1806
Silence reigned throughout the cavernous darkness as the thin young girl slowly descended the great oak staircase. Again, sleep’s gentle touch eluded her, and she hoped a mug of milk might aid her to slumber. As she reached the first landing, she paused. Could someone be there? Tilting her head to the side she listened intently, trying to probe the dense blackness. Her breath expelled in her relief. The sinister noise was only the swish, click, swish, click of the massive pendulum clock a few feet away.
Stopping at the bottom of the staircase, she extended one hand searchingly before her. Vaguely, she recalled the kitchen being located down a long passage to her left. Cautiously, she proceeded, unnerved in the dark and eerily quiet house.
“Drake, my dear brother, you cannot be so heartless! Celia’s parents have been dead for just a week.” The girl froze upon hearing her name and the anger in the Duchess of Harbrooke’s usually gentle voice.
“Be reasonable, Imy; the chit is little more than a child,” came the irritated reply. Realizing the voices were coming from the library, Celia moved silently and tentatively toward the door that was slightly ajar. She recognized the deeper voice as belonging to her grace’s brother, the Duke of Severly.
“As you know, before he died, Philip gave me half guardianship over your sons,” he said. “I take this responsibility seriously, and I do not like the idea of a child having charge over my nephews.” The duke’s tone was emphatic. Celia’s breath suddenly felt trapped in her body. With trembling fingers she clutched the edge of a hall table to steady her legs.
“Celia is sixteen, Drake, which is not infantile. Her father was the vicar of Harford, and when my dear husband died, he and his wife were of great comfort to me. Celia is a good and intelligent girl. I like her, and so do the boys. Celia is an orphan now. Having her live with me and the boys is the best arrangement for us all.” The duchess’s voice sounded stubborn.
“Sixteen? I hesitate to give a child so much responsibility. Can you not find someone like our old nanny, Crawfie, to care for the boys? Someone more mature, more trustworthy?” His deep voice portrayed intolerance and impatience.
Terror filled Celia’s heart as she suppressed an anguished gasp with a clutched hand pressed to her mouth. They were going to send her away! Where could she go? Would she end up in a workhouse? Oh, Mama, Papa, why did you leave me? Celia restrained herself from crying out in her fear and loneliness.
Standing petrified, she listened to the argumentative tones, oblivious to the faint chill seeping into her skin from the cold stone floor.
“Drake, you know Crawfie is too old to take full charge of the boys, but she will still be here to help. Besides, I have no desire to be away and leave them under the supervision of someone else. Do you think I will go back into Society just because my year of mourning will soon be completed? No, I am very content to stay here at Harbrooke.”
“I can see that you are determined in this, Imy, but if I ever feel the girl is not doing a proper job of caring for Henry and Peter, I shall press the issue.”
“Everything will be fine; you will see. Let us not argue on this any longer,” Imogene said wearily.
“Of course, dear sister, get some rest. I shall stay and read a little longer.”
Celia heard her grace’s steps coming toward the door. With a quick turn, she lifted the skirt of her bed gown and fled back down the hall, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cold stone. She did not slow her flight until reaching the sanctuary of her little room on the second floor.
“Why does he hate me?” Celia wondered aloud in anguish, clutching the bedpost as if someone were trying to wrench her from it. “What have I done?” Tears rolled down her thin face. How the duke terrified her with his mean, hawklike face. At this moment she believed he could be the devil himself. Celia crawled into her feather bed and buried herself under the covers. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed fervently that the duke would leave Harbrooke very soon and never return.