The Duke Who Loved a Widow (Preview)

Prologue

‘Shadows pull me onward

Into a dark place,

Still, shaded, inward

Numb cave of grief

Cobwebs of dark lace,

Draping tendrils, hidden thorns

Hiding in life, endless night.’

Lady Arabella Farrington

Arabella woke from her dream in the depth of darkness, tears wet on her cheek, her heart pounding in her chest. An icy chill of anxiety coursed through her veins. She reached across the bed for her husband but felt only the empty coldness of the linen sheet. He was gone, now almost two years since her dearest Edward had died.

The aching loss and loneliness had never faded. 

Will time ease the pain? Will these dreams fade away?

She missed Edward as much now as she had that dull November day when he had slipped away from them, leaving her a widow with a small child. 

It had all been so sudden. He’d returned home from a visit to London and complained of a sore throat. Within hours, his temperature had risen, and fever racked his body. Before he died, there had been a moment of calm where he recognized his wife, who sat at his bedside holding his hands and soothing his brow with a cooling cloth. 

“Bella?”

“Yes, my love. Stay still.” Fear coursed through her veins, seeing him fading away before her eyes. 

I can’t lose him, not like this. 

“Listen. It’s important. Dearest Arabella, you must marry again. I don’t want you to be alone in the world.” She struggled to hear him. 

“Hush. Rest now.”

“You have too much love to give. Henry needs a father. Promise me you will find love again.” 

She had looked at his fevered brow. The doctor had told her the mottled rash meant there was little hope of recovery. 

“Whatever you want,” she whispered, gently kissing his ear.

Each time she woke from this dream, Edward seemed further away, his voice muffled and less distinct. She tried to reach out for him but could never find him. 

After the mourning period passed, the dreams changed almost imperceptibly over time, and Arabella became aware of a shadowy figure somewhere in the distance. She stood next to a lake on a misty morning, sensing someone ahead on the track.  She needed to run and catch up, knowing that when she turned the next corner everything would be all right. 

She just needed to keep going, racing to catch a dream, that hazy figure on the horizon. 

Was that a lantern in his hand, guiding her towards a path of safety, away from the misty lakeside path? 

She tossed and turned, unable to return to sleep. That was when she began to write her poetry. 

In the early days of grief, she had sat beside the fire, reading poetry by candlelight. Poems of lost love and the anguish of grief. Then, one day, Arabella began to write a poem, another, and then a small volume of collected poems. Writing poetry had helped her find a slow pathway to recovery, a way to get through each long, lonely day.  

Dreams and forgotten desires. Love and the pain of loss. A glimpse of light shining somewhere on the horizon.

‘Oh, dull, dark winter days

Lost leaves, icy frozen limbs

Beware bitter, misty haze

Stand, Stretch, feathery wings

Search for spring.’

Chapter One – A letter from home

The candle burned lower in the gloom of the notary’s office on Gracebury Street. 

Robert, Duke of Montbury, knew the deal was sealed. Now Napoleon had been defeated, the fashion for French red wine had returned, and his vineyard investments were returning considerable profits. 

The elderly French émigré, sitting opposite him, no longer had money to maintain his vineyard near Dijon. 

He noticed tears forming in the marquis’ eyes as he took the quill pen from Mr Norris, the notary, to sign away his estate. 

For a moment, he felt a pang of compassion for the Marquis of Perigord, about to lose his family property in this business deal.

I worked hard to pull my own family’s fortunes back from the brink of disaster. The marquis gains funds to support his own family. 

He knew he had the edge in this deal, but still, both parties benefitted. 

He gazed at the rain falling in rivulets down the window. Dark, dull days, and there had been little else for some weeks. Robert longed to spend time in a warmer climate, feeling the hot sun on his back. There was an unusual excitement about this business transaction. 

I own a vineyard, he thought, a vineyard in a beautiful valley in a region of France I remember from my childhood. His grandmother’s estate had been close to the Burgundy vineyard he was about to purchase. Memories flooded back, and a desire to return to France after so many years away. 

After the marquis left, Robert shared a glass of fine Madeira wine with Mr Norris. 

“A fine day’s business, Your Grace,” said Mr Norris, gathering legal papers from the table. “The Chateau du Clos de Vauvet and its estate gives promise of a rich return. The vineyard is renowned across Europe for the quality of its red wine. It’s a shrewd acquisition now that war is over and France is stable again.”

