Only a Promise (9 page)

“I will try to see to it that
you
do not regret it either,” she added.

“I will not,” he told her. “It is over.”

He did not explain what he meant. But it was a chilling little phrase—
it is over
. As though, once he had begotten an heir and perhaps another son to provide a spare, his duty would be done and there would be nothing further for which to live.

Surely he had not meant that.

She wished the duchess had not told her that he had once been suicidal. It had been many years ago, after all, and his injuries had probably been such that the pain had come near to driving him out of his mind. But
three years
to heal? And an empty soul afterward?

Head cases, that is.

She waited for him to say more or to decide after all to return to his own room. But she became aware after a while of the evenness of his breathing and realized that he had fallen asleep.

It is over.
Perhaps all he had meant was that now he was married he would no longer have his relatives and his own sense of responsibility constantly pestering him to do his duty and choose a bride. No doubt that was all he had meant.

Or perhaps he had merely meant that today was over.

Had she just imagined that his voice as he spoke the words had been utterly bleak?

Chloe closed her eyes and concentrated upon the soreness—the lovely soreness—he had left behind inside her.

She was married. In every way.

She hugged happiness to herself as she fell asleep.

*   *   *

Ralph was staring up at the canopy over the bed. He guessed he had slept for an hour or two. He rarely slept longer at a stretch and often had a hard time going back to sleep after he woke. He was wide awake now and feeling a bit claustrophobic. Although this was not a small bedchamber, it was considerably smaller than his own. And the canopy seemed lower and the bedposts heftier.

It was not those facts that made him feel closed in, though, he knew. It was the fact that he was sharing the room, sharing the bed. He was not touching her, but he could feel her body heat along his right side, and he could hear her soft breathing.

He fought the desire to get up and return to his own room. He had decided that for a while, until she was pregnant, he would spend the nights in her bed so that he could have her more than once. His reason for marrying, after all, had been the need to produce heirs, and he meant to do the job diligently. He would not take her again tonight, however, not even once, not even in the morning before getting up. She must be sore, even though she had said it had not been painful. He could only imagine what losing one’s virginity must feel like for a woman.

He could have allowed himself one more night in his own bed and the privacy of his own room, then, but he had decided to stay here, to start his marriage as he
meant to continue with it. He hoped she did not mind. He had not consulted her. But she had known and accepted his reason for marrying her—his only reason.

He had been a little disconcerted by her appearance when he came to her room. Not so much the nightgown. It was pretty even if rather excessively modest. But the cap . . . Again, it was pretty. But he had been imagining to himself what her hair was going to look like. He had wondered if it would be braided or left loose. He had certainly not expected that it would be all but invisible.

Perhaps it was just as well. He must, and did, feel some sort of sexual attraction to her, but he did not want there to be more than that. And he suspected very strongly that she did not either. She had lain passive and quiescent beneath him. It was a bit chilling to know that the pattern of his sex life had been set tonight.

She murmured something unintelligible and rolled onto her side, facing him. He turned his head to look at her, but she was not awake. Her forehead almost touched his shoulder. The frill of her cap, he could see in the near darkness, framed her cheek and forehead and gave her a look of innocence.

He was surprised by a stirring of desire. He would not act upon it, however. He had the feeling she would not resist him, but it would be callous . . .

He turned away from her, closed his eyes, and willed himself to go back to sleep. He almost succeeded. He was actually drifting off when a brisk knock on the bedchamber door brought him back to full consciousness with a start.

“My lord.” The door had opened a crack. It was his valet’s voice, low but urgent. “You are to come.”

Chloe sat bolt upright. Ralph swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his robe.

“His Grace?” he asked.

“He has taken a nasty turn, my lord,” his valet confirmed. “Her Grace says you are to come.”

Chloe was on her feet too. Ralph strode around the foot of the bed, belting his robe as he went.

“Stay here,” he told her. “You might as well go back to sleep.”

“What foolishness,” she said as he hurried from the room and along the corridor to his grandfather’s room, which was bright with candlelight.

He took in the scene at a glance. His grandfather was lying on the bed, his head and shoulders propped up by a bank of pillows. Even in the flickering light of the candles it was obvious that his complexion was a livid gray. His eyes were closed, his fingers clenched on the sheet that covered him. His valet was bent over him, one hand to his brow. The duchess, very upright beside the bed, clutched the edges of a heavy dressing gown to herself.

“Dr. Gregg has been sent for?” Ralph asked, striding into the room.

It spoke volumes that his grandfather did not even open his eyes to protest.

“He has, my lord,” the valet said. “Weller has gone to wake Robert. He is the swiftest and most reliable of the footmen.”

The duke opened his eyes and looked around at the group.

