Birdie and the Beastly Duke by Sofi Laporte

Chapter 12

Birdie found the door to the tower unlocked. She opened it with determination and went up the winding staircase. Her husband really lived in Rapunzel’s tower, completely isolated from the rest of the world.

Fully expecting the door to the room to be locked, she pressed down on the handle and to her surprise, found that the door opened without as much as a creak. It occurred to her too late that she should’ve knocked.

She cleared her throat and knocked on the door frame. “Uh. Is anyone here?” she called out.

No answer.

She pushed the door open and found herself once more inside the round tower room. It was gothic, medieval, from another time and age. The first night she’d been here, she’d seen only the fireplace and the armchair.

Speechless, she looked about. There was a small window, as was customary for tower rooms. It allowed sufficient light. A small fireplace was on the other side. A simple bed, more of a cot. Was this where he slept? With nothing but a thin woollen blanket and a lumpy straw pallet?

Like a soldier.

Birdie stroked her hand over the blanket. It was rough and thin.

What kind of man was her husband? Why did he voluntarily wall himself up in this room to live in dirt and poverty? Why marry her and then tell her to leave? Did he have anything to do with that ghost yesterday?

He was a mystery, her husband.

There were some books stacked by the bed. But what caught her attention was what stood in the middle of the room. On a low platform supported by books, taking up the entire room was a model of some sort. Plates of paint and brushes were scattered on the floor.

Birdie stepped up to it, careful not to step on the paint. Amazed, she saw that it was a landscape. There were hills, fields, and a forest. Crafted out of clay and papier mâché and meticulously painted. There were hundreds of miniature figures everywhere. She picked up one.

Tin soldiers? Armies of them. Some in red, some blue, green, blue-white…

Then she understood. She was looking at a battle scene.

These troops over there must be the French. She picked up a figure that resembled the Emperor of the French: Napoleon on a white steed.

And this one here, a figure on a brown horse with a bicorn hat and a simple blue coat with gilt buttons. Wellington. Birdie marvelled at how detailed the figure was. Every tiny button, every crease of the coat was wonderfully painted. Birdie set it back carefully.

Another figure stood out. It wore a scarlet red coat with a white cross belt and grey trousers. It lay behind a farm with blackened, collapsed walls. The face was half blackened. Birdie gasped.

She picked up the figure and walked over to the window to see it better. On the windowsill, on a black velvet cloth, was a pistol. Ready and loaded.

She picked it up with trembling fingers.

“What are you doing?” a voice roared behind her. She dropped the figure and nearly the pistol as well.

“I am so sorry. I just—I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” She set the pistol down carefully.

“This is private,” Gabriel snarled. “Haven’t you wrought enough havoc in the rest of the castle? Must you also invade my private quarters?”

He stalked towards her with a scowl.

Birdie took a step backwards, stumbled over a pile of books and sprawled on the floor.

“You are a plague upon man. Get out. Get out now and never come back!” Her husband picked up a book. His face had turned completely red; a vein pulsated in his temple, and his one remaining eye flashed.

Birdie picked herself up, tumbled out of the door and down the stairs.

She heard him slam the door behind her, followed by a vicious thump against the door.

He’d thrown a book against it.

Tears randown her face as she stumbled down the stairs.

He was insane.

He’d lost his mind completely.

Not only was he caught up in the past, but he was also suicidal. Birdie choked. He was going to kill himself the moment she left. That had been the plan all along. What was it with the men in her life who, rather than taking a chance on her, loving her, preferred to kill themselves?

Like her father. He’d also had a pistol, and he’d used it.

Even her brother Freddie had tried in a duel, but he’d failed.

She ran out the door and across the bridge. As she ran down the path to the village, her skirt tangled up with the nettles on the way. She pulled it loose.

Her hammering heart slowed down gradually.

All she wanted was a chance.

A chance at what?

Love?

Birdie laughed harshly and rubbed her cheeks with her hand.

Of course, she couldn’t expect him to love her, vow or not. After all, they’d just met several days ago. But she was at least willing to make it work. Even if it was just friendship, or if that was too much to ask, basic kindness and courtesy toward one another. Why was that too much to ask? Life was too lonely otherwise. Too harsh. Too unbearable.

