Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Hetty's heart skipped a beat as she walked alongside the Duke towards the top of the hill. He had returned. She had told herself that she was not waiting for him, but she would be a fool, now, to say that it wasn't a pleasant thing when he came back to Hillsworth House. How much he brightened her days.

When he left, thundering down the lane away from her home, the days seemed colourless and insipid and grey. She would pace the house restlessly, unable to put her mind to any pursuit. She could not focus on embroidery, or the pianoforte, or even any of her books, which usually absorbed her.

The days when he was back were totally different. They seemed to exist in bright colour. The sun shone brighter; the sky was bluer, and there were more movements and sounds. He never told her much about the essential business that he had just returned from. But he would fill the room, almost overtaking it, with the charm of his personality, and his commanding physical presence.

Today, when he had returned, he had carried two big books, which he had presented to her, eagerly watching her reaction as she took them, studying them intently.

"Thank you," she had whispered, a bit overcome. They were old books about the Plantagenet princes in the Tower of London, who had disappeared centuries ago. "I cannot wait to read them!"

He had grinned. "They are from my collection, in the library at Warwick Manor," he said. "You can have them on loan." He hesitated, staring at her intently. "I hope that when you finish reading them, you can return them yourself."

She had blushed, not knowing what to say at all to that.

And now, they were out on an excursion. They had travelled by carriage to get here. An excursion to see Wardour Castle, an ancient site in Wiltshire. She had been unable to suppress her cry of delight when he had told her where they were going.

The carriage was parked in a country lane, and they were walking now to reach the top of the hill, where the castle's ruins stood. She had heard about Wardour Castle but had never been here before. She glanced back at her mother and father, who had accompanied them. They were puffing slightly at the walk. She had surged ahead, eager to get there, and the Duke had kept pace with her, not even breaking a sweat.

Now, they were here. The grey castle loomed in front of them. They stopped, for a moment, taking it in.

And then, as if they had spoken, they both started walking eagerly towards it.

The castle was three storeys high, almost like a long box, on the hillside. There were windows, long arches. They went inside. Cobwebs hung like necklaces from the corners, so thick that the Duke stepped ahead, clearing some so that she could walk unhindered.

"It is truly wondrous," she said, gazing around. "To think that once, this castle would have been full of people going about their daily business, and now, it is just a shell of its former self."

"It is wondrous," said the Duke, slowly walking through the debris that was scattered along the ground. "Do you know much about the history of the castle?"

She shook her head, smiling. "No. I do not."

He nodded. "I have a book about castles of Wiltshire, in my library, that I read once, many years ago," he said. "Wardour Castle was built in the early medieval time. In the 1390s, if I recall correctly."

"Who built it?" she asked, turning to him.

"A man called Baron Lovell," he said. "It remained in the Lovell family for many years, before they fell from grace, during the War of the Roses. It was confiscated by the crown because the Lovells supported the Lancastrians." He paused. "And then, it had several owners, through the years. One notable point was when it was owned by Sir Thomas Arundell. He was executed for treason in 1552, as he was a staunch Roman Catholic, at a time when it was not popular to be so, and the castle was taken away from his family."

Hetty nodded. "A fate that befell many a noble family."

He smiled. "Sir Thomas's son repurchased it in 1570, but it was sacked during the civil war," he continued. "And so it remains, now, a permanent reminder of times long past."

Hetty blinked, wandering slowly around the room. She touched one grey stone. It was cold. "I can almost feel it," she whispered, shivering slightly. "The people who once lived here. Do you believe in ghosts, Your Grace?"

He smiled. "I do not know if I believe in ghosts, as such, but I believe that an energy lingers in certain places, especially when much has happened within its walls." He gazed at her curiously. "Do you believe in the supernatural, Hetty?"

She shrugged. "I have never seen evidence of it, but that does not mean it does not exist, of course." She smiled slightly. "I try to keep as open a mind as possible. There is more to this life than we can ever know. I am sure of it."

He walked towards her, slowly, so that they were merely metres apart. "Your father told me that you were contemplating joining a convent, after your husband's desertion," he said, in a quiet voice. "Are you very religious, then?"

Her heart started to thud at his close proximity. "I am not especially pious," she replied. Her eyes filled with sudden tears. "But my faith was a rock that helped me through that awful time. It still helps me."

