Lud. Rob blinked; as well as feeling great pity for his father, he also began to feel tremendously sorry for himself. Would this pain be with him for life? Would he spend every morning ruing the loss of Lady Julia?
"I am sorry for your loss, my son," Staffordshire offered gruffly.
"Well, the lady is not dead," Rob replied, hoping to lighten the mood, "I might see her if I choose. From far away and with a telescope. Very far away, mind, she is quite an accomplished young woman, and I don't doubt that her aim is true."
The duke gave a surprised guffaw and leaned over to clasp Robert's shoulder with genuine affection.
"She might have disappeared," Staffordshire said, "But in her wake, she has left a man that any father might be proud of."
"Truly?" Rob raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, most definitely," Staffordshire grinned, "I used to change the subject when people brought you up. Now, I shall raise you as a topic of conversation myself."
"Charming," Rob returned, unsure if he should be mildly insulted.
In the end, he decided against it. His father was not a man of great emotions, and it had taken recognising his own pain reflected in his son for him to finally see Rob properly. He had taken a great leap, even if from the outside it only looked like he had budged an inch.
"Care for another tipple?" Staffordshire asked, as he noted Rob's empty glass.
"No," Rob shook his head and set his tumbler aside, "I have work to do with Laurence, and it is probably best done with a sober head."
"Suit yourself," Staffordshire replied, pouring himself another generous measure, "I shall see you later."
"Indeed," Robert smiled, before taking his leave.
He walked out the door with a broken heart, but his head held high. He was a better man for having loved Lady Julia, and one day—perhaps a lifetime away—he might finally recover from the pain of losing her.
Chapter Eleven
In the day that followed the disastrous masquerade, Julia decided that she could not face the world. She stayed in bed until after late evening, resisting all calls from her mother to waken.
"I don't know why she is playing at being disappointed, when it is my heart that is broken," she heard her mama wail outside her bedchamber door to poor Maria.
"The duel," the lady's maid replied, her voice carrying, "She is upset about her poor cousin."
"Thomas will be fine," Lady Cavendish snapped, "'Twas just a graze, the doctor said he will be right as rain in a few weeks. You tell my daughter that if she does not appear for dinner, she will be packed off to Aunt Mildred's by morning."
"Yes, my lady," Maria said, and a few seconds later she was beside Julia, urging her from her bed.
"A bath and a walk shall lift your spirits," the maid whispered in her ear, "We might wash those silly ringlets out."
"My hair does not matter," Julia sighed.
"Hair always matters," Maria replied grimly, and with a firm hand, she tugged Julia from beneath the bedsheets.
Julia was silent as Maria assisted her with her toilette and dressed her into a fine walking dress.
"A jaunt around the park," the maid said cheerfully, "That will blow the cobwebs away."
"There are no cobwebs in my heart, it has simply turned to stone," Julia retorted, but she allowed herself to be led downstairs, and out into the gathering dusk.
It was nice to be out in the fresh air, Julia thought, though she was no t about to admit as much to Maria. They walked in silence, taking in two loops of the gardens, before they decided to return home.
"Cook has made lamb," Maria offered, and Julia's stomach grumbled treacherously in reply.
The pair quickened their step, but as they reached the gates, they were greeted by the sight of a familiar figure.
"Lady Havisham," Julia called in greeting to Aunt Phoebe, who was accompanied by Dorothy, and a large mastiff.
