Page 4 of Daisy and the Duke
The tour was not over. Tris was taken along yet more corridors to a set of double doors at the end of a hall. Two more footmen rushed ahead to open them. Just how many people did he employ?
Beyond the doors, he saw the ducal suite: a massive chain of rooms, far larger than the entire house that Tristan had lived in during his early life.
He stared at the four-poster bed, each corner pillar looking as sturdy as an oak tree. Quite probably six people could sleep comfortably in it. Tristan had no plans to test that theory, though.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with all this space?” he muttered.
“Did you say something, sir?” one of the footmen asked, leaning in. It would never do to ignore a duke.
Tristan thought fast, saying, “I said I want to speak to the doctor when he’s done. Show me to a more suitable room where I can wait. I don’t like to be in a bedchamber during the day.” He’d lain in a bed for almost a year—he was sick of it.
Again through the halls. Again down the wide marble steps of the main staircase, into a blessedly normal-sized place filled with shelves and books.
“This room was used most by the late duchess, sir,” the footman explained. “The small study, we call it. I’ll inform the doctor of your location.”
Tristan paced in the library, waiting for the doctor to finish his examination.
At long last, Stelton entered. “Sorry to keep you waiting, your grace. Your friend is sleeping now, thanks to a bit of laudanum. The travel was difficult for him.”
“It’s not consumption, is it?” Tris asked abruptly.
“No, no fear of that. No sign of blood in the lungs, which would be the death knell. His illness is serious, but not fatal. However, he’ll need to take things very carefully if he hopes to recover. No strenuous activity, no distressing conversations, nothing to worry him at all.”
“How long will he need to rest like this?”
“Weeks,” Stelton said bluntly. “Could be months. The slightest strain could set him back, so see that he’s coddled like a baby.”
“He’ll hate that,” Tristan muttered.
“Better a warm blanket than a cold grave. I’ll stop by daily to check up on him.” Stelton added, “And you, sir? How do you fare?” He gestured to Tristan’s scarred face.
“Well enough,” Tris said. “After all, I was wounded nearly two years ago.”
“But you still feel the pains,” Stelton guessed. “Nasty business, this modern warfare. I’ve seen men come back—” He stopped, his expression haunted. He shook himself and said, in an overly hearty tone, “Anyway, let me know if you require anything for yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Then he left and once again, Tristan was alone, with little to do but brood.
A familiar feeling of being suffocated crept up again. He had to get out of doors. After going to his bedchamber once more, startling the maids who were unpacking, he changed his outfit and said to the nearest footman in his line of sight, “Show me to the stables.”
“This way, sir!” The young man, still a boy, really, led Tristan through the byzantine hallways and finally outside. Tristan could smell the stables now, the comforting aroma of hay and horse and manure. That smell never changed, whether it was the army or a duke’s estate.
“My horse, Stormer, is here, yes?”
“Arrived last week, your grace. He’ll be wanting to gallop through new fields, I’ll warrant. Good to have the stable filling up again. The old duke hadn’t rode for years.”
The stableboy dashed away to saddle Stormer and led him out, which he did with obvious reverence. Quite possibly Stormer was the finest and most expensive creature the boy had ever seen.
“I’ll return by dark,” Tristan said, mounting up.
Tristan wore his usual riding gear, which was more suited to a hostler than a duke. For him, riding wasn’t a social activity. It was solitary meditation. He didn’t care how he looked.
He was glad to be riding out on his own. While recovering from his wounds, Tristan had discovered that riding was one of the few activities that didn’t cause him pain, so he rode as often as he could. Stormer was the one indulgence Tristan granted himself upon receiving his inheritance. He loved horses, but the idea of owning one as fine as Stormer was an impossibility for most of his life.
And he had to admit, the estate of Lyondale was perfect for riding. Almost reason enough to keep the title…
As Tristan rode over the estate, he was doubly glad he wasn’t in company, because the state of the place was beginning to make him angry. Farmhouses looked in need of repair, and many fields were untended. Tristan wasn’t a farmer, but he knew there was no chance that all these fields could be lying fallow intentionally. What could be hindering the tenants from tilling them?
When he happened to see a few men working, he rode over and introduced himself. It took a while for him, as Lord Lyon, to get a real answer out of the nervous farmers, but at last a picture emerged. The rents were high enough so only land absolutely certain to yield enough crops was tilled. Farmers were afraid to risk buying more seed than they might be able to harvest, and they lacked more modern techniques to speed up work, though at least these men were keenly interested in acquiring good equipment.
