The duke opened his eyes and looked around at the group.
“How are you, sir?” Ralph asked foolishly.
His grandfather’s eyes found him, and for a moment there seemed to be a glimmer of humor in them—and of affection.
“Dying, my boy,” he said. “A foot and a half through the door at last. And not before time. I have long outlived my allotted three score years and ten.”
Ralph would have moved around the bed to his grandmother’s side, but Chloe was already there, he saw when he looked up. She had an arm about the duchess’s shoulders.
The valet was dabbing a wet cloth to the duke’s face. The housekeeper had appeared at the door, where she stood beside Weller. Ralph’s own valet hovered just outside the door with a cluster of other servants.
The duke had closed his eyes again. Her Grace had taken his hand in both of hers and raised it to her cheek. Chloe stood with her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes upon the duke’s face.
“The physician needs to hurry,” the duke’s valet said, straightening up and looking imploringly at Ralph, anguish in his eyes.
“He will come as fast as he can.” Ralph moved up beside him and squeezed his shoulder, and the man stepped away to wash off the cloth in the basin and squeeze it out until it must have been nearly dry.
Ralph touched his grandfather’s shoulder and gazed down into his face.
Don’t die, he begged silently. Don’t die. Please don’t die.
But everything died just as surely as love did.
The old, dying eyes opened again and found the duchess.
“Emmy,” he said.
“Ned. My dearest.”
Ralph looked away. His eyes met Chloe’s across the bed and she half smiled at him. Strangely, it did not seem an inappropriate expression, only an apparent acknowledgement that she knew his mind was repeating the same words over and over—Don’t die. Please don’t die.
He heard himself swallow, and then, only a moment or two later, it seemed, he heard his grandmother’s voice again, very quiet, very calm.
“He is gone.”
And he was indeed. He was lying as before, his eyes closed, his gray face peaceful. But something had changed. Everything had changed. There was no one there.
He was gone.
8
The duchess and Ralph, on either side of the bed, were gazing numbly down upon the duke’s dead body. Chloe glanced from one to the other of them, wondering which she should try to comfort first. But of course there was no comfort. She remembered that very well indeed from the night her mother died.
A hushed voice close to her ear broke the silence.
“What ought I to do, Your Grace?” It was the housekeeper. “What ought we all to do? We can hardly just go back to bed.”
Chloe turned to beg the woman not to disturb the duchess at such a moment, only to realize in some shock that Mrs. Loftus was addressing her. She was the Duchess of Worthingham. Ralph was the duke. It was a nasty shock that made her feel as though she was about to buckle at the knees.
Mrs. Loftus and Mr. Weller normally kept Manville Court running with smooth precision and absolute authority. But both were rather elderly. They had probably occupied their positions for many years and had grown deeply attached to their employers. They ought, of course, to be prepared for this moment, since the old duke had been in precarious health for some time, but clearly they were not. Both were looking lost and helpless and had turned to Chloe for guidance.
She was, after all, now the mistress of Manville Court—shocking, ghastly thought. But someone had to take charge. She stepped out into the corridor beyond the bedchamber door with Mr. Weller and Mrs. Loftus and spoke with lowered voice to the servants gathered there—and there was a fair crowd of them. Chloe doubted anyone was still in bed.
“It will be best if Mr. Weller remains up here,” she said. “His services will almost certainly be required. Perhaps you will choose one of the footmen to remain with you, Mr. Weller. You will wish to stay too, of course, Mr. Bentley.” She looked with sympathy at the haggard face of the duke’s elderly valet, who was hovering in the doorway. “You will definitely be needed. None more so.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he murmured.
Chloe led everyone else down to the kitchen. There she found a couple of kitchen maids and one young boy clustered forlornly about the cook. All of them curtsied to her and fell silent, looking to her for direction. They must all know far better than she what needed doing, of course, but for the moment they were collectively stunned and helpless.
Only a matter of hours ago, they had all been lined up in the back hall, beaming with pleasure at the sight of a new bride and groom . . .
Chloe instructed the cook to get the fire going in the big range and sent a maid to fill the large kettle and the boy to work the pump for her. She suggested an early breakfast for all the servants who were not otherwise employed, as the day ahead was likely to be a busy one and different from the usual routine, and none of them could be certain when they would next be at leisure to partake of a good meal. She directed that a tea tray be prepared and the kettle kept at the boil so that tea or coffee could be made at a moment’s notice. She suggested that a batch of scones be baked as soon as possible and that one of the footmen should check the liquor decanters in the drawing room to make sure they had been filled last night. She assigned another footman to make sure the coal scuttle in the drawing room was full and sent a maid up with him to light the fire and start warming the room. Mrs. Loftus would supervise everything else that needed doing, Chloe told them all, since Mr. Weller was otherwise occupied, at least for now.