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks again.

She couldn’t force people to like her. She couldn’t force him to accept her. Maybe the better option was to leave and let him do what he needed to do.

But what would she do?

Where could she go?

She’d long lost her position at the Willowburys. Perhaps Cecily had assumed her identity and taken her job under her name.

She could return to her family. Chances were that they’d never even noticed she was gone. Her mother would lie on her bed the entire day, in a darkened room, and her sisters would pretend to get ready for balls that never happened. Freddie would be out gambling and return drunk––if he returned at all.

She used to like her brother, once. He’d been a cheerful boy who always got into scrapes. He listened with glistening eyes and an open mouth whenever she read to him. But that was before he turned into a dandy, discovered gambling and alcohol, and adopted the ennui of the world-weary. She hadn’t had a proper conversation with him in years.

A cold stone settled in her stomach.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to stand it there for long. Sooner or later they would need money. They always needed money. And Birdie would set out and obtain it for them. Because she was the only one who could.

She wiped her cheek angrily.

There was the allowance, of course. But she refused to take a penny from Gabriel. She would have no part in his plan. She would never forgive herself if she did.

She could go to Lucy or to Arabella in Cornwall. But both had their own families. While she knew they’d welcome her with open arms, she couldn’t stay longer than a month or two. And then what? Surely they could help her find a position somewhere. As a companion. But they would probably never allow that and insist she stay with them.

She’d feel like a charity case, living with them.

It was unbearable. Unbearable!

Pondering her options, Birdie realised she didn’t have any choices at all. Why was life so limiting for women? Why couldn’t she choose a profession like a man? She knew she would be so good at so many things. If she could, she would’ve gone to university. Studied Law, maybe. Medicine. She’d always been an excellent student and enjoyed learning. But that path was not available to women.

Birdie shivered. A cold gust came from the sea, and she trembled further; she’d forgotten to put on her coat. She’d trudged down a small path through the meadow that led to the cliffs. She paused under an apple tree and looked around. Was this once an apple orchard? It needed to be tended to. Another one of those things that would never get done because the lord of the estate did not care.

“Yer Grace, Yer Grace!” a voice called after her.  Eilidh came hurrying after her.

“Eilidh.” Birdie smiled weakly. Eilidh had done wonderful work refashioning the old gowns for Birdie. But she wasn’t up to talking to her now.

“I’ve been wantin’ to ask. About school.” Eilidh breathed heavily.

“School?” Birdie looked at her blankly.

“Ye ken. For the bairns.”

“Oh! Yes. I did mention that.” Birdie sighed. She’d been too hasty, making promises she couldn’t keep.

“I’ve been thinking. If ye didn’t mind. More of us would come to work up there if we had our bairns taken care of at school. I was meanin’ to ask Her Graceship if ye could teach them?”

Birdie stared at her, not at all comprehending. “Are you asking whether I could teach the children?”

The woman nodded eagerly.

“But that’s entirely out of the question.” Birdie shook her head. “I cannot teach. And even if I could. It’s not possible. I am leaving,” she blurted out.

Eilidh’s stricken eyes flew to her face. “Leavin’? But why?”

“It was a mistake to come here. I never should’ve to begin with.” It was the truth, wasn’t it?

Eilidh shook her head. “But ye just married the duke. Ye cannae just leave.”

Birdie slumped against the tree. “I’m afraid this kind of arrangement is common for people in our class. Dukes marry, and then they send their wives away to lead separate lives.”

“And ye will go along with this nonsense?” Eilidh crossed her arms.

“Why stay where you’re not wanted?” The bitterness in Birdie’s voice surprised even her. The moistness in her eyes was just the wind, she told herself.

Eilidh scrutinised her face. Her features softened. “Yer Grace. I beg yer pardon. But I must ask.”

Birdie scrubbed a hand over her eyes wearily. “What, Eilidh?”

“Do ye love him?”

There it was again. Love. “No! Of course I don’t… love him.”

