Anyone But a Duke Read online

  By evening, all she had to show for her search were burning eyes, fuzzy notions of Parliament issuing writs, and a lot of verbiage about which lands and properties were entailed by the original grant and which were not. The “witness” signatures provided the name of the lawyer who had drawn up the documents, but some of what had been written made no sense to her. She wrote a letter to the solicitor, asking him to clarify matters and sent poor Eddie shuttling back to Betany to post it.

  Later that night as she dragged herself up the stairs, she caught Mazie scurrying along the upper hall with an armful of damp towels, having just come from Michael’s room.

  “’E wanted a bath an’ I had to light the heater an’ show ’im th’ whizgizzies in th’ closet room.” She jerked her head toward the north side of the house. “He be in th’ garden now, I expect. Goes there ever’ night.”

  “He does?” Sarah headed back down the east hallway and opened the door to an unused guest room. The moonlight was bright enough to let her see the butterfly garden clearly, and there he was . . . legs spread in a determined stance, looking up at the star-littered sky, no doubt enjoying the sweet scent of the night around him.

  If he truly was Arthur—and she felt oddly guilty that she wanted him to be—those sensations would be a balm for his soul. She watched for a long time as he moved around the garden, touching flowers and plants, bending to enjoy fragrances. He did seem to love the garden, was drawn to it in a way that said good things about his heart. Then as she watched he stooped and did something among the flowers. Was he picking some to bring inside?

  When he rose, he had something long and stringy in his hand, and he tossed it out of the garden. A weed. He’d tossed it away and then bent for another. She felt a catch in her throat. It was a small action, a simple thing, weeding a garden. But it was also telling, in ways that tugged at her heart. She closed her eyes for a moment, battling a rush of emotion, then turned and fled through the darkened hallway to the safety of her room.

  * * *

  Ladyish trays in bed had never been Sarah’s custom. The next morning, she descended the stairs as usual, peered out the parlor windows to gauge the weather, and made her way toward breakfast. Voices and laughter wafted up the kitchen stairs and she slowed, surprised. The staff were hardly a jovial lot. She rarely saw a smile out of the house folk, much less a giggle or an outright laugh.

  Frowning, she entered the breakfast room and rang the kitchen bell to let the cook and servants know she had arrived and they could begin serving. Seated at the largest table, she drummed her fingers on the polished wood and waited. And waited. More trickles of laughter came up through the dumbwaiter and the bellpulls. Her stomach growled and after several more minutes, she rose irritably and headed down the stairs.

  In the servants’ dining room, one end of the long table was cluttered with dishes containing dried egg, odd bits of sausage, and the remains of leftover toast. Cook spotted her and bustled in to stand with hands on ample hips, looking pleased at the destroyed table.

  “He’s not here, ma’am.”

  “Who?” Sarah asked, knowing the answer.

  “That fellow o’ yours.” She grinned broadly. “That man does love his food. An’ got a tongue that turns to pure silver when a cook’s about.”

  “Where is this ‘fellow o’ mine’ now?” she asked with an edge that totally escaped Cook.

  “Th’ stables.” Cook gave a satisfied smile. “Said he wanted to see to some horse or other.”

  But when she arrived there, she found he wasn’t in the stable either. Eddie and the stable master, Old Harley, met her outside the tack room with news that Jess Croton’s boy, Miles, had ridden up in a lather and said his pa was hurt badly and needed tending right away. Michael had saddled his mare, demanded the bottle of whiskey Harley used to medicate his sciatica, and rode off with the boy.

  “You didn’t think of calling me first?” she demanded, glaring at the pair. “Fine. Saddle Fancy Boy—fast.” She ran back to the house for her medical bag and some bandages, and was soon mounted and riding down the cart road that wound through Betancourt’s tenant farms.

  Jess Croton’s farm, if she recalled properly, was upriver from Thomas Wrenn’s and was considered a prime bit of bottom land. She struggled to recall what Samuel Arnett had said about Croton the day she treated Old Bec . . . a loss of some kind . . . pigs stolen. Now there was an injury and Michael had taken it upon himself to ride out and see to it.

  “How dare he?” she muttered, tightening the tie of her hat under her chin to keep it from blowing off. “He should have sent for me. Who does he think he is?”

