An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  Justin’s news last night had come as an unwelcome surprise. Damned Gavin! Never knew when to quit and walk away. Now his ineptness was threatening what had been in the family for centuries. For a moment he’d considered that perhaps things were not as bad as Justin made them sound. He’d always liked to be the purveyor of drama and misfortune when they were children.

  Beranger had stayed beside the dowager as the others ambled off in conversation.

  “You’re a man now,” she’d said. He’d watched her lift her chin in a fashion Beranger remembered all too well as her gaze tracked between his green eye and the vivid blue one that was the signature color all the male Northcott heirs had inherited. She’d been formulating what to say, how to put him down, where to land her spear of words to effect the severest injury. She’d done it since he was a child.

  “Don’t stare at me so with those queer eyes,” she’d hissed at him when she’d come into the stable unannounced.

  Only nine years old, Beranger had stepped out of the stall, a pitchfork in hand, sweaty from mucking the stalls. Her sudden appearance, and the sight of her hatred, had made him stumble, and he’d had to catch himself on the stable door to keep from falling.

  “You unnerve me to my soul. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking when you look at me that way. Why can’t your father see you clearly, as I do? Now go away, go hide until I’m gone. I don’t like to be in the same room when it’s just the two of us.”

  “So tall. Handsome,” the dowager duchess said now, her voice smooth. “I had not thought I’d ever see you again. I have suffered many years of guilt over your disappearance. I’ll admit, at first your absence was a relief, but as the years passed, I came to realize my part in your disappearance. I hope your years in America have served you well.”

  He hadn’t expected her soul baring, and yet, he should keep in mind she was a master of deception. Had she really suffered from guilt? He hardly thought so. Could they begin anew? Be the family they never were before? She most likely would be repulsed at the idea. But a festering grudge only hurt the grudge holder. He had Emma and wanted a good life, not one where he’d have to be wondering about his stepmother’s intentions all the time. He refused to be that person. “They have,” he said. “In fact, I owe you a debt. If I hadn’t gone away, I’d not have met Emma. For that, I’m extremely grateful. I can’t imagine my life without her.”

  Her gaze slid to Emma, who was conversing with Lady Audrey. He was relieved that the two seemed to have taken a liking to each other. Once all the newness of England wore off, Emma would miss her four sisters more than she knew. Perhaps Lady Audrey could help fill the void.

  The dowager continued. “From what I learned from Lord Harry’s cable, you knew her only a short time before wedding her. She isn’t much more than what the Americans call a mail-order bride, is she not? She hardly knows you or the place she will now call home. I hope she will be happy here.”

  Her self-satisfied smile caused his stomach to clench. She believed her words would anger him, hurt him. Hadn’t the embarrassing predicament she found herself in, her bigamous marriage and the illegitimacy of her son, softened her in the least? Perhaps she was just making a statement and hadn’t meant it as a slight to Emma. “Hardly that. And she’s resilient. I’m sure she’ll adjust quite well.”

  “As much as you may try, you can’t understand these types of challenges for a woman. But I’ll keep an eye on her and help whenever possible.”

  If only that were true. He’d made a pact with himself aboard ship he’d not let his boyhood insecurities concerning his stepmother affect him—but he did not desire harmony so much that he’d let Emma be chewed up by unkind comments meant to slice her heart in two.

  He leaned close and lowered his voice so the footman standing at the door wouldn’t hear. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. There will be no shenanigans where Emma is concerned. Not like when I was a boy. I had to put up with your torments back then, but she does not have to now. Are we understood on that subject?”

  Her eyes snapped with anger, but still she smiled. “Duke, I’m surprised you’d think so little of me.”

  “Emma was not, or is not, a mail-order bride. That comment was to hurt me on my homecoming to Ashbury. Do you agree?”

  “I misspoke, never intending for you to take my statement in that light. I’m sorry.”

  Well, good. We both know where we stand. Maybe she means her words. I’ve never heard her apologize to anyone before.

  He’d changed the uncomfortable subject then, expressing his condolences on the deaths of his father and half brother.

  At the mention of Gavin’s name, she’d glanced at the darkened window across the room for several long moments.

