Charlotte Louise Dolan (11 page)

“Do you suppose if we rode as if the hounds of hell were after us, we might get back before all the plum pudding is gone?”

“Now, that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day, Capt’n.”

“Then I’ll start packing while you see to the horses.”

* * * *

The Duchess of Colthurst was in a vile temper, not only caused by the fact that she had spent a perfectly miserable Christmas day, with the scantiest number of presents she had ever received, most of them purchased by herself for herself, but also caused by the total incompetence of the people around her.

To begin with, Cousin Edith had been confined to her room all day with another of her interminable headaches, which would undoubtedly go away if she simply made an effort to be resolute. Then, to compound the problem, the servants had also been more interested in their own celebrations than they had been in ensuring the happiness of their duchess, who by rights should have been first in their thoughts.

Well, Amelia decided with determination, this duchess was going to do something enjoyable today, even if the fools around her seemed equally determined to see that she had a thoroughly boring time of it.

“I said pull them tighter, Hepden. I shall get into my riding habit; so, if you are unwilling to do your job, you are free to seek employment elsewhere, and I am sure I can hire someone more willing to exert herself.”

Her dresser gave another feeble tug on the laces, which only made Amelia angrier. It was bad enough that she had to wear black, but she was absolutely determined not to look like a cow.

“I beg pardon, your Grace, if I spoke out of turn. I was only concerned for the well-being of the child. I have heard that many members of the medical profession are now of the opinion that binding oneself too tightly is deleterious to the growth of the baby.”

The baby, the baby, always the baby. It was too bad a son was necessary to enable her to remain in Colthurst Hall, Amelia thought, or she would long ago have taken the necessary steps to rid herself of the nuisance. Her Aunt Babette, who had always been more like an older sister, had explained to her how it was done, and it seemed vastly preferable to the trouble involved in producing one of those nasty little red squally creatures.

“When you have the appropriate credentials to express a medical opinion, Hepden, you may speak on the subject, but until you do, you will refrain from babbling such nonsense. My son will be perfectly healthy.”

“Or your daughter.”

“What did you say?” In a blinding rage, Amelia whirled around, not caring that she was undoing all their combined efforts to get her corset properly laced up.

“Beg pardon, your Grace, I didn’t mean to imply that we don’t all
hope
and
anticipate
that it will be a boy, but still, it could be a g—”

Before Hepden could repeat that heresy, Amelia did what she had not done in ages, but what she had been itching to do all day as her frustrations had grown. She balled up her dainty hand into a fist and punched her dresser right in the eye.

The older woman clutched her face and moaned, obviously trying to elicit sympathy. Well, she wasn’t going to get any. Not the least bit repentant, Amelia observed with some satisfaction that Hepden’s eye was starting to swell shut.

It was no more than the old goat deserved, daring even to suggest that the child might be a girl. Amelia had not expended so much effort to become a duchess in order to be done out of her rightful position by a girl-child.

This tedious day was all her aunt’s fault, really. Babette had advised her to fortify her position as duchess by staying in residence at Colthurst Hall, and so Amelia had turned down all the numerous invitations to house parties, every one of which sounded much jollier than spending Christmas alone. But Babette was right. It would cause too great a scandal if less than two months after the duke’s death, the duchess were seen to be enjoying herself.

Still, there were limits, after all, and Amelia had reached hers hours earlier. She was going to have a bit of fun before Christmas was over, and no one, especially not a servant, was going to stop her.

“Now, then, if you are ready to stop sniveling and do the job I am paying you to do, let us proceed.” She again presented her back to her dresser, who seized the corset laces and jerked them with such force that before long Amelia was dressed in her riding habit.

“You see, Hepden, it only required that the buttons be set over plus a minimum of effort on your part. You may leave me now.” Amelia waved her out of the room in a manner suitable for a duchess and then walked over to her dressing table and carefully selected a chocolate bonbon from the large box there.

While she ate it, plus three others, she considered whether she should find herself another dresser. Really, although Hepden had come highly recommended and did much to add to Amelia’s consequence, ever since the duke’s death the woman seemed totally unable to perform the smallest task without moralizing or making impertinent suggestions.

