Large flakes of snow fell gracefully unnoticed past the windows as the Duke of Strathmore sat alone in his library staring at his wife’s harpsichord wishing it would play. A soft knock drew his eyes to the door. “Come.” A tall beautiful boy rushed into the room with an irritating cheerfulness and handed him a letter. “Are you now a footman Bowmont?”
His son appeared blissfully ignorant of sarcasm. “I was in the hall when the carriage arrived. I was coming to ask you something so I said I’d bring it up.”
“What carriage? I’m in no mood for company.”
His son’s raised eyebrows silently demanded if he was ever in the mood. “It’s your carriage and it’s empty. May I walk over to the parsonage? Mrs Searle is having the young people over for a Christmas dance. She promised to make us ginger biscuits. They’re almost as good as Miss Jenney’s at school.”
Strathmore eyed his sixteen year old son with a mixture of revulsion and envy. “Why are you mixing with the parish? Don’t tell me you’re eying one of the farmer’s daughters. If you must sow your seed, use a trollop who doesn’t know who you are so she can’t blackmail me.”
Lord Bowmont’s pale cheeks flushed deep pink as he stared into his father’s eyes. “I merely wish to dance to music and laugh with childhood friends. Nothing remotely sordid will happen nor would I treat any woman with such contempt. Women may be the weaker sex, but they’re just as deserving of respect and honour as men.”
Strathmore groaned in disgust. “Who’s filling your head with this chivalric nonsense?”
“Miss Jenney says…”
“Tell Miss Jenney from me to mind her own business and leave my son’s mind unpolluted. What’s so funny Bowmont?”
“I’d like to see you try to tell her that Father.”
“You will address me as Your Grace or nothing do you understand?”
The boy’s smile faded instantly into misery. “Yes Your Grace…may I go to the Christmas dance or would you prefer that I sit in my room and stare at the wall?”
“Go make yourself sick with my blessing, just don’t even think about falling in love with some farmer’s daughter.”
His son’s expression for once mirrored his own. “You mean like how you fell in love with my mother?”
“You’ll marry who I choose or face my wrath. Now get out and leave me in peace.” Strathmore picked up his letter knife and dismissed his child without further acknowledgement as he broke the wax seal. Had his son said his carriage had arrived empty? Strathmore jumped out of his chair and dashed to the window. Her carriage. She was home. With the letter still in his hand he forced his excited legs to maintain a casual dawdle all the way down the stairs and out the front door. Carriage tracks in the fresh snow had stopped at the stairs, but there were no petite footsteps from the carriage door or large footmen’s boot prints to retrieve her trunks. He covered his distress with a black scowl and sneered at the waiting coachman. “What are you waiting for? Take it to the carriage house.”
“Yes Your Grace…”
Strathmore stared at the virgin snow as his precious carriage was carefully driven away. He impulsively raced down the steps and stomped in the snow where there should have been footprints. He stood there staring at the ground until he caught sight of the letter in his hand. Standing in the falling snow he opened it and squinted at the paper. He wasn’t wearing his reading spectacles, but he could just make out the words.
Your Grace,
Whether you want it or not, I’m returning your carriage at my Penny’s request. I hadn’t noticed the feminine interior, but then I haven’t used it. Penny insists you loved your wife and believes the carriage holds special memories for you. I find it hard to believe this blissful contentment ever existing in your chest. It’s strange to think you were once a happy man with your life ahead of you like an unwritten love letter. You must be in agony, but hopefully no longer because of me.
I feel lucky to have faced your wrath. When I wake up and find Penny’s arm draped over my chest I remind myself that I could end up as unlucky as you. I could lose my beloved Penny in childbed or in an accident or to some wretched disease. It makes me cherish every laugh, every kiss. When I find half finished embroidery on the sofa, which irritates me, I tell myself I’d rather know she was leaving a mess then never coming back to pick it up. The stars shine brighter when she gazes at them with me. My coins are more valuable when she holds them. Whatever happens tomorrow, today with Penny in my arms I’m the luckiest man in the world.
P.S.
Penny wishes me to tell you that she’s glad she stabbed you in the leg with her hatpin.
Your Servant,
Edmund Lord Warenne
Strathmore crumpled the letter in his hands and hurried as fast as his cold legs would carry him to his bedchamber where he muffled his jealous rage into a pillow.