They didn’t even know each other. The couple of times they’d met, she’d run away screaming, or he’d thrown a book after her.

Yet she’d spoken vows of love not three days ago. A chill swept through Birdie. She’d not only lied; she’d said a vow she never meant, the gravity of which she did not truly comprehend.

Birdie felt utterly wretched. “I’m a terrible person, Eilidh,” she whispered.

“Nay, ye aren’t. Ye’re confused.” Eilidh shook her head. “It’s the men. Always the men. We do everything we can for them. Feed them. Clean them. Keep their house. Give them bairns. And what do we get in return? A beating, that’s what.”

“Eilidh! Your husband isn’t beating you?”

“Yer fate is yer fate, and mine is mine. I used to love him, once. Did not see what kind he truly was.” She shrugged. “Now it’s too late.”

“Why don’t you leave him?”

Eilidh looked at Birdie as if she had two heads. “How can you ask? The bairns, of course.”

“Of course,” Birdie echoed.

“Everything I do is for my bairns. And what they need the most right now is a school. Stay, and teach the children, Yer Grace. I ask this of ye as a mother.”

Teach the children.

She’d run away from teaching children. Now she should do so voluntarily?

It was certainly an assignment. Rather different from teaching spoiled offspring of noblemen. These children would need to be taught everything from the basics. It would be more elemental. More real.

They needed her.

It would have a purpose.

It would do them all good.

“I will think about it, Eilidh.” Birdie said slowly.

Eilidh took Birdie’s hand between her two rough ones. “God bless ye, Yer Grace.”

Birdie returned to the castle,deep in thought. She’d as good as promised Eilidh to set up a village school. She couldn’t simply leave without doing at least that for them. If something good could come out of this entire situation, maybe this was it. Yes. She’d do this. Set up a school. Make sure the children were taken care of. Then she could leave with good conscience.

Setting up a school, of course, wasn’t done just like that. One needed so many things …

Birdie’s mind whirled as she made a mental list of all the items she’d need.

She stood in the middle of her room, back to the door as she pulled her dress over her head. A timid knock sounded at the door.

That must be Ally. The girl was a blessing to have about. She was quiet, courteous, and seemed to enjoy being Birdie’s maid. Not like that quarrelsome Mary who pulled her mouth into a sour line when she helped pull up Birdie’s stockings.

“Come in,” Birdie said as she struggled into her gown. “Help me button up, please. I can’t reach the top buttons in the back.”

It took her rather long to button her up, Birdie thought. Once or twice, Ally’s fingers brushed her nape as if in a gentle caress. She felt the little, fine hairs on her arms rise. With a half-laugh, Birdie tilted her head sideways to brush her fingers off.

“Thank you, Ally.” She turned around, and an involuntary scream tore out of her throat. For this wasn’t Ally.

Gabriel lifted his hands as if to ward off her scream. “Please. No more screaming. I daresay your scream terrifies me more than my unfortunate visage frightens you.” He’d backed off so far that his back almost touched the wall. “Though you are not to blame, of course. Not in the least.”

Birdie snapped her mouth shut. “Goodness me.” She pressed her hand against her chest. He was in shirtsleeves and wore beige coloured breeches that looked like they came from the previous century. He looked like a pirate through and through. Birdie’s heart hammered, but she was certain that it was no longer from surprise.

Gabriel rubbed the scar on his cheek. “I seem to have the unfortunate habit of giving you a fright. I came to—to—apologise.” He stepped from one foot to another. “My behaviour earlier was inexcusable. It was ungentlemanly and entirely unacceptable. I don’t usually shout at women.” He took a big breath. “I usually don’t shout at all. Except at my men. When the French attack. To keep them from dying. My men. Not the French. They were meant to die.” No doubt it dawned on him that he was bungling his apology horribly. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and tried again. “My only weak excuse is that you took me by surprise. But even that is no excuse for my behaviour. I have no words. Pray accept my apology.” He awkwardly gestured to a small bundle of flowers that he’d placed on the table before he’d buttoned up her dress.

Birdie picked up the little flower bundle. It was a simple bouquet of purple bell heather. Had he truly scrambled about the moors to pick the flowers for her?