  “There is one thing I’ve yet to come to terms with,” she’d said.

  “What is that?” He had the power to put her out if he wished. He’d never do that, despite what she’d tried to do to him throughout the years.

  “When Gavin took the title,” she began, “since he had yet to marry, he allowed me to remain in the wing I’d shared with my husband for all the years we were married. The rooms hold so many memories. My marriage, the birth of my children . . .”

  Realization dawned. “You don’t desire to move to Lily House?” Located on the other side of the garden, the dwelling was where the dowager resided once a new duchess arrived. Lily House was a smaller version of Ashbury and just as beautifully decorated.

  How would Emma react to the dowager remaining not only in Ashbury but in the bedchambers reserved for the duke and duchess? The dowager’s feelings were understandable, he supposed. She’d lost so much, her husband and her son, in a short amount of time. If he kept a close eye on her, perhaps there were things Emma could learn from her. Would his wife prefer to have the dowager duchess close to answer questions and give advice? He couldn’t always be here. There would be times he would be away. He’d make this concession for Emma, even though the dowager’s moving out wouldn’t bother him in the least. “If you’d like to remain in that wing for the time being, that’s fine. I have no pressing urge to take the second floor. Emma and I will be well content on the third floor, where we are now.”

  “Your generosity is exemplary. Thank you.”

  And they would be content. So much had happened in the last two months. Not only had he found his soul mate and married, something he’d thought would never happen, but he’d learned his father had actually married his mother—a commoner. How that had transpired was still a mystery, but the ceremony had been kept secret, even after Beranger’s birth.

  My father was weak. Allowed my grandfather to rule his every move, dictate who he was supposed to marry.

  Disdain welled up within. How hypocritical was the aristocracy? If Brightshire expected an aristocratic English duke upon his return, they’d be sorely disappointed. He was more American in thought and deed than English.

  “You’re awake?” Emma murmured into the darkness.

  “I am. How did you sleep, my love? Are you rested?”

  She made a catlike sound deep in her throat and stretched against him. “Very well, thank you. This bed is heavenly compared to the one on the ship. I’m thankful to finally be in Brightshire—on solid ground. Oh, Beranger, Ashbury Castle is astounding. More than I ever dreamed. You should have warned me.”

  “If I had, you may have refused to come.”

  “Never.” She sat up, and the counterpane fell away to expose her silky chemise. “Wherever you go, I’ll go as well.”

  Seeing her like this, only the filmy garment between them, was tempting. But she was worn out from the trip and last night’s lengthy meal. They’d let the servants do their unpacking at their arrival, but before bed, instead of calling the maid, Beranger had insisted on helping Emma undress.

  “Emma, have you read the letter from your father?”

  He felt her still.

  “Not yet, but soon. I want to be settled first.”

  “Settled?
Aren’t you curious as to what it says? If I was in your shoes, I don’t think I could wait.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “When you do, you’ll tell me?”

  “Of course. Now, happy anniversary, my love,” she said, finding his lips.

  Was she trying to distract him? He pushed away his doubt and made sure she knew how much he liked her attentions. “Our anniversary was yesterday.”

  “I’m just early for next month.”

  He chuckled.

  The morning was still dark and, unable to see anything of the horizon, Emma burrowed back under the covers.

  “It’s like a dream come true,” she whispered against his neck. “Who would have thought something as fantastic as becoming a duchess was my destiny.” She drew a short distance away. “Beranger, I don’t feel any different. I’m the third daughter of a cattle rancher, a sister, a wife. That’s all. All these lords and ladies are going to know I’m a fraud.”

  “You’re not a fraud. And everything that you are is more than enough,” he growled, rolling her onto her back and finding her lips.

  A short knock sounded. A moment later, the door opened to the glowing light of the gas lamps in the hall. A maid came partway into the room holding a tray.

  “It’s still dark,” Beranger bit out, angry at the interruption. He didn’t bother to pull the counterpane over his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the girl replied in a quaking voice.

