Flowers From The Storm by Laura Kinsale Read Free Book Online Page A

of the square. The cluster of onlookers scattered, and the boy holding the curricle hurried the pair forward to make room as the coach rumbled to a halt before the door.
    Even before the footman had jumped down off his perch to lower the steps, the carriage door was being pushed open from inside. An elderly lady groped for the footman’s hand and came swiftly down, lifting up her black skirts and advancing with an agitated thrust of her cane. Maddy saw Calvin rush down the stairs to her side; he held her arm up the stairs, as a younger woman descended from the carriage. The footman supported her to the top of the stairs, where this second lady appeared to lose her strength entirely: she faltered and seemed to wilt against the servant. His arm came around her, bracing her into the house. The door slammed shut behind them.
     
    The little crowd stood about, murmuring. Maddy could not seem to think what to do. Her feet took her slowly forward, step by step, as if her mind had relegated the decision to her body.
    At the edge of the group, leaning against the wrought iron rail that flanked the house, the crossing boy who usually swept the corner looked up at Maddy and gave her a nod of recognition. She stood uncertainly, and after a moment, he came up to her.
    “ ”Mornin‘, Miss. Has you heard?“
    She glanced up. The windows were all shaded ominously. And straw was spread in the street to muffle carriage wheels, as if there were serious illness in the house…
    “No. I haven’t heard.”
    “It’s His Grace, Miss. Shot.”
    “Shot?” Maddy whispered.
    The boy nodded toward the coach. “Family’s been called,” he said succinctly. “Too late, Tom says.
    Tom’s in the stables, saw ”em go out before first light; saw his grace brung back on a hurdle. Duel, Miss.
    Gone and kilt him, Tom says. Dead when they carried him in.“ He shrugged. ”Still— there’s the medical man here yet. Waitin‘ for the family, I expect.“
    Maddy stared up at the house, beyond words. The murmur of gossip subsided suddenly. They all stood listening to what had stifled it: the distant sound of a woman’s shriek—a tearing, rising note—the high-pitched keening moan of denial, cascading down to anguish. Maddy’s throat went dry and closed.
    The wail broke off abruptly as if someone else had hushed it, and the people outside gave one another knowing looks.
    She gripped her hands together. She couldn’t think. She didn’t believe it. Last night, just last night—she had never seen anyone more fully alive, more vibrant with spirit and substance.
    A duel. A senseless, futile exchange of shots. An instant, and all that life was gone.
    How could that be? Her mind balked at it. She had known him to be what he was: a rake, a reprobate—before yesterday she would have said, yes, I believe it, the Duke of Jervaulx was shot and killed in a duel this morning. But now it shocked her into suspension, so that when she turned away, she didn’t know where to go or what to do.
    She walked along blindly, clutching her hands together.
    He’d known last night, of course. He’d sat there smiling at them, talking of geometry, describing her to her father. All the time, he’d known he was to go out and face this in a few hours.
    It was beyond the capability of her mind to grasp. She’d lost her mother, and some friends, all to illness, all much older—not this sudden dizzying turn in reality.
    And his own mother—dear God, what she must feel! She was the second of the two ladies, Maddy was sure in her heart, remembering that faltering collapse at the door. Oh, she had perceived it already, had known before they told her, had given that terrible cry when she was sure. The other—in black, the elderly one who had gone in as if to a battle—it would be she who would show nothing, stand stiff and proud, grieving silently.
    Maddy felt somehow as if she should be there, offering what help she could to them. She found herself instead inside the door