Daisy and the Duke by Elizabeth Cole
Chapter 9
When they returned to thehouse, Tristan insisted that Jack go rest in his room, despite his friend’s protests. The ladies had left immediately, of course, and he’d been too rattled to apologize or make amends for anything. Less than an hour later, though, the majordomo interrupted Tristan in his office, while he was puzzling over John Cater’s latest missive about the diamond mine venture, which involved a lot of numbers that he could not quite parse.
“Your grace, Miss Bella Merriot has come to call. Are you at home? She said she has something for Mr. Kemble.”
“Something for Kemble?” Tris echoed. “Show her in.”
The majordomo bowed and left. Shortly after, he reappeared with the doll-like Bella in his wake.
Tristan stood up. “My lady.”
“Your grace.” Bella dipped into a graceful curtsey. She looked unnervingly perfect, her hair curled into those shiny, stiff ringlets and the lace of her gown starched to withstand a gale. She must be damnably uncomfortable, he thought.
It was strange how Bella was considered the far better catch, when it was Daisy who drew him. Daisy had a spark of life, a curiosity about the world that he loved to see. Whether she was discussing the weather or music or simple village news, she always expressed interest in the tiniest details, and she clearly cared about the outcome of each event. In contrast, Bella seemed like a paper doll.
“I have some local remedies that may benefit Mr. Kemble in his convalescence. I didn’t mean to disturb you, but perhaps you could see that they’re given to his nurse…”
“I’m sure that he’ll derive even more benefit if he has a visit from a friendly face, especially after you had to leave so quickly before.” Now that’s talking around the issue, Tristan berated himself. “Come with me, my lady.”
Bella nodded quickly. “Happily, your grace.”
Kemble sat up in bed when he saw them enter the room.
“Visitor for you, Jack,” Tristan murmured. Louder, he said, “Miss Bella has brought a gift.”
“Not a gift, Mr. Kemble,” Bella said, blushing prettily. “Just a few medicines that may help relieve some of your symptoms.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get,” Jack replied. “That was a very kind thought, my lady.”
Bella paused, then said, “In fact, it was not my thought. Daisy arranged to get them from our local healer. I think she meant to give them to you herself, but she must have been distracted. My mother found them and told me to come posthaste. So you see, I am only the errand girl.”
“Then I am grateful to you both.”
Bella approached the bed and placed the basket on the extreme edge. “The syrup is to be taken at bedtime, and will ease coughing so you may sleep through the night. These drops can be used anytime. I remember using them myself last winter, and they are wonderfully soothing for the throat.”
“Perhaps we should let the doctor go and bring this healer to Lyondale,” Tristan said. “It seems that’s exactly what you need.”
“This is why it helps to know your neighbors, your grace,” Jack replied, with an arched eyebrow.
“I am sorry if I interrupted your reading, Mr. Kemble,” Bella said. She seemed to be more human now, and Tristan regretted thinking her a doll earlier. Very probably, she was just being extremely careful to behave herself around a duke. Kemble was much more approachable. He always had been.
“Not at all. In fact, I can’t read for long. Even the weight of the book is hard to hold up for a while, and my eyes get tired.”
“Then you must let me read to you!” Bella exclaimed, then glanced at Tristan. “That is…if your grace does not object?”
“On the contrary.” Tristan grabbed one of the chairs by the fireplace and dragged it to the bedside before he remembered that dukes weren’t supposed to do those sorts of tasks. “Pop one of those sweets in your mouth, Kemble. My lady, is this light sufficient?”
“Quite, your grace.” She allowed Tristan to seat her in the chair.
“I’ll have tea sent up shortly.”
“Very good, your grace,” she said, already opening the book. “The ribbon is marking the page at chapter four, Mr. Kemble. Shall I start there?”
“Please.” Jack smiled at her, and Tristan got a jolt when he realized that there was something besides simple pleasure in his friend’s expression.
Oh, God, Jack’s falling for her.
