Page 24 of The Duke’s Duet

Hunter rode along a rutted track, across a barren and ravaged landscape, under a dark and menacing sky. The stench of burned and rotting flesh, of death and decay was all pervading, a leaden overcoat on his shoulders. Far away, one could hear the great, long-distance artillery guns roaring, more like a muted vibration than a real noise.

Around him, there was nothing but destruction - bloated carcasses, untended fields, ruined buildings and skeletal trees - where once cattle had grazed, wheat had ripened and orchards had blossomed. Suddenly something, a white rag fluttering in the rank wind, half-hidden by the ditch, attracted his attention. He was drawn toward it, almost without volition, but stopped dead in horror when he was near enough to see.

Beatriz lay lifeless, among rubble and sundry discarded items, her skin beaten and bruised with the imprint of vicious hands, her body broken and bloody, her mouth still half open in a hopeless scream, her lovely dark eyes fixed, and staring in a desperate appeal into the eternity of death.

Beatriz. His love.

Beatriz, on whose grave he had cried until his throat was raw. Beatriz, whom war had wrenched from him and who had died alone, in shame and terror, ravished by French troops in rout after the battle of Vitoria.

Beatriz, one of the countless casualties of war.

Suddenly, something shifted, and a flickering image of another face, in a soft green and golden light, like a sunbeam on new leaves, flashed into his mind, and broke the grip of the dream.

Hunter woke, drenched in cold sweat, lurching to his feet, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. At first, he stood bewildered, unable to recognise his surroundings, still gripped by the horror of his recurring nightmare, then, gradually, he calmed down, his heartbeat steadied, and his anguish receded. It was not real. He had never seen Beatriz like that, he had only seen her grave, been told of her death. He did not know, could never know, how terrible that death had been – but his imagination was all too able to present him with the ghastly possibilities. As it did – almost every night.

Completely awake now, he drank deeply of the water, which Bulwick had thoughtfully provided, in a carafe on the side table. He went to the window, opened the heavy velvet drapes, and peered outside. It was still dark, but a faint rosy shade began to colour the East. No question of going back to sleep, now. Hunter was sure that Nick was already up and going. He would look for the old groom and wipe away the last of the nightmare, listening to Nick relating everything that had been going on here, during his long absence from home.

*****

Louisa Barrington, Duchess of Melton, looked critically at her face in the mirror, while her young maid, Prudence, was arranging her hair under a flattering beribboned lace cap.

“You look yourself again, Your Grace, if I may say so. You have filled up a bit and your eyes… But now”, she went on briskly “his Lordship is back home again, and everything will be all right, will it not, my Lady?”

Her Grace of Melton smiled. She had known Prudence since her birth, the daughter of a respectable but impoverished family, and was used to her artless demeanour. And the girl was right. For the first time since the accident, she could look at herself with some satisfaction, and at the future with some hope.

She closed her eyes, remembering the mindless terror that had gripped her when the careening coach, driven by some drunken lout, had suddenly appeared around the bend. The horses had reared, neighing, and the heavier vehicle had smashed full into their light travelling carriage, with a sickening noise of crushed wood. That sound was the last thing she could recall before oblivion had claimed her.

Louisa shook herself out of her brooding. Time to start the new day and to get to know, again, her own son – so much time had passed - she wondered what sort of man he had become.

There was so much to be said and done. She sighed. Some of what had to be said would not be pleasant. Her late elder son, Richard, heir presumptive to the title, had not been wise. Handsome and debonair, always exuding charm, a redoubtable Corinthian, able to spar with Gentleman Jackson himself, and to feather angles with his curricle, he had also been a reckless gambler and had entertained questionable relationships with ladies of dubious virtue. His father, the late Duke, had been so inordinately proud of his heir, that he had never checked or restrained him.

“Don’t you fret, my boy,” he had indulgently told Charles, his hard working, serious third born, when he had shown his father the heavy dent that Richard’s expenses were making in the estate’s revenues. “Let him be, he will calm down in time and, anyway, we can afford it, can’t we?”

‘Well, we are not destitute ,’ she thought, ‘ and the estate is vastly profitable, thanks to Charles’ thrifty management, but, with two dowries to provide for, a mansion in London to keep up, and a living to arrange for Charles, if he decides to enter the Church (although that seems rather less likely now)… things need to change. It is, truly, not seemly for Charles to act as his brother’s steward – regardless of the cost, an estate manager must be employed. And, as Hunter really must marry, and get himself an heir, a good dowry would not come amiss, now, would it?’

*****

In a few days, a routine, of a sort, had been established.

Hunter would wake at dawn, after a restless night plagued by nightmares, go down to the stables and have a chat with Nick, take a brisk walk in the park and then break his fast, with his family, in the small dining room. It was a cosy and intimate room which he liked infinitely better than the formal dining room, with its long table, musty hangings and depressing centrepieces. His mother would tell him about his neighbours, and expound on her plans for the coming Season; his sisters would laugh and chatter and talk of French couturières, balls and routs; his brother would prose on about the estate, the tenants and the improvements he had thought of. Hunter would listen to everybody, nod genially, let the flow of conversation dance around him, and reprove himself for his lack of interest.

