Page 2 of A Duke's Overlooked Spinster
Sarah stiffened, staring at her father with horror. Her hand gripped his and then gently withdrew. Mrs. Holford was at her side almost at once.
“It is all well, Miss. He’s gone. Hush, now. Hush. He is with the Lord.”
Sarah broke down into sobs and Mrs. Holford held her as they both cried.
***
Sarah blinked and turned, hearing footsteps in the doorway; the sound reminding her of the present, where she stood in the drawing room before her father’s portrait.
“Miss?”
“Abigail,” Sarah replied gently. Older than Sarah by at least two decades, steadfast and trustworthy, Abigail had cared for Sarah for years, acting as her lady’s maid. “Is aught the matter?”
“We must go, miss,” Abigail said gently. “The coach is waiting at the front door.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Sarah turned to the door, lifting her small valise, filled with provisions for the journey: a shawl, gloves, fresh shifts, and a few dresses so that she could change her clothing at an inn. They would be on the road for six days. The journey from Wakeford Estate down to Bath was a journey of more than two hundred miles.
“No trouble, miss,” Abigail said gently, taking the valise and carrying it down the stairs. Sarah walked in a daze, doing herbest to ignore the familiar things around her. Leaving the house felt too strange and if she contemplated it too carefully, she would not be able to.
Her long white traveling-dress rustled about her ankles, and she paused to tie her bonnet by the front door. It felt so strange to be wearing white again. After a year and a half of black gowns, her white muslin dress felt heavenly—light, free and fresh.
“There we are, miss,” Abigail murmured as Sarah took the coachman’s hand, and he helped her up into the coach. “Now we have two hundred miles to travel to Bath.”
“That does not sound too bad,” Sarah said in a small voice.
Abigail smiled, her grin lighting up her thin, serious face. “A month in Bath. That does not sound too bad, indeed.”
Sarah smiled back shyly, and the coach door swung shut and they set off to spend a month with her cousin Caroline and her husband, the Earl of Averhill, just outside Bath.
Sarah gazed out of the window at the vast, unending rolling fields of green grass and felt afraid. Spending a month at the Earl’s vast estate was a terrifying thought, if she stopped and thought too hard about it, but she shut her pale blue eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts.
If I truly hate it, I can return to Wakeford.The thought was reassuring.
“Do you feel well, miss?” Abigail asked, her voice breaking in on Sarah’s silent thoughts.
“I feel well, Abigail. Just a little cold.” She reached into her valise for her shawl and tucked it around her shoulders.
The coach rattled down the road and the rolling green fields changed, briefly, to yellow wheat-fields and then back to endless green grass. Sarah leaned back on the coach seat and gazed out of the window, her stomach knotted and her heart pounding at the thought of the journey that was unfolding before her.
Chapter 2
Robert stared out of the window of the coach. It was a cold, rainy spring day and the flat, green landscape moved slowly past, the leaden clouds hanging heavily overhead. It was cold, dreary and miserable. All he wanted was to reach his destination.
“Son? Son! I am attempting to speak to you.”
Robert turned slowly, moving his gaze from the window of the coach to his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Clairwood, opposite him. Her blue eyes held his own. Coldly blue, like the horizon on a wintry day, her haughty gaze that was accustomed to being obeyed. Robert cleared his throat, keeping his voice hushed. His son, seven-year-old Henry, slumbered next to him, his head pillowed on a cushion against the window of the coach.
“What is it you wished to say?” Robert asked quietly, keeping his voice level. “I did not hear you.”
“No. You were too busy moping.” She sniffed.
“Mama!” Robert snapped, then winced as his son, Henry, stirred beside him, his head of pale blonde hair—just a little paler than Robert’s own—jerking as if he was startled. Robert held his breath, tensing. His son took a deep breath, then exhaled and his head drooped back onto the cushion, sleeping again.
“Mama,” Robert repeated. “You cannot say that. I am in mourning.”
“You are,” his mother insisted firmly. “And I will not have it. This excursion is the ideal time for you to put aside your mourning clothes and think about your son’s future.”
“Mama.” Robert’s hands tightened, fists forming where they rested on his knee. He realized what he was doing andconsciously uncurled his fingers. “I cannot simply forget. I do not think you understand what this has all meant.”