Amelia caught sight of herself in the mirror and liked what she saw. The anger had given her eyes a sparkle and her cheeks a rosy flush that was vastly becoming. Mr. Weeke would be sure to offer her delightful compliments when she “accidentally” came across him during her ride. It was so satisfying to have a man around, even if he was only a merchant and on the shady side of fifty.

To be sure, he was a very rich merchant, she thought with a giggle. Four days ago, when they had met in Bath—by chance, of course, or at least that was what Cousin Edith had been led to believe—he had mentioned that, as a friend, he hoped she would allow him to give her a little trinket for Christmas. She was sure it would be the diamond ear bobs she had admired in the jeweler’s window, because
he
at least understood her without having to have everything explained to him.

She knew the old gossips would get in a veritable tizzy if they found out she was accepting costly presents from a man not related to her in any way, but accept them she would. To be sure, it might raise Mr. Weeke’s expectations to even greater heights, but then that was not her problem.

Admittedly, she had deliberately given him the impression that only her period of mourning was preventing her from entertaining an offer from him. In point of fact, she had not the slightest intention of doing anything more than keeping Mr. Weeke dangling after her for so long as she was pleased with him.

He was a fool to believe that she, a duchess, the mother-to-be of the tenth Duke of Colthurst, would seriously consider marrying a plain “Mister.” But, on the other hand, she thought, turning away from the mirror, it was ridiculous for anyone to expect her to deny herself masculine attention and admiration for an entire year. She might as well do what the native women did in India, and throw herself into the grave with her husband—or into the fire, or whatever it was the heathens did in India.

Picking up her whip, she strode impatiently out of the room, her temper still uncertain. The groom had better not give her any arguments about how he should ride with her, or she would show him who was the mistress here. It was not the place of a groom to tell a duchess what she should do. Nor should a dresser—no, nor any of the other servants.

Amelia slashed the air with her whip and smiled with satisfaction at the memory of the pained expression on Hepden’s face. Well, she had given Hepden something to look pained about, and she was willing to bet that in future Hepden would think twice about stepping out of line.

* * * *

Mrs. Mackey let out a shriek and nearly dropped the bowl of fresh eggs she was carrying. “Miss Hepden, land a mercy, whatever have you done to yourself?”

Coming down the last few steps into the servants’ hall, Hepden bit her lip to keep from “revealing all.” That tart upstairs might not know the first thing about being a lady, but she, Dorothy Hepden, had been raised to know what was proper. And upper servants did not tell tales on their masters or mistresses, no matter what the provocation, at least not in front of the lower servants.

“You undoubtedly walked into a door,” Mr. Kelso, the butler, offered her as an easy excuse.

She was opening her mouth to agree, when Billy, the newest and youngest stable boy, piped up, “I’ll lay a bob on it she got that wisty castor from ‘er Grace. Got a proper temper and a handy bunch of fives, the duchess ‘as.”

There was dead silence in the room, none of the servants saying anything, and Hepden was too embarrassed to look any of them in the eye. Heaven knows, the boy had only said what she knew all of them were thinking.

Finally Mr. Kelso took charge, as was only fitting. “That will be enough idle talk, Billy. You undoubtedly have some chores awaiting you in the stables with which you could be more gainfully employed than casting aspersions on your superiors.”

“I ain’t castin’ nothin’. Ol’ Gorbion told me I was ter ride out with ‘er Grace, but she told me I was ter ‘ave the afternoon off. That’s on account of she don’t want no one ter see ‘oo ‘er lover is.”

There was a gasp from a corner of the room, and one of the upstairs maids went so far as to giggle, but Mr. Kelso maintained a calm dignity. Dispassionately, he signaled two of the footmen, who picked up the boy and bodily ejected him from the room.

“Jenkins, would you be so good as to find Mrs. Kelso and ask her to join me in my sitting room. And Mrs. Mackey, if you would be so kind as to fetch a nice piece of beefsteak. The rest of you go on about your business, please. Miss Hepden has suffered an unfortunate accident, but that is no reason for you all to stand around gaping.”

