Freedom (7 page)

“Mrs. Weston, I wish to have our guest to supper. Please advise me as soon as she is able.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said in a confused manner as she came to a stop, eyeing him.

“What?”

“Well, Your Grace, you’re a sight,” she began, then cleared her throat as if aware of her familiarity. “As you know, Miss Francine is not yet in any position to be at supper with a gentleman.” She paused. Her left eyebrow rose nearly to her hairline. “Or anyone, for that matter,” she finished with a stout nod.

He growled. “Of course,” he said, unrolling his other sleeve.

“Shall I ring for Ferry?” she queried, the eyebrow still cocked in a curious gaze.

It bothered him the way Mrs. Weston sometimes took liberties, but occasionally overlooked it since she’d happened to be there when he was brought into the world and had cared for him thenceforth. “Has Dr. Walcott checked on our guest?” he asked, choosing to ignore the impertinence.

“No, Your Grace. He is expected within the hour.”

When he finished unrolling his sleeves he clasped his hands behind his back and stood wide, tensing his muscles. The position drew his figure straighter and sturdier, making full use of his height and his broad shoulders. He latched onto Mrs. Weston’s gaze and held it. “What has the girl said?”

Mrs. Weston became flustered. He knew she hated it when he used this tactic with her, mostly because it worked so well. There was nowhere for her to run and hide, and no way for her to lie or omit anything. “Well,” she said, “she agreed to the visit from the doctor and she appreciates the gowns, though as I told you she is a bit unhappy about your generosity.”

“What?” He released his hands and stepped forward.

Mrs. Weston held up a hand. “Sorry, Your Grace, I meant to say that she’s overwhelmed by it, she doesn’t want to be a bother. She doesn’t seem to feel that she’s worthy of the expense,” she corrected.

He stopped cold. “I see. I—misunderstood.” He paused. “You will send Dr. Walcott to me as soon as he is finished and you will let me know as soon as she is able to attend supper.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said as he waved her off. She scurried for the servant’s passage, her hand on her chest. “Oh Lord, you do work me, Your Grace,” he heard her whisper as soon as she was out of sight. Odd how well sound carried in that particular room.

***

There was a soft knock at the door and Meggie entered with Francine’s supper tray, setting it before the fire.

Mrs. Weston entered just as she was sitting down to eat. “I sent for the dressmaker in town when I sent for the doctor. She’ll be up by week out, and Dr. Walcott should be here any time now.”

Francine nodded resignedly and smiled. She was already receiving too much from the duke. His hospitality was more than any reasonable person would expect. She thought about the terrace, when he had seen her, and her face heated in a blush as she looked at her supper tray. The look on his face when he’d looked up at her still had her flustered.

The food here was unrecognizable—strange cuts of unknown meats, fancy colored gel-like substances filled with vegetables, and grey colored sauces that seemed to drown everything—as though it was merely the texture of the food that mattered and not the flavor.

Cynically, she thought it the best diet she’d ever been on, and she placed her hand over her mouth and laughed a bit.
If this is my dream, why can’t I have a big New York strip with a buttered baked potato and glazed asparagus with lemon pepper?

She clenched her eyes tight and envisioned it, willing the steak dinner to her plate. She sighed when she opened her eyes to the same colorless glop and then saw Mrs. Weston watching her quizzically. Francine realized she was only adding fuel to the fire of her own oddity. She shook her head and smiled at Mrs. Weston, then picked up the fork and tried to eat.

***

After supper, Mrs. Weston asked Meggie to fetch the slipper tub and prepare a bath. It had been a long day. Mrs. Weston was ready to be done with it, and she hoped that Miss Francine would feel the same. A nice warm bath would ease her muscles and ready their guest for bed—she was sure of it.

As Dr. Walcott examined Francine, Mrs. Weston turned the bed down and placed a warm brick at the foot. It wasn’t quite summer yet, but her grandmother had always said that warm feet made a sleepy head, and what she needed right now was for Miss Francine to sleep so she could retire to her own bed. She’d arranged for Meggie and Carole to watch over her in shifts, sleeping in the adjoining servants’ room and keeping an eye on her from the passageways whenever she wandered.

The doctor nodded when he finished, and Mrs. Weston let out a hearty sigh as he left.

