An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  In Emma, though, he’d found something more precious than all the treasures in the world. When Lord Harry arrived with the news that Beranger’s father had died, as well as his older brother, Gavin, their world had been turned upside down. Even more unbelievable was the revelation that Beranger wasn’t illegitimate after all; his father had loved his commoner mother so much that he’d secretly married her before he’d married the duchess. That meant Beranger was the true heir of Brightshire and Gavin the illegitimate brother.

  After Beranger ran away, the duchess had gone on to have a daughter, Lady Audrey, and both women no doubt mourned Gavin’s death. Despite that, Beranger held no fear of the upcoming reception with his stepmother, the woman who’d ruined his childhood. He was a grown man; she had no power over him now. But when he glanced at Emma, still blissfully asleep, worry tilted his brows. They’d met and married so quickly. What if she hated Brightshire? The weather was drastically different from Eden, Colorado. The people and customs as well. In Eden, she had a shop and the family’s ranch to tend to; here she might be bored to tears. She and her sisters had been so close; Emma had never been away from them for more than a day. She’d never displayed an ounce of regret at accompanying him, and yet a part of her surely wished she were back home. He’d seen the way her gaze continually strayed back the way they’d traveled—toward America, and the West—when they walked the ship’s deck.

  He sighed and looked out at the passing landscape.

  “Beranger?” Lord Harry said quietly, so as not to wake the others. “I wonder at your soulful expression.”

  His uncle seemed to have a nose for trouble. Had been that way ever since Beranger was a boy.

  “Just enjoying the sunset.”

  Harry smiled. “I’d say more is on your mind than that. I think you’re worrying over your future. And dwelling on your past.” Harry reached out and clapped a hand on Beranger’s knee. “I could always read you like a book, my boy.” He let his hand fall away. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

  Beranger turned again to gaze out the window. The sun had set, and all the previous color in the sky had turned into wispy white clouds. He checked to see that both women were still sound asleep. “Emma’s on my mind. When the five sisters were called back to Colorado last year to inherit their father’s cattle ranch, they learned that John Brinkman had written each of them a personal letter to be given to them on their birthday.”

  Harry’s face lit up. “Why, we celebrated Emma’s birthday on the train east to Boston. That was a jolly good time.”

  “Exactly. She was under instructions not to read the missive until her birthday, yet it remains unopened to this day, tucked away in one of her trunks.”

  Harry grasped his chin, thinking. “I see. Have you asked her why?”

  “I don’t have to. It’s evident she’s homesick.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe the rough seas made her forget.”

  Beranger shook his head. “As much as she denies the fact, she’s melancholy. Her eyes betray her. That letter from her father is her last connection to home, and she’s savoring the occasion the reading will bring for as long as she can. I don’t blame her in the least, but I’m . . .”

  “Frightened? Saying so is not a sin.”

  Beranger nodded, unable to meet his uncle’s eyes. “I don’t want to make her unhappy. She’s made to smile, to laugh. The joy she’s brought to my soul is immeasurable.”

  “Beranger, you of all people should know what it’s like to adjust to a new country. Have faith in her. Love shines from her eyes each time she looks at you, dear boy. Don’t rush her. Stay steadfast in your love for her, and all will be well.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we arrive to it—and not before.”

  Beranger felt as if he were eight years old again and in the boxing ring with Gavin. Unschooled, he had experienced some fear until Uncle Harry had given him a few invaluable suggestions on how to gain the upper hand. The man had never married, and Beranger sometimes wondered why, but perhaps his advice was worth taking. Deciding to try it, a semblance of peace drifted down upon him, one he hadn’t felt since Emma’s birthday. He’d buck up and see where that got him.

  Beranger smiled. “I can’t wait to see my stepmother’s face when I walk through that door.”

  Harry raised a brow in censure. “Don’t look for trouble. That will find you on its own. I sent a cable to alert your stepmother and sister, as well as the staff, so they’ll be well prepared. Everyone will be excited to greet the Duke of Brightshire and his beautiful duchess.”

