An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When the bells above the door sang out, Charlotte turned from the display case to greet whoever dared venture out in such a storm. Astonishment hit her like a streak of lightning. The duchess! Here in the bakeshop. She looked much the same as she and Tristen had only moments before—soaking wet and happy. The next moment the duke himself stepped in behind her, laughing and shaking water from his tall frame. The duchess’s riding habit, which must have been lovely at some point, was saturated all the way through. The hem was almost black with mud, and the once-crisp bows drooped like a sad dog’s ears.

  The duchess’s blue lips trembled, but her eyes lit with excitement, not seeming to feel the discomfort from the cold. The strawberry hair Charlotte remembered, which had looked so soft at their after-midnight meeting, drooped over her forehead in sopping-wet hanks.

  “Your Graces!” she blurted, curtsying and looking from one to the other.

  Soon Verity and Thomas joined the group, as did Tristen. The tiny shop front shrank with the new arrivals.

  Charlotte cut a quick glance to her aunt, whose eyes were as large as saucers. Her mouth resembled an open barn door. Being upstaged by anyone always soured her mood, and especially her niece. But something had to be said and done, and doing so was up to her.

  “Welcome to Smith’s Bakeshop,” Charlotte said to the tall duke. This was the first time she’d seen him up close. “We’re honored by your presence.” She felt the others hovering in the doorway behind her. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Charlotte!” the duchess gasped. “I’m so happy to see you. I didn’t realize this was your bakeshop, but I should have known from all the stories you shared with me and Mrs. Darling in the kitchen that night. Why, you’re drenched to the bone, just like us.”

  Unbidden, Charlotte’s gaze slipped to the side, where Tristen was watching the interaction.

  Aunt Ethel and the others looked confused, glancing about with tipped heads and puckered brows. Charlotte hadn’t told anyone of her tea with the duchess. The memory warmed her through and through.

  The duchess grasped the duke by the arm. “Beranger, this is the kitchen maid I told you about, the one who was so kind to me and made me feel at home. Doesn’t she look like Katie? She and Mrs. Darling have made me feel very welcome.” She rushed forward and enfolded Charlotte in a tight hug, not minding her wet state in the least.

  “Thank you for being so caring with my wife,” the duke said. “Your kindness will not go unrewarded.”

  Charlotte blushed. “I don’t want anything in return. But please, come into the back kitchen and dry off and have something to eat. Mr. Llewellyn, your gamekeeper, was just about to do the same after walking me here and getting drenched for his reward. We have more than enough and insist you be our guests.”

  She’d seen the duke’s gaze find Tristen, and he’d given him a nod of greeting.

  “Oh, and you must be Mrs. Smith,” the duchess said. “And Thomas, and Verity,” she added, bestowing gracious smiles on them all.

  “Why, I, well . . . ,” Aunt Ethel sputtered, her hands flapping around and eyes blinking in surprise. Verity too appeared stunned speechless by their prominent guests, while Thomas, his eyes guarded, hung back, which wasn’t his usual way with strangers.

  “We would love to join you if we wouldn’t be taking too much advantage,” the duchess said. “When we went out for our ride, the skies were overcast, but we never expected such a downpour.” The sound of the rain on the bakeshop roof made hearing difficult.

  Thomas stepped forward and glanced out the window. “Would you like me to bring your horses in out of the weather, Your Grace? We have a small barn around back.”

  “Thank you, I would,” the duke responded.

  Aunt Ethel gazed unbelieving at the duke with a funny expression on her face. “I remember you. The boy with the strange eyes.”

  A smile grew across the duke’s face. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Smith. I was in your shop many times as a youth—especially summertime. The memory of your strawberry tarts makes my mouth water.”

  “Please, this way,” Charlotte said, noticing again the duchess’s blue lips. She needed the warmth of the fire.