And why not? Bella Merriot was a beautiful woman. But she was aiming to marry as high as she could, certainly higher than a mere solicitor. Whether she intended to or not, the Hon. Bella Merriot was going to break his friend’s heart.
Just as Daisy was going to break his own.
For several days, Tristan nursed his anger at himself for letting Daisy witness his weakness. He stayed exclusively at Lyondale and sought out only Kemble for company. He buried himself in estate business and tried to forget embarrassing himself in front of Daisy. It was difficult, because he thought of one reason after another for why he wanted to see her. Partly, he knew, it was that he just enjoyed being with her. Daisy was such a calming presence, and a delight to talk to—for it turned out that he really did like learning about agricultural practices when it was Daisy doing the lecturing. He had been planning to invite her to a supper soon, hoping it would be a suitable excuse to see her again. But it was all ruined when that noise pieced his skull.
After the worst of it, he did write to Daisy, asking to call on her so he could explain. She gave no reply, which made him cross and reclusive. However, he couldn’t hide forever. Though Tristan had literally no interest in hearing Hornthwaite’s homily that Sunday, he decided that he ought to go to the village church at least once. It seemed to be expected, and he was the new Duke of Lyon, after all. He’d put in one appearance, and then he would consider his duty done.
He took Jack with him, because he believed misery loved company.
When the two men arrived outside the church building, however, they both stopped to stare upward in dismay.
Kemble spoke first. “I studied the law, Tris, not Christian doctrine. But I have to tell you that from what I understand of tradition…this church looks broken.”
He was absolutely correct. The steeple of the building was completely gone, and ugly wooden boards covered the hole where it had once met the peaked roof. The effect was like a bandage on a wound.
“Let’s see how bad the inside is,” Tristan said, moving into the flow of parishioners who were all heading toward the doors, dressed in Sunday best.
Inside fared better. They were ushered to the special pew reserved for the duke and his guests. Several congregants greeted him in a respectful manner, but within minutes, the crowd settled. Hornthwaite took his place in the pulpit and the service began.
The vicar was born for the task of speaking ad nauseam to a crowd that could not politely escape. Tristan was soon bored by Hornthwaite’s dull talk, which was full of platitudes about Christian charity, but little actual comfort for a soul in torment. Tristan’s mind drifted back to his army days. While he’d been laid up in the hospital tent after being injured, the chaplain came to visit him every day. Tristan wasn’t a devout man even before having half his body shelled, and he had a lot of questions about a god that would permit such suffering. The chaplain, who was named Langdon, had sat and listened to Tristan’s bitter words, his rage, his self-sorrow. He’d prayed for Tris, but he’d also talked with him. And he was open about the gaps in cosmic knowledge. No, humanity did not know why suffering was permitted, why evil existed, why a loving god did not simply create a world without pain and sorrow.
“I believe,” said Mr. Langdon, who was a gaunt, greying man even in his early forties, “that the truest expression of God’s love for us is that He trusts us to experience pain and suffering and yet to still choose to value that which is good in the world. That he made us strong enough to endure pain and death and still feel love and hope ourselves. I think Jesus himself must have had a few moments of doubt during his supreme suffering. Would this mad attempt for salvation really work? Could a sacrifice by one truly save all? But in his human incarnation, he went ahead with it—he used his own faith to live through death itself. That is the message, Tristan. That suffering is not fated to triumph over us, but that we can triumph over it, simply by enduring it.”
“You’re not lying in a bed with half your face gone,” Tristan had growled back.
“No, and I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through. But you are alive, and that is a gift. Think on that. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
In contrast to the army chaplain’s words, Hornthwaite’s speech was insipid. Tristan couldn’t imagine this man visiting the sick and dying. He knew better than to peer around at the congregation, but he wondered if Daisy was in attendance that day. Sadly, he didn’t get a glimpse of her. Perhaps she had to stay home.