“How are you, sir?” Ralph asked foolishly.

His grandfather’s eyes found him, and for a moment
there seemed to be a glimmer of humor in them—and of affection.

“Dying, my boy,” he said. “A foot and a half through the door at last. And not before time. I have long outlived my allotted three score years and ten.”

Ralph would have moved around the bed to his grandmother’s side, but Chloe was already there, he saw when he looked up. She had an arm about the duchess’s shoulders.

The valet was dabbing a wet cloth to the duke’s face. The housekeeper had appeared at the door, where she stood beside Weller. Ralph’s own valet hovered just outside the door with a cluster of other servants.

The duke had closed his eyes again. Her Grace had taken his hand in both of hers and raised it to her cheek. Chloe stood with her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes upon the duke’s face.

“The physician needs to hurry,” the duke’s valet said, straightening up and looking imploringly at Ralph, anguish in his eyes.

“He will come as fast as he can.” Ralph moved up beside him and squeezed his shoulder, and the man stepped away to wash off the cloth in the basin and squeeze it out until it must have been nearly dry.

Ralph touched his grandfather’s shoulder and gazed down into his face.

Don’t die,
he begged silently.
Don’t die. Please don’t die.

But everything died just as surely as love did.

The old, dying eyes opened again and found the duchess.

“Emmy,” he said.

“Ned. My dearest.”

Ralph looked away. His eyes met Chloe’s across the bed and she half smiled at him. Strangely, it did not seem an inappropriate expression, only an apparent acknowledgement that she knew his mind was repeating the same words over and over—
Don’t die. Please don’t die.

He heard himself swallow, and then, only a moment or two later, it seemed, he heard his grandmother’s voice again, very quiet, very calm.

“He is gone.”

And he was indeed. He was lying as before, his eyes closed, his gray face peaceful. But something had changed.
Everything
had changed. There was no one there.

He was gone.

T
he duchess and Ralph, on either side of the bed, were gazing numbly down upon the duke’s dead body. Chloe glanced from one to the other of them, wondering which she should try to comfort first. But of course there
was
no comfort. She remembered that very well indeed from the night her mother died.

A hushed voice close to her ear broke the silence.

“What ought I to do, Your Grace?” It was the housekeeper. “What ought we all to do? We can hardly just go back to bed.”

Chloe turned to beg the woman not to disturb the duchess at such a moment, only to realize in some shock that Mrs. Loftus was addressing her.
She
was the Duchess of Worthingham. Ralph was the duke. It was a nasty shock that made her feel as though she was about to buckle at the knees.

Mrs. Loftus and Mr. Weller normally kept Manville Court running with smooth precision and absolute authority. But both were rather elderly. They had probably occupied their positions for many years and had grown deeply attached to their employers. They ought, of course,
to be prepared for this moment, since the old duke had been in precarious health for some time, but clearly they were not. Both were looking lost and helpless and had turned to Chloe for guidance.

She was, after all, now the mistress of Manville Court—shocking, ghastly thought. But
someone
had to take charge. She stepped out into the corridor beyond the bedchamber door with Mr. Weller and Mrs. Loftus and spoke with lowered voice to the servants gathered there—and there was a fair crowd of them. Chloe doubted anyone was still in bed.

“It will be best if Mr. Weller remains up here,” she said. “His services will almost certainly be required. Perhaps you will choose one of the footmen to remain with you, Mr. Weller. You will wish to stay too, of course, Mr. Bentley.” She looked with sympathy at the haggard face of the duke’s elderly valet, who was hovering in the doorway. “You will definitely be needed. None more so.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he murmured.

Chloe led everyone else down to the kitchen. There she found a couple of kitchen maids and one young boy clustered forlornly about the cook. All of them curtsied to her and fell silent, looking to her for direction. They must all know far better than she what needed doing, of course, but for the moment they were collectively stunned and helpless.

Only a matter of hours ago, they had all been lined up in the back hall, beaming with pleasure at the sight of a new bride and groom . . .

Chloe instructed the cook to get the fire going in the big range and sent a maid to fill the large kettle and the boy to work the pump for her. She suggested an early
breakfast for all the servants who were not otherwise employed, as the day ahead was likely to be a busy one and different from the usual routine, and none of them could be certain when they would next be at leisure to partake of a good meal. She directed that a tea tray be prepared and the kettle kept at the boil so that tea or coffee could be made at a moment’s notice. She suggested that a batch of scones be baked as soon as possible and that one of the footmen should check the liquor decanters in the drawing room to make sure they had been filled last night. She assigned another footman to make sure the coal scuttle in the drawing room was full and sent a maid up with him to light the fire and start warming the room. Mrs. Loftus would supervise everything else that needed doing, Chloe told them all, since Mr. Weller was otherwise occupied, at least for now.

