simply turn her back and run, leaving her maid to her husband’s anger? Given what she herself had been forced to endure once before, at the hands of her husband, she did not dare even imagine what The Duke of Pembroke would do to Bessie by way of retribution. Trying to draw strength into her bones, she looked into her husband’s vengeful eyes and felt herself tremble.
“Leave Bessie alone, Pembroke,” she said, her voice not as steady as she would have hoped. “I will do whatever you ask.”
“No, Your Grace!”
“Quiet, you!” The Duke of Pembroke shook the maid hard, his eyes still fixed on Martha. “Come on then, my dear,” he continued, still holding hard onto Bessie’s arm. “Make your way to the staircase. You can descend first and I shall watch you carefully. Lord Seaton – once he had regained himself a little – will be…..delighted to make your acquaintance.” His eyes glittered, his smile turning lewd as he beckoned her towards him.
“Please, Your Grace, do not!” Bessie begged, her face almost grey with fear as she became quickly aware of what The Duke of Pembroke meant. “You must not!”
Martha could barely breathe, such was her horror. To go with her husband, to do as he asked, meant, most likely, that she would be pawed and possibly even dishonored in some dark, disturbing way by either her husband or his friend. She knew that her husband was deeply angry over how she had hidden herself away from him these last few months and now, if she were to do as he asked, she had little doubt that he would punish her for that. Her whole body shuddered violently, her mind filling with dark and terrible thoughts.
“Please, Your Grace, I –” Bessie’s gasp of pain had Martha throwing one hand over her mouth in horror, as Bessie was slammed, hard, against the thick marble column at the top of the staircase, rendering her both speechless and breathless for a moment.
“Much too talkative, this little maid of yours,” The Duke of Pembroke said, as Bessie slumped over, evidently in a good deal of pain. “Hurry now, my dear. Down the staircase and greet your guest.”
As Bessie began to sag in The Duke of Pembroke’s arms, he was forced to let her go, throwing her hard towards the floor. Martha made to catch her on instinct, rushing forward towards her – only for her hand to be grabbed by her husband.
Fear sliced through her heart. Everything went still. The very air that she seemed to breathe disappeared, leaving her struggling. She was caught.
“Your Grace,” Bessie croaked, doing her best to get to her feet, only for The Duke of Pembroke to kick out at her viciously. Martha tugged her hand hard, trying to free herself but The Duke of Pembroke’s grip was too tight. Her heart began to pound furiously, dread and terror sending a rush of strength into her limbs.
No. Her husband was not going to take her now, not when she had managed to escape him for so long. If she could just free herself, if Bessie could just get to her feet, then they might still be able to make it to the bedchamber.
“Do not fight me on this, Martha!”
The Duke of Pembroke swung at her with his free hand, his hand making contact with her cheek. Stunned and dizzy with pain, Martha refused to give into him, knowing that even greater agony would await her if she was weak enough to let him achieve his goal.
“I will not go with you!” she shouted, her voice ringing out across the hallway. “Unhand me!”
Summoning every part of her strength, Martha threw her weight backwards, managing to wrench her hand from that of her husband’s. The Duke of Pembroke staggered back, whilst Bessie hurried to Martha’s side, her own face ashen.
The Duke of Pembroke snarled, made to say something more to Martha, only for his foot to slip down the very top step at the grand staircase. Martha watched, Bessie clutching at her arm, as The Duke of Pembroke fell backwards, his hands grasping at the air as he tried to regain his balance.
He fell hard, a single cry emitting from his lips. Then, his head landed on one of the stairs as the rest of his body crashed down. He rolled, this way and that, his limbs now limp and lifeless, until, finally, he came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.
For a moment, nobody moved. Bessie clung to Martha, her breathing ragged, whilst Martha stared down at the lifeless body on the floor. A ragged sob tore itself from Bessie’s throat, one hand releasing from Martha’s arm to clap over her mouth. Martha herself could not move, her breathing ragged, her strength fading from her.
Her husband was dead.
The sound of running feet captured Martha’s attention, finally forcing her to drag her eyes away from the twisted figure that was The Duke of Pembroke. The butler and two footmen appeared in the hallway, coming to a sudden stop as they stared at the figure lying on the floor.
“Come, Bessie.” Martha tried to push herself away from the wall, knowing that she now had a good deal of responsibility on her shoulders, but her legs refused to move. Fatigued, she leaned back against the wall again, her mind beginning to scream with the pain of what had just occurred.
Her husband had hurt her with his tight grasp, his words burning painfully into her soul. And dear, dear Bessie had tried her very best to protect Martha, enduring more than she ought for Martha’s sake. They were, at least for the time being, safe from The Duke of Pembroke, but that thought brought Martha no joy. No-one else had been around to see what had occurred, aside from Bessie. Her staff was loyal, however, which meant that any rumors about her husband’s fall would not come from their lips.
