The Reluctant Duchess Page 7

  “I live here. I am the new Duchess of Kendal.”

  The man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. That was when Rebecca noticed his entire face was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. “There is no Duchess of Kendal,” he stated boldly.

  Rebecca laughed. “You are mistaken, sir, for here I am. His Grace and I were married not two weeks ago.”

  Mr. Miller craned his neck and looked again through the window to where the carriage sat, and it seemed as if his breath caught in his throat. “Is he…” He swallowed. “Is he waiting in the carriage?” His voice rose to a squeak when he uttered the last syllable.

  “No, His Grace did not accompany me.”

  Rebecca wasn’t certain whether the relief she saw on the shopkeeper’s face was amusing or frightening.

  “You’ve seen the duke, then?” he whispered.

  What could she say? She hadn’t actually seen the duke, but she certainly knew she was married to him. “I’ve been here for nearly a week,” she said, neatly evading the question.

  His eyes darted to her, and something in them caused a frisson of fear to move up her spine. “Then you know.”

  “Know?”

  He swallowed, darted another look outside, then leaned forward and whispered. “The curse.”

  Despite herself, she couldn’t stop the shiver that convulsed through her. Suddenly, the bookshop lost its charm. She knew it was all silliness, but it was difficult to dismiss talk of demons and ghosts and curses when she hadn’t actually seen His Grace. Only touched him. And had him touch her. Had his hands been unusually cold? Giving herself a mental shake, she forced herself to smile warmly at the man. “If there is a curse, sir, I am not aware of it. I have been made more than welcome at Horncliffe and have…” She’d been about to say she’d seen nothing untoward, but that wasn’t entirely the case. “I have nothing to report of a curse. I’ve come to purchase a book. It seems all the books in Horncliffe’s library are scientific treatises, which do not interest me in the least. I was hoping to find something more to my taste in your fine store.”

  “Did he send you?” Rebecca could not ignore the real fear in Mr. Miller’s voice.

  “If you are referring to His Grace, no, he did not. As I said, I’ve come to purchase a book. It seemed as if this would be a good establishment to find one.” He didn’t appear to find her amusing in the least and frowned heavily at her.

  “George, who are you—” A woman, as thin as the man was stout, appeared behind the desk from a small door that apparently led to stairs to the second floor. When the woman saw Rebecca, she stopped and stared at her. She looked from Rebecca to the man, immediately seeming to sense that all was not well. “George?”

  “My name is Rebecca Sterling, Duchess of Kendal,” Rebecca said gently, and watched with dismay as the woman, whom she assumed was Mrs. Miller, grew markedly paler.

  “Did he send her?” she whispered to her husband.

  “She says no.”

  “For goodness’ sake, what are you two going on about?” Rebecca asked, not bothering to hide her exasperation.

  “Did you tell her about Enid—”

  “Hush, woman,” the man said harshly, before turning to Rebecca. “Take whatever you like, Your Grace.”

  Did he mean for her to take a book without paying for it? “Please tell me why you seem so frightened of me.”

  “You’ve seen him?” This from the wife, who stared at her as if she, herself, was a demon.

  “As I told your husband, I have been here nearly a week.” The two of them looked as if she was about to pull out an axe and begin chopping them to pieces; they held a sense of inevitable horror. She sighed. “I am aware of the rumors surrounding His Grace, but please let me assure you he is all that is refined and gentle.”

  The two scoffed, and Rebecca felt her face heat, this time from anger. “If you would please recommend a book for me, I will be on my way.”

  The woman seemed to snap out of whatever had frozen her to the spot and wiped her hands on her dress. “What sort of books do you prefer, Your Grace?”

  “I do rather like Jane Austen. Do you have anything by her?”

  “We have Emma and Pride and Prejudice, but we could order anything you like.”

  “I’ve never read Emma, so that would be fine,” Rebecca said. Feeling horribly uncomfortable, she waited in silence while the woman fetched the book and wrapped it for her. The man continued to look out the window fearfully, patting his forehead frequently with his handkerchief, as if he hadn’t believed her when she’d told him the duke was not in the carriage. When the woman handed her the book, Rebecca pulled out her small purse, but the gesture seemed to shock the proprietress.