As if reading her thoughts, a red blush crept over his cheeks. “They grow everywhere on the hills behind the castle. I see them from my window. The entire field is purple with those things.”

She looked at him sternly. “Did you ask Higgins to pick them?”

He cleared his throat and mumbled something.

Birdie bent forward. “I did not understand.”

He cleared his throat again. “I said, I went out and picked them myself.” His face was most definitely glowing red.

Birdie stared into his face. “You actually left your hermit’s tower to pick flowers for me.”

He rubbed his neck. “Er, yes.”

“When was the last time you were outside in the fresh air?” Birdie took a cup, poured water in it from a pitcher and arranged the flowers in it.

“It’s been a while.” He cleared his throat. “It may have been the first time since I arrived at the castle. No, that’s not correct. Our, er, wedding day. I walked through the bailey, twice.”

Birdie gaped. “Aside from that, you never left the castle the entire time since your arrival?”

He lifted one shoulder.

“For how long?”

He didn’t reply.

Birdie pushed up her spectacles and glared at him. “How long?”

“It may have been two years,” he mumbled. “Or three.”

She shook her head, horrified. “No wonder you’re as white as a ghost.” She placed her hands on her hips. “You have to go out more often. The fresh air and sun will be good for you.”

He looked at her curiously. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he laughed. “The last time someone scolded me like this, it may well have been my mother.”

“As any good mother would! Three years of voluntary imprisonment.” Birdie clasped her hands together. “It is inconceivable. And before that?”

“I was in London. I barely recall. Higgins found me and brought me here.”

“Well, thank goodness for Higgins. And before London?” She was determined to squeeze his entire life story out of him.

He shrugged. “The Peninsular War and all that.”

“Right. So the model in your room was a war scene? It was incredible! All that detail! I’ve never seen the likes of it.”

His face shut down. “Yes. I am trying to reconstruct it.”

“May I ask why?”

At first, he looked like he would not answer. “To get it out of my mind,” he gritted through his teeth. Then he turned on his heels. “I won’t disturb you any longer.”

“Wait.” Birdie racked her brain. “How old are you?” she blurted out. It was the first thing that had come to her mind.

Gabriel turned an even darker shade of red. “Thirty-five,” he muttered. “Old enough to know that a gentleman does not shout at ladies.”

She took a big breath. “You have not, by any chance, ever seen a ghost here, have you? Or maybe even impersonated a ghost?”

“Impersonate a ghost?” He looked so comically flabbergasted that Birdie almost laughed. “Why would I do that?”

“To keep intruders at bay. With white sheets and such.”

He shook his head, then pulled a face. “You have given me an idea, there. Maybe I should try this to keep people away from me.”

“Are people so terrible to have about?”

He shrugged.

She played with the petals of the bouquet. “I know you don’t want me here. But I still don’t understand why you’d marry a girl, only to send her away an hour later.”

Gabriel opened and closed his mouth. Birdie continued before she lost the momentum: “I am particularly angry because you haven’t even attempted to get to know me. You haven’t given us a chance.”

“Us?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“Yes. You won’t even consider it. I would like to ask this of you: I will leave, if that is what you want, but give me a month to prove you wrong. Give our marriage a chance.”

There was a long pause. Then Gabriel said, “I don’t know whether that would be wise.”

More stubborn than a donkey. She decided to change tactics. “Then give me a chance to do something for the villagers here. They need my help. They need your help.”

His face shut down. “I do not intend to get involved in the locals’ lives.”

“But you’re a duke!” Birdie threw up her hands. “You have duties! You have estates! The people depend on you! Don’t you care at all about their welfare? Think about all the good you can do?”

“This, madam, is where I beg to disagree.”

“In other words, you refuse to take responsibility for them.”

“So it would seem.” His voice had turned frosty.

“Why? Won’t you help me understand why?” There was a pleading note in her voice.

Gabriel looked up, and she gasped at the stark sorrow she saw on his face. “Of what purpose would that be?” He raked a hand over his face. “Other than dragging out the inevitable.”