He was silent for a moment, gazing down at her, almost searchingly.

"It is good to have faith," he said in the same quiet voice. "But there are many ways to show devotion. I cannot imagine you as a nun at all. I cannot think of it as anything but a waste …"

"How so?" she asked, turning away from him, almost clawing the wall. "How can it be a waste to serve God?"

He took a deep breath. "There are many who have a true vocation for the religious life," he said slowly. "But there are many who retreat behind its walls because they are running from something. Either themselves or someone else. It is not a true calling."

Her eyes flashed. "You think that of me?"

He took another deep breath. "I think that you are hurt and angry. I do not blame you for seeing the allure of such a life." He blinked rapidly. "There have been times in my life, where it would have been nice if I could have run away. I understand the lure of it. But it is not the answer, Hetty. Surely, you see that now?"

The tears stung behind her eyes. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. She would not cry. She had done enough crying to last her a lifetime.

"It would be a waste, for a woman such as yourself," he whispered, reaching out to trail a hand down the side of her face. "You are so very beautiful. Any man would be privileged to say that he was your husband. Do not blame yourself, Hetty. That rake would have done what he did to anyone. It is his character that should be judged, not yours."

She bit her lip, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay. "He shamed me," she whispered. "We had only been married for a day. What kind of man does that to his wife? What had I done that was so wrong that he could not bear to stay married to me?"

The words were painful as they left her mouth. She felt the heaviness of them. They were like rocks, hitting the ground with a thump.

He kept stroking her face gently, his eyes never leaving hers. "You do not know what his motivation was," he said in a steady voice. "There could be a multitude of reasons why he did what he did, and none of them involving you. It is not your fault, Hetty. You must stop wearing this hairshirt."

"How can I?" she cried. "I am the one tainted by his actions. He is free to do whatever he pleases, whereas I must bear the brunt of it all. It is not fair!"

"No, it is not," he said quietly. "But it is what it is." He took a deep breath. "And I am glad that Frank Blackmore deserted you, Hetty."

She gasped. "Why?"

"Because I would not be standing with you, now, if he had not," he said. "I have a chance to make you my wife that I would never have had." He paused. "And if I can marry you, Hetty, I promise that I will never hurt you like he did. I promise that I will be a good and faithful husband to you …"

"Why?" she whispered, staring at him entreatingly. "For the love of God, why do you want me as your wife so much? I am ruined …"

He was silent for a moment. And then, his voice came in an ardent whisper. "Surely, you must know?"

Her mouth fell open as she gazed at him. His hand dropped to his side, and his face was solemn. The moment stretched between them, taut as a string. But before she could say anything, her father and mother walked into the space. They jumped apart, almost guiltily.

"Well, that was quite a hike," puffed her father, leaning against a wall for support. "I thought that I was going to have apoplexy for a moment there."

Her mother was fanning herself vigorously, gazing around. "It is so very old," she said, not sounding impressed, at all. "I wonder why people like to look at such things. It is only a pile of stones to me."

Hetty gazed back at the Duke. He smiled slightly. She smiled, too. It was as if they were sharing a secret that no one else was privy to.

There wasn't a chance to talk privately for the rest of the excursion. But Hetty could feel his eyes upon her, from time to time, and that shared sense of connection throbbed between them again.

She felt as if a glow had settled around her. A halo, enshrouding her, almost in a protective way. And she knew that it was all because of him.

***

Back at Hillsworth House, they had a late dinner, before retiring to the drawing room. Her mother was openly yawning after the exertions of the day, and her father looked quite weary, too. Both called an early evening.

In her bedchamber, she sat at her dressing table, as her maid brushed her hair, readying her for sleep. When Bessie finally left, closing the door firmly behind her, she stared at the bed. She didn't feel like retiring, yet. Strangely, she was not tired at all. She was possessed of a curious energy, which swirled around her body like a wind.

Placing a shawl around her shoulders, she crept out of the room, making her way quietly down the stairs. There was a full moon tonight. Sometimes, when she could not sleep, she would sit on a garden bench, staring up at the stars. Somehow, it always settled her.

The garden path was brightly lit as she stole her way down the path and sat down, gazing up at the heavens. There were a thousand or more stars, blinking, looking like fireflies in the navy sky. The moon hung low, so white and luminous that she felt like she could almost reach out and touch it.