  “I hardly think that will be the case—them excited to see me. My sister alone will be disappointed not to inherit the title.” For a duchess to inherit was almost unheard of, yet exactly such an intent had been written into the letters patent first granting the title Duke of Brightshire to one of their ancestors. Surely, Lady Audrey would be resentful that Beranger’s return prevented her the honor.

  Harry nodded. “I’m sure. But she’ll get over that as soon as she meets you and Emma. She has other issues to fill her time, like finishing her schooling so she’s able to make a good match and get married. Since she turned fourteen, there have been plenty of gentry visiting Ashbury with their eligible sons.”

  “She has a good dowry, then?”

  “Oh, yes. Your father made sure of that. One that will attract every young buck in the land when the time is right. Lady Audrey wanted to come out next year at sixteen, but your stepmother is insistent she wait until seventeen so she’ll be able to run a proper household of candor and grace, speak fluent French, Italian, and German, sing like a bird, and play the piano.” An amused tilt wrinkled his brow. “I’m glad I wasn’t born female, I can tell you that. At any rate, Lady Audrey may even be relieved to be rid of the duty that comes with the title. She seems to enjoy flitting about like a butterfly.”

  In an instant, Beranger was transported back to his boyhood and days spent running free in the forestlands with peasant boys whose families worked in or lived near the castle. There’d been a girl too, the closest thing to a sister he’d had at the time. Phoebe Parker. She was the only female he knew who liked catching frogs, swimming in the river on a hot day, or climbing the craggy cliffs on Ashbury’s moors. He wondered if she were still in Brightshire.

  Beranger leaned into the velvet seat of the coach, listening to the clopping of the horses behind the carriage, two of which they’d brought on the ship from America and were being led by riders on their own mounts. He wasn’t thirteen any longer, so he’d better decide how he was going to navigate his new life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Beranger tried to keep his anxiety at bay as the coach raced along the roadway, the evening light dancing across the many landmarks he remembered from his boyhood. Their arrival at Ashbury was imminent.

  “I can’t imagine what I’ll do all day,” Emma said, donned in the fanciest dress she’d brought from Eden. “After having my own shop . . .” She lifted a shoulder.

  Beranger glanced at her and smiled. “I’m sure we’ll be bombarded with social invitations as soon as the word gets around that the Duke and Duchess of Brightshire have returned to Ashbury Castle.” At least, for her sake, he hoped so. In reality, he had no bloody idea how the ton would react to his reappearance to claim the title. No idea at all.

  Lord Harry, now freshly shaven and changed, but still looking somewhat worse for wear after the long day of travel, yawned. He rolled his shoulders and said, “As a duchess, you’re free to do anything you’d like. You needn’t worry. Give yourself time to settle in. Enjoy the scenery. You may find England much to your liking. Most everyone in your country, except the American Indians, has come from somewhere in Europe. Perhaps researching your lineage and where your people hailed from might be entertaining.”

  “I can do that? I’d find my father’s and mother’s ancestry fascinating to know.”

  Beranger rubbed her hand. “Of
course, my love. Nobody is going to force you to be anything you aren’t. And I wouldn’t want that. We both have to work to keep our ideals and not let anyone”—he let his gaze stray lazily to Gertrude, who was now staring out her window at the slight rebuke—“browbeat us into submission.”

  “Thank goodness,” she said on a breath. “I cannot imagine myself sitting around day after day, doing nothing but strolling a beautiful garden followed by several hours of needlework and tea drinking.”

  Lord Harry looked perplexed.

  “Please don’t get me wrong, Lord Harry,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. You know how I love to dress for an occasion. In fact, I feel extremely underdressed tonight.”

  His face lit up, losing all its worry lines. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to do that.”

  “And I’ll work on my posture and manners until nobody will be able to tell I wasn’t born right here in jolly ol’ England. I’ll remember that the first floor of the castle is called the ground floor here, and the second floor is called the first.” She took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I want to make you all proud. As well as the people of Brightshire and beyond. And of course, Americans.”