  “Oh, no, Your Grace. Keep the book. Please.”

  “I cannot simply take this without paying. Will you bill His Grace, then?”

  She might have asked if they could fly to the moon, for they both shook their heads adamantly. Not wanting to argue further, Rebecca thanked them, bade them good day, and left the shop, nearly on the verge of tears. What the devil was wrong with these people?

  She returned to the carriage, book clutched in hand, the day ruined. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but it certainly was nothing like what she’d experienced. The streets were still deserted, though now Rebecca had a stronger feeling people were looking at her from the shadows, and as soon as their carriage was on its way back to Horncliffe, the streets would be filled with terrified villagers. She could just imagine them all flocking to the bookstore to grill the Millers on who she was and why she was riding in the duke’s carriage. They certainly would be surprised to find out they had seen the new duchess.

  Once she was back in the carriage, Darlene, wide-eyed, said, “I told you, Your Grace. I knew it wouldn’t go well.”

  “Something is terribly wrong with these people,” Rebecca said hotly.

  Darlene remained silent, clasping her hands tightly in her lap, her posture rigid.

  “I have never in my life seen such ridiculous behavior from adults,” Rebecca fumed. “No wonder His Grace remains hidden if this is what he must face.”

  Darlene’s pale cheeks bloomed with two spots of color, but she did not respond.

  It was an entirely upsetting experience and left Rebecca feeling angry and frustrated. She had a mind to fling the book out the window, but resisted only because she really did want to read it. And yet, those people obviously were truly afraid; they were not putting it on. What had made them so? She knew from experience that all rumors began from some sound foundation, yet she could hardly think she had married anything other than a man who was in some way terribly damaged. The entire incident only made her feel more fondly toward him.

  Once they were back at Horncliffe, Darlene headed to the kitchens, no doubt ready to tell the staff what had happened in the village. Rebecca, though, went directly to see Mr. Starke. Surely he would be able to cast some light on why everyone seemed so terrified of His Grace.

  She found Mr. Starke sitting at his desk, his chin on his chest as he napped, hands clasped over his rather large belly. Smiling tolerantly at the older man, Rebecca cleared her throat so as not to alarm him, but he started anyway, shot to his feet, then apologized profusely for sleeping during the day.

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Mr. Starke. We’ve all taken little cat naps. I need to speak to you, if I may.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  She explained what had happened in town, but to her surprise, Mr. Starke didn’t share her astonishment.

  “It’s because of Enid. She lived in the village and disappeared. Rightly or not, they blame His Grace. But it’s more because of the maid, Your Grace. He turned her to stone, he did.”

  Rebecca pressed her lips together to stop from smiling. “Are you telling me you believe His Grace turned a maid into stone?”

/>   “We are never to look at him, you see, and she did, bold as brass, she did. Molly Holly. Cute as her name, she was. Pretty little thing. She looked at His Grace. Said he looked like a demon, she did. She come down to the kitchens crying, her whole body shaking like a leaf. Said he bellowed at her to get out and never come back. Well, she left all right. She disappeared. And then, a month later, the gardener was out for the first time since the winter and there she was.”

  “Molly was in the garden?”

  “Not the girl. A statue. It’s still there today—you can see for yourself. The spitting image of her, it is.”

  Rebecca furrowed her brow and couldn’t stop the tingling of fear she felt run through her. “You think His Grace did it?”

  “We know he did,” Mr. Starke said, his voice a harsh whisper. “He was cursed at birth, he was, or so the story goes. His own mother never held him, ran from the house in terror. Not one person who was on the staff when he was born is still here today. They’re all gone. Every single one of them. Not one soul from the time before the old duke died is still here. Some think he killed his own father.”

  Rebecca stood, anger coursing through her. “I can assure you His Grace did not kill his father. It is unconscionable that you would say such a thing.”

