Chapter 2

Who was that?" Thomas Cunningham asked, watching as the young woman hurried across the meadow, pausing to look back before hurrying towards Hindringham Hall.

His friend, Richard, smiled and shook his head.

"It was Phoebe Pollard – the daughter of the Baron Greenwood. Well … his niece, too," he said, and Thomas looked at him puzzled.

"I don't understand what you mean. I just met her. She said he was her uncle," he said, and Richard smiled.

"Her uncle's the Baron Greenwood – of Hindringham Hall. A man of little wit and limited conversation and married to a woman who suits him very well on that count. Phoebe's mother and father – the baron and baroness – were killed in a robbery when Phoebe was very young. It was highwaymen. They were returning from Cambridge when it happened. A nasty business. I've known her for many years. She and I … talk," Richard said, and Thomas raised his eyebrows.

"I see … how terrible. But why did she run away like that? Am I so terrible as to elicit fear in every person I encounter? She was quite rude just now. We had an argument about who startled who first," he said, and Richard shook his head.

"No, but these rumours your stepmother keeps spreading aren't helping you. It's the servants who gossip – and the women in their parlours, I suppose – men, too, for that matter. Phoebe spends a lot of time with the servants at Hindringham Hall, and the things they hear …" Richard said.

Thomas groaned. He had come out early to walk – before the likes of Phoebe Pollard and others, who jumped to conclusions before knowing the facts, were likely to be out and about. His first impression of her had been favourable in terms of attraction.

She was a pretty young woman, petite and slim, with black hair and bright blue eyes. She was feisty, too. Thomas liked that in a woman – if it was directed elsewhere than at himself. But he could not understand why that previously feisty woman had now run away from him.

"Save me from idle gossips and silly women," he said, throwing his hands up in the air.

"But Phoebe's not like that, Thomas. I've known her for a long time. She's had a difficult life. Her parents killed in such tragic circumstances, and having to endure her aunt and uncle as her wards. It's not been easy for her – not by any measure," Richard said.

Thomas nodded. He valued Richard's opinion – he had been a wise counsellor in recent months despite having advised against Thomas' plan to evict his stepmother and his step-siblings. Thomas trusted his friend, and if this was his opinion of Phoebe, so be it.

"No, it doesn't seem like it has been. How tragic," Thomas replied.

But he had enough troubles of his own not to concern himself too readily with those of others. The rumours his stepmother had spread about him had been to his detriment. He had only been the Duke of Walsingham for a few short months, and already he was talked of as something of a pariah – a cruel man who had evicted the dowager duchess and her children as soon as circumstances allowed, sending her to London and expecting her to fend for herself.

The truth was far more complicated than that, the story stretching back many years to the miserable childhood Thomas had endured at the dowager's hands following the death of his mother. She had been a cruel and unforgiving guardian, and the arrival of her own children – a son and a daughter, Maximilian and Carrie – had only made matters worse.

She was ambitious and had believed the title should go to Maximilian, rather than Thomas. When Thomas' father's will had been read, she had flown into a terrible rage, accusing Thomas of underhand deeds, even as the lawyers involved had assured Thomas all was legitimate. In response, Thomas had sent her away, and now she was exacting her revenge through the spread of rumour and scandal.

"The two of you could be friends," Richard hinted, but Thomas shook his head.

"I don't think so. I know who my friends are – and I don't need anyone else. You've been loyal to me, Richard, and I'm grateful to you for that. Actually, I was going to come and see you later today. I've received a letter from my stepmother – filled with her usual vitriol," he said, pulling an envelope out of his pocket and handing it to Richard, who looked at it in surprise.

"Hasn't she already had her say?" he asked, and Thomas laughed.

"Did you really think she'd let matters rest? No. She's changed tact. She's demanding a share of the inheritance for the children. She's begging poverty. And making threats, too. Read it for yourself," he said, pressing the letter into Richard's hands.

His friend took the letter from the envelope and began to read, tutting and shaking his head as he did so. Thomas had read the letter a dozen times since it had arrived at Walsingham Hall the previous day. It had made him angry – even more so than he had felt before.

It was his stepmother's sense of entitlement he resented – after the way she had treated him, he could hardly believe she would have the audacity to make such demands, as well as her threats. It was extraordinary, but the message was very clear.