But in the meanwhile, she said at last, and before doing anything else, they must all take a few moments to return to their rooms to dress. Goodness knew when they would have another chance, and any visitors who arrived later might consider it odd to say the least if they found all the servants and other residents of the house in their nightgowns and nightcaps.

She was suddenly acutely aware of her own nightgown and old dressing gown and of her frilled cap—and of the fact that this had been her wedding night and the servants were all fully aware of the fact.

Her words drew a weak laugh from everyone as they dispersed.

In the absence of a black dress—it had not occurred to her to bring any of her old mourning clothes to Manville with her—Chloe donned a dark blue one. It would
have to do for now. She left her hair braided about her head.

By the time she came back downstairs, she had thought of a few other things that needed to be done without delay. Robert had just returned with the physician only to learn that they had arrived too late. Chloe comforted him with the assurance that Dr. Gregg could not have saved the duke’s life anyway, and she sent the footman back to the village to fetch the vicar even though it was still night. The presence of a clergyman was needed, and the Reverend Marlowe would not mind the hour. Indeed, he would probably be hurt if he was not summoned until after daybreak. It was not often he was called to the deathbed of a Duke of Worthingham.

She sent the footman who was on duty in the hallway to fetch something with which to muffle the sound of the door knocker, black crepe if possible.

And then there was nothing left to do that she could think of. She stood in the hall for a few moments and glanced up the stairs. Ought she to go back up there? Was that where her place was, at her husband’s side? But there was nothing she could do, and the thought of going back into that room with its silent, empty presence was daunting. If she had not left at all, it would be different. But she had.

She could not go back.

She went into the drawing room instead and pulled Her Grace’s chair closer to the fireplace. She picked up the fire tongs and heaped a few more coals onto the fire. The room still felt chilly. But she was too restless to sit. She went back down to the kitchen instead, to make sure everything was proceeding smoothly. It was. Mrs. Loftus
had recovered both her poise and her authority and was instructing the chambermaid who had already finished her breakfast to check all the rooms to make sure the curtains were drawn across every window. As soon as the others were finished, she assured Chloe, they would be sent to dust and polish in the main rooms, though they had all been done just three days ago. The footmen were being sent back to their rooms to change into their best livery. Miss Bunker had volunteered to make black armbands for them.

Chloe arrived back in the hall just as the vicar was coming through the door. He strode toward her, both hands outstretched.

“My dear duchess,” he said, squeezing hers tightly. “Under what sadly different circumstances we meet today. Please accept my deepest sympathies and those of my dear wife. But the Lord is merciful, you know. Yesterday it was very clear that His Grace was happy he had lived long enough to witness the nuptials of his only grandson.”

She led the way upstairs, but she was glad to relinquish him to the care of Weller, who was waiting on the upper landing, all stiff, formal dignity.

She sat in the drawing room after that, waiting, and gradually dawn grayed the room through the curtains. It struck her fully then. The duke, that gruff but kindly old gentleman of whom the duchess was so very fond, was dead. Gone. Leaving a heavy emptiness behind, even for her. She could only imagine what Her Grace and Ralph were feeling. And indeed she
could
imagine it. Her mother’s death still felt recent.

When the drawing room doors finally opened, Chloe
got to her feet and pulled the bell rope before turning. It was a moment she had been dreading.

Ralph had his grandmother on his arm. Both were fully dressed, both in black. Her Grace was straight backed and regal, her face looking as though it had been sculpted of marble. Ralph’s was ashen, stern, and forbidding. Dr. Gregg and the Reverend Marlowe came behind them.

Choosing which one to comfort was instinctive. Chloe hurried across the room and drew Her Grace into her arms. They clung wordlessly together for several moments before Chloe led her to her chair by the fire and spread a lap robe over her knees.

“The tea tray will be here in a moment,” she said, “and a plate of scones.”

“I could not eat or drink a thing, Chloe,” Her Grace said, “but Dr. Gregg and the vicar will be glad of some refreshments, I daresay. I regret that they were dragged from their beds at such an hour. Perhaps they would prefer something stronger than tea, though?”

Both men held up staying hands and shook their heads. Dr. Gregg assured Her Grace that a cup of tea would be much appreciated.

“And you will drink too, Grandmama,” Chloe told Her Grace firmly, “and have a bite to eat. You must.”

The duchess smiled wanly.

“I just asked Weller how the servants are faring,” she said. “He told me they have been under your direction and that everything is running smoothly. Thank you, my dear. I might have guessed you would take charge without any fuss or panic. I will drink tea since you insist. And I will try half a scone.”