“Your Grace.”
The butler managed to wrench his feet from where they had fastened themselves, coming close to the bottom of the staircase and looking up at her. They stared at each other for a long moment, with the butler’s face as white as the yet unstained marble floor. “What should we do, Your Grace?”
Her voice was as weak as one lying on their deathbed. “Send for the physician,” she replied, as Bessie wrapped one arm about her waist, the other hand holding her left arm so as to support her, despite the fact she was shaking terribly herself. “Someone find a blanket to cover him. I do not think we should move him until the physician arrives.”
The butler nodded, sending the footmen away. Then, he walked towards the Duke of Pembroke’s body, bent down and placed one hand near the man’s face. Martha looked away, suddenly unable to watch. Her stomach churned, threatening to betray her as she struggled to maintain her composure. Shock was washing over her, tugging her firmly away from the steady composure she was trying so hard to cling on to.
“Your Grace,” the butler said, now climbing the staircase towards her, holding out his hand. “May I assist you down the stairs?”
Martha looked into the face of her devoted butler, felt Bessie’s arm tighten around her and felt as though she wanted to weep. This was a time of crisis and yet she was not alone. She had the support of her staff and that, at least, was something she could depend on. Forcing herself not to give into the waves of panic that were crashing over her, she closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing.
“Thank you, Matthews,” she whispered, her heart beating furiously as she let her gaze drift to what lay at the bottom of the steps. “But I do not think I can bear it. I cannot look at him.”
The butler nodded understandingly, not asking a single question about what had occurred. “Then we shall wait until the footman returns to cover his body,” he stated, quite calmly. “Should you be able to manage then, Your Grace? I think it would be best for you to remain in the drawing room or the like when the physician arrives as I fear he may have some questions for you.”
“And to see him in my bedchamber might only arouse suspicion,” she finished for him, realizing what he was saying. “Yes, Matthews, I quite understand.” Should the physician come to her bedchamber, then he might very well notice the way her bedchamber resembled more of a drawing room than merely a place to sleep and dress. “Is it certain that he is…..” She could not say the final word, looking at her butler with a wild desperation growing in her heart. “Is he gone?”
The butler did not immediately answer. His eyes looked back at her, still filled with the shock and fright that had come with seeing the Duke of Pembroke’s body.
“I did not see him breathing, Your Grace,” he said, eventually. “Although I did not touch him, merely held my hand in front of his mouth.” He shook his head, although there was no sadness in his expression. “I think he is quite gone.”
Martha could not breathe for a moment, her mind refusing to accept what she had just been told. Her husband, it seemed, was gone from this world. If the butler was correct, she was a widow. This place would no longer be her home. Lord Elkins would be called, he would claim the title and she would be cast from this house.
It was all too much for her to take in.
Her head began to grow heavy and she lowered it, rubbing one hand over her forehead. “I cannot bear it,” she whispered, to no-one in particular. “What will he think of me?” The fear that she would be found somehow responsible for what had occurred began to bite at her, sending her into a spiral of fear and dread.
“No-one will think you had anything to do with this,” Bessie said – the first thing she had said since the Duke had fallen. “I saw just what happened, Your Grace, and I will tell anyone who asks that the master was drunk and fell down the stairs. That’s all that happened.” Her voice was shaking but Martha could hear that she was doing her best to put as much strength into her words as she could.
“You have nothing to fear, Your Grace,” her butler said, encouragingly, as the footman’s footsteps were heard echoing up to her. “Look now, the body is covered. Might you descend now? You will need to sit and recover yourself as best you can before the physician arrives.”
She did not lift her head but began to walk towards the staircase, feeling cold and clammy as she began to descend. She would not let fear take over, however, she was quite determined, even though she barely had the strength to put one foot in front of the other.
“You must look away now, Your Grace,” Bessie whispered, still holding Martha around the waist. “Look towards the front door, or towards the drawing room. Then, you will see nothing. I swear it.”
Martha did as she was told, her nostrils seeming to fill with the acrid smell of blood. It seemed to cling to her, burning in her throat and piercing her skin.
“This way, Your Grace,” the butler murmured, hurrying her away from her husband’s lifeless body as she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. “We shall have you in the drawing room in a trice.”
The drawing room was warm and comfortable, a stark difference from the cold harshness of the front entrance hall. A maid was adding a few more coals to the fire, looking up at Martha as she entered.
“Sit here, Your Grace,” Bessie said, encouragingly, helping Martha to sit down in a comfortable chair by the fire. “Should you like something to drink?”
The butler cleared his throat. “Brandy, perhaps? And then a tea tray?”