"How extraordinary – she's demanding money for Maximilian's first season in London, to be followed by a similar sum for Carrie next year. Why should I give her a penny? I know what she's done – I know how she's behaved.

The rumours about me … she still wants him to inherit. He's an awful boy – we never got along. If anything, I was glad to be sent away. But I'm certainly not going to give him anything," Thomas said, shaking his head.

They were still standing by the stile, where the path led across the meadow towards Hindringham Hall. Phoebe had disappeared from sight, and Thomas wondered what further rumours she – and all the others – would come to believe if his stepmother went on causing trouble.

"He is the second in line, though – isn't he?" Richard said.

"Yes, and what difference does that make?" Thomas replied.

It was he who had inherited the title – not Maximilian. There had been no provision in Thomas' father's will for either of his other children and no mention of the title passing to anyone else.

"I only say it because of what she's already done. Who knows what she's capable of …" he said.

"You mean you think she intends me to have an accident?" Thomas replied, laughing and shaking his head at the very thought of it.

But Richard looked grave.

"I'm only pointing out the precariousness of your position, Thomas. There's an answer, of course," Richard replied.

"And what is it?" Thomas asked.

His friend smiled.

"You marry and produce an heir. You'll have to eventually – you don't have any choice. But sooner rather than later, would mean the strengthening of your position. Do you see what I mean?" he asked.

Thomas took his friend's point – but as for marrying to prevent wickedness on his stepmother's part, the idea seemed somewhat far-fetched. He had not considered marriage – not seriously, at least. He was still young, and his inheritance had come unexpectedly. Marriage was something vague – a distant possibility rather than an immediate concern.

"And who would I marry? Everyone thinks I'm an ogre – the monster who threw his own stepmother out of her home and made her children homeless, too. If only they knew the truth," he said.

"But think about it – marriage would only serve to strengthen your position. And make you respectable," Richard persisted.

"But there's no one I could marry, Richard. We're not exactly in the midst of high society here, are we? Norfolk's hardly the centre of the civilized world. Who do you think would deign to marry me on an arrangement?" he asked, and Richard smiled.

"Phoebe might," he replied.

***

Richard's words remained with Thomas for the rest of the day. It was a curious suggestion – extraordinary, even – but not without its practical merits. Richard was right – Thomas' position was precarious, and there was every chance his stepmother intended to use every means at her disposal to outmanoeuvre him.

The thought of her resorting to violence was far-fetched, but there were other ways of ensuring his removal – legal challenges or the spread of scandal and rumour. If Thomas' stepmother forced him from his position, her son would inherit the dukedom, giving Regina the power she so desired. But if Thomas were to marry and produce an heir, his stepmother would be unable to mount any challenge against him in claiming the title for Maximilian.

"But she'd never agree to it," Thomas thought as he returned home to Walsingham Hall.

They had known only the briefest of encounters, and it had hardly been an introduction befitting a potential courtship. But as he looked up at Walsingham Hall, Thomas knew Richard was right. He needed an heir to protect this, his home, from the threat of his stepmother.

It still felt strange to call the palatial pile his home. Walsingham Hall was his by rights, but Thomas still felt as though he was a stranger there. But little by little, he was growing used to it, and the servants had made him feel welcome, even as the lingering presence of stepmother remained.

"I trust you enjoyed your walk, Your Grace," the butler, Preston, said as Thomas entered the house, and Thomas nodded.

The servants – the butler, Preston, the housekeeper, Mrs Watson, and his valet, Colin Berry, in particular – had known what the dowager was like. They had seen how she treated Thomas, for all three had been serving at Walsingham Hall for many years. Preston was a tall, slim man with auburn hair and deep hazel-coloured eyes. He smiled at Thomas as he took his coat.

"I did, yes, thank you, Preston. It gave me a great deal to think about," he said, and the butler raised his eyebrows.

He had been in service to Thomas' father – his own father having been the butler before him. Preston had seen first-hand the terrible things Thomas had suffered, and it had been to Preston – and the other servants – Thomas had turned to when times had been difficult in his youth. Now, as master of the house, Thomas treated his servants as the family he had never had, confiding in them on a far more intimate level than might be expected in most households.