  Everyone made room for the duchess around the fire, and she insisted that Charlotte join her. Charlotte caught Aunt Ethel’s scowl at that. She’d prefer the honor be bestowed upon one of her own daughters. Then the idea of dry clothes was tossed out by the duke, who seemed concerned over his bride’s health. Within fifteen minutes, the duchess was outfitted in some of Charlotte’s garments—none too fancy, but better than her damp riding habit. Charlotte changed as well, gathering apparel from Verity and some from Amelia to make do.

  Back downstairs, the men, drier but still damp, were at the table feasting heartily on meat pie and ale. The bakeshop kitchen had never felt so cozy. The duke placed several gold coins on the table, much more than the meal and the use of clothes were worth, but he insisted on paying them for the fine hospitality and clever conversation.

  “I’ll return to Ashbury and summon a coach for you and the duchess.” Tristen, now finished with his meal and looking sated and a bit drier, stood. His gaze found Charlotte’s.

  She flushed. “It’s still raining out there.”

  “Can’t help that. I can take the shortcut through the woods.”

  “We appreciate that,” the duke said. “You can take my wife’s horse. Mine is leery of strangers. I wouldn’t trust him in a storm like this. Nothing against you, Llewellyn.”

  “Have you ever ridden a western saddle?” the duchess asked, sipping from her teacup. “Because you’re about to.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve not, but I’ll manage.”

  Aunt Ethel brought in a plateful of sweets and placed them in the center of the table for dessert. “Please help yourself, Your Graces,” she said. “And you as well, Mr. Llewellyn, before you leave. And be sure to check in on Amelia once you’re back. Such a sweet, fine girl there never was.”

  Charlotte ignored the ripple of hurt her aunt’s comments created. She was used to them, after all the years of walking in her younger cousin’s shadow, but even though Mr. Llewellyn had accompanied her home, had even gotten drenched for her, her aunt never even considered that he might be a potential match for her, rather than one of her own daughters.

  Thunder boomed outside, making the women gasp and the men laugh. Who would have thought they’d be entertaining the duke and duchess in Smith’s Bakeshop?

  The duchess tipped her head to one side and smiled. “And what of you, Charlotte? Why are you here and not at Ashbury?”

  Charlotte could feel Tristen’s solemn gaze on her face. She didn’t know if this was the best time to broach the subject of her returning to the castle for good, but then, when would the time be right? “I was only filling in for Amelia until she was better. She resumed her duties today, so now I’m free to come back to the bakeshop. But”—she glanced carefully at Aunt Ethel—“I’ve been offered a position by Mrs. Darling, if my aunt will let me accept.”

  She looked around at the kitchen, suddenly wondering if she was ready. This place did feel like home, despite her aunt’s unkind treatment. Yes, Aunt Ethel had raised her, but Charlotte had worked every single day to pay off that debt. She shouldered much more of the work than Verity, and while Thomas was expected to do the manly, outside chores, like chop wood and cut hay, he did little overnight baking and pastry making. She’d hate to leave him, but Aunt Ethel had never been quite as harsh with him. He’d find his way.

  The duchess put out a hand to Aunt Ethel. “I’m so delighted your daughter Amelia is feeling better. And you must be so proud of Charlotte. She’s a marvelously accomplished baker, no doubt thanks to your fine training. I hadn’t realized she was only with us temporarily. Mrs. Darling and the cook handle the staffing.” Her gaze implored Aunt Ethel and then her husband. “Oh, I do so hope you’ll allow her to return to us.”

&nbs
p; CHAPTER TWENTY

  The eyes of green and blue come back,

  To haunt, to laugh, to flaunt your fame,

  But underneath what years have grown,

  Remains the stain of utter shame.

  Beranger, your pain I’ll see,

  And my revenge will be complete . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Two weeks came and went in a blink of an eye. The first of October saw the fields of Brightshire bare of their offerings of wheat, oats, and barley. The harvest had been generous, and Emma had gone with Beranger on several afternoons to watch the activity of the tenant farmers, enthralled at how the people of Goldenbrook joined together to glean the fields of all they had to offer after the horse-drawn mechanical threshing machines went through at a nice clip. Beranger had marveled at the new developments. What used to take fifty to sixty men to accomplish with sickle and reaping hooks was now done by two or three horse-drawn combines and a handful of men. In the beginning of the century, Luddites had shunned technological change as more and more machines took over their jobs—but the machines had won out.