  Lord Harry beamed. “In my cable, I instructed Pencely to send for the dowager’s dressmaker. I’m sure she’ll be waiting with her entourage and bolts of expensive fabric.”

  Emma tapped her lip. “Mr. Pencely is the butler, but there are also footmen, valets, housemaids, and a personal lady’s maid. Housekeeper, cook, several helpers in the kitchen . . .”

  Beranger chuckled. “You’ve got a good start on it, sweetheart. Better than I do. When I was living at Ashbury, I was kept well out of the way. I have just as much learning to do as you.” He lifted her hand and kissed it.

  “Look!” Emma pointed through the dim light outside toward an old woman watching their approach from the roadside. Her scraggly brown robe hung on her thin frame as she leaned on a tall staff. She carried a straw basket on her back. “Stop the coach! She looks about to drop. Maybe she hasn’t eaten for days.”

  Miss Bucket, donned in her own best dress, gasped. “You can’t stop for every peasant, ma’am! There are thousands of them. You’ll ruin your reputation before you even arrive.”

  “Emma’s right,” Beranger said, ignoring Uncle Harry’s look of distress. His life had expanded—he was responsible for so many others now. What good was he as a duke if he didn’t help the people around him? He pounded the ceiling of the coach, and the driver brought the horses down to a walk and then stopped. “We will give her our hamper of food.”

  A footman opened the door, and Beranger lifted the straw hamper and descended. To his surprise, Emma followed.

  The woman straightened when she realized they meant to speak to her. Her wrinkled, elongated face ended in a pointed chin, from which several wiry hairs protruded. Eyes glittering with intelligence took in their approach, not in the least bit intimidated.

  “Ma’am, you look hungry,” Emma said. “We’d like to offer you this basket of food. Or, if you’re in need, a ride to your destination.”

  All right, they could do that, he supposed. If the woman was on foot, she couldn’t be going far—darkness had already fallen—although he didn’t like the way she was looking at him: as if somehow, somewhere, they’d known each other.

  “I live in Goldenbrook,” she said.

  The road to Ashbury turned off before arriving in Goldenbrook, but the hamlet wasn’t much out of their way. Surely this woman knew whom the coat of arms on the door belonged to and where they were going.

  “Can we take her there?” Emma asked before Beranger had a chance to respond.

  He nodded.

  The woman’s black eyebrows arched, and she smiled at Emma. “Such a kind heart has this one. I will accept, and be in your debt. I’d not want to lose the contents of this fine basket to an outlaw.”

  She was not speaking of the elongated basket on her back but the one she stared at in Beranger’s hands.

  As they settled back in the coach, Gertrude slipped onto the back bench next to Emma, and the woman took the seat next to Lord Harry. Beranger instructed the riders at the rear to guide their American horses on to the stable at Ashbury and the driver to take the short detour to Goldenbrook.

  “You spoke of outlaws?” Beranger inquired. “I’ve been away sixteen years, but back then there wasn’t much crime around Brightshire. Decent people didn’t have to worry over their goods.”

  “Or their lives?” the old woman questioned.

  “No, not that either. Is that what times have come to now?” he asked, glancing at Lord Harry. His uncle had hinted at changes, but had not been specific. Perhaps he’d thought Beranger wouldn’t have wanted to return if he’d known each and every detail. Lord Harry’s lips were pressed in a thin line.

  She cackled softly and sang, “Brightshire forest, thick and dank with leaves, sounds are silenced in your green-thatched eaves . . .” Then she smiled. “But perhaps not so much danger for someone like me.” Her widened eyes landed on Emma. “But a pretty miss surely should not be out when the sun disappears and the shadows take wing.” She pointed a crooked finger in their direction. “Be warned so as not to be sorry.”

  Emma inched closer to Beranger.

