Page 33 of The Wayward Duke
“Thank you.” Julian took the stack and turned for the door, eager to be off.
Once ensconced in the carriage, he rifled through the pile of envelopes. Estate business. Parliamentary matters. Tenant messages. Halfway through the stack, his frenzied shuffling slowed. Then stilled altogether.
A letter penned in Caroline’s graceful hand stared up at him. Addressed to the hotel in New York where he’d stayed on arrival in America all those endless months ago.
Returned undelivered.
Julian was scalded by dawning horror. With a curse, he sifted through the remaining letters. All bore that damning mark.Returned undelivered. Returned undelivered. Returned undelivered.
Dozens of letters she had dispatched to bridge the ocean between them. None had found their way into his hands. And the letter he had sent informing her of his passage to San Francisco must never have reached English shores. Their correspondence had been two ships passing in the night.
“Damn it all to hell,” Julian rasped.
Hands trembling, he unfolded the delicate, creased parchment of Caroline’s first letter. Just the sight of that beloved script raised a lump in his throat.
Dear Julian,
Grace’s funeral was beautiful. I held Lady Harcourt’s hand as the choirboys sang a dirge. Lady Harcourt kept her composure through the ceremony and the wake, but it was difficult, I think, without her husband here with her. I hope you find him quickly. I miss you.
Ever yours,
Caroline
Swallowing hard, Julian moved on to the next letter. This one later, the cheer more forced. As he progressed through the stack, she wrote chatty accounts of her days, sparing no detail. Determined to hold them together somehow.
And loneliness bled from every line. It was scrawled between each word in the spaces where affection once resided. He could read the silence stretching taut and thin between his departure and her waiting.
Shame scalded his throat. Then he reached a letter that made his hands tremble so violently he nearly dropped it. The strokes seemed firmer, the prose suffused with joy. He glanced at the date – three months ago. Written while he was on that damned fool quest across a continent.
Dear Julian,
Some happy news that I hope you take with you on your travels. We made a child. It’s difficult to tell how far along after our vigorous first few months of marriage. Let us vow never to tell this child the particulars of its conception, shall we?
Ever yours,
Caroline
Julian froze.
A child. Their child. They had made a baby.
Her subsequent letters detailed the quiet joy of watching herself swell with pregnancy, the change of the seasons as summer’s long days faded to autumn’s vibrant hues. A happiness polluted with loneliness and worry. He had missed so much – all those milestones vanishing like smoke.
Dear Julian,
I can’t sleep well in winter, even under the best circumstances, but your child seems to enjoy kicking me awake each night. I am also growing quite large and ill-tempered, so perhaps it is fortunate you have been away. I’ve written so many lists of names that I’ve murdered all the inkwells in the house, but I settled on Tristan for your heir or Violet for a girl. I can’t wait to meet our Tristan/Violet and see which one of us our baby resembles most. Between us, I hope it’s you. The men in your family have superior bone structure.
Ever yours,
Caroline
He shuffled to the final letter – dated three weeks prior. Ink blots marred the heavy parchment, the strokes jagged and sparse – a brutal blow straight to the heart.
Duke,
Our child was lost this morning.
He was to be named Tristan.