  The comments Emma had heard in the Gilded Goose continued to haunt her. Beranger insisted he wasn’t in any kind of danger, but she kept a sharper eye out than ever. Was it possible someone had murdered Gavin? And if so, what were the scoundrel’s feelings regarding the new duke? The constable had assured them his men had reopened the investigation, now months old, but what could that accomplish?

  Dressed in one of her many new gowns, Emma breathed deeply at the library window as she studied the tree line of the woodlands, willing her thoughts away from her troubles. The ever-changing color of the leaves was beautiful. Deep orangey-red on some trees and bright yellow on others, with a rainbow of shades in between. Emma thought she’d never seen anything quite so stunning except the gorgeous view of the San Juan Mountains from Eden’s Main Street.

  Home?

  Although deliriously happy here in Brightshire, she longed to know how her family fared—Mavis and Katie, mostly, for as she’d told Charlotte and Mrs. Darling, they were the sisters whose hearts had been suffering at the time of her departure. She’d written her sisters as soon as she’d arrived in Brightshire, but who knew how long the letter would take to arrive in Colorado, especially with the ocean crossing. She hoped happiness abounded for both—and she longed for the day she’d be able to share with them some happy news of her own.

  Although alone, Emma discreetly touched her tummy. She’d discovered the women of England didn’t express their feelings with the same exuberance as Americans. She’d observed as much with the serene Lady Audrey and was always aware of the dowager’s watchful eye. A boisterous laugh hadn’t crossed Emma’s lips since she’d arrived without eliciting a disapproving scowl from the woman.

  Is a tiny babe nestled in my womb, warm and protected, a combination of Beranger and myself, knit together with love by God? The thought brought an instant swell of affection. They’d been married about a month and a half, and conception was certainly possible. But she didn’t feel any different. And she didn’t get queasy at certain smells and the thought of food, as she’d heard would happen.

  Even in her contentment, Emma felt a need to be doing something useful. Since arriving she’d done little of importance. Lately, she’d been thinking of returning to Goldenbrook. The hamlet had seemed cozy, the residents helpful to each other, their small gardens colorful and charming. Yet, with the colder weather descending, she worried about how they would fare and wondered if there weren’t aspects of their lives that could be improved upon, for the children’s sakes if nothing else. The tiny houses and lack of shops or any kind of commercial advantages, besides the Gilded Goose, made the place seem as if it was stuck in the Middle Ages.

  She’d made the mistake recently of asking the dowager whether there were things she could do to help them. Beranger’s stepmother had let her feelings be known quite well on that subject. It wasn’t the duchess’s place, she’d said, her face filled with revulsion. The poor could take care of their own—and had been doing so for centuries. But Emma didn’t care what she thought. She had to follow her heart, as their father had advised in his letter to Katie.

  Father.

  Their mother, fearful for her children’s safety on the remote Colorado ranch, had taken the five sisters Back East to Philadelphia when they were all still young. Yet their father had never stopped loving them, and upon his death, he’d bequeathed them his fortune. Even more meaningful than that were the letters he’d written them on his deathbed, to be given to them on their birthdays. Her sisters would be appalled if they knew she hadn’t opened hers yet. She’d promised to write to them and share the contents since they’d shared theirs.

  Beranger had become obsessed with her desire to delay reading her father’s words, almost insistent that she correct the oversight right away. But once the letter was opened and the contents read, what from home would she have left to look forward to? She didn’t have the heart to tell Beranger that was the reason holding her back—that a part of her still longed for Eden, and still thought of it as home. The beauty here in Brightshire moved her, but she didn’t have any memories of these hills, these rooms, these faces, to make them special like they did for him. They didn’t have the ability to make her heart sing, or laugh, or cry. Memories were the magic that accomplished those deeds.