  She looked terrified, holding a tray of white porcelain dishes, cups and saucers, and crystal water glasses. Breakfast fit for a king and queen. Things he’d experienced after making his millions in America, but not here at Ashbury. His room as a boy had been at the end of the servants’ quarters, a whole two floors away from Gavin. And he rarely ate in the dining room with the family because his eyes were too spooky for the duchess. They made her lose her appetite. That had been fine with him, after the rejection had faded. He’d liked the servants better anyway . . .

  The chambermaid grimaced. The tray was heavy.

  “The dowager duchess thought you and the duchess would like some tea and scones with clotted cream and orange marmalade,” she said softly. “But I can come back later, if you’d prefer.”

  Is my stepmother already interfering in my life by having breakfast sent up hours early—or is she really trying to be nice?

  Beside him, Emma sat up, clutching the counterpane to her throat, her strawberry hair tousled. “That’s not necessary, miss,” she said, looking around for the robe draped on the end of the massive bed. She jumped up and slipped it on. “Please come in. Those scones do sound delicious.”

  Beranger sighed and burrowed deeper under the counterpane, refusing to get out of bed. The chambermaid—Hyacinth Green, which Emma learned by asking her name, age, and how long the girl had been at Ashbury—was all smiles in less than a minute. The tray was deposited on the side table.

  Beranger levered himself up on his elbow. “Would there happen to be any coffee in the kitchen?”

  “Coffee, Your Grace?” the servant repeated.

  Emma’s eyes brightened. “Yes! Coffee! I remember my first cup brewed over campfire flames and under the stars. We were out riding the ranch, exploring the far reaches of the acreage.” She sighed, and her eyes went dreamy. “All to the chorus of the coyotes and an owl. I’ve never had a better cup since.”

  Hyacinth looked doubtful. “I’m not sure, Your Grace. I’ll have to check. I’ve not seen any in the kitchen.”

  “I’ve had enough tea to last a lifetime,” Beranger said gruffly. “I need coffee—strong and plentiful. The duchess does as well.”

  Emma put out a placating hand. “Could you ask for us, Hyacinth? Watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee will remind me of Colorado.” She looked through the covered dishes on the tray like a child inspecting the presents under the Christmas tree.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Straightaway.” The pretty sixteen-year-old twirled easily now, free of the tray, and made to leave.

  Emma hurried ahead and opened the door for her.

  Beranger stifled a laugh. It was touching the way she tried to make the chambermaid feel comfortable. She didn’t yet understand the way of service like the English did. Emma would learn the staff didn’t want to have their jobs done for them, because if that occurred they would have no way to support themselves. They’d discuss the subject later, over coffee—if the kitchen had any—and see if he might be able to make her understand.

  If he didn’t, there was no doubt his stepmother would. And that conversation would not be pretty. He wondered if he’d made a mistake allowing her to remain in the wing that should rightfully be theirs. He needed to talk to Emma about it. Would she understand why he’d decided to allow it? How could she, if he hardly did himself?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Charlotte zipped around the scullery, preparing for another day. She barely noticed her aching muscles and strained back as she polished the stove and brought in more firewood. She swept the whole room and polished the window that looked out on the service door. Today felt like her birthday, Christmas, and New Year’s all wrapped up in one. All because of the Honorable Justin Winters. Memories of last night had her stepping high. With persistence, and scalded milk, she’d been able to remove most of the berry stain from his shirt, but not completely. She’d been astounded by his patience as she worked on the crimson blot. He’d casually talked of this and that and even mentioned that he’d noticed her in the bakeshop a time or two in Brightshire and was surprised to see her arrive at the castle yesterday. He’d even called her pretty.

  Verity would have swooned with envy.

  Was the stain on his shirt on purpose? She couldn’t help but think that was possible. So he could come down to the kitchen to see me?

  “Why’re you standing there wasting time?” Margaret Malone—Charlotte had made a point of remembering her name this time—appeared in the doorway, holding a tray of pots and pans. The kitchen’s daily routine was already underway.

  Margaret’s tone, as sharp as any darning needle, went straight through Charlotte. She’d tried to befriend the kitchen maid last night before bed. And again this morning. But Margaret didn’t seem to want to be friends. Thankfully, this morning Thomas had left a note on the scullery sideboard for Charlotte to say that Amelia’s fever had broken and the doctor expected her to make a full recovery within the week. Charlotte would soon be back at the bakeshop, making bread, cakes, and meat pies like normal.

