By Jaimey Grant (Thoughtless/Blue Skies/January)
(Parts 4 and 5 of this story are available on Jaimey's website: www.jaimeygrant.com)
A lady never interfered with a gentleman's pursuits. Not even if that gentleman was the lady's husband and the lady loved him more than life. Not even if that gentleman was about to get himself killed due to a stupid insult from an idiotic young man.
Lady Maria paced the drawing room floor, caring little that her actions were sure to wear an unlovely hole in the beautiful Aubusson carpet. Was pacing ladylike behavior? Maria shook her head. She didn't care. And she didn't care that her lack of concern was just as unladylike.
A January chill crept in around the window, making Maria shiver as she passed. Sunlight caught her eye and she paused, marveling at the early morning sun's audacity. How could it be so thoughtless as to shine in the blue, blue sky in such a cheerful manner? Surely everyone, even the sun, knew her husband would die this day?
Maria's hands clenched, fingers twisting and tearing the delicate lawn overdress of her lavender morning gown. She barely noticed, so caught up was she in visions of Richard bleeding, dying in the already dead grass of Putney Heath. A shudder racked her small frame. Life could not be so unfair!
When Richard had first challenged the Duke of Derringer to a duel, Maria was sure it had been nothing more than a public display of outrage, a way to save face with so many looking on. Now, today, Maria realized the error of her thinking. Her husband had been deadly serious in his challenge and Lord Derringer was just such a one to thrive on bloodshed. Richard meant to teach Derringer a lesson about insulting the wives of peers and Derringer meant to make a mockery of Maria's marriage.
And kill Maria's husband.
Maria shouldn't even know where the duel was to be held. She'd overheard her husband's valet mention the location in passing. And what did it matter that she knew? There was nothing she could do to stop it.
Or was there?
Maria stopped pacing, glancing down at the breakfast tray left for her by some thoughtful servant. No doubt her failure to appear in the breakfast room, as was her habit, had alarmed certain faithful retainers who saw to her comfort just as if she had any right to their loyalty. Had she been born into the aristocracy, instead of having married into it from the working class, she might believe they owed her some of the loyalty they bestowed upon her husband. But duchess or not, she was not of her husband's class and never would be if she didn't start thinking like a lady and stop thinking like a woman in love.
Still, what wife would sit idly by and allow her husband to die if she had the means to stop him? But did she? Her gaze slid over the knife on the tray. It was dull, to be sure, but sharp enough.
What she contemplated was madness. Surely there was a better answer?
As if another being inhabited her body, Maria reached for the knife. With one quick movement, she slashed her hand. Blood seeped from the resultant wound, a swift welling of bright red that spread and darkened.
A scream ripped from her throat. Horror at her stupid actions melded with the pain now radiating from her flesh.
What had she done?
As servants converged upon her from all directions, this one question repeated itself in her mind. Over and over, the words tumbled over one another until they no longer resembled the original thought.
Blackness edged its way into her vision, blackness Maria fought even as the maid at her side fought to stem the flow of blood. She didn't understand what was happening now, only that she hurt, the wound wouldn't stop bleeding, and the maid wrapped cloth after cloth around her wrist.
Her wrist?
The blackness was winning. Her sight grew hazy, the servants' voices garbled, and everything became oddly unreal. And yet, one statement, shouted by the butler to the first footman, made its way into her brain, allowing a smile to break forth.
“Quickly! Send for the master!”
(Parts 4 and 5 of this story are available on Jaimey's website: www.jaimeygrant.com)
A lady never interfered with a gentleman's pursuits. Not even if that gentleman was the lady's husband and the lady loved him more than life. Not even if that gentleman was about to get himself killed due to a stupid insult from an idiotic young man.
Lady Maria paced the drawing room floor, caring little that her actions were sure to wear an unlovely hole in the beautiful Aubusson carpet. Was pacing ladylike behavior? Maria shook her head. She didn't care. And she didn't care that her lack of concern was just as unladylike.
A January chill crept in around the window, making Maria shiver as she passed. Sunlight caught her eye and she paused, marveling at the early morning sun's audacity. How could it be so thoughtless as to shine in the blue, blue sky in such a cheerful manner? Surely everyone, even the sun, knew her husband would die this day?
Maria's hands clenched, fingers twisting and tearing the delicate lawn overdress of her lavender morning gown. She barely noticed, so caught up was she in visions of Richard bleeding, dying in the already dead grass of Putney Heath. A shudder racked her small frame. Life could not be so unfair!
When Richard had first challenged the Duke of Derringer to a duel, Maria was sure it had been nothing more than a public display of outrage, a way to save face with so many looking on. Now, today, Maria realized the error of her thinking. Her husband had been deadly serious in his challenge and Lord Derringer was just such a one to thrive on bloodshed. Richard meant to teach Derringer a lesson about insulting the wives of peers and Derringer meant to make a mockery of Maria's marriage.
And kill Maria's husband.
Maria shouldn't even know where the duel was to be held. She'd overheard her husband's valet mention the location in passing. And what did it matter that she knew? There was nothing she could do to stop it.
Or was there?
Maria stopped pacing, glancing down at the breakfast tray left for her by some thoughtful servant. No doubt her failure to appear in the breakfast room, as was her habit, had alarmed certain faithful retainers who saw to her comfort just as if she had any right to their loyalty. Had she been born into the aristocracy, instead of having married into it from the working class, she might believe they owed her some of the loyalty they bestowed upon her husband. But duchess or not, she was not of her husband's class and never would be if she didn't start thinking like a lady and stop thinking like a woman in love.
Still, what wife would sit idly by and allow her husband to die if she had the means to stop him? But did she? Her gaze slid over the knife on the tray. It was dull, to be sure, but sharp enough.
What she contemplated was madness. Surely there was a better answer?
As if another being inhabited her body, Maria reached for the knife. With one quick movement, she slashed her hand. Blood seeped from the resultant wound, a swift welling of bright red that spread and darkened.
A scream ripped from her throat. Horror at her stupid actions melded with the pain now radiating from her flesh.
What had she done?
As servants converged upon her from all directions, this one question repeated itself in her mind. Over and over, the words tumbled over one another until they no longer resembled the original thought.
Blackness edged its way into her vision, blackness Maria fought even as the maid at her side fought to stem the flow of blood. She didn't understand what was happening now, only that she hurt, the wound wouldn't stop bleeding, and the maid wrapped cloth after cloth around her wrist.
Her wrist?
The blackness was winning. Her sight grew hazy, the servants' voices garbled, and everything became oddly unreal. And yet, one statement, shouted by the butler to the first footman, made its way into her brain, allowing a smile to break forth.
“Quickly! Send for the master!”
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