Page 20 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)
CHAPTER 20
Charity
S unday arrived with the swiftness of lightning, yet also at a pace as slow as a snail. Charity had spent the three days since the arrival of Ambrose acclimating herself to her new environment. She took a seat with Mrs. Frames to deliberate on the week's necessities and to compose a menu, feeling a sense of accomplishment once it was finished. To her astonishment, she and Eammon shared many cherished meals, though he had not formally divulged this to her. Instead, she gleaned this information from Mrs. Frames. They both loved white soup and plum pudding, and preferred fish over meat.
Aside from becoming familiar with the estate and servants, she devoted much time to Ambrose, escorting him about the meadow and instructing him to circle whilst on his lead. It was paramount to her that the children enjoyed their time, yet she also sought to ensure that he was not frightened by the presence of others, for it had been quite some time since he had served as a mount for children. Thus, she’d engaged the stablemaster’s grandchildren to take turns riding, much to their delight.
Each evening, she conversed with Eammon, their discussions remaining cordial, albeit mostly fixated on their expectations for Sunday. He recounted the various families within the estate, and she found herself quite impressed by his extensive knowledge of his tenant farmers. Her own father had been rather uninvolved in that aspect of land ownership. Their steward had maintained contact, while her father seemed merely distant. Not so Eammon, who took a keen interest in those on his estate.
Once, she went into town to see her mother but Lady Pembroke’s endless gushing about her new son-in-law left Charity fatigued and she’d departed after seeing Eleanor and promising to return for a luncheon soon. Preferably after her mother’s thrill at having a duke for a son-in-law had worn off.
That Sunday, she arose early and called for Jean, who arrived swiftly, equipped with her basin, wash jug, and the wash ball, which bounced on her chest.
“Which gown would you prefer, Your Grace?” she asked whilst washing Charity’s face.
“A simple one, it must be. One I may easily move about in whilst assisting the children on horseback. In fact, I pondered that perhaps I ought to wear a riding habit. We shall arrive by carriage, I believe, yet if I am to lead Ambrose round in circles, it may be prudent.”
“Indeed. Are you quite eager to venture into the village with His Grace?” Jean inquired.
Charity looked up. Was she? It was true that she longed to see the village and to meet the tenants, for she was their duchess, after all. However, a small part of her felt trepidation. Ever since she'd discovered his secret, she found Eammon less of an enigma. Yet it had appeared, when they'd spoken of it, that he wished she had not uncovered it. Naturally, no one desires the revelation of their secrets. Still, she was relieved to possess this knowledge, as it clarified much regarding his behavior.
“I suppose, a little,” she admitted noncommittally.
Once she was attired in a simple light blue day gown made of muslin to keep her from being overheated, along with a bonnet and a little leather reticule which dangled from her wrist in just such a way to not impede her movements, she ventured downstairs to find him already dressed and prepared. He was clad in a simple pair of trousers, a crisp white shirt under a blue waistcoat, and his leather shoes poked out from his trousers, which had been tailored to allow them to be on display. She could not deny that he was quite handsome indeed.
“Charity,” he said on seeing her, inclining his head slightly. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” she responded, awaiting a compliment on her attire. However, none came, and she bit her lip, struggling to conceal her disappointment at his lack of acknowledgment of her efforts.
He proffered his arm, and together they proceeded into the sunlight, entering the awaiting carriage. This carriage was quite different from the one they had traveled in after their wedding breakfast; it was open-topped and most grand.
“Is it this an old barouche?” she inquired.
“It is. It belonged to my parents. I had it refurbished. I’ve always thought it rather splendid to travel in.”
“Do you wish to dazzle your tenants with such a display?” she questioned, her tone holding an edge.
“Not for their impression as much, I like to see them when I arrive, and for them to see me. I suppose in a manner, it does not hurt to remind others of my station.”
“Others?” she queried. “Who if not your tenants?”
“Other nobles who might be visiting or who might be told of my grand entrance,” he said with a small smile. “There are always some who do not deem me worthy of my position. And it helps silence the chatter if they see a manifestation of what a duke ought to be. Specifically the Duke of Leith.”
She pursed her lips. “And pray, what is it to be a Duke of Leith?” she asked. “I know naught of it. You are but the second Duke of Leith, am I not correct?”
He nodded, crossing one leg over the other as he turned his attention toward her. “My grandfather was the Earl of Worcester. Hayward House was his estate, as the area here is known as Worcester, as you may be aware.”
She nodded in acknowledgment.
“When my father went to Ireland, he intended on giving up Worcester for my grandfather was a dreadful drunkard. There are many colorful stories about him, if you ever wish to hear them. Anyhow, my father earned a title in his own right due to his service during the Napoleonic Wars. On his return to England, he was elevated to a marquess, and shortly thereafter, was granted a dukedom for his heroics in the war that had long remained obscured. My father was a man of modesty who would never wish to boast of his actions, yet suffice it to say he saved a renowned general, and when the news came to the Prince Regent at that time, he was bestowed his title.”
“And where, pray, is Leith? I’ve never heard of it,” she asked, impressed by the story. She’d heard some about his family and specifically his grandfather from Millie, but she could not deny it was fascinating to hear him talk about it.
“Leith is located in Northumberland, where resides the estate as well. I shall take you one day if you wish, but it is presently rented out.”
“I see,” she replied, “I had no inkling. That is a most impressive lineage.”
He smiled faintly and gazed out the window. “Accomplishments by others,” he commented with a shrug.
