Page 33 of The Captain of Betrayal
"You know of my connection to Ludlow?" James lifted his eyebrows in question.
"Met Keyford on my way here," Everleigh took a deep sip of his ale and set his glass down upon the bar. "He may have mentioned it. Apologies, if I overstepped the mark."
"No, not at all," James dismissed Everleigh's apology with an easy wave. He didn't give a fig who knew of his parentage or his past, all he cared about was his future with Polly.
"Keyford thinks rather highly of you," Everleigh offered.
"We've only spoken the once."
James' reply was flippant, but it cheered him to know that Lord Keyford had so heartily approved of him, for he had liked Keyford in turn.
"He thinks it's a shame that you are not the heir to the Ludlow estate."
The Duke's tone was casual, but for some reason James sensed that there was a note of hesitation in his voice. Perhaps, like Keyford, the Duke had misgivings about the current Lord Livingstone. Which wouldn't surprise James, if the rumours about his half-brother were true.
"Yes, he said as much," James said. "It seems my poor brother has succumbed to a laudanum addiction; I feel sorry for the poor chap, for I saw what it did to some of the men that I served alongside."
Laudanum tinctures had been widely prescribed to sailors who had been wounded in battle. James had seen how the drug had turned grown men into whimpering children in their need for it. He himself, having suffered a stab wound, had refused to imbibe any of the cursed stuff, preferring instead to suffer through the pain of his wound, rather than the pain of withdrawal from opium.
"It is your Uncle, Arthur Livingstone, who manages Lord Livingstone's affairs now," Ruan informed James. "Do you know him well?"
"Tall, bald, rather a cold fish," James said glibly; he knew nothing of Arthur Livingstone, except that he had calmly decided to send his nephew to fight in a war that he hoped would kill him. That wasn't something James cared to share with Everleigh, no matter how solid the man was, so he kept his peace.
"Keyford thinks that your Uncle is hiding something about your father's death."
"He insinuated as much to me," James gave the Duke a helpless look. "Though what can I do about his suspicions? I barely know my Uncle, he too would struggle to recognise me today, so it is doubtful that he would confess to whatever it is Keyford thinks he has done, simply because I am his nephew."
The Duke nodded, his face troubled. James felt a stab of momentary resentment; why was he here, dredging up the past, when James had a new life to look forward to? The Duke must have had some powers of omnipotence, for he changed the subject to land values and properties nearby which might suit a new family. James leapt on the subject and the pair chatted amiably over another pint, before parting ways.
The gentle, mundane conversation about property had calmed James, but once he was alone, ambling back to his cottage, his mind began to ponder. There was something rather strange about his father's death, as Lord Keyford had said, and his Uncle had already demonstrated that he had no moral qualms about getting rid of unwanted relatives through means of violence. Perhaps his Uncle's hand had been involved in the death of late Earl of Ludlow, but for the life of him, James did not know how he could prove it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The whole village seemed to have turned out for the wedding, Polly thought, as she floated up the aisle of the church in a daze. She was so nervous that she could not even recognise any of the faces of the people who filled the pews as she marched toward her husband to be.
Her whole morning had been something of a muddle; she could scarce remember even getting dressed, though she assumed she was, for surely someone would have let a shout at her if she wasn't. Her hands, which gripped a bouquet of Michaelmas daisies and late gypsophilia--supplied by the Duchess of Everleigh--were sweaty with nerves. Polly had always thought that brides were supposed to be radiant, overjoyed and a whole host of other superlatives, but she felt as though she was seconds away from casting up her accounts.
The previous evening, she had been filled with excitement; the guests of the boarding house had gathered together for one final meal and it had been a boisterous affair. Afterwards, despite many protests, she had excused herself to the kitchen to clean up, where she had been joined by Mrs Tarpy, the woman who was to run the boarding house until the season ended.
"Your last night as a spinster," Mrs Tarpy had observed, as she assisted Polly by drying the dishes. "I hope you're prepared..."
"Yes," Polly had replied, running through the list in her head of everything that she needed for the next day. "My dress is freshly pressed, my belongings are all packed into a trunk, and so are Emily's —everything is perfectly in order."
"Ach," Mrs Tarpy had scoffed, in her thick, Scottish accent. "I don't mean prepared for the morning, I meant are you prepared for the wedding night."
"Ah, well I..." Polly had not known how to reply to such a forward question. She had only met Mrs Tarpy the previous day and speaking of such things to a close friend would be strange enough, but to have a practical stranger bring up the subject was mortifying.
"My poor, wee pet," Mrs Tarpy had shaken her head sadly, as she took in Polly's baffled expression. "I suppose, since you've nae mother alive, no one has warned you."
"Warned me?" Polly asked sharply;what on earth was there to warn her about?
"Aye," Mrs Tarpy took her by the hand and sat her down at the wooden table. "Warned you aboutthe pain."
"The pain?" Polly gulped; she was brave--braver than most in fact--but the ominous look upon Mrs Tarpy's lined face was worrying.
"Oh, it's terrible, just terrible," the elderly widow had shaken her head again, whilst patting Polly's hand consolingly. "Listen up, lass, and I'll tell you what to expect."
White faced, Polly had listened to Mrs Tarpy's rather graphic description of the act she would be expected to perform once she and James were wed and the agony that it would induce. Just when Polly thought it was over, Mrs Tarpy then took it upon herself to describe what Polly might expect to experience during childbirth, if that same aforementioned act was fruitful enough to leave her with child.