  Mr. Starke stood and hung his head. “I am sorry, Your Grace. But there’s strange doings in this house. Strange noises. Some think the ghost we’ve all heard is Molly, poor little thing.”

  “I have heard your ghost, Mr. Starke, and I can assure you it is more likely the wind whipping around this house.” Even as she said the words, Rebecca found herself a bit spooked. She’d heard the dim cries, the sound of a woman, so faint it might be the wind. But Rebecca had never heard wind that sounded quite so peculiar.

  Even though she knew the story was the stuff of fiction, a story made up by some servant as a prank, Rebecca couldn’t stop herself from calling for her cloak and heading back outside for a stroll in the garden. When she’d explored the grounds previously, she had not bothered with the garden, for most of the flowers were long past blooming. Now, though, she walked out to the back terrace and headed down a stone path, dead leaves crunching beneath her feet. The garden did not seem at all well maintained, nothing like the gardens at Costille House back home; the earl had one of the most spectacular gardens in Cornwall and she had visited them on more than one occasion. Perhaps this garden was lovely in the spring and summer, but now it had an abandoned, almost neglected look.

  Rebecca headed down a path toward the sound of what must be a fountain, hidden behind a high hedgerow. Though it wasn’t a maze, it was difficult to see the garden in its entirety thanks to the height of the bushes that lined the path. Off to one side, a bench sat, hidden in a small alcove, and Rebecca wondered if anyone ever sat on it. It was the perfect place for lovers to hide from prying eyes, for when one sat on the bench, Horncliffe was entirely invisible.

  Above her head, the leaves rattled noisily in the wind, though where she stood was well-protected from the crisp breeze. Other than the sound of the wind and a gentle gurgling, it was silent. Turning one corner, Rebeca came upon the fountain, an impressive affair with a man on a rearing horse surrounded by urns that overflowed into the fountain’s pool. On its surface leaves floated, pushing by a breeze, a tiny regatta racing on the water.

  It was odd. Normally, walking through a garden would be a lovely thing, a settling and calming experience. But something about this garden with its high hedges, its neglect, the pure isolation, had Rebecca on edge. No matter that she tried to tell herself she was being silly, she couldn’t help feeling somehow threatened, as if the hedges would move in and trap her.

  “Stop it,” she whispered, shaking her head. Overhead, the sun was lost behind a large cloud, and the garden suddenly darkened and became a place of shadows. She fought the urge to turn around and chastised herself again for her cowardice. Taking a bracing breath, she circumnavigated the large fountain, giving the fierce warrior atop the horse a wary look—just in case he decided to come alive—and continued down the path in search of Molly’s statue.

  The pathway narrowed, leaving little room on either side, until she reached another clearing, this one set off to the right of the path, and there she was. Rebecca shivered, then laughed aloud. It was a statue, nothing more, carved by some skilled artist from marble, now pitted and with a bit of moss growing on the figure’s dress. The sculpture stood directly on the grass, the lady’s dress acting as the base. No, not a lady, for the figure was that of a maid, complete with cap and apron and an exquisitely rendered feather duster in her hand. The artist, whoever it was, had done a remarkable job with the detail. Rebecca stepped forward, taking in the fine work, noting how carefully each element had been carved, from the feathers in the duster to the fine lines on the woman’s fingers.

  “You can hear her scream sometimes at night.”

  Rebecca let out a shriek and turned around, frightened to nearly fainting. Her heart hammered in her chest as she whirled about to see an old man behind her at the entrance to the clearing. He wore rough clothing and a cap that covered most of his gray hair and his face was clearly in need of a shave. In his hand was a fierce looking tool made of metal, curving and sharp, and Rebecca felt her entire body quake in fear.

  The man looked from her to the tool, then laughed, a sound so incongruous that Rebecca was momentarily stunned. “I’m the gardener, Mr. Corcoran.”