  “I’m heating the hot water, what else?”

  “Should’a put that on before ya blackened the stove and swept the floor. Now you’ll be waiting for the water to boil and be backed up for most the mornin’.” Margaret shook her head in dismay, but the gleeful look in her eyes gave her away. “Mrs. Darling won’t be pleased. You best be prepared to be scolded.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll put the water on first thing. Nobody mentioned that to me.”

  “I shouldn’t need to mention something so basic. Anyone would know what to do.”

  Actually, Margaret was right. If she hadn’t been mooning over Mr. Winters since before she’d opened her eyes, she would have thought of the simple step. “You’re right, Margaret. Thank you for pointing out my error.”

  Having finished unloading the dirty saucepots, crusted cake tins, and blackened frying pans, the maid hurried away. Within a moment, she was back.

  Annoyed, because Margaret had indeed caught her waiting pointlessly for the water to warm, as she’d predicted, Charlotte straightened. “Yes? Did you want to say something else?” Go on and castigate me again for being stupid. I can take it. I’m used to Aunt Ethel . . .

  “Mrs. Darling wants to see us in her office.”

  Charlotte blinked. “Us?”

  Margaret nodded.

  Charlotte followed her out the door, past the servants’ hall, to the end of the corridor, where a brass plate hung on the door. It read: “Mrs. Darling, Housekeeper.”

  They loo
ked at each other, and Charlotte knocked.

  “Come in.”

  The room was cozy. Mrs. Darling sat behind a writing desk, glasses Charlotte hadn’t seen before perched on her nose. As well as other writing implements, a feather pen sat in a cradle, its soft white plumes disturbed by their entrance. A side glance at Margaret revealed the stark whiteness of her face. She was frightened to death. Charlotte had the bakeshop, and in a sense, so did Amelia. But what of Margaret? Did she even have a home to return to if she was fired?

  “Ma’am,” Charlotte began, feeling responsible for some reason for the grumpy maid. “You wanted to see us?”

  Mrs. Darling nodded. “I know you’re both busy at the start of the day, so I’ll not keep you long. I’ve been informed that you, Miss Aldridge, show talent as a baker at your family’s shop in Brightshire. From this time until Amelia returns, you, Miss Malone, will return to the scullery, and you, Miss Aldridge, will assist in the kitchen—as Margaret does, but I’d like you to work alongside the pastry cook as well. Now that the duke and duchess have arrived, some new fare in the kitchen will be nice.”

  A knife sliced through Charlotte’s heart. Poor Margaret! She would not take this well. The demotion was a huge step back, and all of them, including Mrs. Darling, knew that fact clearly. The scullery was the bottom of the ladder.

  “B-but, ma’am . . . ,” Margaret began.

  “It’s only for a time, Margaret. Charlotte is needed in the kitchen, where her talents will shine.” She smiled and stood, signaling the discussion was over. “Effective immediately.”

  Charlotte chanced a quick glance at Margaret as they left. The girl’s face appeared chiseled from stone. Charlotte felt compelled to say something, a few words to soften the blow. A sentence or two, to let Margaret know she hadn’t gone looking for her job. That as soon as Amelia returned all would go back to normal. It would, wouldn’t it?

  Margaret beat her to the punch. Halfway to the scullery, she grabbed Charlotte’s arm and pulled her to a stop. “I didn’t have an easy life like you, working for your family. I come from the workhouse, and before that, a cottage home since I was one year old. With no ma or pa, work’s all I’ve ever known. At twelve, I got my first job in Throwly, working seventeen-hour days for a gentleman and lady with three young’uns. They made sure to get their money’s worth out of lazy ol’ Margaret. That job lasted two years, then I got taken on here, in the scullery, being a helper to the scullery maid. When she took to her grave, I showed Mrs. Darling I could do the job myself. Took me three years to advance, and your cousin took over.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I made something of myself. I’m a kitchen maid at Ashbury Castle.”