Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
The east parlor was filled with the rich, intoxicating scent of hot mutton broth, fresh bread, and sweet chamomile tea.
Mrs. Gable had outdone herself. She had brought a massive silver tray laden with food, her old eyes brimming with tears as she watched the three children eat with a ravenous desperation that spoke of days of terrible hunger.
Little Polly sat on the rug, a thick wool blanket wrapped around her small shoulders, carefully dipping a crust of bread into her soup bowl. Henry, his cheeks flushed with warmth rather than fever now that he had drunk the hot tea, was sleeping soundly against his mother's side.
"Eat slowly, Tom," Lavvenia whispered softly, smoothing her eldest son's dark, tangled hair. "Your stomach will ache if you rush."
Tom looked up at his mother, his dark eyes serious beyond his ten years. "Mama, is the Duke going to make us leave in the morning?"
Lavvenia looked toward the crackling hearth, her hands tightly clasping her teacup. "He said the storm would not break until morning, Tom. We must be grateful for the shelter we have been given tonight. Tomorrow, we will find the road to Cumberland."
"Cumberland is fifty miles away," Tom muttered, looking down at his worn, torn boots sitting near the fire. "My boots are broken, Mama. I don't think they will last."
Lavvenia felt a sharp, familiar ache in her throat. She pulled Tom close and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "God will provide, my sweet boy. He brought us to this door tonight, didn't He?"
Across the grand hallway, inside his dimly lit study, Duke Magnus Thorne sat in his heavy leather armchair. A single candle burned on the corner of his vast mahogany desk, casting long, dancing shadows across the rows of leather-bound books that lined the walls.
In his right hand, he held an old brass key.
His eyes were fixed on the center drawer of his desk.
For four years, he had avoided this room whenever possible. It was here that he had sat when the news of Robert's death in Spain had arrived. It was here that he had wept until his lungs burned when Elena's heart had finally stopped beating in the room upstairs. This desk was a monument to his deepest sorrows.
Slowly, as if moving against a heavy current, Magnus leaned forward and inserted the brass key into the drawer's keyhole.
It turned with a dry, metallic click.
He pulled the drawer open. Inside lay a few forgotten wax seals, a broken gold pocket watch that had belonged to his father, and a thick, yellowed packet of parchment tied with a faded black ribbon.
He picked up the packet. The dust on the paper felt thick and dry against his fingers.
He slipped his finger beneath the black ribbon and untied it. The official seal of the British War Office—a crest of red wax showing the royal arms—fell away in dry flakes.
Magnus unfolded the heavy parchment. The ink was faded, written in the sharp, hasty cursive of an army staff officer stationed in Madrid six years ago.
He began to read.
To His Grace, the Duke of Mardell,
It is with the deepest regret that I write to inform you of the death of your brother, Captain Lord Robert Thorne, of the 40th Regiment of Foot. Lord Robert fell honorably during the fierce rearguard action at the Village of Alba de Tormes, sustaining a musket wound to the chest while holding the bridge against French cavalry...
Magnus closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. Six years ago, this was as far as he had gotten. The words fell honorably and wound to the chest had been enough to shatter his world. He had closed the letter then, unable to bear the details of his brother's blood spilled on foreign soil.
He forced his eyes open and continued reading down the page.
...His bravery allowed the regiment's supply train to withdraw safely. However, it is my painful duty to inform Your Grace of a dark tragedy that accompanied this engagement. During the confusion of the night retreat, the regiment’s payroll chest, containing over four thousand pounds in gold, was stolen from the paymaster’s wagon.
Magnus frowned, his brow furrowing as he read the next paragraph.
An immediate inquiry was conducted by Major Sir Arthur Vance. According to eye-witness testimony provided by Major Vance, the chest was logged as being in the charge of Sergeant John Ashby. When the regiment regrouped beyond the river, neither Sergeant Ashby nor the gold could be found. Major Vance has officially declared Sergeant Ashby a deserter and a thief, and a warrant for his arrest has been issued...
Magnus froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
Sergeant John Ashby.
The name echoed in the quiet study like a thunderclap.
Magnus lowered the letter, his hands trembling violently. The woman sitting in his east parlor—the weary, dark-eyed widow with the three freezing children—was the wife of the man his brother’s regiment had branded a traitor and a thief.
"John Ashby," Magnus whispered into the dark room, his voice shaking.
Suddenly, memories of six years ago came rushing back with overwhelming force. He remembered the rumors that had circulated through the London clubs after Robert's death. The disgrace that had touched the 40th Regiment. The whispers that a British sergeant had sold out his country for a chest of French gold.
And Major Sir Arthur Vance—the officer who had signed the accusation—was none other than the late elder brother of Lady Augusta Vance.
Lady Augusta Vance.
Magnus stood up so fast his heavy leather chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.
Lady Augusta was his nearest neighbor, residing at the grand Oakridge Manor just three miles down the valley. She was a cold, ambitious widow who had spent the last four years attempting to maneuver her daughter, Julianna, into Magnus's empty bed. She visited Mardell Manor uninvited every month, bringing unwanted gifts, subtle pressure, and sharp-tongued gossip about the local gentry.
And if Lady Augusta discovered that the widow of "Traitor Ashby" was sleeping under the Duke's roof, she would use every ounce of her considerable social power to destroy Lavvenia and her children.
A soft knock at the study door shattered his thoughts.
Magnus quickly shoved the parchment back into the drawer and locked it. "Come in."
The door opened, and Lavvenia stepped into the room.
She had washed her face, and her dark hair was pinned neatly behind her ears. She wore a simple, faded grey dress that Mrs. Gable had lent her. In the warm candlelight, stripped of the grime of the road, she looked breathtakingly resolute.
"Your Grace," she said softly, holding out a small brass key. "Mrs. Gable has shown us to the bedrooms upstairs. I... I came to return the parlor key, and to thank you again. My children are warm and fed. You have saved their lives tonight."
Magnus stood behind his desk, staring at her with a intense, searching look that made Lavvenia shift uncomfortably.
"Mrs. Ashby," Magnus said, his voice deep and dark. "Your husband... Sergeant John Ashby. You said he died in Spain."
Lavvenia's posture instantly stiffened. Her chin came up, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce pride that took Magnus by surprise.
"He died at Alba de Tormes, Your Grace," she said, her voice dropping into a tight, quiet pitch. "He gave his life protecting his men."
"That is not what the War Office claims," Magnus said quietly.
Lavvenia took a step forward into the room, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "The War Office lies! Major Vance lied! John was an honorable man. He served seventeen years in the King's army. He would never have stolen a single penny, nor would he ever have deserted his post!"
"Major Vance was a respected officer," Magnus noted, testing her.
"Major Vance was a coward who ran from the field while my husband stayed to fight!" Lavvenia declared, her eyes blazing with absolute conviction. "John died on that bridge. I know he did. But because his body was never recovered, Vance blamed him for the missing gold to cover his own incompetence!"
Magnus stared at her in total silence.
He had spent years judging men by cold reports and official seals. But looking at Lavvenia Ashby—seeing the pure, unyielding truth shining in her eyes—he felt a sudden, profound doubt creep into his mind.
Before he could speak, the distant sound of carriage wheels crunching through deep snow echoed from the driveway outside, followed by the loud, impatient clatter of the iron door knocker echoing through the grand hall.
Lavvenia turned toward the door, her face draining of color.
May you like
At this hour of the night, in the middle of a blizzard, only one person in the county would dare knock on the Duke's door with such arrogant authority.
Lady Augusta Vance had arrived.
