Page 2 of The Scarred Duke's Bride
Freya and Isabelle were just as likely to take their dinner in the kitchens as to curl in front of the fire in the parlor with a tray of soup and bread instead of dining on lavish five-course dinners eaten amid stilted conversation and wearing too-tight stays.
Freya did not miss it at all. She felt a tad guilty seeing as it was illness that took their father away and thus changed their lives but not enough to wish him back. The Duke of Riverhead had never liked his children. He treated both daughters like nuisance appendages he’d been saddled with that he now had no clue what to do with.
“What is the use of a woman if she is not producing heirs?” he’d been heard to wonder out loud. “Simply pests, eating one out of house and home.”
Freya tried not to take it to heart and did her best to shield Isabella from it all, but she had to admit that was much easier to do now that her father was not in residence.
“You know, I knew of this family as I was growing up in Somerton. The father was a Marquis — a short bad-tempered fellow. He was known to whip people with his horsewhip should they displease him. He had no care whether it was in public or not or whether she was a wife or a daughter or a servant. His whip was indiscriminate,” Mrs. Beecham was saying as she sipped her own cup of chocolate, sitting companionably on the stone next to Isabella. “I always made sure to be out of range when he was about. One never knew what would set him off.”
Mrs. Beecham had so many stories of the same ilk though she always declined to name names.
“You both have got it quite good. You should be grateful,” she concluded, taking another sip of tea.
Isabella snorted. “Yes, we’re grateful we only got oodles of tongue lashings. Those were much better.” She rolled her eyes.
Freya gave her a sidelong glance. “The problem is men. They are all animals. I do not know why anyone would want to be married to one.”
“Well, you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?” Mrs. Beecham said.
Freya glared at her. “We shall see. Perhaps this Campbell fellow will take one look at me and run screaming in the other direction. I am not exactly a model of decorum nor a prime article. I am just a simple country bumpkin with mud under her fingernails.”
Mrs. Beecham rolled her eyes. “And I keep telling you to wear gloves.”
Isabella giggled.
Freya glared at them both before getting to her feet, ready to stomp off. Suddenly a footman came running towards them. He was waving a piece of paper in his hand. “Lady Freya, I have just been given this note to give you. They say it’s urgent that you read it.”
Freya frowned, thrusting out her hand. “Give it to me,” she demanded imperiously.
The footman put the note in her hand and backed away. Breaking the seal, she began to read it out loud.
Dear Lady Freya,
Your father has taken a turn for the worse. It would behoove you and your sister to make haste to London if you want to see him again. I have sent a carriage with this missive that you can use to make your way to the city.
Yours sincerely,
Herbert Mansfield
She raised her eyes, looking from her sister to the governess, seeing the same type of surprise on their faces as was on her own. She could not imagine why her father would want to see them now. He had never shown any interest in them before. But Herbert Mansfield was their father’s right hand, his long-time steward. He would not have written the letter or sent a carriage if their father hadn’t asked him to.
“What should we do?” she asked Isabella.
Her sister quirked an eyebrow. “We go, of course. What else is there to do?”
Freya shook her head slowly. She could not imagine doing anything other than obey either, but she had a bad feeling about it all.
She looked up at the footman. “Very well, tell the coachman we shall be ready to go soon.”
The footman nodded and turned away. Freya turned to Isabella and Mrs. Beecham. “We will need gowns; much of what we have is threadbare. Can we do anything about that?”
Mrs. Beecham nodded. “The seamstress will be able to put together two gowns each I’m sure by day’s end tomorrow. We can be on the road by Friday.”
Freya nodded. “I hope that’s soon enough.”
“It will have to be,” Isabella said.
ChapterTwo