Robert nodded. “I plan to acquire a significant holding in that region. My grandmother grew up in Burgundy, and I long for a warmer climate.” He looked out the window at the driving rain, knowing that in the summer he would be in France, surveying his vineyard. 

“I thought at one point that the marquis was about to pull out of the sale. You did well to get his signature on that document, Mr Norris,” he congratulated his legal adviser.

Mr Norris smiled, offering Robert another glass of wine. Robert nodded his thanks.

“I plan to visit the vineyard in the summer,” he said, handing Mr Norris a wad of paper. 

“These are the neighbouring properties. I’d like to acquire this whole valley and get the wine imported to England.” He pointed to three names on the list. “I know these are approaching ruin and won’t want to sell, but they will realistically have no alternative. Offer them a decent price, but you know I expect to make a handsome profit.”

Mr Norris nodded. “I’ll make enquiries.”

“The sooner we act, the better. It’s the right time to buy land now that Napoleon has gone. They won’t want to sell, but in this climate with France torn apart by the war, they have little choice.  I feel a nostalgia for this part of Burgundy.” 

This was just business, but for once, he felt more of a thrill of excitement, knowing that he’d strengthened his family fortunes and increased his holding in the valley. The Montbury star was ascending. He wished his grandmother was alive to see her family lands being reclaimed and expanded. She had escaped the terrors of the Revolution and Madame la Guillotine and ended her days quietly in exile in England, but she always missed her homeland.

When his grandmother, the Marchioness de la Rochaille, told him stories of her childhood home, he created a picture of it in his mind. He saw the chateau in the golden sunlight, the deep green of the forest covering the hillside, and rows of vines ripening in the hot summer heat. A dream grew that he would someday revisit the valley and reclaim his family heritage. 

At least two of the names on the list of properties he planned to acquire had denounced the marchioness, leading to the loss of not only lands but the arrest of his grandfather and uncles and their deaths in the Place de la Concorde with Madame la Guillotine. 

This reclamation of the Val de Vauvet was a personal mission. He might be the Duke of Montbury, but he now also held the Marquis de la Rochaille title. He had now acquired an additional vineyard with not just a lake but the additional advantage of a forest producing very highly profitable wood needed for reconstruction after the war. 

After returning his horse and phaeton to the stable mews at Wendover House he planned on taking a light supper, then joining a card game at his club. The rain hadn’t stopped for days, and everything was dismal and damp.

Mr Woodley, the butler at the townhouse, greeted him, taking his dripping frock coat. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, wishing this endless rain would stop. Perhaps he’d stay at Wendover House after all and take supper by the fireside in his study before reading a book. 

Mr Woodley handed him a silver tray with a letter. 

“A messenger arrived from Castle Montbury. One of the under-grooms rode post haste. He’s been on the road for four days, so I’ve sent him to Cook for some supper,” Mr Woodley informed him.

“How unusual. I’d best read this and reply immediately. I’ll take supper in the study.”

Robert waited till he was alone before opening the envelope, hoping his mother was well. She usually got on with managing the estate and let him live his life in London. 

Castle Montbury, his childhood home, the place he had expected to live his life and raise a family. That was before Rosalind.  Now he couldn’t think of Montbury without her memories, and none were good. 

I gave my heart to Rosalind. I thought she loved me. 

Since the loss of Rosalind he avoided contact with the Montbury estate as much as possible. 

Enough, I won’t think about that time. It’s over. 

He couldn’t avoid this letter, though. His mother wrote that Michael Morley, his land agent and the steward of the estate, had been taken grievously ill. No one knew the estate and the annual calendar of planting, harvesting, and maintenance as well as Michael. 

His mother wrote that Peter, Michael’s nephew, was dealing with affairs daily, but they needed to make arrangements to replace Michael. Robert’s mother, Helena, Dowager Duchess of Montbury, didn’t ask for much from him. He lived his life mostly in town and went to Montbury for Christmas festivities or a shooting party in the summer. She had asked for help, and he would return, albeit with extreme reluctance.

He called to Mr Woodley, “I’ll be leaving in the morning for Montbury. Tell Grayson that I’ll need the carriage.”

“Is all well, Your Grace?” enquired Mr Woodley.