After having dealt with decisions which entailed life or death, for much of his adult life, he could not help but feel that there was a slight lack of import, or even sense, in the topics in which his family – as dear as everyone was to him – seemed so absorbed. Life as Colonel Lord Barrington had been much harsher, but much simpler, than life as His Grace the Duke of Melton.

Hunter soon realised that his mother wanted him married tout de suite, possibly before the Season ended, and preferably to a young lady with a fat dowry. He found this an appalling prospect, because, even if not averse to marriage in principle, he did not want to be rushed, neither did he want somebody else to choose for him. His mind felt scarred, still torn by everything that he had seen and done – and he was not about to explain anything of that, to anyone. It was still too sensitive a topic, and his nightmares unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Perusing his library, he had found a book of Ancient Greek poetry, and read a fragment by Sappho, with which he felt a total affinity:

“Like wild gales, sweeping desolate mountains

uprooting oaks

Eros harrows my heart

sweet, bitter, indomitable wild beast…”

Beatriz was still an indelible, aching wound. He did not want to suffer again. He did not want to lose his heart to somebody who could tear it asunder. He wanted an affectionate, companionable marriage. He wanted to be friends with his wife. He wanted a sensible, cool-headed young woman, not some vapid, giggling miss or some haughty high-flier.

*****

One afternoon, while Hunter was walking, brooding and trying to sort out his feelings, full of a sense of guilt, that he, as the Duke, could not bring himself to care, more, for the management of his estates, he wandered away from his usual path and found himself deep inside his neighbour’s park. Looking around, at first he did not understand where he was: the natural woods of the park had progressively given way to a more structured growth. The park seemed larger than he remembered, with cunningly planted thickets, graceful avenues flanked by stately trees, cosy nooks, elegant fountains, well designed flowerbeds, and herbaceous borders. Even now, in the depths of the winter, it was not difficult to imagine a profusion of bright colours vying with each other to the beholder’s delight.

He remembered the park as he had known it during his childhood: a fascinating tangle of trees, creepers, and weeds, which could well become a mysterious jungle, where his friend Kevin, Lord Chester’s son, his brothers and himself, would hunt for wild beasts, find hidden treasures and fight warlike natives. Lord Chester must have hired a new head gardener, Hunter mused. The place had improved beyond recognition.

His senses, honed by times when the ability to hear insignificant noises could make the difference between life and death, perceived a slight rustle, as if something were moving between the winter bare bushes, and he stepped abruptly past the branches.

To his chagrin, he found himself at less than a foot’s distance from Lady Nerissa, who could not hold back a soft whimper of startlement at his sudden appearance.

“I am sorry, Lady Nerissa”, he spoke softly, almost as startled as she appeared to be. “Did I scare you?”

She smiled, lowering her eyes. He found himself disappointed that she had veiled their green-gold depths from his sight.

“Not at all, my Lord. However, I should not be here on my own, without a chaperone. Please excuse me, I must go back at once.”

Her beauty seemed to burn like a flame against the frozen background, composing a jewelled symphony of brilliant shades: gold, silver, coral, aquamarine, mother of pearl, as the cool winter light reflected from the warmth of her skin.

“Nerissa!” Hunter exclaimed, loath to let her go. “Lady Nerissa, we are old friends and neighbours, are we not? Surely nobody could object to our exchanging a few words in an open place, during a casual meeting. I am the meekest and most inoffensive of gentlemen, I do assure you!”

Nerissa looked at Hunter under her lowered lashes. He gave an impression of energy and passion kept on a tight leash, like a wild horse straining at restraints. His deep sapphire eyes flashed in a countenance darkened by many seasons spent in warmer climates, his firm mouth and strong chin bespoke character and courage, his lean, hard body and his long, sensitive fingers, made her feel… she could not even name those feelings.

No, he was not inoffensive, he was very dangerous, much too dangerous for her own peace of mind, for she had discovered, to her chagrin, that she found him just as attractive now, as she had as an infatuated ten-year-old. She should go away, but she could not. Mesmerised by his smile, she smiled in return.

“Just a few minutes, then. Let’s walk, it is too cold, and the ground too damp, to sit anyway…”

They walked for a while, making small talk, stealing surreptitious glances at each other, laughing without a real reason, somehow prisoners of the strange enchantment of their unexpected meeting. Nerissa felt as if they were inside a fragile, iridescent bubble and, at the same time, she clearly perceived the terrible impropriety of their situation.

Even so, the rebellious mood which had driven her to fly from home and seek the haven of her beloved park persisted, and made her feel stubborn and daring, enjoying Hunter’s company with a carefree elation.

But, while she was tucking a stray, wind-tossed tress under her bonnet, the portfolio she was carrying opened and the sheets inside fluttered and fell to the ground.

Hunter was quick to stoop and help her collect them, but was very surprised when he discovered that they were not the kind of artwork that one was used to expecting from a young lady - pastels, gouaches, flowers and landscapes, painstakingly rendered, dull and respectable - but something completely different, something resembling, strangely enough, the neat battle plans he had so often pored over during his soldiering days.

Nerissa blushed a deep crimson, and almost wrenched the sheets from his hand. The laughing, relaxed mood of the last hour disappeared in a moment, and she was suddenly tense and distant.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Nerissa whispered. “I must go now. Goodbye…” and turning quickly, she almost ran away, leaving Hunter bewildered and wondering what all that had been about.

Continued…