At the end of the service, Hornthwaite was there at the door, bidding all the parishioners goodbye. When Tris came up to him, the vicar offered a slightly smug smile. “So gratifying to see you today, your grace. I was certain you would show the same respect for the church as your predecessor, despite the concerns of some parishioners.” Parishioners he declined to name, Tristan noted.
“I prefer private devotions. Isn’t that right, Mr. Kemble?”
“Very private indeed,” Jack agreed with a wry smile.
“Is that so?” Hornthwaite said, with a pinched expression.
“You requested that I look at the church building itself,” Tris went on. “Am I correct in thinking you hope for some financial assistance from me in order to repair some of it? Does the parish not provide for such needs?”
“The spire was struck by lightning this spring, your grace. Most unexpected. And expensive to replace.”
“No doubt.”
“And I heard you are making improvements at your own estate. You’ve shown such zeal in making changes to Lyondale, not at all like the old ways. Rutherford Grange has always maintained tradition in both the house and the fields. And speaking of Rutherford Grange, I heard that you’ve been seen with Miss Merriot.”
“I’ve been seen with half the shire,” Tristan retorted. “But yes, the Misses Merriot both joined us for an afternoon not long ago.”
Hornthwaite said, “I trust you found Miss Bella to be as presentable and charming as we all do.”
“No one could complain of her,” Tristan admitted. “She has been coming to the house to read to Mr. Kemble here, no doubt speeding his convalescence.”
“She is the apple of Lady Rutherford’s eye,” the vicar said, warming to his subject. “The baroness has reared perhaps the most perfect young lady in all of England. She will be a prize on the marriage mart. The smart man would offer for her quickly, or risk losing her.”
“And what would she bring to a marriage?” Kemble asked in his mild tone.
Hornthwaite turned to him. “Aside from the expected title and her own personal charm, there is a substantial dowry. I believe it is some thousands.”
“And that is from the inheritance from the late baron? Or does she have previous expectations?” Jack pressed.
“All from the baron,” Hornthwaite said. “Her mother is very clever with money. It will all be managed well, right up to the moment of the wedding.”
“She will no doubt make some man very happy,” Jack replied.
Tristan glanced at his friend, wondering what he was about. On their own, the questions were innocuous enough—every marriageable woman knew her worth down to the penny, for that was one of the most important aspects of a contract. But why did Jackson Kemble care?
“At the moment, I’m not thinking of the social scene, but of the actual scene.” Tristan looked up pointedly at the broken spire. “The church does not look its best at the moment. It does not inspire confidence. I’ll let you know if I can do anything to improve the situation.”
“Why, thank you, your grace!”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
With that, Tris and Jack returned home.
Jack, lying back in his seat in the carriage with a worrying pallor to his complexion, said, “The vicar seems to think you’ve got sacks of gold lying about the place.”
“I suppose I should be grateful that my financial situation is not obvious to everyone in the county. Speaking of gold, what was all that about Miss Bella’s dowry?”
“Ever since Miss Daisy told me of the events surrounding her father’s death and the subsequent news of the will, I’ve been curious,” Jack explained.
“Miss Wallis explained it to me as best she could,” Tristan said. “The barony of Rutherford was one of the few to specifically descend to the oldest child, whether male or female.”
“Yes, that’s what she told me too. It’s a barony by writ, so that’s possible, if not usual. And I asked Miss Bella what she knew about the changed will, but she has no knowledge of the matter at all. She takes her mother’s word for everything, and never questions it, or if she does, it’s buried quite deep. But what I find odd is that he turned his back on generations of tradition to gift the title to his second wife and her line? It would be one of the most unusual dispositions of title and property that I’ve ever heard of…and having spent years in Chancery, I’ve heard of many.”
“It’s bloody unfair to Daisy,” Tristan said. “Especially because she’s so devoted to the estate. Whenever I hear her talk about the fields, it’s like she’s talking about a friend. I think leaving this part of the country would kill her.”
“Well, the baroness certainly seems to want to keep her stepdaughter close, if only to handle the day-to-day workings of the place.” Jack sneered, disapproving of Lady Rutherford’s cost-saving measure of using Daisy as an unpaid estate manager. When Tristan had first told him about it, Jack had said a very rude word to describe the woman.