Martha found herself looking up at the butler with some confusion, a little unsure of what she had been asked. Everything seemed to be moving very slowly all of a sudden, her brow furrowing as she tried to think.
“Yes, a brandy, I think,” the butler murmured, moving away to pour her one from the sideboard. “Here, Your Grace.”
She held out her hands, feeling them wooden and lifeless, managing to capture the glass in both hands. It was only then she realized that she was shaking, the amber liquid jostling this way and that as she brought the glass to her lips.
The first sip send a flush of heat down her throat and into her stomach, infusing her with a little warmth. “You both must have one also,” she managed to say, through trembling lips, aware that her maid was still looking as though she might faint at any moment.
The butler did not argue. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
There then came a few minutes of silence where each of them did their best to recollect themselves somewhat. Martha found that she could only focus on her brandy, her mind frozen when it came to considering her husband and all the implications that his death would bring. What would the physician say? And how did one go about arranging a funeral?
“I shall go now,” the butler said quietly. “Bessie, might you come with me for a few minutes? I need to speak to the staff.” He looked at Martha, a question in his eyes but Martha only nodded. She did not mind being left alone for a few minutes. In fact, she almost welcomed the silence. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will have Bessie bring you up a tea tray in a few minutes and she will sit with you for as long as you require her. I will, of course, inform you the moment the physician arrives.”
Tears burned in the corner of her eyes but Martha blinked them away with an effort. “And Lord Seaton?”
The butler’s jaw clenched. “Asleep, in the Duke’s study, Your Grace. I shall have him removed from the house just as soon as I can.”
She nodded, suddenly desperate to be alone. Taking another sip of her brandy, she looked up at her two servants, seeing their white faces and the concern for her growing in their eyes.
“Thank you, both,” she whispered, hoarsely. “Thank you for everything you have done.”
The butler inclined his head just a little before guiding Bessie to the door. “We shall return presently, Your Grace.”
The moment they left, Martha lost herself in a flood of weeping. She was not certain what it was that made her so distraught, for she had never loved her husband and certainly did not weep over his death, but perhaps it was the shock of just how it had occurred that made her so inclined to sorrow. Closing her eyes tightly, Martha drew in a long breath and let it escape in a tremble out of her. Taking another long sip of her brandy, she slowly felt her tears begin to dissipate, her stomach beginning to settle from the way it had churned and swirled within her. Her husband was dead by his own doing. Having drunk far too much, he had slipped and been unable to keep his footing. That was not her doing. All she had done was try to make her escape from the man who had held his torturous hand over her for so long.
Sighing heavily, Martha wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief she had pulled from her sleeve, trying to work out in her mind what would happen next. The physician would examine her husband and then come to confirm what she already knew to be the truth. Somehow, she would have to organize the funeral for her husband, playing the part of the grief-stricken widow.
Her fingers pressed lightly against her cheek, feeling the sharp pain coursing through her face at the gentlest of touches. Her husband had hit her hard, to the point that she wondered if any of her bones had cracked. The physician would, most likely, notice such a thing and that brought her a good deal of fear. Would he believe that she had retaliated in some way? Or would it only bring her some sympathy from the good physician? He had, she realized, attended her before when The Duke of Pembroke had first unleashed his wrath upon her, so it was not as though such a mark to her face would bring the physician any sort of surprise.
“But I did not kill him,” she whispered aloud, as though the physician was there to hear her. “As much as I might have wished to be parted from him, I did not ever seek his death.”
But still, you are free.
A shaking sigh left her lips as she considered this. Her fear was gone, dying away the moment her husband had taken his last breath. She would not have to walk about this house with trepidation in every step, clinging to the shadows in case her husband might reappear unexpectedly. She could return to the life she had once known, a life of joy and contentment, without any sort of fright taking hold of her. With The Duke of Pembroke gone, she no longer had any obligation towards him.
“Your Grace.”
The butler knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for her to call him to enter.
“Forgive the interruption, but the physician has arrived.”
Martha cleared her throat, praying that she would not appear as weak and fatigued as she felt. “But of course. Come in.” She did not smile as the tall, thin man walked into the room, bowing in front of her. Setting her brandy glass down on the table to her left, she placed her hands in her lap. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you.”
As she had expected, the physician’s sharp eyes lingered on her cheek as he murmured that it did not matter, for he quite understood. Martha felt herself flush with shame but did not drop her eyes from his, making sure that she showed no sign of guilt. The butler excused himself, just as Bessie walked in with the tea tray in her hands, the China only tinkling slightly as she set it down. Evidently, Bessie had not quite got over the shock of what had occurred.
“I have spoken to your maid about what happened, Your Grace,” the physician said, quietly.