  Besides the former Duke of Meridian.

  The Croton farm was picturesque from a distance; stone and half-timber buildings nestled between the Old Meriton Forest and the river. But as she grew closer, it became clear the place was in disarray. Pens and fences had been knocked down, a hay wagon lay on its side in the middle of the yard, the hay it carried now scattered. A pony cart had been smashed; it lay splintered and collapsed on its broken axle in the middle of a field of debris. The barn doors stood agape, one hanging from a single bottom hinge and the other with splintery holes that looked like they’d been made by an axe. Several dead chickens lay outside a demolished chicken coop and pigs were squealing over a dead sow in their pens.

  In the distance, she could see animals loose in rye and oat fields that were just about ready for harvest. Goats had climbed onto the roof of the shed closest to the house, and there was a young child—still in nappies—wandering barefoot among the wreckage.

  She pulled up beside the cottage, swung down beside Michael’s horse, and grabbed the child’s hand. The young one began to flail and cry, so she had to pick him up and carry him inside the open cottage door. There she found a woman in tears, a man on a bed, moaning, and children collected around each, asking if their “pa” would be all right. In the middle of it all stood broad-shouldered Michael with one hand on his narrow hip and the other tilting a whiskey bottle that was draining slowly into the injured Jess Croton.

  “What the devil are you doing?” she demanded, thrusting the child into his mother’s arms and rushing to the bedside.

  “Loosening him up so I can put his arm back in the socket,” Michael said without even bothering to look at her. “It would be best if he passed out first—there would be less resistance. But I could only get a quarter bottle from Old Harley. Just as well . . . Jess, here, isn’t much of a drinker.”

  She scowled. “How do you know it’s out of joint?”

  “I’ve set a number of shoulders. Happens aboard ship sometimes in bad weather. Have a feel yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

  She stared at Jess Croton, who looked up through a swollen, blackened eye with a half-corked smile. He’d taken a walloping, all right. Bending to investigate, she felt the mushiness of the joint and the misplaced bone.

  “It is out of joint,” she had to admit. “What do you intend to do for it?”

  “First, I have to ask him some questions.” He straightened Jess’s arm as he held it gently by the wrist. “What happened here, Jess?”

  “Bastards come jus’ b’fore dawn. Got ever’ bleedin’ piglet I had lassss time.” He was clearly feeling the effects of the whiskey. “Thisss time I wus ready. Had my pa’s gun . . .”

  “I begged him not to go out there.” Jess’s wife, Alice, joined them, shifting her youngest to her hip. “They’re bad men—terrible bad. He wouldn’t listen,” she said, choking back tears. “Stubborn ox could’ve got hisself killed. Then where’d we be?”

  “Th’ powder wus bad,” Jess continued. “Ain’t fired it in years. But, I had to try—they was tearin’ up jack—fer the pure devil of it.”

  “Took most o’ my hens,” Alice said. “Killed the ones they didn’t take . . . stinkin’ buzzards.”

  “Tried to stop ’em, but one had fists like hams an’ got in a blow on me. I fell ’ginst the wagon,” Jess continued. “Must’ve blacked o
ut. When I come to, I couldn’t get up—my arm wouldn’ move.” He licked his swollen lips and let his damaged eye droop closed. “Next thing I knew . . .”

  “Don’t go to sleep, Jess,” Michael said, giving him a shake. “I need details. How many were there? What did they look like?”

  Sarah couldn’t believe he was demanding answers from a man he’d just addled with whiskey. He was slowly straightening Jess’s injured arm. She was surprised the poor man wasn’t howling.

  “F-f-four,” Jess mumbled, struggling to stay awake. “Big louts—taller’n me. The one what hit me—he’d been drinkin’. Smelt it on ’im.”

  “What else? Come on, Jess, what else did you see?” He gave Jess a shake. “Did they ride in? Did you see horses? A wagon?”

  “Can’t that wait until he’s—” Sarah interrupted.

  In a flash, Michael put his boot against Jess’s side, just beneath his shoulder, and gave the arm a jerk.

  “Argh!” Jess forced his eyes open, looking shocked. “What th’ . . .”

  “Try moving your arm,” Michael ordered, releasing him.

