A Dream Not Imagined Read online

  Raised voices were coming from the main sitting room. Ellie paused in the entrance of the castle, heart pounding, unsure of what to do.

  “Why did you do it? Why did you marry her?” Lady Abbington’s voice came, sounding shrill and panicked.

  “Why? You ask why? I loved her, Geneva. What did you expect me to do?” a male voice boomed in response.

  Ellie inched closer and peeked through the partly-open door. She gasped softly.

  Duke Alexander Davonley stood in her home, hair mussed, staring hard at her stepmother.

  Lady Abbington pushed away from the mantle-piece. “You were in love with her? And what about me, Alexander? Where did that leave me?”

  Duke Davonley sighed harshly, running a hand through his hair. “You were a pleasant distraction, Geneva. I didn’t realize a couple of carriage rides and a few invitations to sup with me would get you thinking of marriage. I never loved you; I was only waiting for Philippa to return from her time with her father . . . hopefully with the blessing for us to wed.”

  “Oh, don’t start acting like it was my fault!” Lady Abbington shouted. “You engaged my emotions, and then you left without a word and married her. You left me, Alexander! You left me!” Her voice was a hysterical wail.

  Duke Davonley marched across the luxurious room toward her. “How many times do you want me to apologize?” he ground out. “And how does this justify what you did?”

  A shudder ran through Ellie’s being as she watched the awful interaction. That could be me. The thought sprang into her head as she thought about Prince Charles, and she gave a little cry of distress.

  The stately duke and her disheveled stepmother spun around to face her.

  A strange gleam came to Lady Abbington’s eyes and she flew to Ellie’s side. “You can’t have her!” she cried in the direction of the duke.

  A feeling like a vise tightened around Ellie’s throat. “What are you talking about?” she muttered as her stepmother’s arms came around her, not protectively, but in a possessive way.

  Duke Davonley’s eyes widened and softened as he looked closely at Ellie’s face. He swallowed hard and then glanced at Lady Abbington, his eyes becoming steely again. “You have no right to say that,” he said in a low voice.

  “She should have been mine!” Lady Abbington shrieked.

  Thoughts whirled through Ellie’s head at a dizzying rate. She wrenched away from her stepmother’s grip and turned to stare at the two red-faced individuals. “What’s going on?” she demanded, wiping sweaty hands on the skirt of her red dress. She felt herself waver; reached out to steady herself against a wall.

  “You would have been mine, had he been honorable to me,” Lady Abbington said, glaring at the duke.

  Ellie shook her head. “What . . . ?” she faltered. “I-I don’t understand.”

  Lady Abbington was silent, her chest heaving, her eyes angry and a bit wild.

  Duke Davonley took a step toward Ellie and then stopped. He glanced at Lady Abbington, his stance rigid, and declared, “You are my daughter, Ellie: Antoinette Davonley.”

  Lady Abbington screamed something in denial and Duke Davonley called out to her.

  But Ellie heard no more. Her world simply faded into blackness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN ELLIE AWOKE, she felt so groggy that she almost laid her head down on the pillow again and let sleep take her back.

  But something wasn’t right; was that satin beneath her fingertips?

  Ellie’s eyes snapped open and shock reverberated through her being. “Good gracious.” She heard her voice, sounding almost as stunned as she felt.

  A satin, red canopy was above her head; satin pillows and bedcover graced the bed she was lying on. Immense windows with heavy golden drapes lined the walls, and a white wood wardrobe and matching vanity sparkling with glass perfume bottles and bright jeweled accessories graced the large bedchamber.

  Ellie pressed a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes abruptly. What on earth . . . ?

  And then she remembered.

  Daughter. Duke Davonley. Antoinette, the little girl who’d died in a fire.

  Except . . . she hadn’t really died?

  An agitated cry slipped from Ellie’s lips and she sprang out of the plush, fancy bed. Where was she? How dare they cart her about while she was unconscious! Ellie grabbed a soft pink morning coat and threw it about her shoulders to cover the white nightdress she was wearing. With her unbound hair falling down her back, she yanked open the bedchamber door and stormed down an unfamiliar, ornately-decorated corridor.