“I see. My recollection of events will match with hers, of course. My husband drank far too much, which he often did no matter what time of day or night and fell as he lingered at the top of the staircase.” This came out in a rush, as though she wanted to prove her innocence to the physician who had, thus far, not suggested that she was in any way involved. “May I ask what you discovered in your examinations, Doctor Thorngood?”
The physician cleared his throat, his hooked nose jutting out from his thin face which was only made all the more obvious by his threadlike moustache that seemed to float underneath it. “I think, Your Grace, that your husband hit his head rather badly as he fell. He was also injured by the fall itself. I have examined him and the staircase and found that he hit the back of his head on the large marble pillar at the bottom of the staircase as he fell.” He took a short pause. “The Duke of Pembroke is gone. May I pass on my deepest sympathies to you.”
She nodded, her throat constricting. The physician could not be aware of the relief – and the guilt – that rushed through her. Relief that she would not have to face her husband again and guilt for feeling such a thing in the first place.
“May I look at your cheek?” Doctor Thorngood asked, a good deal more gently. “It looks as though there has been some bleeding beneath the skin and I must see if there is anything broken.”
Martha’s eyes opened slowly and she saw that Doctor Thorngood, whilst appearing quite concerned, had deep furrows cutting into his forehead as he frowned. She had no doubt that he knew where such an injury had come from.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, lifting her brandy glass and throwing back the final dregs. Bessie was right by her side in a moment, taking the glass away and gesturing to the tea that was now waiting for her on the small table by the fire. “I thank you.”
The physician was gentle but still Martha could not help but wince in pain.
“This does look rather bad,” he murmured, quietly. “It will take some time to heal, although I fear it may leave a scar. A poultice may help, as well as some laudanum, if you would wish it?”
Immediately, Martha shook her head, ignoring the pain that came with such an action. “No, I thank you.”
“It may be what you need to rest,” the physician said, carefully, as he rose to his feet to fetch his bag. “After what you have endured, Your Grace, it may help. Shall I leave a little, just in case you change your mind?”
Seeing the earnestness in his eyes, Martha sighed and inclined her head. “Very well,” she agreed, as the physician smiled at her in obvious relief. “If you think it wise.”
“More than wise,” he replied, handing a small bottle to Bessie. “Now, I shall make the poultice up and leave it for your maid to deal with this evening, before you retire to bed. Have it carefully bandaged to your face in whatever way you can, and then remove it all in the morning. It should help with the bruising and aid the healing.”
Her throat worked for a moment, suddenly realizing that this was the last time she would ever have to worry about the damage her husband had inflicted upon her. “I thank you,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion. “You are very kind, Doctor Thorngood.”
His eyes flickered with some hidden emotion. “After what you have endured, Your Grace, it is the very least I can do.” Bending down, he took her hand for a moment, startling her. “I do not mean to overstep my bounds but I must assure you that you have nothing to fear,” Doctor Thorngood said, quietly, reassurance and encouragement in his every word. “I shall have your staff prepare the body for the funeral and, should you wish it, you need not look into his face again.”
She nodded, tears spilling from her eyes. The physician was, in as careful a way as he could, telling her that he knew precisely what it was she had been forced to endure these last few months and trying to encourage her that she would not be under any suspicion as to her husband’s death. Those words were something she clung to, her heart freed of the worry and the fear that had lingered in her soul ever since her husband had fallen.
“Thank you, Doctor Thorngood,” she whispered, as he rose to return to finish his poultice. “You have brought me more relief than I can say.”
His eyes warmed. “I am glad to have been of service, Your Grace. Now, you must rest and recover yourself, for the next few days will be quite difficult, I am sure.” He threw a glance towards Bessie, who nodded her understanding. “And should you have need of me, then I insist that you send for me at once.”
“I will,” Martha promised, gratefully. “Thank you again.”
He bowed, took his leave and walked to the door, leaving both Martha and Bessie alone.
“Drink your tea, Your Grace,” Bessie said, encouragingly, as the door shut. “It will fortify you.”
Martha did as she was instructed, finding that a quiet peace began to settle over her soul. She had nothing to be afraid of now, not when the physician had given her his assurances that she was not to be considered culpable in any way to her husband’s demise. Indeed, the next few days would be arduous, as the physician had said, but thereafter, there came the first glimpses of a new and bright future. One where she might never have to be afraid again.
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“The Duke’s Widow” It will be live on Amazon soon…
More titles…
This Post Has 3 Comments
I can hardly wait. I have been so drawn into the story, I hate there is not more as yet.
Of course I don’t know the entire story but how does the book get around the prohibition in Regency England that prevented a man from marrying his brother’s wife. A rule that prevented this type of marriage in the Church of England until early in the 20th century?
Hmmmm an interesting beginning…