“Sadly not, Woodley. Michael Morley has been taken ill and won’t be able to resume his duties. I need to oversee arrangements for a replacement. Her ladyship, the dowager duchess, insists I’m involved.” 

“Michael Morley is a good man. He’s managed the Montbury estate as long as I can remember. That’s a big change.”

“Indeed, so I must go where I am needed. If I set off in the morning, then I should be there by Friday.” 

Memories were just memories. Rosalind had jilted him, then jilted his younger brother Simon and married the elderly Duke of Wyndale. He had heard she was now a widow and becoming close to his brother Simon again. His mother had warned him there was a likelihood of an engagement between them. He had no desire to see Rosalind, Duchess of Wyndale ever again. 

She accepted my proposal, told me she would love me forever, and then, within a month, she was engaged in a liaison with my brother. 

Yet often in quiet moments, Robert remembered those perfect features, with blazing blue eyes, surrounded by a halo of gloriously long golden hair. If he imagined meeting a fairy tale princess in a forest, he knew she would look like Rosalind.

But Rosalind was long gone, and Simon rarely visited Castle Montbury. He needed to enjoy his childhood home again. He hadn’t seen his mother, sister Elinor, or nephew Frederick for many months. 

The memory of Rosalind had kept him from his family for too long. It was time to return and ride across those wild northern moors again. 

Chapter Two – A Journey North

Grey clouds hung heavily in the sky. No stars and no moonlight to guide them on the path to the stable. 

Arabella felt a moment of terror as an owl swooped low, its screeching call piercing the night sky. 

I need to keep calm. Henry needs to think this is an adventure. Breathe deeply; this is almost over. 

She glanced at her tiny, eight-year-old son, who clutched his hobby horse, as they made their way through the darkened house. He knew this was different, but thankfully, his curiosity outweighed his concern about this early morning adventure. 

“Where are we going, Mama?” came the small voice, close by her in the darkness. 

She squeezed his hand, feeling the love for this tiny person, who had already experienced so much change and sadness in his life, flowing through her body and giving her strength. 

“We’re on our way to visit my cousin in Yorkshire. You remember Aunt Grace and Uncle Joseph? They have a pony called Bertram.”

“I liked Bertram. Can I ride Bertram, Mama?  Is Dash is coming with us? I don’t want to leave Dash,” the small voice broke the silence of the night.

“Of course, Henry. Dash is already in the carriage, waiting with Tabitha,” she said, reassuring Henry that his spaniel would join them on their journey.  

They left the house by the orangery door, slipping into the darkness. They were leaving behind Farrington Hall, the home where Arabella had come as a bride and loved life with her beloved Edward. 

No looking back. Those days are gone.  It’s so dark tonight.

Arabella’s coach waited in readiness close to the stables. Everything was ready for the long drive north to York. 

I hope Tabitha has made it to the carriage with no problems.

During the last few days, Arabella and Tabitha, their nursery maid, had gathered together a trunk of special possessions, memories of her husband Edward and Henry’s special toys. 

Although anxiety was ever-present, she had maintained a calm manner with the household staff.  

I have to leave now, or the door will close. Once cousin Christopher moves into Farrington Hall, the possibility of escape becomes almost impossible.

Tabitha had recently become betrothed to Judd Stephenson, Arabella’s chief groom. Let into the secret escape plan and determined not to be separated from Tabitha, Judd was poised to drive them on the long four-day journey to Yorkshire. He planned to remain there with an offer of employment from Arabella’s cousin, Sir Joseph Thraxton. 

She sighed, pushing down the anxiety, which kept rising as the moment for departure grew nearer. 

The carriage is mine. The horses are mine. I brought a dowry to this marriage, and my parents gifted the carriage and team. I am only taking what’s mine. 

The news that Henry’s official guardian, her cousin Christopher, and his wife Violet were expected to arrive at Farrington Hall within the next two weeks had compelled her to put a plan that had been evolving for several months into action. Due to his sudden illness, no will had been left regarding Henry’s guardianship by Arabella’s husband. As Henry’s closest male relative, Mr Christopher Farrington had a legal claim to guardianship over Henry.

Christopher might have a claim on guardianship to Henry, but his heavy-handed approach had been despicable. 