Hepden managed to emulate the butler’s dignity until she was seated in the butler’s sitting room, safe from the prying eyes of the lower servants, but then the solicitous attention of her friends caused her to burst into tears.

Mrs. Kelso was quick to fix a nice pot of tea, and before long Hepden managed to have her emotions under control again. “All I did was mention the possibility that the child might be a girl, and that little...” She took several deep breaths and continued. “Her Grace struck me with her
fist.”

The expressions on the others’ faces were suitably horrified, which gave Hepden the courage to utter the thought that had been on her mind for weeks. “I have decided to turn in my notice.”

“Oh, no, Miss Hepden, you mustn’t do that.” The housekeeper patted her arm in a motherly fashion. “Her Grace would never give you a letter of recommendation, and your career would be ruined.”

“I’d rather be a scullery maid in a merchant’s household than work as a dresser for someone who would strike me with her
fist.”

“I think,” the butler began, and got the immediate attention of the three women, “that none of us should do anything rash. We must try our best to maintain our composure until the child is born. If it is a girl, then Master Darius will be the duke, and he will sort out that woman fast enough. You have never met the Captain, Miss Hepden, but he is a man of the most elevated standards. Although I am not acquainted with his wife, my nephew is underbutler to Lady Letitia, who was godmother to Catherine Goldsborough, God rest her soul, who was the mother of Mrs. St. John, and he has assured me that Mrs. St. John is in every way suitable to be a duchess.”

“But... but...” Again Hepden’s eyes filled with tears. “Suppose his wife doesn’t need a dresser, or suppose ...” Here her voice broke completely, but Mr. Kelso continued unperturbed.

“Suppose the child is a boy? Have no fear, Miss Hepden. I have a long-standing offer from the Earl of Meysley to take charge of his London residence. I’m sure the offer can be enlarged to include all four of us.”

“Well,” Mrs. Mackey said, rising ponderously to her feet, “I, for one, am praying daily for the child to be a girl, and the good Lord is more likely to listen to my prayers than to those of that heathen upstairs.” The cook’s remarks brought a chuckle from the butler and the housekeeper and even a watery smile from Miss Hepden.

* * * *

Darius picked up the loaded saddlebags, then glanced around the room one last time to check if anything vital had been missed. Seeing nothing, he went to the door, opened it, and almost walked into Lieutenant Colwell, who was standing in the hallway with his hand raised to knock on the door.

“Ah, St. John. I was just coming to see you. And here you are. Merry Christmas.”

The lieutenant had apparently already imbibed heavily of holiday spirits, which had given him a slight sway in his stance and was undoubtedly responsible for the vacuous grin on his face.

“And a merry Christmas to you, Colwell, but I really have no time now. I’m on my way out of town. Going down to Somerset to visit my wife.”

“Didn’t know you was married.”

“Yes, yes, so if you will just stand aside ...”

“Wish you happy. Can’t say I’ve ever wanted to tie the knot, but every man to his own tastes.”

“Yes, well, can’t keep my wife waiting, you know.” He tried to ease past the lieutenant, but Colwell merely draped one arm around Darius’s shoulders and leaned heavily.

“Don’t know, actually. No experience with wives. Never been married. Might try it sometime. You recommend it?”

Darius removed the arm and propped the lieutenant up against the wall instead. “We’ll have to postpone this discussion. I must be going now.” He started down the hallway in the direction of the stairs, his mind already racing ahead, planning where they should best change horses.

“Nope. Can’t postpone it. Lord B. wouldn’t like it. Said to tell you nine o’clock. Not be late. You, not Lord B. He can be as late as he wants. Nobody can tell
him
not to be late. He could postpone it, too. Don’t think he will, but there you are. Could if he wanted to.”

Darius retraced his steps. “What did you say about Lord Borthwell?”

“Told you. Nine o’clock.” Colwell fumbled in his pocket and produced a very crumpled piece of paper. “Or maybe ten o’clock.” He squinted at the paper. “Can you read this?”

Darius took the piece of paper and scowled down at it.

“Can’t read it, either, eh? Don’t worry. Not your fault. Man writes a cramped hand. Always did. Probably always will. Might mention it to him.”