Page 111 of The Duke's Dream
“His Grace is in perfect health, but he received a message from his mother last night. The Dowager Duchess is very sick. She is in Brighton and —”
“The poor lady, I’m so sorry to hear of it.” Helene went straight to her armoire. “I can pack a suitcase in five minutes. Is His Grace arriving soon? Is he terribly worried?”
Though his mother had left him, Helene sensed William still loved her dearly. This could be a chance for them to reunite. After tugging a canvas bag open, she started pulling clothes from her drawers. She would have to send word to the theater, but they would understand. Brighton was close, and she had an understudy for such emergencies.
“Miss Beaumont?”
“Baines, can you please help me with this bonnet? I cannot reach the shelf.”
“Miss Beaumont, His Grace already left. He traveled last night. He requested me to stay in London and see to your wishes. Here is a message from him.”
The bag fell from her grip, and she ambled to Baines. She caught the paper with trembling hands, her breath hitching as she unfolded it.
Did he leave without her?
William’s elegant scrawl explained that his mother was gravely ill, and he didn’t know how long he might be away. He had ended the sentence with double bars. In music notation, the symbol meant the end of a piece.
The end of their music?
No, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t end things like this. Helene fought to fill her lungs. Did the little room lack air, or was it her chest that hurt? William’s mother was ill, possibly dying, and he didn’t need her. Of course not. Who would need La Sylphide in times of grief?
Baines shifted his weight, his gaze gentle. "Miss Beaumont, can I do something for you? Did you have breakfast? You are quite pale.”
Helene shook her head, and her eyes drifted to the piano, the witness of nights filled with music and sighed secrets. She touched the lacquered surface, her fingers tracing its smooth lines.
“It is marvelous, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “William—His Grace—gave it to me.”
The valet glanced away, clearly uncomfortable.
She closed her eyes, the echo of their duets still alive in her soul. But the music had changed… Instead of the lively andante or the passionate allegro, she listened to woodwinds whispering sadly as if they had arrived at the coda, the notes slowly dying away in a mournful adagio.
Helene wiped her tears, forcing herself to breathe. Look at her. His mother was ill, and she was selfishly wishing for a song. She had to be stronger for him. Everything would be alright, she was certain it would. His mother would recover, and William would soon be back in London.
With a deep breath, she forced a smile. “Please, make sure His Grace knows I prayed for the Dowager Duchess’ health.”
Thecoachrattledoverthe cobblestones. Brighton’s salty sea air filtered through the window and condensed on William's dry lips. Why hadn’t he come sooner? The question was the only constant, endlessly churning in his mind.
His mother’s cottage came into view. Hay had been scattered on the street to hush the noise, its soft crunch underfoot muffling his steps as he made his way to the front door. Inside, the miasma of sickness and laudanum assaulted his senses.
A woman glided along the room’s edges. He recognized her as Lady Moira, his mother’s companion. She had always been absent during his yearly visits. His mother used to tell him she went to see her family, but William knew better—it was to avoid him. Still, her existence lingered between them, coloring their interactions, no matter where Lady Moira had gone.
Deep purple lines were etched into her cheeks.
She curtsied, her movements stiff with fatigue. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. We were not expecting your arrival today. I will gather a suitcase—”
“Stay,” William said. He would not be so heartless as to remove his mother’s companion from her sickbed. “Where is she?”
Pain flicked across Lady Moira’s face. “Outside.”
William nodded. “Summon her physician and whatever other medical attention she is receiving. I expect a meeting in two hours.”
William strode past the hushed house, the silence pressing down on him like a shroud. The servants scurried along the walls, their faces somber, as if they were already mourning.
When he stepped onto the veranda, the sun hit him in the chest. The white marble of the floor shimmered in the harsh sunlight, blinding him. Beyond, the ocean glittered—vast and indifferent.
His steps slowed as a heaviness settled in his limbs. A wave of memories flooded him. He was twenty-two. His father had died. Distraught with grief, he had visited his mother for the first time since she… Since she came to her retirement. He had crept inside, afraid his mother’s unbridled passion would graze his already tattered control. She had been in the garden, not in sin, but tending her begonias. He had been angry then. While he was alone, facing the constraints of dukedom, she lived in seaside bliss, unfettered by society’s restraints.
A cough brought him back to the present.