  Reluctantly, Jess moved it and then sagged with relief. “Ye f-fixed me.” And he promptly passed out.

  Alice tearfully thanked them and then ushered the children outside to begin rescuing the mess in the yard. The sound of her issuing orders floated back inside the cottage.

  “That’s some treatment regimen,” Sarah said irritably as she helped bind Jess’s shoulder. “Get the man liquored up, talk him blue in the face, then put your foot on his ribs and yank. I can’t wait to see what you do for the cut on his head. A hot poker, maybe?”

  “Head cuts require needlework,” he said, looking her over with a grin of such wicked delight it would have given an angel pause. “What are the odds the duchess knows how to take a stitch as well as remove one?”

  She had trouble looking away from that intriguing expression.

  “If by duchess you are referring to me, you can lay money on it.” She reddened as she opened her bag, selected a needle and a length of suture, and seized the unfinished whiskey to pour over the needle. “I have this in hand.” She dabbed Jess’s cut with some whiskey and knelt by his head to begin stitching. “Feel free to see if Alice and the children need help outside.” She waved a hand. “Go on.”

  * * *

  Arthur watched as she set to work—bossy female. It took a minute for the image of her vivid green eyes to fade from his vision when he stepped outside. The yard was a mess. He surveyed the damage as Alice ordered the children to look for any chickens that might have escaped the thieves. Righting the wagon, fixing the fences and doors, and moving the shattered cart required more power than he could provide with his injury, but there had to be help nearby. He asked Miles for the location of the nearest neighbor, climbed on his horse, and headed out to recruit some labor for the Crotons.

  As luck would have it, Samuel Arnett’s place was closest, and another farmer named Ralston had brought some horses to Arnett’s farm to have them re-shod by a traveling farrier. When Arthur told them what happened, it didn’t take much to convince them to lend the Crotons a hand. Arnett’s wife, Young Bec, immediately set about collecting food to carry to the family. The men hitched up a cart, set Young Bec on it along with the food and some tools, and were soon on their way.

  “Wot did ye say yer name was?” Samuel Arnett asked as they went.

  “Arthur. Graham.”

  “Ye don’t say. We had a duke by name of Arthur.” He squinted, looking Arthur over. “You any kin?”

  Arthur thought for a moment. His secret was out and what difference would it make to tell the truth? Still . . .

  “You could say that.”

  “Then, you be the duchess’s brother?”

  “Not exactly. Miss Bumgarten, whom you call ‘duchess,’ is my brother’s sister-in-law.” The confusion in Samuel’s face forced him to elaborate. “My brother Ashton married her sister Daisy.”

  “But that would make you . . .” Arnett frowned, trying to puzzle it out.

  “Arthur Graham.” Arthur gave his mount a heel and surged ahead, anxious to escape the questioning and to get back to the Crotons’ farmstead. Thus, he didn’t see the grin that spread slowly over Samuel’s face or hear the exchange between him and Ralston.

  “It’s him. Duke Arthur. He’s back,” Samuel said, eyes wide.

  “You sure?” Ralston looked unconvinced. “He don’t look nuthin’ like that time I saw ’im riding by my place. All that hair, an’ he looks like he could wrestle an ox. That ain’t the boy I remember.”

  “Well, fer sure, he ain’t a boy anymore.” Samuel nodded.

  * * *

  When Arthur’s rescue party arrived, they found the young Crotons standing at the end of a field where cows and oxen had trampled grain that was close to harvesting. Out in the field, Sarah had a milk cow by its rope halter and was talking to it. Arthur stopped to watch as she led the animal out of the field and handed it over to Miles, who ferried it back to the barn. She lifted her skirts and waded back into the grain to retrieve another cow. Once again she began to talk and stroke. The beast tilted its head for her to scratch its neck, and Arthur saw her smile as she obliged.

  A couple of young heifers came next and the last cow and calf were still being charmed into compliance when Arthur realized the cart had stopped behind him and Samuel Arnett, Young Bec, and Ralston were watching Sarah weave her peculiar spell over the Crotons’ bovines.

  “She got the gift,” Samuel said, with clear admiration. “Ain’t never seen a noble lady with the touch before.”