  He didn’t appreciate the crone’s humor in trying to frighten Emma. He knew her kind. Old ways and superstitions were more prevalent here than in America. Storybook rhymes were full of wicked witches less daunting than this old woman—and as a boy, he’d heard every single one. He hoped Emma didn’t take her seriously. She’d show up in a day or two at Ashbury and offer, for a few coins, to read Emma her fortune.

  The woman studied his eyes now in the illumination of the lanterns the footman had lighted when they’d gotten out to speak with her. A knowing smile curled her lips, making the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “So—you have returned.”

  Did she mean something different than him coming back to claim the title? He thought she did. “I have. Along with my wife. This is Lord Harry Northcott of Newchurch and Miss Gertrude Bucket of Boston.”

  Gertrude squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze.

  “And you are Master Beranger,” the old woman said, bringing her attention back to him. “I recognize your eyes. I remember you running through the woods like a wild elk.”

  Recognition stirred in the back of his mind.

  The crone turned to Emma, who gripped his hand more tightly. “And who are you?”

  “She is my wife, the Duchess of Brightshire. Seems I’ve come up in the world.” They had entered the hamlet of Goldenbrook. “Where shall we stop?”

  “Here, Your Grace,” the old woman said. “Your coach can’t manage the woodlands where I live.”

  Beranger followed her gaze to the few dwellings. Grimy windows flickered with candlelight. In the deepening twilight and low mist that had begun to creep along the cooling earth and moss, the community appeared unnerving—deserted, even, although that was plainly not the case. He thumped the ceiling, and the coach halted.

  The door opened, and she was helped to the ground by the footman.

  Beranger passed out the heavy basket of food.

  “Wait,” Emma said softly, stopping the woman as she backed away, her arms full. “You never said who you are. What is your name?”

  Beranger cut his gaze up to the darkened sky. He’d have to speak with Emma, make her understand she was not in Colorado any longer. He hoped he could help her comprehend the difference without making Brightshire, and now Goldenbrook, sound unappealing. Things here were different. Older. Strange things occurred.

  “My name? No one of consequence has ever asked my name before. They’d rather me get out of their sight. But since you’ve asked, Miss Emma, I’m Mathilda Tugwer, duchess of the swamp.” She tittered like a young girl at her joke.

  Gertrude bristled at the disrespect shown by the old woman’s intimate form of address.

  “But most folks arou
nd here know me as the midwife. If you ask for that, I can be found.” She turned a sly eye his way. “You may be in need of my services someday soon, Your Grace.”

  “We’ll be on our way,” Beranger stated, ignoring her outlandish statement, his patience all but gone. But as the coach turned around, headed on toward Ashbury, he wondered how the old woman had known Emma’s name.

  Fear streaked through Emma. “So many servants!” she breathed when she saw the domestics lined up to receive their coach. Their black-and-white uniforms stood out in the light of the gas lamps. She swallowed hard. The riders who’d gone ahead with the horses while they’d taken Mathilda Tugwer to Goldenbrook must have alerted the house to their pending arrival.

  Emerging from the forestlands a moment ago, Emma had been robbed of breath when the silhouette of Ashbury Castle had come into view. Golden light gleamed from windows, making the place look magical. But it was not at all how she’d imagined. She’d seen pictures of castles with moats filled with water and a massive gate to span the channel. This was more like a huge, elegant house.

  Excitement twirled inside as the coach rolled to a stop in front of the five-story building. Several squared-off pillars reached for the sky, and two flags gently waved a welcome, as if to say: The duke is home! The footman opened the door to a rush of fresh air. Beranger descended first and offered Emma his hand. Thankful for the feel of his warmth in this moment of uncertainty, she looked up into his eyes.

  “Here we are.”

  “Yes, here we are,” she replied, pushing down her wobbly stomach. As she stepped out of the coach, she caught sight of the moon as it peered from behind a silvery-white cloud, casting their shadows before them. How many years of nobility have done as I am doing right now? How many marriages have been made? How many soldiers sent into battle? And now, I, Emma Fortitude Brinkman Northcott, am doing the same. The thought is unnerving.