  Angry, confused, vulnerable, and with a shockingly painful ache in her heart, Ellie heaved breaths, feeling as though she were stuck in a fuzzy, frightening dream. “Duke Davonley!” she called out, hardly recognizing her own voice.

  She started running, down halls, through vast, quiet, and empty rooms. “Duke Davonley!” she shouted, brushing wisps of hair from her frantic eyes. “Lady Abbington? Dezmarie? Adelaide?” Her voice grew ragged. “Mother!” she cried, desperate. “Mother!”

  What?

  Ellie drew to an abrupt stop and pressed her hands to her cheeks, throat convulsing. She had never called a woman “mother” in her life. Never.

  “Mother!” A childish voice rang through her head—her own voice. “Mother, come watch me dance!”

  Ellie breathed in sharply and sank to her knees as dizziness overwhelmed her. “Am I going mad?”

  Duke Davonley suddenly appeared in the room and hastened to her side. “Antoinette, dear, what—?”

  “What is going on?” Ellie asked, her voice cracking as she hovered at the brink of tears. “What have you done to my life?” Her voice rose, high and distressed.

  “Dear girl,” the duke murmured, alarm written over his face. “I didn’t realize you’d be so distraught. But I suppose this could bring back the day when Lady Abbington took you away to her home, and your mother was gone—”

  “What are you talking about?” Ellie cried, even as strange feelings enveloped her. “I am a maid! I read about this Duchess Antoinette’s death in the daily tiding scrolls—”

  Duke Davonley interrupted gently, “You are Duchess Antoinette, Ellie. You are the daughter I’d thought I’d lost forever.” Emotion thickened his voice and he looked away.

  Ellie fought the sudden urge to fling herself into the man’s arms. She was stunned by this reaction. Oh God, help me, please . . .

  Was there truth to the duke’s outrageous words?

  Duke Davonley cleared his throat. “We’ll have some breakfast, darling. I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “You passed out and cut open your arm on a vase that broke when you fell,” the duke explained, handing her a pewter platter filled with an assortment of fruits. “The healer gave you a potion to keep you asleep, and stitched up the cut. And then—”

  “Then you kept giving me doses of the potion so I’d stay unconscious and unaware until you brought me here,” Ellie interrupted, staring dully out a window at the manicured lawns and gardens.

  Duke Davonley cleared his throat, flushing. “We gave you it for the pain.”

  Ellie didn’t answer. The Davonley lands were quite a piece away from the royal palace and the Abbington estate. She wasn’t sure how they’d managed to keep her asleep through the whole trip. Perhaps a mixture of the healer’s brew and her extreme shock. Ellie ran the back of her hand over her forehead, staring at the table without seeing.

  “I know you are shocked,” Duke Davonley said quietly. “I was quite shaken as well.”

  “What happened?” Ellie asked in a whisper, looking up. “If I am Antoinette, then why did those scrolls say she was killed in a fire?” She paused, then asked, “What is it?” as the duke kept staring at her.

  The regal man started and looked away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that you do indeed look so much like your mother.”

  Tingles went through Ellie.
<
br />   “Now, as for your question.” Duke Davonley set his fork aside, pushing back his plate of half-eaten food. “I shall start at the beginning. I was a young, foolish man. When my beloved Philippa went away to plead with her father to let us marry, I became bored and noticed Lady Geneva Archly was always trying to capture my attention. I found her to be a pleasant distraction as I waited for word from Philippa, and so I spent some time with her.” He sighed. “When Philippa wrote saying we could marry at her father’s castle, I left at once, without a word to Geneva. It didn’t even occur to me to speak with her.”

  Ellie felt a spark of anger shoot through her. Is this duke just like Prince Charles? The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

  “I married Philippa. A month later, I received a single letter from Geneva. She must have been in a rage, as the letter was a long tirade of hateful words. But in the end, she begged me not to leave her. I politely wrote back explaining I was married, I didn’t love her, and had never meant to lead her on. I never heard from her again . . . that is, until now.” Duke Davonley cleared his throat. “By and by, I was sorry for my actions against Geneva, but didn’t know how to contact her. I soon forgot about her, though, as my wife presented me with a darling baby girl . . .” He stared at Ellie, eyes becoming glassy. “You.”

