Page 99 of The English Duke
She missed her father terribly and would have missed her mother, she was sure, if she’d had a chance to know her. But she’d died when she was three and little remained of Martha’s childhood memories.
Her father told her stories, especially when they worked late at the cottage. She’d sit there enthralled, her pen poised above the journal where she was transcribing his words.
“She liked greens,” he said one night. “And I liked lamb. It wasn’t one of her favorite dishes, so we would dare each other. I would eat some of her greens if she would have some of my lamb. I’m surprised Cook didn’t just deliver our dinner on one plate.”
He’d smiled then, his eyes soft with the recollection.
She, too, would have memories, only not of a spouse. But she would carry to her grave the moments she and Jordan sat together at the workbench in his boathouse. Or when she was in his bed.
After tomorrow Josephine and Jordan would be married. They’d go back to Sedgebrook to live out their lives and she’d remain here at Griffin House, intent on another task she would set herself. She’d find something to occupy her days, to challenge her mind, and to keep her thoughts from Jordan.
Only a matter of hours were left. Perhaps she should count them, tick them off in her journal. Record them somehow so she was prepared for the wedding. Anything to keep herself going, enduring, and surviving until he left.
He had been, even without knowing, a large part of her life. When a letter came, her father would always hand it to her and ask her what she thought. Often, she reread the letters or quoted parts to her father, especially when Jordan had sent calculations.
She would simply have to grieve for him, just like she had her father. She’d treat him as if he, too, had died. She’d grow accustomed to never hearing from him again.
Only a few more hours.
Only a little while until he went to the church in his ducal carriage, accompanied by Reese. He’d be dressed in formal wear, the picture of a proper duke. She wouldn’t be surprised if there were a great many women in the congregation who would sigh in longing when first seeing him.
How could Josephine only view him as lame? How did she not see him as the most handsome man in the world?
Only a few more hours.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
She looked up, startled. Gran stood there watching her.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you and now seems as good a time as any.”
She scooted over on the brick bench to make room for her grandmother. Susan came and sat with her usual grace and economy of movement.
They both stared off in the direction of the forest for a few minutes. The shadows and shapes of the trees had been reduced to black, earthbound clouds, their tops tinted silver by the moon.
“I let you hide in your room,” Gran said, “because I know what it’s like to have acted the fool about a man.”
Startled, Martha glanced at her grandmother.
“When I was a young girl,” Gran said, “I fell in love with a young man who was not, according to my parents, my equal either in rank or birth. My parents refused to entertain the suit.”
There was just enough light to see her grandmother smiling softly, as if she was reminiscing.
“I told my parents I would always love him, that nothing would ever change my feelings for him.”
“He wasn’t my grandfather?”
“No,” Gran said. “His name was Matthew.”
“You named your son for him,” Martha said, surprised.
Gran nodded. “It was a York family name, so no one ever knew the difference.”
“Nothing changed your feelings for him?”
Gran smiled. “No, but I began to respect your grandfather and then to feel fond of him. Later, fondness turned to love. He made my days pleasant as well as my nights. I learned that I could love someone else almost as much as I loved Matthew.”
“What happened to Matthew?”
