Birdie and the Beastly Duke by Sofi Laporte

Chapter 5

Birdie overslept.

Considering that she was all alone in a musty, and very much haunted, castle, she hadn’t slept that badly.

When she awoke, it was mid-morning, and she sat up straight in her bed. Now, in the morning light, last night seemed like an exaggerated nightmare, and she was almost angry at herself for having given in to panic.

Ghouls and ghosts indeed.

She should’ve investigated the creature, asked it some questions. She could’ve learned something about the afterlife. Or maybe she could’ve helped break its curse. Instead, she’d run faster than a chicken about to be slaughtered.

But what was even more likely was that there probably had been nothing to begin with. Higgins must’ve lit the fireplace. It must’ve been shadows cast on the wall by the flames.

Her nerves had been frayed. She’d been lost. She was exhausted and confused. It must have been her mind playing tricks on her.

Whatever that had been, she had other, more immediate things to worry about.

It was her wedding day.

Her stomach emitted an unladylike growl.

“And of course, no one thought to bring me breakfast,” she grumbled. She wasn’t about to repeat her activity from last night, however. She intended to be the lady of the castle, not the cook.

“Ten o’clock. Didn’t this Higgins say the wedding is in the chapel at ten o’clock?” She pulled out her pocket watch and shrieked. It was a quarter to ten. She had to get ready, and it very much seemed that no maid was here to help her.

Birdie scrambled into a clean, but crumpled, blue dress, pulled back her frizzy hair in a loose bun and squashed her spectacles on her nose. Then she pushed the dresser away from the door. She drew on a coat, grabbed her bonnet, and left the room.

The front door in the hall was unlocked.

She pushed it open and stood in the bailey, looking around her with narrowed eyes. A raindrop fell on her nose. Higgins had said the wedding would be in the church.

What church? Where?

Did he mean that little building beyond, nestled between two outer buildings; the one with a small steeple that could pass as a chapel?

She walked across the courtyard towards the building and pushed the door open.

She narrowed her eyes in the sudden dark and discerned four figures inside. Finally, some living beings!

Her heart thudding, she walked down the aisle, wondering which one was Captain Eversleigh.

There was, undeniably, Higgins’ spindly figure. There was a reverend, who stood in front of the altar, recognisable in his black double-breasted cassock, gown and cap. A man in rough clothes, looking like a farm’s hand, stood in the front, turning his battered hat in his hands. She looked at him doubtfully. That couldn’t be Captain Eversleigh, could it?

Her eyes wandered over to the fourth man, who was sitting hunched in a pew, half in shadow.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Birdie said breathlessly, as she stumbled down the aisle.

The seated figure detached itself from the shadows and rose as she approached.

“Miss Cecily Burns,” he said in the deepest voice she’d ever heard. “I am Gabriel Eversleigh.”

At that moment, thunder clapped, and lightning flashed, illuminating the horrifying figure of the creature who stood before her.

Birdie screamed.

Away.Away! She stumbled outside, running through the bailey. Rain pelted down, and lighting flashed in the blackened sky.

She ran across the drawbridge. The wood was wet, and she skidded, slid, rotated both arms, and fell face long into the mud. She remained lying there, completely stunned.

A monster.

He was a monster!

It was that creature from the tower. A creature of shadow and fire, a phantom. She hadn’t imagined it at all. The same fearful height, the same shadow, the same gleaming pale face. That was Captain Eversleigh?

Rain poured down and thunder rattled through the sky, and drummed on her face, in biting ice-cold little stabs. Oddly enough, that calmed her down.

There are no such things as monsters.

But she’d clearly seen it.

That figure, dark and tall, dressed entirely in black. He’d risen and turned. He’d looked perfectly normal on one side, with a profile of a sensuous mouth and a proud Grecian nose. He was almost dashing, in fact—then he’d turned his head, and his face emerged from the darkness.