***

Dr. Walcott knocked at Roxleigh’s study before leaving the manor.

“Enter.”

The doctor opened the door and Roxleigh stood, motioning him to the desk.

“You have already attended my guest.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Her physical wounds seem to be healing nicely, but she isn’t speaking, and that concerns me, considering her reaction—”

Roxleigh cut him off with a gesture. “I have heard, listened to, and understand your concern, Dr. Walcott—but we will not, again, discuss sending her to Bedlam. Is that understood?”

Dr. Walcott cringed, then nodded. “I have removed her bandages. I will return again at a later time to check on her—wounds,” he said stiffly.

“As you see necessary, Doctor.”

“Your Grace.” And with that Dr. Walcott left.

Francine was in a daze as the next days drifted slowly by. She awoke with the sun from the windows, breakfasted in her room, then sat in the private parlor watching the breeze stirring the trees, where she was currently. The most exciting moments were when Roxleigh left on his afternoon ride, though it never seemed as vigorous and fervent as the first time she saw him. She didn’t dare venture outside on the balcony again.

He was infuriating. So pious in his demand for propriety. The fact that his wishes were constantly conveyed to her through Mrs. Weston was equally annoying.

I should run through the house screaming like a banshee simply to get a rise out of him
.
Force him to confront me personally
. She let her mind’s eye take him in—the soft dark brown of his hair; the beautiful deep green of his smoldering eyes; the straight, broad shoulders that cut off the sun behind him; the narrow waist tucked into the fine weave of his trousers. She gasped, catching her train of thought as it barreled down the wrong track. That was not exactly the kind of rise she should be considering.

She slapped her hands over her eyes and shook her head. Maybe if he never opened his mouth—no, actually his mouth was irrelevant, less than irrelevant. She shook her head. But those wide solid lips that more often curved down than up, the arc of his mouth—

She grunted and lay down, turning her face into the soft cushion of the settee. Who was she kidding? He couldn’t possibly be more attractive. Her eyes glazed over and there he was again, standing before her. She desperately needed something else to occupy her addled brain.

***

Mrs. Weston felt terrible keeping Francine hidden away with nothing to keep her. She poked her head in the private parlor to see how the poor girl was doing and saw her lying on the settee, hitting the back with her fist. “Humph,” Mrs. Weston mumbled. She closed the door quietly and descended to Roxleigh’s study.

“Enter,” he said gruffly.

He was in a mood; she could tell from that single word. She straightened her drab woolen skirts and opened the door.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Weston said.

He looked up at her warily, one eyebrow cocked.

She approached his desk, suddenly a bit nervous. These days he always seemed to be in a mood, but there wasn’t much to do about that.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,
she thought. She panicked like a rat in a trap, the problem being he had her by the tail.

Roxleigh watched. “Out with it,” he said finally.

“Your Grace, it’s Miss Francine, she’s— She’s a might bored. She can’t go anywhere, and the days are a trifle long.”

He leaned back in his chair, holding her gaze.

“I thought, Your Grace, mayhap I can take her to the library, through the passages, so she can select a few books? I think if she’d a book to read it might be—”

“No,” he cut in without hesitation.

Mrs. Weston’s eyelids fluttered at his asperity. “But—but, Your Grace, she has naught to do, can you just imagine? All sh—”

“What I meant was, you may escort her to the library, but you will take her down the main stair. I do not wish her in the passages. I prefer she never see them. You have one hour.”

Her feet stuttered. She wasn’t sure whether to run straightaway, or thank him profusely first. She finally decided she ought to express her gratitude, lest he regret the decision.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll see to it immediately.”

“Mrs. Weston,” he said, catching her before she could leave.

“Yes, Your Grace?” She turned back nervously.

“I will not find a nightgown-clad girl in any of the common areas of Eildon Manor. She is not to think that she can traipse around here simply because I allowed this one excursion. She should collect enough books to keep herself occupied. For a while.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said as she scurried for the door.

***

Francine was still daydreaming when Mrs. Weston entered the private parlor. “Oh, Miss Francine, come. We’ve not much time, come, come!” Francine stood and Mrs. Weston shuffled her out of the room.

Francine panicked and turned away, but Mrs. Weston simply grasped her wrist and pulled her down the stairs, looking around as if to ensure they were alone. “His Grace said I can take you to the library. Come, we’ve only got one hour, miss.”

