Page 1 of Trusting Her Duke

Alexander Cavendish stood at the window of his mother’s bedchamber, his shoulders rigid beneath his black coat. Behind him, the quiet rustle of the physician’s movements and his mother’s laboured breathing filled the oppressive air. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Ravensworth Hall’s pristine lawns, touching the spring flowers that his mother would never see bloom again.

“Alexander.” Her voice, barely more than a whisper, drew him from his dark thoughts. “Come here, my darling boy.”

He turned, covering the distance to her bedside in three long strides, and dropped to his knees beside her. At eighteen, he was already tall, but kneeling thus brought him level with her wan face.

“Mother, please, save your strength.”

His voice caught on the words, betraying emotion that he struggled to contain. The Duchess of Ravensworth lifted one frail hand to touch his cheek. Her skin was cool, too cool, against his face.

“My time grows short, dearest. There are things that I must say to you.”

From the corner of his eye, Alexander saw the physician gather his things and quietly exit the room, leaving only Jenkins, their butler, standing discretely by the door, and his mother’s personal maid hovering nearby, wringing her hands.

“Mother, Father will return soon. He has gone to fetch-”

“No.” She shook her head slightly against the pillow, dark curls looking dull against the pristine white linen. “Your father will not return in time. He does not wish to. We both know this.” Anger flared in Alexander’s chest. His father should be here. Yet the Duke had departed three days ago, claiming urgent business in London. Business that could surely have waited. “Alexander, listen to me carefully.” His mother’s grip on his hand tightened slightly. “You must remember that duty is not only about ledgers and contracts. It is about people. Our tenants are not just names in books - they are families who depend upon us.” He bowed his head, knowing what was coming. This was the source of the bitter arguments between his parents - his mother’s insistence on helping their tenants beyond what the estate could truly afford. “I know that your father believes my charitable works have damaged Ravensworth. Perhaps he is right, in some ways. But Alexander, a noble family’s duty is to more than just preserving wealth. We must preserve humanity, kindness, hope.”

“Mother, please don’t distress yourself.”

He tried to gentle his voice, to hide his own conflicted feelings about her actions. The arguments he had overheard between his parents had grown worse over the years, as his father raged about depleted resources and his mother insisted that they must help those in need.

“Promise me something.” Her voice grew stronger for a moment, intensity lending it power. “Promise me that you will remember that there must be balance. Duty without compassion becomes tyranny. Compassion without wisdom becomes folly. Find the balance, my son.”

Alexander’s throat tightened. How could he deny her anything, in this moment? Yet he had seen the effect of her charitable works on the estate’s finances. Had watched his father’s fury grow as reports showed dwindling resources.

“I promise to remember your words, Mother.”

It was the most honest answer he could give.

She smiled slightly, seeing perhaps both his evasion and his struggle.

“You are so like your father sometimes. So certain that discipline and control are the answer to everything.” Her fingers brushed his cheek again. “Yet you have my heart, my darling. No matter how you try to hide it.”

A sob caught in his throat.

“Mother...”

“Shhh.” She soothed him as she had when he was small. “I need you to be strong now. Your father... he will not cope well. Richard will need you - he is not ready to be the next Duke. And your sister... little Rosalind. Promise me you’ll watch over her.”

“I promise.”

The words emerged thick with tears he refused to shed.

Her breath caught, and fear lanced through him. But she rallied, determination lighting her eyes.

“There is something else. In my escritoire, there is a letter. For you. Read it when you are ready.” Her voice faded to barely a whisper. “When you can hear me.” Alexander gripped her hand tighter, as if he could hold her to life by will alone. But her eyes were growing distant, focusing on something he could not see. “My beautiful boy.” The words were so soft he had to lean close to hear them. “Remember... love is... never wasted...”

Her hand went slack in his. For a moment, he stayed frozen, unable to accept what had happened. Then her maid’s quiet sob broke the silence, and reality crashed in upon him.

“Mother?” The word escaped him, child-like in its pain. “Mother!”

But there was no answer. There would never be an answer again.

*****

Later that evening, he stood in his father’s study, having taken a moment from the chaos of messages to be sent and arrangements to be made. The letter from his mother’s escritoire burned in his pocket, but he could not bring himself to read it yet.

A commotion in the hall drew his attention. His father’s voice, raised in anger, penetrated the heavy oak door.

“What do you mean, she’s gone?” The Duke’s voice cracked with something that might have been grief or rage. “I was coming back. I was...”

Alexander opened the door to find his father standing in the hall, travel stained and wild-eyed. Their gazes met, and for a moment, Alexander saw naked anguish in his father’s face. Then the Duke’s expression hardened.

“When?”

“Just after four o’clock, Father.” Alexander kept his voice steady with effort. “She... she asked for you.”

The Duke flinched.

“If she had not been so stubborn about her damned charitable works... if she had not exhausted herself... insisted on visiting the sick herself...”

Anger flared in Alexander’s chest.

“Father!”

“No!” The Duke’s face was harsh. “I will not pretty it up. Her soft heart killed her, boy. Remember that. Sentiment is a weakness that none of us can afford.”

Alexander watched his father stride away, and felt something harden inside himself. His mother’s words about balance echoed in his mind, but they seemed far away and unreal now. His father was right. Sentiment was weakness.

Duty was all that mattered.

The letter in his pocket seemed to grow heavier. He took it out and stared at it for a long moment. Then, with deliberate movements, he crossed to his father’s desk, opened the drawer where important papers were kept, and placed it inside. He was not ready to hear her voice yet. Perhaps he never would be.

When he left the study, his spine was straight, his face composed. He had duties to attend to. The estate needed managing, his siblings needed care, and there was no time for sentiment.

In the days that followed, as arrangements were made and the funeral conducted, Alexander maintained that rigid control. He stood straight-backed in church as his mother was laid to rest, his arm supporting Rosalind, who sobbed quietly beside him. He managed the household in his father’s absence, for the Duke had retreated to his rooms with a bottle of brandy. He wrote the necessary letters, spoke to the necessary people, and never once allowed himself to show weakness.

The only crack in his composure came late one night, a week after the funeral. Unable to sleep, he had wandered the silent house, eventually finding himself in his mother’s sitting room. The moonlight touched her empty chair, her embroidery still sitting in its frame beside it. On the small table, her account books lay open, showing neat columns of figures - expenditure on medicines, food for the poor, repairs to tenant cottages.

He picked up the top book, meaning to close it, when a loose paper fell from between its pages. His mother’s handwriting drew his eye.

‘My dearest Alexander,

If you are reading this, then I am gone, and you have not yet opened my letter. I know you too well, my son. You are so afraid of feeling deeply that you will lock your heart away. But remember what I told you - there must be balance.

All my love,

Mother’

Alexander’s hands trembled. Then, with deliberate care, he replaced the note in the book, closed it firmly, and set it aside. There would be no more sentiment. No more weakness. Duty alone would guide him.

As he walked away, the moonlight touched the book one last time, then faded, leaving the room in darkness.