To the hallowed memory of
Duke of Osborne VII
who was once a student here.
1811–1848
It was one of many small monuments scattered across different grounds and parks.Some had been created especially for the purpose of commemorating the man.Others, like this one, had simply been slapped onto existing troughs, benches, and archways.
Death made saints out of the most mediocre of men.It wiped away their faults and let their small moments of kindness or concession shine brighter than their intention.It turned duty and everyday work into sacrifice.It trivialised transgressions and made them understandable, relatable.Even inevitable.
That’s what had happened to the memory of the late duke of Osborne, William West, a man with a name and list of titles so long he had to draw breath halfway through reciting them to finish.He’d been an average student and a lazy one.A boy who copied notes off his lower-ranking peers—which meant almost everyone.The others had been obsequious.Tillman, who’d worked hard for a free place at this school and worked even harder to keep it, had taken offence.He’d thumped His Bloody Grace William West, Duke of Osborne, Earl of Something and the Rest, then told him to figure out the circumference of a circle for himself.And as so often happened with schoolboys, that had been the start of a solid friendship.
Tillman stuck a wheat stalk between his teeth.It jutted hard against his tongue, and he chewed the end to soften it.He rolled it from side to side, almost in sync with Her Grace’s steps along the path.She kept casting furtive glances at the door, then back to the pavers before she raised her black skirts to turn and retrace her steps along the path.
It had been so long since she’d worn anything but black, mourning a man who did not deserve her tears.
Buttercup raised her head, water clinging to her whiskers.Tillman led her back to the carriage.He fastened the traces, checked buckles, tightened straps, adjusted the yoke.He ran his palm over her flank, then repeated the process on the other side for Melody, who barely shifted as he worked.Only the calmest, strongest, and most predictable horses were allowed to pull his duchess, and these two were the best.Not only from the estate’s stables, but possibly in all the county.
The Duke of Stoneleigh appeared at the door.‘I told you to go home.’
‘Do you really think he’s gone to London?’The duchess raised her skirts as she patted up the stairs to meet her father.‘It’s such a long way, and he’s just a boy.’
‘He is notjusta boy.He’s almost a man, and a duke at that.’The duke thumped down each step until he stood before the carriage, his daughter matching him.‘William would be horrified.You mollycoddled him when he was young.He should have been sent away sooner.’
‘He went to the preparatory school at eight, then here at twelve.Was I supposed to send him away the day his father died?’
The duke surveyed his daughter.No applause for guessing what the older man was thinking.It was a wonder he did not argue whenever the duchess brought her son home for Christmas, Easter, and birthdays, even though the boy spent his time sullen and keeping to himself, refusing to engage with anyone beyond monosyllabic responses and grunts.
‘Why do you think he’s gone to London?’she persisted.‘He’s barely been there before.Or anywhere besides school.’
‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘How can Inotworry?’
The Duke of Stoneleigh grumbled into an exhale.‘The headmaster said he was asking some of the older boys about their fathers.And sometimes about his own.The places he frequented when he was alive, what clubs he might have been a member of, that type of thing.He wants to learn about him.’
‘Did anyone talk to him about… about her?’
‘I don’t think so.But gossip like that doesn’t die.For all his efforts to keep her a secret, everyone knew.’
‘Everyone but me.’
A chill not borne from the breeze ran along Tillman’s spine, and he fumbled a harness.Luckily, Melody stamped a hoof, which smothered the clunk.
It was the first time she’d shown any kind of emotion about her husband’s mistress, if the brief, bitter quip could be called emotion.Even on the day they’d read William’s will, she’d barely flinched as the solicitor read out the paragraphs about the other woman and the son she’d borne him.William, typical arrogant arse that he’d been, hadn’t even shown any remorse on paper.He’d just made a pathetic plea from beyond the grave that, while he’d done what he could to financially buffer them, would the estate step in to support them if their fortunes changed?Would his family show some compassion for these people he cared for?Young Arley, not quite six, sitting in the chair opposite the solicitor with his feet hanging off the edge of the cushion, had perhaps not even understood.He had watched his mother, blinking, brow creasing with the news that he had a bastard half-brother he was expected to look out for in life.Like the Duke of Stoneleigh said—everyone knew.And as she’d remained immovable as stone, Tillman had assumed she knew, too.
‘I’ve sent men to look for him,’ the duke continued without a pause to acknowledge his daughter’s admission.‘We’ll find him.But I will not tolerate my grandson making a spectacle of himself.He will have to learn.’
‘What can I do?There must be someth—’
‘Go home, Lorelei.I’ll send you a note when everything’s sorted.’He gave his daughter a familial peck on the cheek.His arms stayed stiff at his sides, as did hers.
The duchess watched her father as he walked up the stairs and disappeared into the foyer.The light from the carriage lamp encircled her, and as a cloud lazed across the moon, it cast a shadow over her form.Her shoulders rose, then fell, squaring with an exhalation.
‘Mr Masters?’she called, still facing away from him, although her words carried.
‘Your Grace?’