I know he will find me. I’m not disappearing without a trace. I can’t do that. But I refuse to remain here, under his domineering control, while he gathers evidence to strengthen his false allegations against me. I lost my husband, and I refuse to lose my child, too. 

She held Henry’s hand tightly as they made their way to the stables. There was no need for secrecy, but it would buy time if it took Christopher a little while to track them down. 

I believe he has paid spies on my household staff. I can’t trust anyone here anymore. 

Tabitha had overheard conversations below stairs strongly suggesting that her cousin had paid informants. He seemed to have inside information in his letters to the solicitor, damning her as an unfit mother. 

The list was endless. Henry fell out of a tree. Henry had been out all day unsupervised in the forest. Henry had disappeared, and members of the search party found him in the cemetery close to his father’s grave. These were examples of her lack of oversight. Every right and responsibility as co-guardian must be relinquished. 

What made her anger rise and fear creep into her heart was when Christopher’s solicitor wrote to her, alleging that she had placed the child in the path of danger. 

A long, legal battle lay ahead, with little chance, as a widow, of her winning the case. She had no money to fight Christopher but fight she must. 

Since Edward died 18 months ago, she had made a little money from selling her poetry anonymously to a publisher in London. As Henry would become Viscount Farrington, the household expenses were covered by his inheritance, but Christopher made sure that no money was available to her personally. Without the support of her godfather, Sir Joseph Thraxton, she would be destitute. 

Sir Joseph and Lady Thraxton, in faraway Yorkshire, had stepped in to support her and offered her a refuge. 

I can fight him from Yorkshire, where I am surrounded by friends. 

This was a risky path, but she had no choice. Leave now or live in a house controlled by a man who seemed hell-bent on proving she should lose all rights to custody of her son Henry.

“Tabitha, are you there?” she called into the darkness. 

“Over here, My Lady,” came back the calm voice of her maid, who had grown up alongside her at Undershaw Place and moved with her to Farrington Hall when she married. 

Arabella saw a lantern light and urged Henry to keep going a little longer. 

Breaking with all convention, she fell into Tabitha’s arms and held her close. 

“It’s alright, My Lady, we’ll be on our way as soon as you and Master Henry are in the carriage.” 

Henry may be Viscount Farrington, but he would not formally inherit the title until his eighteenth birthday, and Arabella did not think it was good for a child to be known as a title, so Henry remained Master Henry to the household at Farrington. 

Judd helped them into the carriage, and Henry quickly became distracted by Dash, who climbed onto his lap, licking Henry’s face with his tongue. 

The coach creaked and groaned as Judd drove down the lane towards the north road. Arabella’s breathing steadied as they journeyed into the night. This gave her breathing space, a place to live with people she could trust, and the energy to fight the legal challenges for Henry’s guardianship. 

Months of planning had worked. Escape. 

Soon, they would be safely in Yorkshire, hoping for a brighter horizon. 

***

Ten days later

“Henry, hurry up. Aunt Grace and Emma are waiting for us in the carriage. The service starts soon, and the vicar won’t like it if we are late.”

“Coming, Mama,” he called. 

“Where have you been?” asked Arabella. “Tabitha was looking everywhere for you.”

“I heard a cuckoo.” He pointed to the trees in the orchard at the far side of the garden. “ Cuck-oo, cuck-oo. I’ve never heard a cuckoo before, but I knew its call. I went to the garden to investigate.”

“Well, you need to tell Tabitha or me where you are going. You know we worry about you,” she told him.

Henry almost rolled his eyes in frustration. “Mama, I’m eight years old now. Do I have to go to church? I want to write up my observations of the cuckoo.”

“Indeed, we must go to matins at the church. The Reverend Nathaniel would be very sad if we stayed at home.” 

Her heart melted as she looked at her tiny son, so confident at eight years old, his light brown hair falling around his shoulders, and such a look of intense concentration on his face. He reminded her so much of Edward, looking up at her with those same big blue eyes, asking her questions, and telling her about his wildlife observations. 

He enjoyed exploring the countryside and learning about nature. Sir Joseph had been teaching him about the birds in the garden and woods at Horton Park. He’d promised to take Henry on a walk onto the moors the next day. 

She smiled, knowing their arrival had greatly pleased Sir Joseph and Lady Thraxton. She should never have worried about being a burden on them; they were happy to give her and Henry a home for as long as they needed one. 