  Ellie’s mouth went dry, and what seemed like a hundred, unidentifiable memories flitted through her head. She slammed her eyes shut, unable to comprehend it all.

  “You were a sweet little thing, but didn’t understand the rules, and were always sneaking off to meet some peasant children, I believe.” He chuckled softly.

  Ellie released a shuddering breath, her heart thundering loudly in her ears. Did it all suddenly have to sound so familiar? How was it that she could almost imagine the face of a little peasant lad? Ellie glanced down at her clasped hands, seeking to hide her distress.

  “Philippa was expecting another child when she and I made a quick journey to her parent’s home that terrible day. When we returned to our lands, the house was in flames.” He stared across the room with unseeing eyes. “The main roof collapsed before we even reached the house, and your mother just kept screaming your name, over and over.”

  Oh God, oh God . . . how can this be happening? Ellie looked into the duke’s stricken eyes, not knowing what to say, what to do. Her heart constricted painfully.

  “Most of the servants were killed. We found bodies . . . There was one of a little girl in your bedchambers, probably one of the servants’ children, but we just all assumed it was you, our Antoinette.” Duke Davonley’s voice broke, and he looked down at his clenched fists. “Philippa lost the baby a little later, due to the stress of the tragedy. She never fully recovered from losing both you and your brother, and succumbed to her weak health just a little over a year ago.”

  Unexpectedly, a sob bubbled up in Ellie’s throat and she swallowed hard, blinking back tears. Oh, if only . . . But surely it was all a mistake anyway. Surely Ellie wasn’t Duchess Antoinette Davonley. Yet she wasn’t so certain anymore.

  “Fortunately, she found joy in the Lord in those last few days . . . and now she is with our little boy, and quite certainly must know you live.” Duke Davonley nodded, as if to assure himself. “It will give her great joy.” He looked fully at Ellie then. “For years, I thought without a question that you were dead. Then I saw you at the royal ball. You had a net over your hair and your face was quite made up, but I couldn’t get those blue eyes out of my thoughts. When I retired that evening, I realized they looked exactly like Philippa’s. As I thought back, I could somehow see my little Antoinette in those eyes . . .” He finished gravely, “I also saw Lady Geneva Abbington at the ball and began to investigate, suspicious but not willing to jump to conclusions.

  “I visited Lady Abbington finally. She lost control, and I managed to get everything out of her. It seems she was passing through this village that fateful day of the fire. She saw it and hurried by to get word to someone for help. Then she passed by a little partly-hidden meadow and saw you. A peasant lad was just leaving. I suppose she saw this as her chance for revenge. She brought you into her carriage and left as quickly as possible. She was a widow, but remarried to Lord Thomas Abbington for the sole purpose of him being your “father”. They bought a piece of land far away from here to keep you a secret. She used you as a maid, knowing this would hurt me had I known, and never let you attend any gatherings for fear you would be recognized.”

  Ellie barely noticed the duke had stopped speaking. She felt stunned all over again. It could have been. It was possible. She, Ellie, could really be a long-lost duchess.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Some weeks passed. Lord Thomas Abbington was the only one from Ellie’s former family that paid a visit to the Davonley castle. The poor man had fumblingly apologized and confessed that he had been cruel to Ellie because every time he looked at her, it had reminded him that he was living a lie and he was afraid of being caught. He also said that Lady Abbington had calmed down, but refused to apologize. And that Dezmarie and Adelaide were still shocked to learn their maid stepsister was really a once supposed-dead duchess.

  Duke Davonley had refrained from turning them in to the king for their wrongful acts, thus far.

  Ellie was still living in a daze at the Davonley estate. Little snatches of memories long forgotten were coming back to her as she walked through the gardens and grounds, and into the hidden meadow she had frequented as a little girl—assuming it was all true, of course.

