“It is. It belonged to my parents. I had it refurbished. I’ve always thought it rather splendid to travel in.”
“Do you wish to dazzle your tenants with such a display?” she questioned, her tone holding an edge.
“Not for their impression as much, I like to see them when I arrive, and for them to see me. I suppose in a manner, it does not hurt to remind others of my station.”
“Others?” she queried. “Who if not your tenants?”
“Other nobles who might be visiting or who might be told of my grand entrance,” he said with a small smile. “There are always some who do not deem me worthy of my position. And it helps silence the chatter if they see a manifestation of what a duke ought to be. Specifically the Duke of Leith.”
She pursed her lips. “And pray, what is it to be a Duke of Leith?” she asked. “I know naught of it. You are but the second Duke of Leith, am I not correct?”
He nodded, crossing one leg over the other as he turned his attention toward her. “My grandfather was the Earl of Worcester. Hayward House was his estate, as the area here is known as Worcester, as you may be aware.”
She nodded in acknowledgment.
“When my father went to Ireland, he intended on giving up Worcester for my grandfather was a dreadful drunkard. There are many colorful stories about him, if you ever wish to hear them. Anyhow, my father earned a title in his own right due to his service during the Napoleonic Wars. On his return to England, he was elevated to a marquess, and shortly thereafter, was granted a dukedom for his heroics in the war that had long remained obscured. My father was a man of modesty who would never wish to boast of his actions, yet suffice it to say he saved a renowned general, and when the news came to the Prince Regent at that time, he was bestowed his title.”
“And where, pray, is Leith? I’ve never heard of it,” she asked, impressed by the story. She’d heard some about his family and specifically his grandfather from Millie, but she could not deny it was fascinating to hear him talk about it.
“Leith is located in Northumberland, where resides the estate as well. I shall take you one day if you wish, but it is presently rented out.”
“I see,” she replied, “I had no inkling. That is a most impressive lineage.”
He smiled faintly and gazed out the window. “Accomplishments by others,” he commented with a shrug.
“And yet you carry the legacy on your shoulders as heir,” she noted, and he nodded, though a shadow passed over his countenance, leading her to ponder whether she had been wrong in her choice of words.
“And your mother?” she prodded. “What is her story?”
His expression shifted, his jaw working back and forth, a habit she had noticed he exhibited when he wished to avoid certain topics. He had done so frequently during the week since their nuptials. “You have not told me about her yet,” she insisted gently.
He shrugged. “If you wish to know. There is not much to tell. She was an Irish woman, a Catholic. Her name was Catriona Smith,” he remarked, casting his gaze once more to the window. “I know very little of her. She was an orphan raised by family friends. My father encountered her when he first journeyed to Ireland, and she passed away at my birth.”
She inhaled sharply. The disparity between how he had spoken of his father’s family and that of his mother was striking. He had shared rich details concerning his father, highlighting his heroism, yet his mother’s life was narrated as if from a mere ledger.
“Know you naught of her? Where she came from? What she was like?”
“I know nothing else,” he replied. “My father remained reticent about her all my life. By the time he brought me back here from Ireland, many years had gone by since her death. Besides, he wed my stepmother shortly thereafter, and Lydia Hayward has always been my mother. I could recount her life story at length if you desire, but of my birth mother, I know nothing,” he concluded, his voice trailing off.
“I understand,” she replied, crossing her feet at the ankles as they approached Worcester, the little village into which they were now driving. As soon as they turned through the town gates, people waved at them—ladies curtsied, gentlemen bowed, and children lifted their hats in greeting.
“Your Grace,” someone called, eliciting waves from both Eammon and a little boy. The townsfolk called out to Charity as well, and she returned their waves. She had to confess, she felt rather like a queen traversing in such fashion.
“This must be what it is like for Queen Victoria ,” she marveled.
He chuckled. “Yes, I would think so. Although her receptions are somewhat grander, more lively, I imagine.”
They smiled at one another, and then, when they arrived in the town square, the carriage came to a stop, and he assisted her down. Ambrose and Hector had been brought earlier in the day to allow them time to be fed, watered, and rested, but she spotted the two little horses as soon as they exited.
Just off the marketplace, which was teeming with people, a circular space had been established, cordoned off with rope stretched between barrels. To the side, a place for the horses to eat allowed Ambrose to nibble on hay while Hector drank from a nearby bucket.
“Ambrose!” she called, beaming as the horse raised his head and let out a cheerful nicker on seeing her. The young groom who had accompanied the horses from Hayward greeted her with a deep bow.
“They have been fed, watered, and brushed,” he reported, and she nodded. “Is Your Grace to take Ambrose with a child while I tend to Hector?”
“Yes, I shall take Ambrose, and you shall take Hector. We will both take a child and make two rounds around the circle. I do not wish to have more than five take a turn before we take a short breather.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the boy replied.