Only six days had passed since their arrival at Horton Park, tucked in a remote corner of the North Riding of Yorkshire. The journey along the Great North Road had been exhausting but without incident. Much to Henry’s disappointment, they had not encountered even one highwayman. 

An early spring gave sunshine and warmth, and as each day passed, Arabella had begun to relax.  She realized she had been lonely for a long time.  Now she had Aunt Grace and her young cousin Emma, Aunt Grace’s daughter, to talk with or take a walk to the village. 

I’ve been on my own for so long. I don’t need to be brave here or wonder how I’m going to pay the butcher without writing to Christopher and begging for housekeeping money. 

As they queued to speak to the vicar, she noticed a glance between her aunt and Emma. 

“Is something wrong?” she whispered to her aunt. 

“No, my dear, nothing at all, except perhaps a little romance. Watch them …”

“Emma and …”

“Yes, she is sweet on our parson,” she whispered back. 

As they exchanged pleasantries with the Reverend Nathaniel Colbrooke, Arabella noted his handsome, chiselled features and engaging almost infectious smile. Emma smiled at him, saying little, although her eyes hardly left his face. 

“Now come my dear, let me introduce you to some of our friends and neighbours. There’s Lady Starling, who lives close to Horton Park, and Mr and Mrs Belway, who have Maybourne Hall.” Arabella smiled and nodded as introductions were made and invitations to call exchanged. 

Glancing behind her, Arabella noticed Emma engaged in quiet conversation with the Reverend Nathaniel Colbrooke. 

A rather elegant carriage waited immediately beyond the lych-gate of St Mary’s Church, and she couldn’t fail to notice a very elegant, somewhat aloof woman making her way towards the carriage. The woman looked briefly in her direction but did not acknowledge her presence.  A young woman and little boy, who looked about the same age as Henry, accompanied this grand lady. 

A friend for Henry? I wonder who that is? Arabella thought.

She saw the young lady smile in her direction before being hurried along by the older woman, who clearly had no interest in talking with her neighbours. She stood with her aunt, a little distance away, looking at the facade of the ancient medieval limestone church built almost eight hundred years ago by a team of stone masons from Normandy.

“Who’s that?” she whispered again to her aunt, knowing they were at a safe distance and could not be overheard. 

“Ah, that’s Helena Musgrave, the Dowager Duchess of Montbury. I know her well, as we were girls together and had our first London season simultaneously. She’s become very grand. That’s her daughter, Elinor, Lady Rathby, and her son, little Frederick.”

Lady Thraxton waved at Frederick, who waved back. 

“I think Frederick may be around the same age as Henry. We must call on Lady Rathby next week. Her husband is in Belgium with Wellington and unlikely to return this year,” said Lady Thraxton. 

Turning to her daughter, Lady Thraxton continued, “Emma, my dear. Come along. Cook will be unhappy if we are late and luncheon is spoiled.”

Emma raced up, face flushed. “Mama, can we invite Nathaniel, erm, Reverend Colbrooke, to dinner next week?” 

Grace smiled, a knowing look on her face. “I see no reason why not. I’d like him to meet Arabella and wonder whether he might tutor Henry.”

Lady Thraxton turned to Arabella. “He recently graduated from Cambridge in classics and I believe he plans to tutor Frederick at Castle Montbury. I think it possible that the two boys could have lessons together.”

Arabella’s heart warmed, full of thanks for her aunt who had considered little Henry’s every need. 

“Would the dowager allow that?” she queried. “It would be good for Henry to start lessons again and have a friend his own age.”

“I believe so,” replied her aunt. “Helena Musgrave may not choose to talk to her neighbours after church services, but she is generous-hearted. Much of what you’ve seen today is just her manner.” 

“She looks haughty and proud, but as you say, it is her manner and station in life,” added Emma. “When we dine tête-à-tête she is always pleasant.”

“She makes some very strange decisions, too. Every year, she hosts a house party with a soirée and ball, which clashes with the village’s summer fair. It makes her seem very aloof to the villagers. It creates distance between the castle and the community. I’m not sure she even realizes the impact,” said Aunt Grace. 

Later that afternoon, Henry came dashing up to Arabella. “Mama, can I take Dash for a walk into the village? Emma says she will come with me. Oh, please say yes.”