It was completely disfigured. It’d been the stark contrast that had startled her so. One half was beautiful, the other—

Oh, dear sweet heaven. She clapped her hands over her face. The other side was as though it had melted away. There was a black hole where the eye was supposed to be. She hadn’t seen more because she’d screamed like a banshee and fled.

Birdie hadn’t even known she could scream like that.

She sat in the mud and allowed the rain to wash over her. Closing her eyes, lifting her head toward the sky, she came to a conclusion.

“Roberta Charlotte Talbot. You ought to be completely and utterly ashamed of yourself.” She struggled up and marched right back.

Why was he surprised?He shouldn’t have expected anything different. The girl had taken half a look at him, screamed and fled from his sight. For the second time.

He sighed.

Yesterday, she’d suddenly stood in his tower room, her hair flowing about her, holding a candle, looking like an apparition for all that was worth. He’d blinked, certain that he was seeing visions. He’d risen from his armchair and had been about to open his mouth to say something when she’d hissed “ghoul!” and thrown her lantern at him. She’d nearly set the entire place on fire.

He’d been certain Miss Burns wouldn’t come to the wedding. After yesterday, he’d been certain she’d pack her bags and leave before dawn broke. He must have frightened her out of her wits. He’d been too cowardly to go after her to see whether she was alright. If he’d done so, he’d probably have terrified her even more. Not that it mattered, because he had managed to do that this morning.

He’d never been vain or concerned about his looks. When he’d woken up in the field hospital and found half his face burnt and his left eye gone, he’d taken it with resignation.

Others were worse off. Others had lost their limbs. Some not one, but both. More than one fellow had lost his arms as well. What did it matter if one no longer looked handsome when others had lost their lives? But he hadn’t counted on people’s reactions towards him. How they averted their eyes with embarrassment. The disgust, or even fear showing on their faces.

By Jove, that scream. His hand shook as he took out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. He’d heard many screams in the many battles he’d fought. Yet he’d never heard a scream of such stark, utter terror. She was, of course, entirely right to run. No one in her right mind ought to marry him, least of all an innocent daughter of one of his father’s friends. He wasn’t doing the poor girl any favours at all. What was he thinking?

Reverend McAloy cleared his throat and snapped his bible shut. “I take it there’s to be no wedding today?”

“No,” Gabriel said through gnashed teeth.

But, at that moment, the church doors opened for a second time.

Lightning flashed, illuminating a figure in dark blue. Her hair, a vibrant red, poured over her shoulders. She looked like a fairy queen.

Caked in mud from head to toe.

Gabriel blinked. By George. She’d returned.

“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly after she came down the aisle, her nose high in the air. “I had to quickly—you know.”

“Eh?” Higgins tilted his head.

“You had to, what?” The reverend stared at her in astonishment, clutching his bible as if to ward off a spirit.

She waved a hand. “You know.” She bent forward and hissed. “The chamber pot.”

The reverend flushed beet red. “Oh. Of course.”

Gabriel was dumbfounded.

Then she lifted her hand, hesitatingly, and prodded his arm. “I just need to make sure you’re real.” He felt her finger poke into his jacket. “That you’re not a phantom.”

“I am not a phantom,” he rasped. But maybe that was a lie. He’d lived the life of a ghost since that blasted war.

“I don’t believe you are, now. I was somewhat out of my depth last night. With the storm and all.” She stared fully into his face.

He flinched and averted his face.

Then he froze and willed himself not to look away; to let her see every inch. Every badly healed scar, every discoloured lesion. She needed to see what she was marrying.

She looked pale, but she did not look away. She pushed the mud-splattered spectacles further up her stubby nose, spectacles that were simply too big for her, making her hazel eyes look owlish. Freckles dusted her nose. Or maybe it was mud, for there were splatters on her milk-white cheek and neck. Her full pink lips were pursed.

She barely reached his shoulders. She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, mud and all.

“Does it hurt, still?” she asked.

“Only if exposed to extreme heat or cold. The skin there is sensitive.” His hand went up to rub the scar on his cheek.

Birdie nodded. “Rubbing almond oil and lemon juice on it might help.”