"I see – I hope you're not still dwelling on the terrible rumours your stepmother insists on spreading. It's all nonsense, Your Grace," he said, but Thomas shook his head.

"Not dwelling, no. But I've thought about it a great deal. I think there's a solution," he said, and the butler raised his eyebrows once again.

"One can think of a permanent solution, Your Grace – though it wouldn't be a moral one. But as for anything else …" he said, shaking his head.

Thomas smiled.

"Yes … but Viscount Thornton put the thought into my mind. He suggested I should marry. If there was an heir …" Thomas said, his words trailing off as he imagined what the butler might now be thinking.

But Preston only smiled and nodded.

"As you wish, Your Grace – it might work," he said, and Thomas laughed.

"You don't think it's a good idea, do you?" he asked, and the butler blushed.

"I'm not sure, Your Grace. You've suffered a great deal – and your stepmother's recent actions have continued to show the power she still exerts over you. Don't you think it would be best to settle matters there before thinking … ahead," the butler replied.

"But that's just it – how can I settle the matter without ensuring her influence wanes? If I marry, and if there's an heir … well, it'll put an end to any claim she might have," Thomas replied.

He could not rid himself of the thought – it was the perfect solution, but not one he could easily progress. He knew what the butler's next question would be, and, as of yet, he did not have an answer.

"And who would you marry, Your Grace?" the butler asked.

"Well … I suppose I'd have to marry someone of my rank and class – as pompous as that sounds. She'd have to be an aristocrat's daughter," Thomas replied.

He was thinking back to Richard's words. He had thought of little else since they had parted. He knew next to nothing about Phoebe, though Richard had assured him he had done his best to dissuade her of the false opinions she harboured. Proposing marriage to her would benefit them both. Richard had told him something of the harsh life she endured at the hands of her aunt and uncle. Would she not be crying out for escape?

"She would, Your Grace. But who do you propose?" Preston asked.

"I'm not sure yet. But I'm fairly certain … well … what do you know about the Baron Greenwood?" Thomas asked, ushering the butler into his study.

Preston looked somewhat perturbed.

"You don't mean the orphaned daughter, Your Grace?" he asked, and Thomas was now the one to raise his eyebrows.

"Just tell me what you know, Preston," he replied, closing the door behind them.

***

"Oh, there you are, Miss Pollard. I've been looking everywhere for you," Sophia, Phoebe's maid, said as Phoebe entered the servants' hall for breakfast a short while after parting ways with Richard at the stile.

Sophia had been her maid since Phoebe was fifteen. They were more like sisters than servant and mistress, though Sophia was somewhat older than Phoebe and often had to be the voice of reason against Phoebe's desire for freedom and doing things her own way.

"I went to the graveyard. I know what you'll say, but there's no harm in it," Phoebe replied.

She knew Sophia did not approve of her going to the graveyard alone, but Phoebe had wanted to do so. She liked to be alone with her thoughts, and her walk back across the meadow had given her a great deal to think about. She did not know why she had run away so readily from the duke, but the sight of him – and knowing of the rumours surrounding him – had scared her.

"You know what your aunt would say, Miss Pollard," Sophia said, shaking her head.

Phoebe ignored her, sitting at the table as one of the other maids placed a cup of tea in front of her. There was a loaf of bread, along with butter and jam. Phoebe was hungry after her walk and cut herself a large slice from the loaf. She was used to eating with the servants – they were her friends, too, even as they maintained something of a curt respectfulness in her company.

"What do you know about the Duke of Walsingham, Sophia?" Phoebe asked, for she was interested in hearing the other side of the story again – that of the rumours she had already heard circulating, which contrasted to the story Richard had told her, and the impression she had received.

Sophia shook her head.

"A wicked man, Miss Pollard – though his stepmother was no better. But the way he treated her … he threw her out of the house, and the children, too. I think it's terrible," she said.

"But what if the rumours are wrong? What if he's nothing like that? What if he had his reasons?" Phoebe replied.

She liked playing Devil's advocate with Sophia – posing a question for them to take sides over.

"And what would you know about him, Miss Pollard? He's only been back here a couple of months. But it's what they say about him – that he threw her out the moment he returned. And to see him at church, too. All high and mighty," she said, tutting, as she cut a slice from the loaf for her own breakfast.