  The relief that flooded her was so immense, Rebecca sagged, resting a hand on the maid’s arm, the one that held the feather duster. Laughing lightly, she said, “You startled me, Mr. Corcoran. I am—”

  “I know who you are, Yer Grace.” He moved into the small clearing, his eyes on the statue. “She was a pretty little thing, she was.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Molly.” He jerked his head toward the statue. “That’s her.”

  “That, sir, is a statue. While it is a fine bit of artistry, you cannot mean it is actually a young woman turned to marble.”

  The old man narrowed his gray eyes, his abundant brows drawing together. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Yer Grace, but I was here when they found her. I been working this estate since soon after the old duke died. There weren’t no statue here. And then Miss Molly disappeared and this statue appeared. How do you explain that?”

  “I’m not sure I can,” Rebecca said. “But I am quite certain His Grace does not have the ability to turn anyone to stone.”

  He lowered his head but kept his gaze steady on her. “You’ve seen him?”

  Rebecca wanted to lie, but could not. “I have had several conversations with His Grace. He is a bit shy about being seen.”

  Mr. Corcoran shook his head. “’Tisn’t shyness. You should leave here. Leave before he does the same to you.”

  “Mr. Corcoran, while I do think you believe what you are saying, I do not. His Grace is simply a man, a man who does not have the ability to turn anyone or anything into stone. Goodness, what would make you think such a thing?”

  “You’re new here. You don’t know what goes on.” His eyes lifted toward the mansion, even though it was still hidden behind the hedgerow. “Let me ask you this, Yer Grace—why did he have to go all the way to the end of England to find a bride?”

  Rebecca swallowed down her irritation, and to be honest, a tiny bit of fear that everything she was hearing was true. Oh, not that the duke could actually turn someone to stone, but that he had caused some sort of ill to befall the poor girl. What did she know of her husband, after all? “His Grace did not have to travel so far, but it is where I lived, sir. I do wish all of you would cease these flights of fancy.”

  Mr. Corcoran looked at the statue for a long moment, then back to her. “God protect you, Yer Grace.” Then he tugged at the brim of his cap and left.

  When his footsteps had disappeared, Rebecca let out a long, shaky breath. It was all a bunch o
f nonsense. All if it. Still, she could not stop her stomach from twisting. These people had worked and lived in Horncliffe far longer than she had. What if they were right? What if the duke wasn’t some sort of fictional monster, but worse, a monster who was living among them, who might just harm her.

  Rebecca looked at the maid again, found herself trying to read her expression, but it was just a pretty girl, her eyes vacant, her thoughts frozen. No matter how many times she told herself people were daft to believe such tales, she had to acknowledge that something was wrong in this house, something was dark and maybe even dangerous. And if everyone thought that dark and dangerous thing was the duke, wasn’t it at least possible they were right? Could they all be wrong?

  Later, when she was getting ready for dinner, as casually as possible, she asked Darlene about the sound she’d heard in the gallery earlier that day. After Mr. Corcoran’s story about Molly, she had to admit she was beginning to feel a bit on edge.

  “It was the strangest thing today. When I was exploring the house, I thought I heard a woman crying. Did one of the maids receive some bad news?”

  “Were you in the gallery?”

  Surprised, Rebecca nodded. “I was.”

  “That would be Molly. She was a maid here before I came but one day she disappeared. I know you don’t like to hear tales about His Grace—”

  “I do not,” Rebecca said. It was ridiculous. Oliver certainly had not turned some little maid into a statue. But no matter how many times she told herself how silly it all was, Rebecca couldn’t stop the tiniest bit of doubt that crept into her mind. If she hadn’t heard the woman crying, it would have been easy to dismiss all the talk. But she had heard something ...

  Darlene shrugged. “Molly haunts the place, don’t you know. At night and sometimes during the day, you can hear her wailing. Gives you the shivers, it does. Everything about this house gives me the shivers. You’ve felt it too, haven’t you, Your Grace.”

  Rebecca chose to let that go unanswered. At any rate, it was more of a statement than a question. “If this place is so frightening, why don’t you find another position? Surely there’s another great house you could work in.”