“It is important to me,” Birdie replied. “You may shirk your responsibilities, but I won’t. I’d like to have the chance to form a school for the children here.” And get my marriage to work, she added mentally.

Gabriel stared. “A school! But why?”

“I want to help Eilidh and Ally and the remaining women. I promised them. I can’t just desert them now.”

Her husband shook his head in disbelief. “I do not know who they are.”

“If you’d expressed some interest in your people here, you’d know who I am talking about.”

He raised a weary hand. “They’re not my people.”

Birdie couldn’t stop shaking her head at his stubbornness. She picked up a book. “It is going to be my turn to throw a book at you,” she warned.

A ghost of a smile flitted over his face. “What do you expect me to do?”

Birdie blinked. Was he giving in? “Nothing terrible, or that takes too much effort. Show some interest in this place and the people. Work yourself through the ledger or hire a steward. And”––she tilted her chin up––“have tea with me. Converse with me. Get to know me. I promise you; I am a kind, decent person. At least, I attempt to be one most of the time.” She smiled self-consciously. “Take walks with me. The coast outside is spectacular. Don’t perpetually hide in that tower of yours.”

Gabriel’s hand hovered at the door latch. He visibly struggled to respond to her suggestions. After a moment, he drew a deep breath. “One month?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He gave a curt nod. “Very well, ma’am,” he said before he stepped out into the corridor. He turned once more, throwing her a penetrating look. “I already know that you are a kind, decent person. In fact, it is a gross understatement. Which is the only reason I agree to give you this one month.”

When Birdie snapped her mouth shut in astonishment, he’d already gone.

That had gone well, hadn’t it?

The rest of the day, she pondered on what he could’ve possibly meant with “it was a gross understatement”—and remembered the feeling of his warm, silken fingers in her neck.

Gabriel knew he’d overreacted.

But when he saw her standing there, holding his pistol from Waterloo, he’d lost all reason.

Seeing her in his room uninvited was more than an invasion of privacy.

It was as though she’d invaded his soul. Looking at his model, touching his things. His pistol. Prying and prodding at things that were none of her business.

No one had a right to do that. No one had a right to see the death and darkness that surrounded him. And he had no right to drag her down into his hellish hole. He recalled the look of terror in her eyes when he’d shouted at her. She’d nearly fallen down the stairs backwards. She could’ve broken her neck. This was the second time she’d fled from him after confronting him in this very room. What was it about her that made him shout at her?

He’d stared out of the window of his tower room and had seen the purple flowers beneath. He knew he had to make amends. So, he’d gone out, for the first time in years, and done something he’d never done in his entire life: picked flowers like a lovelorn schoolboy.

She’d been in her room and had told him to enter, and when he did, he nearly toppled over. She stood in her shift, and all he saw were the luscious curves of her body, the sweet arch of her neck.

He’d buttoned her dress with trembling fingers.

And now, he still felt the sensation on his fingers: the silky smoothness of her skin.

One month.

By George. What had he done? One month of leading a normal, married life. With a proper wife. Spending the afternoons with her, sipping tea, discussing Shakespeare. He felt himself breaking out in a sweat.

He did not know how to be a husband.

What a mystery that woman was. He could make no rhyme and reason out of her behaviour. Yet, her eyes were windows to her soul and expressed every nuanced emotion. They’d gone from fearful to apprehensive to humorous, then speculative, horrified, determined. It was only that last look she’d given him, with a tremulous smile on her lips, that he couldn’t identify.

On one account, she’d been right; it had been good for him to be outside. The wind had swept through his stagnant brain and left him more clear-headed and refreshed than he’d been in years. He’d seen, for the first time with clarity, the state of the castle. His military mind assessed the strategic location of the place. It had surprised him how sweeping the fortress was. Some parts looked decrepit. It had left him curious to see more.

One could decide to leave the tower occasionally and, for example, take a walk outside the castle battlements.

One could also ask her to accompany him. Not all the time. But, perhaps, once in a while. So he could see that look in her eyes again. Feel her little hand in his.

He shook himself. What was he thinking? It was out of the question. He’d agreed to one month. Very well. During that time, he’d simply have to stay out of her way as much as possible.