  Lord, how can it be? How can I be a duchess? I just . . . I just cannot fathom it. Ellie wandered through the large, echoing castle, the heels of her ornate jeweled slippers clicking on the smooth stone floor. She walked down a long corridor and paused at a looking glass.

  Her sunny-blonde locks were curled, braided, and piled elegantly upon her head with a jeweled hair net fitted on top. Her face was dusted with make-up and dangling diamonds hung from her earlobes. A creamy yellow gown, complete with tucks, ribbon, and lace graced her figure, swishing over the floor as she walked. Her corset was outrageously tight and a long velvet train hung from her shoulders.

  “Whatever shall I do in this extravagantness all day?” she whispered into the still hallway. “Is this my life, Lord?”

  The poised lady in the luxurious gown stared back at her. “I’m just so confused.”

  She startled every time one of the servants called her ‘m’lady’ or ‘miss’ and felt continually ill-at-ease as the menservants bowed to her and the maids curtseyed and dipped their heads. More unsettling was Duke Davonley’s insistence that she be called Antoinette.

  “M’lady.” A stiff, stodgy doorman strode down the hall toward her. “There is someone for you in the main sitting room.”

  Ellie whirled from the looking glass. “Um . . . is the duke about?”

  “I believe His Grace is out on a hunt, m’lady,” the doorman spoke. “But the visitor is for you, if I may say so.”

  Ellie stared wide-eyed at the large man, who was beginning to look uncomfortable. “Um . . . if you would just . . . lead the way.” She waved in one direction.

  The doorman started in the opposite direction. “It would be this way, m’lady.”

  Ellie wiped her hands against her satin skirt and followed the man to the vastly large main sitting room.

  A tall man turned from the window as she stepped into the room, and her heart froze when she saw his face.

  Prince Charles.

  She stepped back as her face paled, pressing a hand to her collarbone.

  “You may leave,” Prince Charles ordered the doorman with a motion of his head. Then he turned to Ellie and gave a controlled smile. “Ellie. Or should I say, Duchess Antoinette Davonley?” His brown eyes showed no trace of disgust or anger, instead holding a smoothly charming look.

  Ellie stepped back further. “W-what are you doing here, Your Highness?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Come now, Antoinette, there’s
no need—”

  Ellie head shot up and she breathed out shakily. “I prefer to be addressed as Duchess Davonley,” she said, holding her voice as firm as she could.

  “Very well, Duchess Davonley,” the prince said with a subtle smirk. “But please”—he came closer to her—“don’t look so frightened. I came here to apologize for sending you away at the ball, and renew our acquaintance. You see, dear Antoinette, I need to wed—”

  Fury mounted in Ellie. How dare he! She lifted her hand to slap him.

  But Prince Charles caught her wrist with smooth swiftness, as if he had done it a thousand times before. “Really, my dear, is there a need for violence?”

  Ellie felt a flash of the pain she had felt at the ball, but it faded away. Now she felt appalled and hurt that he would come back, intending to wed her because she was now rich, because she now held the title duchess. “Save your endearments for your wife,” Ellie spoke in a low voice. “And unhand me.” She wrenched her arm from the prince’s grip and marched across the room.

  He followed her. “Antoinette—”

  “Duchess Davonley,” Ellie corrected, sending him a scathing glare.

  “Duchess Davonley,” he started again, his posture rigid. “Will you really refuse the royal prince his asking for your hand in marriage?”

  A sharp zing went through Ellie. How many times had she wished to hear that before the ball? Then Rowen’s face came to mind. Ellie relaxed. “When the same man once refused to allow me into his ball . . . yes, I would.”

  Prince Charles growled in frustration. “You were only a maid then. Now you are a duchess.”

  “What difference does it make?” Ellie asked. “I am the same woman in the end, no matter what my name is. Be I maid or duchess. You refused that woman then, you refuse her now.”

  “I, Prince Charles Edingworth, offer to marry you, and you say no because of some ridiculous grudge!” the prince shouted, starting to lose his calm.