Page 42 of A Duke's Overlooked Spinster
“Father was a—a difficult man,” she managed to say. “I loved him. Of course I did. He was my father. I believe that all children love their fathers and want to think well of them.”
The duke nodded. “I believe so as well,” he agreed. His voice was tight. Sarah stared up into his eyes and saw pain there. She stopped talking, wondering what to say. After a moment, he coughed. “Please, continue,” he said softly.
“After Mama—after she passed away—he became different. Withdrawn. Quiet. He stopped receiving visitors of any sort. The house became more and more silent. Neighbours would come and see us, sometimes. He could not really keep them away. But on most days, it was just him and me, rattling around in that big, empty house.” She drew in a deep breath. Her throat ached with so many untold emotions. “When I turned nineteen, he deemed that I should have my debut into society. It was already a little late—some of the other ladies around us had debuted much earlier, as young as sixteen. He purchased some tickets for Almack’s Assembly. I had four new dresses.” She paused, biting her lip as she remembered. Pain twisted in her chest at the memory. “I attended four balls. After that, he said that we had spent long enough in London, and that we had to return to the countryside. I had almost no chance to meet anyone, and he deemed that I had failed. He said that he would not allow me another Season, that I would have to stay at Wakeford andlook after him.” She tried not to cry. It was cruel. He had made her feel like a failure, like her isolation was her own fault. Even though part of her had always understood that it was not true, that he chose to keep her at Wakeford because he was terribly afraid of being alone, another part of her had also believed his lie. She had believed that she was ugly, uninteresting. Not enough to hold the attention of the people in London.
“What?” the duke interrupted. He gaped at her. “Sorry. I beg your pardon,” he added swiftly. “That is simply horrible.”
Sarah chuckled, a small, sad sound. “Nobody has ever said that before,” she said quietly. “But then, I never told anybody. Who could I have told? Cousin Caroline is my only living relative, and I hardly ever saw her. She was constantly in London, or at her family estate, and we never saw one another.”
The duke gazed into her eyes. Sarah leaned back, wishing that it was lighter, that she could see him more clearly. She blushed as he leaned closer. He really was very close, his face just four or five inches away from her own. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, and she tried to focus. She could see him clearly, despite the darkness. His blue eyes were firm and sorrowful at once.
“What your father did was wrong,” the duke said. “Wrong, and selfish. I do not mean to criticise those who have passed on,” he added quickly. “But I know that it was wrong of him. To keep you isolated, to keep you there because he needed you...that was pure selfishness.”
Sarah swallowed hard. “I know,” she admitted after a long moment. “But he did need me,” she said swiftly, defending him in spite of how wrong she knew he had been. “And I really am nobody,” she added with a sad chuckle.
His gaze held hers. “Nobody is nobody,” he repeated solemnly.
“You said that,” she said thoughtfully. “I wish that I knew why.”
The duke cleared his throat. “I will tell you,”he replied softly.
Chapter 19
“My wife,” Robert began, his voice tight in his throat. “Was called Elizabeth. She was a year older than me. We met when she was nineteen. At her first season.” He grinned, blinking at the memory. He had never discussed her with anyone. After she passed away, he had retired to London and shut the house to visitors, receiving nobody save Victoria and sometimes James. Nobody else had been welcome because he could not bear their awkward silences, their insincere condolences. “She was a kind person, an unfettered soul.” He swallowed hard, the words like a lump in his throat. He could see her face before him as she had been when she was nineteen. Her dazzling smile, her eyes, the joy that seemed to fill the room around her.
“She must have been a wonderful person,” Miss Brooke said in a small voice.
Robert smiled. “You and she would have liked each other, I think.” He tilted his head. “You are both free spirits. Both full of life.”
Miss Brooke said nothing, just looked down shyly at the compliment, and Robert continued his tale.
“I could not look away from her. I asked her father, the Earl of Alwood, for permission to court her that very night. I was eighteen,” he added with a grin. “Inclined to be spontaneous.”
Miss Brooke chuckled.
“He gave me permission and I lost no time in going to call on her. We went all over London together, and then when the Season concluded, I went to visit her at her home in the countryside. We were walking in the estate grounds when we came across a verderer who had been injured by a gunshot.” He shook his head. “I remember how she insisted on staying with him, how she demanded that I ride to the estate to summonsomebody to help. I was young and impatient and all I could think of was that the fellow had spoiled our walk. I told her that he was just a verderer, not heavily wounded and that they could leave him there alone and go together to fetch help. That was when she said it. Nobody is nobody, she said. She reproached me—her eyes were sad as much as angry—and I never forgot. I remembered it ever since. I hope I never forget.”
His throat was tight. He could not speak. He coughed, his words coming out hoarse and quiet. He reached into his pocket, forgetting for a moment that he had given his handkerchief to Miss Brooke. He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. There were stars there, silver against the cold dark velvet of the sky. He gazed up at their light. Elizabeth was up there somewhere, beyond the stars.
“She sounds like a remarkable woman,” Miss Brooke murmured.
Robert grinned. “She was. She was unique,” he added with a chuckle. “Henry is so like her. Stubborn, willful. Kind.” His grin broadened as he thought of his son, who might have inherited his hair and eyes, but who had everything else from his mother.
“It must be hard,” Miss Brooke said into the silence.
Robert nodded. “Every day,” he began. “I think of her every day. When I see Henry, sometimes the memory is too strong.” He coughed. Miss Brooke was watching him, compassion and understanding in her gaze. He let out a sigh. “Your story reminded me of something,” he said quietly. “It reminded me of myself. I have been unkind, isolating Henry for so many years. He needs other children. He needs friendly adults. Like you,” he added, his lips lifting at the corners. “You have done so much for him.” He gazed into her eyes and a steady thumping began in his heart as she chuckled.
“Henry has done as much to cheer me up,” she said with a smile. “He is a delightful child. Stubborn, as you say. Playful, generous of spirit. He is a good person.”
Robert inclined his head. “He is. He will be,” he added, unable to imagine Henry as an adult yet. “I think you have done a great deal to help him. He was too secluded at the manor. There was not enough to divert him. He has become more at peace here; happier.”
Sarah smiled at him. The warmth in her eyes touched his heart.
“I am pleased to hear it,” she said warmly. “If it were not for Henry, this house-party would have been very hard for me.” She looked down at her hands, which were clasped together. He gazed down at her. The gown she wore was a pale purple, like the flowers of some French irises in his mother’s water-garden. The color brought out the hue of her eyes, making them seem even bluer. He stared into them, his soul drawn into their pale blue depths. She seemed sad and he cleared his throat.
“Was this the first time you came to a gathering after your mourning period?” he asked her, understanding the way she must feel.
She nodded. “Yes. And yourself?”
