Chapter 3: The Loss

            A week had passed since the grand ball at the St. James Palace and the duke’s health began to worsen. Duke Landon’s body is starting to fail and reject the medication their family physician was giving him.

            His breath was starting to weaken as the struggle for air was becoming more and more difficult than it usually is. Pneumonia had been a part of his life for almost three years now. Typically, normal people recover from this withing 1-3 weeks of proper medication, however, it was not the case for the duke, who from his childbirth, had had a frail body and weak immunity.

            Not being able to cure the illness in its earliest stage, it manifested throughout the years, causing minor troubles of chest pain, difficulty of breathing, and sometimes unexplained sweating. But now isn’t the same as the previous attacks Duke Landon was experiencing. His lips turning bluish as his skin turns unusually pale, temperature reaching its peak, causing unbearable fever. The severeness of pain and discomfort he was feeling skyrocketed that he could hardly bring himself to say a full statement without pausing in between.

            “F-Fran...ces...ca,” he struggled to say in a low tone as the physician was giving him tonic to feel a little better, but to no avail. Duchess Carlotta just sat beside the laying duke and watched him with a rather unbothered nor concerned facial expression. Her face was plainly blank and void of any form of emotion, making it harder to discern her reaction.

            The physician got near the duchess and whispered the foreseen end of the current Duke of Felandencia’s forty-eight years of legacy. “It was most unfortunate, however, it seems as if the inflammation has gone severe, infecting the lungs’ airs sac, filling it with fluid, causing all troubles for the duke. And as to his current condition, I am sorry to say, but he cannot last a day unless some miracle happens,” the physician explained before leaving the room for privacy.

            Still, Duchess Carlotta remains stoic. Wasn’t this her plan after all?

            “F-Fran… ces...ca,” the duke begged again.

            Even at his very end, he still looks over her daughter and dare not say any last words for me, she silently thought, feeling resented and rejected. She turned around and leaves the room. Struggle no more on suppressing her small shade of compassion, she asked her handmaid to go look for Lady Francesca.

            “Bring her ladyship to his father’s room,” she plainly ordered. Matilde heeded the word of her master and runs towards the lady’s room.

            To her dismay, she found the room rather empty, with no one in it. She must have gone to her favorite place, thought. Matilde decided to check the spacious veranda on the second floor of the manor, overlooking the cotton farm. She worked long enough in the house to know the routine of Lady Francesca.

            Yet again, but to no avail. The young lady was not where she expected her be. Instead, she met with her handmaid, Eloisa. Eyebrows both crooked with her lips down on both sides, as if she was carrying a heavy burden on her shoulder. Then, she later learned the truth on Lady Francesca sudden disappearance since morning. She might have ditched again on her own pleasure, probably tired of the restriction set on her

            The whole house of Chandler was on a sudden rampage in search for the clever Francesca, who had gone out of the manor with no prior permission.

            As the house was busy searching, the duke’s room started to fall in silence. Only the normal beats of the duchess heart and the fading pulse of the duke were to be heard in the four corner of the room. No words spoken, only silence goodbyes on each other, as love was never been part of their five years relationship, only implied mutual agreement that was never been told.

            Slowly… Duke Landon officially met his end. Both sweet and bitter ending. Sweet as he will be meeting soon his deceased wife, Duchess Savrina, whom his heart truly belongs. Bitter as he never had a chance to say his last goodbye to the fruit of their undying bond, that neither death can ever set apart, Lady Francesca Chandler.

            Poor is the child left earlier that is planned. He had no choice with his body failing, but to leave her daughter in the hand of a dangerously wicked August woman. The duke’s only last wish was for his letter to reach the daughter he loves most, though not explicitly expressed.

***

            Evening came and the lady they’ve been searching was finally found in the Great Petersburg’s Square Theatrical House, where well-versed and practiced operas were often performed by professional artists.

           

            This has secretly served Lady Francesca’s relaxing place whenever she sneaked out of the manor, that even her handmaid wasn’t aware of, making the search rather impossible, not until a random onlooker reported she was last seen entering the said theatrical house.

            Tears intrinsically rolled her cheeks upon hearing the perturbing news about the condition of his father. Grabbing on her skirt, she ran as fast as she could outside. Not withstanding her ladyship proper dress code, she mounted a horse, left tied alone in a stable.

            “Kindly take the carriage, my lady,” her handmaid pleaded but her ears were already shut from hearing anything. The fast beats of her heart overpowers any rationale sense she had. Thought only had in mind was to make it home fast and sound to see her father.

            Why of all the day, she decided to sneaked out on the very time the threat on the duke’s life escalated? She couldn’t helped to blame herself for the lack of foresight and clairvoyance.

            Securing her feet on the saddle, she held tight on the rope and forcefully put pressure on it for the horse to start moving. She could feel the judging look she received both from the nobles and common onlookers on her act… like who in the best mind would ride a horse while wearing a ballgown, and to add more spice, in a broad daylight along the crowded city.

            “Was that the rumored scandalous lady of Feladencia?” Someone mindlessly asked, which others agreed upon.

            “Indeed living up to her reputation, I see,” another one added.

            Lot more comments and criticism were received, but what caught Lady Francesca’s ear was that of a man shouting ownership of the horse she mounted without bothering asking for permission.

            “Rodnie! My horse!” His voice was rather desperate, but her ladyships didn’t falter. She was sure her handmaid could take care of the matters she caused. Time wasn’t her luxury now. She felt the urgent need to be home now.

            Not long afters, she arrived at the front gate of the manor. And she almost fall out of the horse upon seeing the black crape scarfe wrapped around the foot guards arms and black crape-sword knot, she last saw five years ago on the death of her mother.

            Her body weakens as if it loss all its youthful vigor and spirit. Even without asking, she knew her father had already passed the gate to the other life.

            Immediately, the foot guards came to assist her unmount the horse. She could feel her body trembling in pain and pure remorse for the moments they could have had, if she had not left for opera. Eyes already swollen started to produced unending water of sadness.

            She was crying so hard. She could barely move a single step anymore. Losing one parent was already hard for her, how about losing them both? Her spirit broke as she finally fell to the ground. Heart heavy, pained, remorseful, and in pure agony.

            How could fate be so cruel on a twenty-year-old like me? She thought. Was fate such in a hurry that it can wait no more ‘til she hits legal age of twenty-one?

            “Lady Francesca? Pardon me for asking, is your ladyship all right?” one of the foot guard asked.

            She tried to recompose herself and get a grip of her body. Placing her palm flat on the ground, she pushed herself up until she was back on her knees.

            At times like this, I should at least be sober enough to bid the duke’s earthly body a final farewell, she thought as she struggled to fight off the weakening pain of loss in her core.

            As she was walking further towards the manor, a rustle from behind entered her auditory, followed by heavy footsteps of boots.

            I felt the other foot guard left my side to tend on the incomers, obviously not our servants as it sounded differently. It was more of a hoard of big men.

            Despite my gloomy state, I was able to hear some of their conversation before I finally take a curve on the corner.

            “Pay respect to the Earl of Verindale, he was here to claim the stolen horse belonging to his late mother,” the voice said.

            That must be the reason why the man was desperate to get hold of the horse, because it belongs to his late mother. Lady Francesca sympathized with a heavy heart. She wandered… did the man also loss his father as she is, by now?