“You must be feeling better, to worry at the minutiae of a country estate. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t get you to care about what to eat for dinner.” On the other hand, Jack didn’t look much better, especially not at the moment.
“The air agrees with me,” Jack said, with a slight smile
“Even so, I’m afraid I shouldn’t have dragged you along to the church. You’re worn out.”
“Nonsense.”
Tris shook his head at his friend’s stubbornness, but then remembered something else. He pulled out a letter from his coat pocket. “Did I tell you that John wrote again? He sent along a whole packet of papers this time. He must have been waiting at the docks to get the message on a ship to England!”
“That means he needs money,” Jack replied, looking interested despite himself. “How much does he want?”
“Only ten thousand.”
“Only!”
“It seems reasonable considering the expenses in starting a new mining venture. And the terms are very favorable. Though there are three partners, I’d get forty percent of profits, in light of my initial contribution to the funding.”
“For the love of God, Tris. A diamond mine thousands of miles away, on another continent, overseen by people you can’t check on, not to mention the corruption that surrounds such ventures with precious stones? It has all the makings of a fiasco. I beg you to put this mad notion aside.”
Tristan paused, and his expression must have tipped Jack off to the truth.
“You already did it,” he accused Tris. “You invested ten thousand pounds without thinking twice.”
“I thought many times,” Tris protested. To be honest, he thought about offering Daisy a spectacular necklace or rings to dazzle her. “It’s a rare opportunity!”
“It’s a scam,” Jack said bluntly.
“That’s unworthy of you. John would never do such a thing.”
“I meant he’s the victim of a scam.”
“It’s real,” Tris snapped back. He pulled a small object from his pocket. “Look.”
Jack took the pebble he was offered, surveying it with raised eyebrows. “A rock I could have picked up outside the church this morning.”
“It’s a diamond. Cater sent it along with the papers. It’s not impressive now because it has yet to be cut. But it’s five carats! Think of how many more diamonds must lie below.”
His friend bit his lip, frowning at the stone. “You could send it to London to be appraised, I suppose. But with the money sent already… Tris, I wish you had spoken to me first. I could have looked over the papers at the very least.”
“You’re not well enough yet for such work,” Tris told him. “I didn’t want to strain you.”
“It’s a strain to think that you’ve thrown away ten thousand on a lark. Wait, do you even have ten thousand available?”
“It’s not as if one sends coins in the post! I arranged it all with my bank. They have an office in Calcutta.” Tris hesitated. “If I need more money anytime soon, though, I’d have to cede some land to the bank.”
Jack paled further, and Tris knew why. Land was power, land was money. For the aristocracy, it was the source of all their income—the crops themselves, the rents, the simple fact of owning real estate. Most people would give up everything else before selling a parcel, which would be lost forever, along with any future income that came from it. Tris was too new to this world to fully appreciate the risk he’d taken, though now he was realizing that he’d been a bit hasty to leap into a proposition from an old friend.
“But it’s not worth worrying about now,” Tris went on. “If all goes well, I’ll be the duke of diamonds, and I’ll never have to worry about money again.”
The expression of doubt and horror on Jack’s face said it all.
“If all goes well…” Jack muttered. “Is this part of some plan to court your Miss Daisy?”
“Hardly. She won’t even answer the letters I’ve sent.”
“You sent letters?”
“A few. At first I thought she might be too busy and it simply got overlooked, but after the fourth, I fear she’s quite done with me. I suppose that’s what I get for losing my head and yelling at her just because I heard a loud noise.” He shifted in his seat. “I hate it, Jack. It’s like the war’s still going on in my head.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack replied. “Perhaps time will make it fade. It really hasn’t been that long, you know.”
“It feels like forever.” And it was worse without Daisy to brighten his days. He didn’t fully appreciate how much he enjoyed her company until he suddenly lost it.