  Yet perhaps reading the letter would resolve some of her homesickness. Tonight I’ll remedy my misguided ways and read Father’s letter, she vowed. Then I’ll sit down and write a long letter home and let everyone know what Father said.

  Turning from the window, she took in the lovely library filled with hundreds of books. Reading them all would take an eternity. But then, they were about England, Wales, and Scotland. Not America, Colorado, and the West.

  The door opened, and the dowager duchess sailed in, followed by another woman. She appeared middle-aged, with a kind face.

  “There you are, Duchess,” the dowager duchess said, her tone a mite dismissive. “Hiding out again? I’ve looked everywhere, the garden, kitchen, and even the stable.” She turned to the woman at her side. “The duchess is from America. They have different ideas of decorum than we do, but you’ll get used to her ways.”

  “Yes, here I am.” Emma’s tone sounded slightly defeated even to her own ears, but she didn’t care. She glanced at the window. “Just taking in the fall colors.” She tried not to bristle at the dowager’s superior attitude, as if an American were nothing better than a beetle under her boot heel to be mercilessly crushed.

  The dowager nodded. “Very good. Meet Carmichael, your new lady’s maid. She comes with the highest recommendations from one of the best houses in Wales. And she’s available and can start today.”

  Hyacinth, the chambermaid, had been filling in until a proper lady’s maid could be found, but Emma had grown used to the shy girl’s ways. She’d known this day would come, and yet she liked Hyacinth and had mixed feelings about giving her up for this stranger. For whatever reason, she wasn’t in the mood today to acquiesce to the dowager’s wishes. “I’m quite used to Hyacinth, thank you,” she said. There was no way around hurting Miss Carmichael’s feelings, she supposed. The dowager should have consulted with Emma before bringing the woman in.

  “Hyacinth is no longer with us.”

  Emma gasped. “What?”

  “The fact that she had no proper training was evident in your hair and appointments. She’s packed and gone. No use trying to run after her.”

  Emma reached up and touched her softly done hair, having asked Hyacinth to avoid the tight curls the women in England seemed so fond of. She preferred her hair down. “I don’t see anything wrong with Hyacinth’s ability. You had no right to fire her without speaking with me first. I’m duchess now.”

  A sly smile spread across the dowager’s face. “Indeed, you are. You should begin behaving as such.”

  The witch. “Why would you do such a thing? What reason could you po
ssibly have? She’s been at Ashbury for a year without complaint.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  It had been. In a private conversation while she’d helped prepare Emma for bed. Not in those exact words, but close.

  At Emma’s silence the dowager’s brow rose. “The girl has had plenty of time to excel at her duties, but she has not. I’ve been watching.”

  Emma fisted her hands. “No, that’s not true. You didn’t like that she and I were friends. That’s why you fired her. And what of Hyacinth’s chambermaid duties? We still need someone for those.”

  “I will tackle hiring her replacement next.”

  For whatever reason, the dowager glanced at the toe of Emma’s shoe, visible beneath her gown. There must be something improper with her choice. Rules! She was becoming sick of them!

  To her credit, Miss Carmichael kept her feelings hidden behind a stoic mask, as if she didn’t hear a word.

  Beranger’s stepmother closed the distance between them and lowered her voice. “I didn’t mean to vex you again, Duchess. I must remember how extremely sensitive you are. But you have to realize, there are things a duchess must know and do. If she does not, she will embarrass her husband. The manor will fall into chaos. The respect that the Northcott family has held for centuries will dissipate, all because of your American ways.” She lifted her already elevated chin. “Beranger needs you now more than ever. Does he not deserve at least that? With his past, he still has many uphill battles to wage to gain respect, without having to explain to the ton why his American duchess blunders in her choice of fashion or manners simply because she was not adequately educated. Do you really want to turn this woman away? She’s made the long trip at my request, and is ready today to assist you.”