She sat there, lost in contemplation, for several moments. The stars were glittering so brightly. For some reason, she was reminded of something that Shakespeare had written in The Tempest .

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Abruptly, she jumped when she heard a rustling just behind her. The sharp snap of a twig.

"Who is there?" she whispered, a little fearfully.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. It was the Duke.

"Can you not sleep, either?" he asked, in a quiet voice, sitting beside her. "I find that I am not tired in the least. Which is odd, given we walked up that hill, and for a few miles around the castle."

She smiled faintly. "No, I am not tired," she said, shaking her head. "On the contrary. I feel as if I could sprint through the fields." She laughed a little self-consciously. "I have this strange desire to run as if I might somehow catch the moon, within my grasp."

He nodded, staring up into the night sky. "It is a splendid moon this evening," he said, almost wistfully. "A most wondrous sight. On nights like these, it seems a crying shame to be inside and not a part of it."

"Would it not be pleasant," she mused, lost in the fullness of the moon, once again, "to just keep going? To leave all of it behind …"

He reached out, suddenly, taking her hand within his own. Her heart quickened. The touch – the feel of his hand – was warm and comforting. But it was also disturbing her. She shuddered, feeling that warm glow again that had enshrouded her when they had been at the castle.

"You do not need to leave the world behind, Hetty," he whispered, squeezing her hand. "It can still be a safe place if you are in the right hands." He hesitated. "I want you to feel that you are safe with me. That I shall always be here for you."

She did not know what to say to him. A strong desire suddenly burned in her chest. A desire to believe him. A desire to believe that there was good in this world and good people. That the man sitting beside her was a good man who would never do her wrong.

But there was still so much that she didn't know about him. She thought of the impetuous way that he always left Hillsworth House. The vagueness about what he was doing when he wasn't here. It could be nothing, of course. She was probably overly suspicious. But still, the sense of unease lingered when she thought about it. She was almost certain that there was something that he wasn't telling her, and there didn't seem to be a way to approach the subject, where she could get any clear answers from him.

Was he hiding something? Was there something in his past, or his present, that he did not wish to talk with her about?

"You said that your mother once tried to arrange a marriage for you," she said slowly, staring down at their joined hands. "Why did you not want it? Was there someone else that you wished to marry?"

He shrugged, but she sensed a sudden tension within him. "The lady my mother tried to betroth me to was not someone I was interested in," he replied eventually. "And I was a younger man at the time. I had no desire to marry, then."

She took a deep breath. "And there has been no one since then, who you have desired to marry? A lady who you have been fond of?"

He shook his head. "No. There was only ever one woman for me. But I lost my chance with her, many years ago, and have been ruining it, ever since." He gazed at her intently, as the words left his mouth. She felt a sudden jolt run through her, from where their hands were joined.

She stood up quickly, breaking the contact.

"I find that I am weary now," she said, not looking at him. "I must retire. And besides, it is not proper to sit out here with you, unchaperoned. I am sure my mother would scold me soundly if she were aware of it."

He gazed up at her, sadly. "Of course. Good night, Hetty. I think I shall stay out here for a little while longer."

She nodded, almost running down the garden path, back into the house.

In the hallway, at the top of the stairs, she stopped, looking out the window at him, still sitting on the garden bench. His back was to her, so she could not see his face. He was so still he could almost be a statue. What was he thinking?

Her heart yearned, almost heaved, with a strange, almost bittersweet longing. What was happening to her? She knew that if she had stayed out there any longer with him, they would have grown more intimate with each other. If he had leaned over to kiss her at that moment, she would not have pulled away.

A single tear coursed down her cheek. This was not supposed to be happening. She was going to a convent as soon as her divorce was worked out, either way. She would either be going to it as a free woman or as a still married one. But either way, she was going. She had been steadfast in her resolve that it was what she wanted to do with her life.

But now … now, she was not so sure. He was arousing feelings in her that she had never experienced before. She wanted to be with him and around him. She had never felt this way about a man. She certainly had never felt this way around Frank.

She sighed heavily. It was all so very confusing. She simply did not know what to do about it at all. She only knew that the thought of leaving Louis Montague, the Duke of Warwick, behind, when she finally entered a convent, was more than she could bear.