He was speechless.

The reverend grumbled. “Shall we proceed, now? Or do we spend the remaining morning here discussing treatments against scars?”

“Are you certain you want to marry me?” Gabriel heard himself ask huskily. He still couldn’t believe she’d actually returned.

The girl nodded.

A loud snore interrupted the conversation.

Higgins. He sat hunched over in the first pew and slept soundly.

“By all means, get on with it.” Gabriel turned to the rector.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God…”

The reverend droned on, and Gabriel could barely focus on his words. He was only aware of the girl next to him, shivering, now and then sending him a sideways look of trepidation.

The reverend reached the concluding statement: “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

He heard himself say, as if in a dream, “I will.”

McAloy, satisfied, turned to the girl. “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and—”

“Wait.”

What now?

“Why does he get to love me, and I have to obey and serve him?” Her words echoed in the church. “It’s not entirely fair, is it?”

The reverend blinked as his mouth dropped open. Gabriel never thought he’d be capable of being speechless more than twice an hour, but there it was.

The reverend sighed. “These are the words of the Book of Common Prayer which you must repeat.” He attempted to speak in a patient, slow kind of way that one assumed when one was talking to recalcitrant children.

“But I don’t quite see why the loving part is limited to men only and the obeying part to women.” There was a stubborn tilt to her lower lip.

“My dear, this isn’t quite the time to debate—”

“Very well.” Gabriel's voice sounded harsher than intended. Everyone fell quiet immediately. “I will repeat the vows, shall I? I will love you, comfort you, honour and—obey and serve you—as long as we both shall live.”

McAloy scratched his head. “Not sure this is quite the thing.” He looked for help to the witnesses, but Higgins was still snoring, and the other man lifted his shoulders dismissively.

“Proceed. And skip the part on the duties of man and wife. That is a command.” Eversleigh’s voice sounded like a whiplash. McAloy winced and proceeded. Throwing a cowering look at him, he added the words, “Wilt thou love him” to her vow.

She gave him a hard look. “I will.” Her voice rang firmly in the church.

Gabriel felt something odd lodge in his chest. For some inexplicable reason, he felt like weeping.

Then everyone was looking at him.

“You have to take my hand.” She had a sweet voice.

Her hand was cold and small in his, which was huge and rough. It twitched at first, then lay quietly like a bird in his scarred palm.

The ring was too big. She’d have to wear it on her forefinger for now. He’d have to ask the blacksmith to make it smaller.

“… I pronounce that they be man and wife.” McAloy wiped his forehead. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Now, to sign the register.”

Gabriel still held her hand and was reluctant to let it go. With his other, he pulled out his handkerchief.

“Come here.”

She threw him a wary look. Blast her. Was she going to be forevermore afraid of him?

He lifted his hand. She flinched. Dropping her hand, he held her chin and gently titled her face to him.

He wiped the mud off her cheek.

Her eyes widened as if this was the most unexpected thing he had done this entire day.

“There,” he said, gruffly. He was thoroughly ruffled.

“Your Grace. The signature.”

He turned to the altar and scribbled his signature on the parchment.

The girl fiddled with her spectacles and bent over the paper.

She scribbled an illegible signature. Then she froze and pointed with the quill at the paper.

“It says, Gabriel Eversleigh, the Duke of Dunross. That can’t be right?” Her voice was high-pitched.

“Of course it’s right. This is His Grace, the Duke of Dunross. And you’re Her Grace, the Duchess of Dunross now.” The reverend took the book.

“You’re a—a—duke?” It sounded like an accusation. Her hazel eyes widened in shock.

“What if I am?” Why did he say it in such bloody defensive way? Granted, he hadn’t wanted to inherit the title, but there was no reason to hide it, either. He knew he should’ve signed the letter as a duke, but had been reluctant to do so.

To his alarm, he saw her face drain of all colours.

She sobbed and laughed simultaneously.

This alarmed him even more.

“If only Arabella knew!” She sighed.

Then she crumpled to the floor.