Page 6 of The Duke and his Muse
And he had. The little boy still cried for his mother a few times each day. Graham read to his son nightly as a way to help lessen the grief his poor son must feel with the loss of his mother
“I believe Hayward’s daughter was the illustrator for the books,” he commented. “The illustrator is listed as J. Hayward; his daughter’s Christian name is Jane.
An idea had begun to form in his mind. “Perhaps the lady has an unfinished manuscript lying around or could write a book herself for Daniel.”
“Perhaps,” his mother replied slowly. “What are you thinking, Graham?”
“I’mthinkingthat the woman lives not too far from Bartlett House near the village of Matford.” He folded the letter and placed it in an inside pocket of his blue superfine jacket. “That is convenient.”
“I know your intention is to help Daniel with his grief, but is a book the best way to do it?”
He rose to his feet. “The only time the child will even look at me is if I’m holding one of those books. I would be his hero if I could present him with another one.”
His mother didn’t look convinced but said no more.
A fortnight later, he arrived in the tiny hamlet of Matford. His grand carriage resulted in a crowd gathering, and his coachman quickly obtained instructions to the cottage of Miss Jane Hayward without divulging who was in the coach.
As he rode toward the young woman’s abode, Graham pulled back the curtain on one of the windows and was struck by the beauty and peacefulness of the house’s setting. Placed near a copse of silver birch trees, the cottage looked to be at one with its pastoral surroundings.
A knock at the door revealed a young maid. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon. Is Miss Hayward at home for callers?”
“I’ll see, sir. Your name?”
“Graham Bartlett, Duke of Exeter.”
The young woman’s eyes widened as she stepped back. “Your Grace, do come in. I’ll return in a moment.”
He stepped into the darkened interior.
The maid rushed out of the tiny hall into a doorway on the right. There was a door way to the left, and a staircase ahead of him.
The maid returned quickly, out of breath. “My mistress will see you now, your Grace.”
Graham followed the woman into the room to the right, stooping slightly as his six feet height was too much for the sloping beams over his head.
“Graham Bartlett, Duke of Exeter,” the maid announced as she entered a small room and then stood to one side.
A young woman rose from her place on a slightly shabby stuffed chair and dropped an awkward curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Miss Hayward,” he replied formally as he sat on a surprisingly well-sprung settee and waited for the young woman to regain her seat.
“Bring a tea tray, Maisie,” his hostess said quietly.
Once the maid had departed, he looked down, noticing a cat sniffing at his boots.
“Oliver!” Miss Hayward flushed, leaning forward and snapping her fingers to gain the cat’s attention. “Leave his Grace alone.”
“The cat bothers me not at all,” he replied lightly.
After a few more sniffs of his footwear, the cat wandered off to lie near the cold hearth, apparently having no further interest in the newcomer.
“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, your Grace?”
Despite using the word ‘honor,’ the young woman’s tone led him to believe she saw the visit as no boon, but as an inconvenience.
“Miss Hayward, when I received your reply to my query about having a book commissioned, I was surprised to see how close your abode was to my estate.” He paused to smile congenially. “Perhaps if I tell you of my conundrum, you could help me.”