Francine heard the words and stopped fighting Mrs. Weston, instead running down ahead of her. When she reached the bottom she looked at the circle of doors she was met with, wondering which was the library. Mrs. Weston caught up to her and took her hand.

“This way,” she said.

At the first door Francine halted, pulling Mrs. Weston back. Her gaze drifted toward it as she rested a hand on the seam of the double door. Mrs. Weston went pale.

“Oh, miss, no. That’s his study. His Grace is
in
there. Come away, please!” she whispered violently.

Francine looked at the door, hearing the panic in Mrs. Weston’s voice. She couldn’t help herself, though, she felt— What did she feel? She felt something, a connection, the feeling of him holding her as she collapsed, the shock of his hard muscles against her, the tremble of his voice against her body. She quietly exhaled, placing both hands against the door, listening.

Mrs. Weston grabbed her forearm and pulled her away and into the library, shutting the doors solidly. She peered through the crack between the double doors before she turned on Francine.

“Look here, miss! I took a great risk to even ask this favor for you, and you need to heed my warnings! Please don’t tempt him. He’s in an awful state, one you cannot imagine.”

Francine turned to Mrs. Weston and placed her fist against her chest, sweeping it in a circle around her heart before looking back to the room. If she couldn’t speak, she would sign, and they would learn.

Tall bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling on two levels. Francine marveled at the collection, though she supposed if she lived in the middle of nowhere she might have such a wonderful library as well. She scanned the bookshelves, trying to determine the organization. She came upon a set of shelves with Byron, Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, and Thackeray.

She had become used to searching titles on the Denver Public Library website, checking them out and downloading them to her ebook reader. She pulled a well-worn book off one shelf and smoothed her hand over the leather cover. She had forgotten what the weight of a book felt like, the smell of the fiber, the turn of the page. She smiled broadly and replaced it.

She pulled several familiar titles from the shelf and handed them off to Mrs. Weston, then reached for more.
The Taming of the Shrew, Vanity Fair, The Book of the Duchess, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Pride and Prejudice, Emma, The Charge of the Light Brigade, Moby Dick,
Candide
.

She opened the covers of first editions with personal inscriptions written by the authors. She added to her giant stack and roamed farther into the library. Then she saw it, up high on a shelf:
Madame Bovary
. She smiled, climbing the bookshelves to reach it.

“Miss Francine! You cannot do that! There’s a ladder!”

Francine clutched the book and fell back to the floor with a quiet thud, then turned apologetically to Mrs. Weston who tugged on her sleeve, begging her to follow. “Come, miss, this must be enough for now. We need get back upstairs.” Francine nodded and followed. They ascended the stairs quickly, Francine staring at the books in her arms, smiling. As they reached the top of the staircase Mrs. Weston pushed Francine into the private parlor.

Francine grinned from ear to ear as she sank into the settee and spilled books all around her. She looked back to the door, expecting to see Mrs. Weston right behind her, but instead she heard
him
. He was close. She tiptoed to the doorway as quickly as she could, peering through the crack behind the door to see him inspecting the books in Mrs. Weston’s arms.

“I assume the outing was successful?” the duke asked.

“Yes, Your Grace. She seemed quite satisfied.”

He looked at her armload and picked a couple of books off the top. “
Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights.
” He grunted, then picked up the third book. “
The Divine Comedy?
”  

Francine took the opportunity to appraise him. He wore dark grey trousers that strapped around his shoes, creating a sharp line to his leg; a crisp white shirt; a rumpled neck cloth; and a black waistcoat. The muscles of his thighs strained the fabric of his trousers, and as he leaned forward—reading the titles of the books—a lock of hair fell across his forehead, begging her to smooth it back.

He glanced toward the doorway and she jerked back and held her breath, feeling his gaze sweep the opening before refocusing on Mrs. Weston. He placed the books back on the stack and turned on his heel.

“Thank you again, Your Grace,” Mrs. Weston called after him.

The duke simply waved a hand behind his head at her thanks and ducked swiftly through a doorway. As he walked away Francine marveled at the cocky way he didn’t turn back. The only word that came to mind was
dashing.
No—
stunning
. Mrs. Weston, on the other hand, appeared frazzled.