  “It’s a woman’s thing,” Young Bec declared with a grin. “Animals know when a body’s good in th’ heart. An’ the duchess, she’s good as gold.”

  Good in the heart. Those words lodged in Arthur’s core and resonated perfectly with what he had learned about her. The animals knew it. The tenants knew it. Truth be told, he knew it. And it was just one more reason he found her both irresistible and untouchable.

  Alice rushed to greet her neighbors and fell into Young Bec’s open arms while the men surveyed the damage. Most of it was repairable, they declared. With a bit of effort, they’d have the damage fixed and the debris cleared away before sunset. But the first order of business was getting the fences up and those animals out of the grain field.

  While Arnett worked on securing the pen by the barn, Ralston waded out into the field with a yoke, hitched up two oxen that Miles called Lou and Lightning, and soon had the pair moving out of the field in lumbering partnership. Young Miles appeared beside Arthur, dragging a yoke intended for the second pair. Arthur hurried to help him carry it, but found himself relying on Miles for direction on how the heavy animals should be harnessed.

  Oxen, Miles instructed, worked in pairs: always the same two yoked together, always in the same positions. There was a tradition about their names, too—one was always short, the other longer, but in the same vein. The short name, like Lou, always got the left side and the long name, like Lightning, got the right. The second pair were Flo and Foxglove. Hook them up wrong and they wouldn’t move an inch. But yoked right and proper, they would answer a drover’s orders of “get up,” “gee,” and “haw” like they were born to it.

  It was a humbling experience, being educated in the temperament and handling of oxen by a twelve-year-old boy. Fortunately for Arthur, he was used to being humbled. The world was full of things he hadn’t known and had to learn in order to survive. In truth, he enjoyed learning about the beasts and taking them in hand. Soon he was bellowing orders like a natural-born drover and watching Miles’s eyes light with accomplishment.

  With the oxen safely stowed and the barn door well on the way to hanging properly, the men and Arthur righted the hay wagon and reloaded what hay they could for transfer into the loft. He caught Samuel staring at his shoulder and the way he favored one arm as he helped with the lifting, and he gestured to his shoulder. “Had a little accident a few days back.”
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  “What kind o’ accident?”

  “Ran into a bullet with my shoulder.”

  “Did ye now?” Samuel said, clearly impressed. “Seems we heard ’bout that. Constable Jolly come around tellin’ folk. So, that was you.”

  Samuel tossed a covert look at Ralston.

  “Ye couldn’ta landed in better hands,” Ralston said, pushing his hat back to wipe his forehead. “The duchess, she’s got a healin’ way about ’er.”

  He looked across the yard to where Sarah was taking a splinter out of one of the Croton kids’ fingers and the child was staring up at her in pure fascination as she worked. He knew that feeling in her presence, had felt that same sense of being somehow made better by her touch. For a moment his knees weakened.

  She was something rare, Sarah Bumgarten.

  “Yeah.” Samuel jolted him back to reality. “Yer in good hands, there.” He realized the men were watching him watch her and felt his face heat.

  For the next hour, Arthur covertly tracked her with his gaze, watching her with the women and children, watching her with the animals left in the pigpens and in the barn. He couldn’t stop himself and, strangely, it didn’t seem to matter to him that Arnett and Ralston chuckled at his distraction.

  Sarah truly cared about these people—his people—about their lives and welfare. She involved herself in their problems and used her knowledge to help them. In a few short months, the folk had come to admire her abilities and appreciate her determination to help them.

  He thought of his own relationship to the people of the estate. He had been young and purposefully isolated, in his years here, but he had never really considered what the rest of Betancourt wanted or needed . . . until he had lost it. He saw the way Arnett and Ralston worked and he thought of the precious time they took away from their own duties to help a neighbor. There was a whole community of farmers and herdsmen on Betancourt lands who knew and depended on each other, a community he knew nothing about.

  But he was learning. He listened to Arnett’s and Ralston’s shared concern over the security of their farms and asked questions about their families and their local society. He sweated and strained and, despite his still healing shoulder, met them board for board and pitchfork for pitchfork. He had been forced to work hard physically during his travels, but had never felt good doing it. Oddly, now—on Betancourt—he liked the exertion, the purposeful use of his strength, the feeling that he was doing something good.