Page 101 of The English Duke
“How do you feel about him, child?” Gran asked a moment later.
“Does it matter now?”
Her grandmother sighed. “No, I guess it doesn’t. This is a terrible situation, my dear girl, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to cure it.”
Neither did she.
“I wish you’d fought for your happiness, Martha. Like it or not, Josephine does. You let others dictate your life.”
Martha turned and looked at her grandmother.
“You’ve been defined by those around you, my dear girl. You were your father’s daughter, Josephine’s sister, Marie’s stepdaughter, even my granddaughter. It’s time to stand up for yourself and decide what you want.”
What if she wanted the Duke of Roth? How did she accomplish that?
She didn’t ask the question of her grandmother. There wasn’t, after all, an answer.
Gran left her with a kiss to her cheek and a pat on her shoulder.
“We’ll get through this, my dear girl. I promise.”
She’d always believed her grandmother, but she wasn’t altogether sure Gran was right in this instance.
How was she to get through this? At this time tomorrow, Jordan would be married and legally her brother. How was she to have sisterly feelings for the man who’d been her only lover?
“Miss Martha?”
She looked up to find Mr. Haversham standing there, faintly lit by lights from the parlor windows. She and the stablemaster were cordial, but she rarely saw him. Unlike Josephine, she wasn’t an avid horsewoman.
The stablemaster had bushy white eyebrows so long the hairs sometimes fell in front of his eyes. She wondered how he never noticed them. Or did he like looking through a forest at the world? His mustache was a match for his eyebrows in color and thickness. His beard, however, was neatly trimmed and the color of his hair, a mix of black and white. A stocky man, he had a bearing revealing his previous military service.
Charles was there as well, peering over the man’s shoulder. She hadn’t seen the carriage driver since they’d arrived home from Sedgebrook.
Charles had been with them nearly a decade and was as tall and thin as he’d been as a half-starved lad in London. He’d never quite lost his London accent, but thank heavens he had finally stopped looking terrified all the time, his eyes darting back and forth as if afraid someone was going to steal the shirt from his body.
“What is it, Mr. Haversham?”
Charles stepped forward; the two men looked at each other and then at her.
“It’s a problem we have, Miss Martha. One we thought it best to bring to you.”
That was curious. She knew nothing about the stables or about the maintenance of the horses. She probably rode about three times a year. Otherwise, she preferred more sedentary occupations.
“How can I help you?”
Charles pulled the cap off his head, turning it round and round in his hands. If there was more light she’d be able to see the expression on his face. Since he was staring down at the terrace floor she could only surmise it was one of reluctance.
She decided that encouraging his speech would do nothing. Better to simply remain silent and let the two men find their way to an explanation.
“It’s about the torpedo ship, Miss Martha.”
“What about it?”
The two men looked at each other again.
“Well, I was having my dinner,” Mr. Haversham said. “One of the girls brought me some of the stew from tonight. Did you have a chance to taste it, Miss Martha?”
She bit back her impatience and answered him. “Yes, I did. I’ve always thought it was one of Cook’s best recipes.”
