shall release you from your promise.”
Shoulders slumped, his limp more pronounced than ever, he left her.
* * * *
Lord Tarnholm did not return at noon with the duke and Lady Elizabeth. They were both delighted with the gowns.
Lady Elizabeth even gave Martha an impulsive hug. “I shall have the best abigail in London,” she cried.
“Not her.” The duke shook his handsome head.
“What? Why not? I want Martha!”
“Don’t fuss so, Lizzie,” he snapped. “You shall have a perfectly adequate abigail, but not her. Come down to the drawing room and I’ll tell you why.”
He strode from the room, followed by his sulky sister. At the last moment he glanced back over his shoulder at Martha and said testily, “You had better come too, girl.”
It was not what Martha expected of a betrothal, not the joyous, festive occasion the villagers made of those happy events. Obviously the nobility regarded such matters differently.
She was too tired to be disappointed. Concentrating on not stumbling, she followed her future husband and sister-in-law down the winding stairs and along passages. He stopped at a grand double-door, through which came the sound of music. Flinging it it open, he marched in.
The music stopped instantly. The duchess jumped up from a sofa by the fire.
“What is the matter, Reggie?” she asked apprehensively. “Why did you want me and the girls to await you here?”
Standing numbly by the door, hands clasped before her, Martha saw Lady Elizabeth’s younger sisters gathered around the pianoforte with their governess. They all stared at their brother.
“I have an announcement to make,” he proclaimed. “No doubt you will be glad to learn, ma’am, that I mean to take a bride. I am going to marry the miller’s chit.”
There was a moment of dumbfounded silence. The duchess’s mouth actually dropped open. Then she recovered herself and said uncertainly, as though she thought her ears must have deceived her, “Martha Miller, Reggie? You are to wed Martha Miller?”
“That’s the one.” He turned and gestured at Martha. “You, girl, come here and make your curtsy to your mama-in-law. I’m off to London,” he added carelessly. “While I’m gone Martha can finish making Lizzie’s wardrobe—pelisses and such. When I come back, we shall discuss the wedding.”
He departed without a backward glance.
The duchess sagged back onto the sofa. Her daughters clustered around her, giggling and twittering like a flock of sparrows, and casting sidelong looks at Martha.
She scarcely noticed. After curtsying as ordered, she stood rooted to the ground, unable to summon up the energy to think what she ought to do next. The only thing she actually wanted to do was sleep.
The youngest of the young ladies suddenly dashed to the window. “Reggie is leaving already, Mama!” she cried. “He must have ordered his carriage brought round before he told us.”
At a gallop, the four black horses pulled the elegant royal-blue carriage past the window, and Martha’s betrothed was gone.
Perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing?
But the duchess patted the place at her side on the sofa. “Martha, my dear, do come and sit down,” she said, kind though still flustered. “I must confess, this has come as quite a sh...surprise. I assume the duke—Reginald—acquainted you with his intentions long since, but it is quite new to me.”
“He told me yesterday, your Grace.”
“Told? Oh dear, not asked? How very like Reggie, to be sure. But of course you would have accepted had he troubled to request your hand.”
“Oh yes, your Grace,” Martha said fervently.
“I suppose there is nothing to be done. Once Reggie has made up his mind, nothing will shake him, and it is excessively uncomfortable to cross him. He grows more and more like his father, I fear.”
Martha could think of no polite answer to that, so she held her tongue.
“Well, well, it
Shoulders slumped, his limp more pronounced than ever, he left her.
* * * *
Lord Tarnholm did not return at noon with the duke and Lady Elizabeth. They were both delighted with the gowns.
Lady Elizabeth even gave Martha an impulsive hug. “I shall have the best abigail in London,” she cried.
“Not her.” The duke shook his handsome head.
“What? Why not? I want Martha!”
“Don’t fuss so, Lizzie,” he snapped. “You shall have a perfectly adequate abigail, but not her. Come down to the drawing room and I’ll tell you why.”
He strode from the room, followed by his sulky sister. At the last moment he glanced back over his shoulder at Martha and said testily, “You had better come too, girl.”
It was not what Martha expected of a betrothal, not the joyous, festive occasion the villagers made of those happy events. Obviously the nobility regarded such matters differently.
She was too tired to be disappointed. Concentrating on not stumbling, she followed her future husband and sister-in-law down the winding stairs and along passages. He stopped at a grand double-door, through which came the sound of music. Flinging it it open, he marched in.
The music stopped instantly. The duchess jumped up from a sofa by the fire.
“What is the matter, Reggie?” she asked apprehensively. “Why did you want me and the girls to await you here?”
Standing numbly by the door, hands clasped before her, Martha saw Lady Elizabeth’s younger sisters gathered around the pianoforte with their governess. They all stared at their brother.
“I have an announcement to make,” he proclaimed. “No doubt you will be glad to learn, ma’am, that I mean to take a bride. I am going to marry the miller’s chit.”
There was a moment of dumbfounded silence. The duchess’s mouth actually dropped open. Then she recovered herself and said uncertainly, as though she thought her ears must have deceived her, “Martha Miller, Reggie? You are to wed Martha Miller?”
“That’s the one.” He turned and gestured at Martha. “You, girl, come here and make your curtsy to your mama-in-law. I’m off to London,” he added carelessly. “While I’m gone Martha can finish making Lizzie’s wardrobe—pelisses and such. When I come back, we shall discuss the wedding.”
He departed without a backward glance.
The duchess sagged back onto the sofa. Her daughters clustered around her, giggling and twittering like a flock of sparrows, and casting sidelong looks at Martha.
She scarcely noticed. After curtsying as ordered, she stood rooted to the ground, unable to summon up the energy to think what she ought to do next. The only thing she actually wanted to do was sleep.
The youngest of the young ladies suddenly dashed to the window. “Reggie is leaving already, Mama!” she cried. “He must have ordered his carriage brought round before he told us.”
At a gallop, the four black horses pulled the elegant royal-blue carriage past the window, and Martha’s betrothed was gone.
Perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing?
But the duchess patted the place at her side on the sofa. “Martha, my dear, do come and sit down,” she said, kind though still flustered. “I must confess, this has come as quite a sh...surprise. I assume the duke—Reginald—acquainted you with his intentions long since, but it is quite new to me.”
“He told me yesterday, your Grace.”
“Told? Oh dear, not asked? How very like Reggie, to be sure. But of course you would have accepted had he troubled to request your hand.”
“Oh yes, your Grace,” Martha said fervently.
“I suppose there is nothing to be done. Once Reggie has made up his mind, nothing will shake him, and it is excessively uncomfortable to cross him. He grows more and more like his father, I fear.”
Martha could think of no polite answer to that, so she held her tongue.
“Well, well, it
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