“And yet you carry the legacy on your shoulders as heir,” she noted, and he nodded, though a shadow passed over his countenance, leading her to ponder whether she had been wrong in her choice of words.
“And your mother?” she prodded. “What is her story?”
His expression shifted, his jaw working back and forth, a habit she had noticed he exhibited when he wished to avoid certain topics. He had done so frequently during the week since their nuptials. “You have not told me about her yet,” she insisted gently.
He shrugged. “If you wish to know. There is not much to tell. She was an Irish woman, a Catholic. Her name was Catriona Smith,” he remarked, casting his gaze once more to the window. “I know very little of her. She was an orphan raised by family friends. My father encountered her when he first journeyed to Ireland, and she passed away at my birth.”
She inhaled sharply. The disparity between how he had spoken of his father’s family and that of his mother was striking. He had shared rich details concerning his father, highlighting his heroism, yet his mother’s life was narrated as if from a mere ledger.
“Know you naught of her? Where she came from? What she was like?”
“I know nothing else,” he replied. “My father remained reticent about her all my life. By the time he brought me back here from Ireland, many years had gone by since her death. Besides, he wed my stepmother shortly thereafter, and Lydia Hayward has always been my mother. I could recount her life story at length if you desire, but of my birth mother, I know nothing,” he concluded, his voice trailing off.
“I understand,” she replied, crossing her feet at the ankles as they approached Worcester, the little village into which they were now driving. As soon as they turned through the town gates, people waved at them—ladies curtsied, gentlemen bowed, and children lifted their hats in greeting.
“Your Grace,” someone called, eliciting waves from both Eammon and a little boy. The townsfolk called out to Charity as well, and she returned their waves. She had to confess, she felt rather like a queen traversing in such fashion.
“This must be what it is like for Queen Victoria ,” she marveled.
He chuckled. “Yes, I would think so. Although her receptions are somewhat grander, more lively, I imagine.”
They smiled at one another, and then, when they arrived in the town square, the carriage came to a stop, and he assisted her down. Ambrose and Hector had been brought earlier in the day to allow them time to be fed, watered, and rested, but she spotted the two little horses as soon as they exited.
Just off the marketplace, which was teeming with people, a circular space had been established, cordoned off with rope stretched between barrels. To the side, a place for the horses to eat allowed Ambrose to nibble on hay while Hector drank from a nearby bucket.
“Ambrose!” she called, beaming as the horse raised his head and let out a cheerful nicker on seeing her. The young groom who had accompanied the horses from Hayward greeted her with a deep bow.
“They have been fed, watered, and brushed,” he reported, and she nodded. “Is Your Grace to take Ambrose with a child while I tend to Hector?”
“Yes, I shall take Ambrose, and you shall take Hector. We will both take a child and make two rounds around the circle. I do not wish to have more than five take a turn before we take a short breather.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the boy replied.
“It appears you are in full command,” Eammon observed as he stepped up from behind her.
She turned and smiled. “When it comes to the horses, I am.”
“Well, I shall mingle. Word has already spread that there will be two Shetland ponies here for the children to ride on, and you can see them forming a line. There are many interested when it is just one but because we never managed to accommodate all the children who come. With two ponies, there will be an onslaught of children.”
She glanced to the side and indeed noted that between a market stall selling goats, milk, and cheese and another displaying fruits and vegetables, there was a queue of children about fifteen deep, most accompanied by their mothers who stood anxiously beside them, while others had older siblings in tow, and yet more were alone. And even more made their way into the square from all directions.
The fathers were gathering around where Eammon was expected to stand and greet them. He had explained a bit more about how these events unfolded.
Generally, he stood off to the side, conversing with the farmers who shared their concerns, while the steward, who would arrive shortly, took notes regarding their needs. While he engaged with them, the groom would lead Hector around the circle with one child at a time.
It seemed that this was a well-rehearsed affair, which had kept her nerves at bay. Yet now, all of a sudden, she found herself feeling anxious. What if Ambrose or Hector were spooked, and a child fell? Would that be her fault? After all, she would be the one leading them around in circles. Was this a prudent idea? Suddenly, she questioned if she ought to join her husband at his side and let the groom handle the horses. But there was only one groom and two horses. The children had been promised two ponies.
“Charity,” Eammon said, placing his hand on the small of her back. “Is something amiss? You appear rather out of breath.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “No, no. It is not…Nothing is the matter. I simply find myself suddenly worried. What if I am no good at leading children? What if something unforeseen occurs? What if there is an accident?”
He raised his hand and rested it at the nape of her neck, his thumb and index finger pressing lightly against her.
“Charity, do not fret. These are not Arabians; they are Shetland ponies. Even if a child should happen to fall, it would be a very short distance. Moreover, Peter, our groom, is well-versed in handling such situations. In all the time I have witnessed this, never has a child fallen nor been hurt. And you will be walking very slowly in a controlled environment. Nothing should spook the horses. But if you feel that Ambrose is too skittish, we shall let him wait until we are through. You know him; you are familiar with his temperament. Do not worry.”
She wanted to feel annoyed at him for instructing her, but she understood that he acted from concern. Just as he meant well when warning her not to run in the stables—an admonition she had promptly ignored, resulting in her slip—he had her best interests at heart.
Gathering her resolve, she looked up at him and nodded. “Very well. Thank you for your kind words.”
“Have they assisted you?” he asked, and she could tell by the sincerity of his voice that he truly meant it, and she nodded. She could not deny it: his words had indeed helped. Perhaps when he had vowed to protect her, those were not simply empty promises but earnest assurances he intended to keep.