Ralph meanwhile had crossed the room without a word to anyone and stood now at the window. He had opened the curtains back a few inches and was staring out at the gray dawn, his hands clasped at his back.

A tray on which there was both a coffeepot and a teapot was carried in almost immediately. Chloe busied herself pouring and carrying around the cups and saucers and then the freshly baked scones. The Reverend Marlowe had seated himself close to the duchess and was speaking quietly to her. Dr. Gregg stood at his shoulder, listening and looking down at the duchess with obvious concern.

Chloe crossed the room to her husband, set a cup of coffee down on a table close by, and rested a light hand on his sleeve. She felt his arm stiffen, though he did not flinch quite away from her.

“Ralph,” she said softly.

“Everyone,” he said without turning his head, “keeps calling me
Your Grace.
”

“I have poured you some coffee,” she said. “And there are fresh scones.”

“I want nothing,” he said.

“He went peacefully,” she told him. An utterly foolish thing to say, of course. But what
did
one say?

“You became a countess yesterday,” he said, “a duchess today. It is the stuff dreams are made of.”

Her hand tightened a little on his arm before she removed it. Did he mean . . . ? But of course he did not.

“I beg your pardon.” He turned his head sharply to frown at her. “I do beg your pardon, Chloe. I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

For once there was something in his eyes more than the usual blankness. There was apology there, and pain.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “But it is the truth nevertheless, and I wish it were not so. Drink your coffee, or I will bring you tea if you prefer. And try to eat a scone. I shall fetch some for both of us, though I have no appetite either.”

Such mundane matters when there were worlds of emotions to feel and realities of which to think and speak! One of the most horrible realities about the death of someone closely related, she remembered, was the necessity of going on almost immediately with the trivialities of living. As though nothing of any real significance had changed.

“Coffee will be fine,” he said, his eyes straying to the cup. “I’ll share a scone with you.”

She went to fetch it and to pour herself some tea, and then she returned to stand beside him again. They ate half a scone each from the same plate before he took up his coffee. Last night, just a few hours ago really, they had consummated their marriage. It seemed an eon ago. She was suddenly terribly glad they had married in time.

“Weller and Mrs. Loftus have ruled Manville with an iron thumb apiece for longer than I can remember,” he said. “I understand they came close to falling apart last night, however. They were quite devoted to the duke, of course. But you held them together and now, I understand, all is running smoothly again.”

“They would have done very well without me,” she said.

“They would have managed, of course,” he agreed, “but they looked to you for leadership and you gave it.”

She set down the empty plate, pleased at his approval, and picked up her cup and saucer. “I am your wife,” she said. And she was. In every way.

“You are my
duchess
.” He frowned at her. “Which fact makes me the duke. Hell and damnation.”

He did not apologize for his shocking words. Perhaps he did not even realize he had spoken them aloud.

“I had better start behaving like one,” he said, setting down his empty cup and saucer. “Come.”

And he moved toward the fireplace and waited for Chloe to seat herself before speaking.

“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the physician and the vicar, “I thank you for coming out so promptly in the middle of the night and for the words of comfort you have offered to Her Grace, my grandmother, and to my wife and me. We are indeed grateful. We will need to discuss the funeral, Reverend Marlowe. Not now, though. I will be sending my grandmother and my wife to bed soon. They both need to sleep or at least to rest if sleep is not possible. Perhaps you will return later.”

Both men recognized their cue to leave. Ralph saw them on their way, and Chloe was alone with his grandmother for a few minutes. Her Grace was staring into the fire, but both the cup and the plate beside her were empty.

“It is the strangest feeling in the world,” she said. “One moment someone is there, speaking one’s name. The next moment his body is still there but he is not. And never will be again. There is no calling him back. What was not said before he went will never be said now. His body is still upstairs. It looks like him and yet does not. He is not there.”

Chloe clasped her hands and refrained from offering words of meaningless comfort.

Her Grace turned her head and smiled at her.

“But we celebrated your wedding yesterday,” she said, “and we were both happy, Worthingham and I. Perhaps it was selfish of us not to persuade the two of you to wait and marry with all the proper pomp and formality in London. But I cannot feel sorry we
were
selfish. Somehow it felt like the loveliest wedding I have ever attended, with the possible exception of my own. And you cannot know the comfort it is to me today, Chloe, to know that Ralph is married and has a wife to see him through this difficult time. And to know that you are no longer just my guest, my dear Clemmie’s granddaughter, but my
own
granddaughter by marriage. I could not bear to be the duchess any longer, you know. I am
so
glad that your position as Ralph’s wife has relegated me to the position of dowager duchess. Oh, Chloe, my love.”