"Richard says he's been misunderstood – that's he's nothing like that, really. He says the duke was a victim of his stepmother's cruelty – that she deserved everything that came to her," Phoebe replied.

"Well … I don't know about that, Miss Pollard. I'm only repeating what others have said. But rumours usually have some basis of truth, don't they?" Sophia replied.

Phoebe agreed – she had heard enough gossip in her time to know that some of it, at least, contained a kernel of truth. Her aunt was always repeating gossip – or spreading it herself. She held a gathering once a week for a select group of women, all of whom were of a similar ilk. Over tea and cakes, they would dissect the misfortunes of one poor victim after another.

Truth was not necessarily a prerequisite for those things they came to believe, but there was often a nominal basis to what was said, even as it was heavily elaborated on.

"Yes, they do … but why would the duke throw her out, and the children, if not for some actual reason? It doesn't make sense," Phoebe said.

Sophia tutted.

"I don't know, Miss Pollard. But I do know I need to get on with my jobs or I'll be in trouble with your aunt," she said, and Phoebe nodded.

She did not want Sophia to get into trouble on her account. It was easily done, and there was not one of the servants who had not been on the receiving end of Phoebe's aunt's temper. But it was Phoebe herself who bore the brunt. Her aunt and uncle had always made it clear they had little time – or love – for her. She was treated as something of an inconvenience, tolerated, but not wanted. Phoebe's aunt could be cruel, and as a child, Phoebe had suffered much at her hands.

As she had grown up, there had been a sense of resentment on the part of Phoebe's aunt, and with the question of marriage now arising, Phoebe knew it would only be a matter of time before her aunt and uncle forced her into accepting a choice of their own, rather than hers. How different her life would have been, had it not been for the terrible tragedy that still haunted her dreams.

"I'm sorry, Sophia. I'll go," Phoebe said, but the maid smiled and shook her head.

"Oh, don't be silly, Miss Pollard. You can stay – just help me fold these things, then we'll take them upstairs," she said, and Phoebe smiled.

She liked helping Sophia – she was the nearest thing to family Phoebe had. She missed her parents, or, rather, because she could not remember a great deal about them, she missed the idea of having parents – real parents, who loved and cherished her. Phoebe had never known love, except as a memory – not in a maternal or paternal sense, and never romantically, either. As she helped Sophia, her thoughts turned again to the duke, and her brief encounter with him that morning. Was he really as cruel as the rumours suggested?

It seemed he, too, had had a difficult upbringing, and if the stories about his stepmother were true, Phoebe could relate to him. She would surely have done the same if the situation was reversed, and she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to turn her aunt and uncle out of Hindringham Hall.

"Do you believe the rumours about the duke?" Phoebe asked, as she and Sophia carried piles of clean clothes up the back stairs to the bedrooms above.

Sophia tutted.

"It's not for me to have an opinion, Miss Pollard. I really don't know," she said, and Phoebe smiled.

"Nonsense – you must have an opinion. You're the one I first heard talking about it with Mrs Best," she replied.

Mrs Best was the cook, and a notorious gossip – what she did not know about the goings on in the district was not worth knowing.

"Well … they say the dowager left in a flood of tears. She and the children were seen in a carriage driving through the village – sent to London. You know all this, but … well, the butler at Walsingham Hall is … an acquaintance of mine," Sophia said, blushing as Phoebe smiled.

Phoebe knew Sophia had been meeting a man in recent weeks – entirely respectably, though she had not revealed his identity. They had gone to the fair at Fakenham and dined at the village inn. Phoebe was glad – she liked to think of others being happy.

"And what does he say?" Phoebe persisted.

"Well … he says the duke had a difficult upbringing. He and his stepmother never got on well. Perhaps there's blame to be had on both sides," Sophia said, and she would say no more on the matter, telling Phoebe it was not right for servants to gossip about their betters.

But as the day went on, Phoebe found herself thinking more and more about the duke – about the loneliness of his position, and the fact of their shared difficulties in growing up. She felt foolish for having run away, and foolish for having so readily believed the things others had said.

"I'll speak to Richard again – and I'll make my own mind up," she told herself, wondering if there was a chance to make amends for her behaviour, and discover more about the new duke for herself.