Page 24 of A Wicked Duke's Arranged Marriage
Damn.
Martha.
“She would want you to be happy,” Catherine had said. And Henry knew that it was true.
So why did his physical response to Josephine make him feel he was disrespecting her memory? Or worse … forgetting her.
“Damnation,” Henry muttered aloud, stepping back aggravatedly and running his hand through his hair as he quickly crossed the room to sit behind his desk. “What in the seven hells am I doing?”
“Your Grace?”
Henry almost dropped his head down to his desk and groaned as Harbuttle picked that moment to return, a bottle of whisky in hand.
“I’m talking to myself,” Henry admitted with a sigh. “The first sign of madness, I’m sure.”
“Not the first, sir,” Harbuttle returned evenly, unperturbed despite the turn in conversation. “I imagine there are many more silent cues that come first.”
The old butler said it dryly, his face a mask of indifference, but the humour wasn’t lost on Henry.
He snorted as Harbuttle put the bottle on the desk and moved to get Henry a glass.
“Have I exhibited a great many of them then?” Henry asked honestly, running his hand down his face as he leaned back in his chair.
Harbuttle eyed Henry seriously as he returned, uncorking the whisky and pouring as if he were buying time before answering.
“When I lost Mrs Harbuttle, I almost lost my position here,” Harbuttle said slowly instead of answering Henry’s question. “You were a young man then. I doubt that you remember–”
“No, no,” Henry rushed to assure him, his throat growing strangely tight. “I do remember. I had just turned fifteen, I think.” Harbuttle’s wife had been his mother’s closest maid, always ready with treats to sneak Henry growing up and with a firm kindness that had never faltered.
“Yes, Your Grace. Your father was very understanding. She was old enough for it not to be any great surprise given her history. Women from her village didn’t live very long. Something about the harsh winters and humidity. I’d never given it much thought.” Harbuttle paused, staring off, and Henry felt himself identify with that far-away look in his eyes.
“I expected at the very least to go before her,” the butler continued. “That was some fifteen-odd years ago, though.” And clearly that hadn’t happened.
Henry reached across the desk, grabbing another glass and pouring whisky into it to hand to a surprised-looking Harbuttle.
“After … Well, Your Grace, I think you handled your grief much more admirably than I did.” The old butler made an undignified noise, taking a long draught of his whisky before he shook his head. “I was angry, Your Grace. I was angry with God, with the world, with anyone and everyone who lived who wasn’t my Annise.”
Henry felt his chest tighten, his grip around his whisky doing the same as he finally went to take a drink.
“I accused your father of not providing enough care for her.” Harbuttle paused, looking embarrassed, and Henry found his eyebrows raising.
His father had never mentioned such a thing. Not that he would have had to, but still, it was a shocking bit of news.
“Had he not?” Henry asked hesitantly, unsure whether he wanted to hear the truth of Harbuttle’s answer.
The old butler laughed. “Your father went above and beyond to see to her health,” he admitted wryly. “He paid out of his own pocket to ensure that she was comfortable in her last days. But, as I said, I was angry.”
Henry nodded. He could understand the inclination.
He’d raged in those days after Martha. When the lawmen had been unable to provide him with any leads as to how his wife could have been murdered.
When they’d tried finding any other explanation to sweep it under the rug.
Thanks to the furniture he had broken that week, there was an entire bonfire.
“It’s been three years,” Henry muttered, finishing the whisky in his glass in one large swig before pouring another.
“It’s been fifteen,” Harbuttle answered dryly.