Emma, following behind Henry, nodded her agreement, and Arabella smiled to herself, remembering the thrill of young love and knowing that Emma probably hoped to catch a glimpse of the Reverend Colbrooke. 

The sun was still shining, and looking forward to some time alone, Arabella found her way to a south-facing gazebo in the far reaches of Horton Hall’s gardens. She carried her notebook and graphite pencil. Since arriving at Horton, ideas for a new volume of poems were flooding into her head. 

Her wavy jet-black hair, coiled up in pins, now fell around her face, always in stark contrast to her milky pale complexion. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face, intently thinking of rhyming couplets. Her hair had always been wild and difficult to contain. When Arabella looked directly at people for the first time, they were surprised to see jade jewel green eyes contrasting with her dark hair. 

Edward had been a good man, and she had expected to spend the rest of her life with him at Farrington Hall. The trauma of his sudden death, followed by the shock of Edward’s cousin Christopher launching a personal attack on her character, followed by formal legal action, had left her emotionally exhausted. 

Now, for the first time, here at Horton Hall, I feel rested and more like myself again. I can think about Christopher Farrington and wonder why he is so keen to have total control over Henry and his trust fund.

Her thoughts drifted away from her writing, back to the mystery of why Edward’s cousin had embarked on this vendetta against her. 

Henry is to all intents and purposes, Viscount Farrington, but won’t inherit until he is eighteen years of age. Christopher Farrington is determined to have me declared unfit for co-guardianship. 

Why was he legally challenging her fitness to supervise her own son or run a household she had overseen for ten years? A household that ran like clockwork and never exceeded its budget. 

Arabella gazed across the garden, bright yellow daffodils and aconites shining against the lawn to welcome springtime. The aconites looked so pretty but concealed a deadly poison. She thought of the similarity with Christopher, who had always been so pleasant and friendly when a guest at Farrington Hall while Edward had been alive. 

I hardly know the man, yet he chooses to hound me, plants spies in my household, and is so mean with the household allowance that we had no candles last winter. 

There were no easy answers, but it helped to have distance. She shuddered at the thought of living under the same roof as Mr and Mrs Christopher Farrington. 

Here she was in Yorkshire, with a family who cared about her and were determined to support her in fighting Christopher Farrington’s legal action.

After an hour of writing and crossing out ideas in her notebook, she was happy with her work and wandered back to the house. 

I think I’ll go and meet Henry and Emma in the village. We can walk back together.  It’s getting chilly, and I suspect Henry will have forgotten his coat. 

The path led down the lane to the village and onto the village green, which just happened to be directly opposite St Mary’s Church and Parsonage. Seeing Emma talking intently with the Reverend Colbrooke, Arabella quickened her pace, wondering briefly where Henry had wandered off to. 

Emma looks so intent in her conversation that she hasn’t noticed Henry isn’t there. I guess it takes a mother to be ever vigilant with an adventurous child of eight. 

She could see Dash in the distance on the path leading into the woods. 

Ah, where Henry goes, Dash will follow, she thought. I won’t disturb Emma. I’ll leave her talking to the vicar and gather Henry from whatever adventure he is engaged in. 

Henry had inherited his father’s love of learning. He wanted to be outdoors, watching birds building their nests or squirrels gathering nuts for winter hibernation. Last summer, he had built a wormery, a true palace for worms, watching them for three days and making notes before returning them to the vegetable garden. 

It’s probably hedgehogs today. He really does need a tutor, he loves learning about nature.  

The woodland path felt cool, with the sun shining through the canopy above. Green leaves were forming on the trees after the long days of winter. 

She couldn’t see Dash, but the spaniel must be just around the corner. In fact, she could hear Henry’s voice calling for his dog.  

As she turned the corner, the path became very muddy. There had been lots of rain that week, and she suspected a spring nearby. She watched her feet, careful not to slip, wondering what sort of mucky mess Henry would be in when she finally tracked him down. 

There, that’s his voice again, she thought.  They can’t be far away. I wonder if Emma’s noticed Henry has gone. I suspect not. 

There they are. What on earth?

Hearing a frantic barking and whining sound, she quickened her pace. Was that two dogs? Now Henry’s voice, crying out in alarm. 

Arabella broke into a run, desperate to find Henry somewhere ahead of her and in distress.