A Duke Too Far

by Jane Ashford

  He found a considerable crowd in the kitchen. On one side, along with all of the current staff, stood Macklin’s valet and Miss Grandison’s formidable dresser. On the other milled a group of four young people, two male and two female. They looked familiar. Peter had seen them in the nearby village, though he didn’t immediately recall their names.

  Miss Julia Grandison faced them all at the end of the room, her stance effortlessly authoritative. “Good,” she said. One of the new girls started at the boom of her voice. “Now we shall see.” She pointed at the two young men and beckoned.

  Conway and Evan bristled at the newcomers as they stepped forward. Like the Alberdene maids, they looked more jealous than relieved at the idea of help. Fortunately, Mrs. Anselm seemed amused.

  “What are your names?” asked Miss Grandison.

  “Jem Bailey,” said one young man.

  “William Williams,” said the other.

  Miss Grandison raised her eyebrows, but said only, “Very well, William and James. The Alberdene footmen will explain your duties. I hope you are ready to work hard.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the two answered in unison.

  “Bumpkins,” muttered Conway, just at the threshold of hearing.

  “Perhaps,” said Miss Grandison, clearly surprising Conway by replying to him. “That is why they will require your guidance.” She turned to the Alberdene housemaids. “As the girls will need yours.”

  Rose and Tess dropped nervous curtsies.

  “I can do hair,” said one of the young women. “I’m always fixing my sister’s.” She nudged her companion, who flinched at the attention this brought her.

  Peter expected Miss Grandison to reprimand the speaker, but instead that lady exchanged a glance with her dresser, who nodded once. “Those who desire training will find opportunities, if they show themselves diligent,” Miss Grandison said then. “What is your name?” she asked the newcomer.

  “Marged Jones,” she replied, her voice a Welsh lilt. “And my sister here is Una.” The second girl half hid behind her braver sibling.

  “Indeed. And will you be diligent?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Satisfied, Miss Grandison turned and eyed Peter’s group. “Good gracious, look at the dust on your gowns!”

  Her four charges looked down. Their skirts were indeed coated inches above the hems.

  “I told you how it would be,” said Miss Grandison. “Go outside and shake it off. There is no need to make unnecessary work for our new servitors.”

  Miss Ada set her dog at Peter’s feet and followed her friends out the back door. Macklin exchanged a quizzical look with his valet.

  Miss Grandison turned to Peter. “I have a good deal of experience running a household, Compton. Mrs. Anselm and I have agreed that since we are here, I may as well use it. I assume you have no objection.”

  What would she do if he did, Peter wondered. What would he? But in fact, he was grateful. “None.” Perhaps they would all learn something.

  The older woman accepted this as the queen might have acknowledged the natural deference of a subject. “It will give Ada and her friends an instructional opportunity as well.”

  “Splendid,” said Peter.

  This earned him a sharp glance from Miss Grandison and a raised eyebrow from Macklin. Peter expected to be accused of inappropriate raillery, but the kitchen cat chose that moment to rise with the majesty of many years’ dominance, walk over to Ella, and extend her neck to touch noses. The little dog stood rigid, ready to erupt and yet clearly anxious.

  The calico cat was a diplomat of long standing, however. She’d forged an alliance with the wild felines who patrolled the empty parts of the house, and even produced a litter that resembled one of the largest toms. Those kittens had gone off to join the wild side of their family when they were half-grown. Now the cat drew back, then extended the nose of acquaintanceship again. Ella accepted with a nervous obeisance, her tail and hindquarters depressed.

  The young ladies returned with most of the dust shaken from their skirts. Miss Grandison surveyed them like a general reviewing her troops. “One should never neglect opportunities, whatever the situation,” she said. “You will all attend me each day at noon, and we will review the tasks required to run a household efficiently, performing those that are properly the duty of the lady of the house.”

  This fiat was received with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Or perhaps lack of enthusiasm would describe it better, Peter thought. There were no overt objections, however. He imagined that very few people argued with Miss Julia Grandison. For his part, though he was embarrassed at the state of his home, he was also glad they were staying a bit longer.

  Four

  Arthur watched Miss Julia Grandison add a drop more milk to her cup of tea. He had come upon her, alone, in the Alberdene drawing room and thought it only polite to join her. Guests were not usually left solitary at the house parties he frequented. She’d accepted his company with an equitable nod, seeming neither glad nor sorry to see him. When he declined tea, she went back to her own.

  Seeming satisfied with the mixture, she sipped. Golden afternoon sun slanted through the windows. The house was very quiet. It was large enough to absorb the small number of guests and the staff and still feel empty. “My young friend Tom has gone for a tramp around the countryside,” said Arthur. “He’s rather like a cat in that. He likes to explore any new place thoroughly before he settles.”

  “I don’t believe in the idea of much younger friends,” Miss Grandison replied. She set down her cup, added a bit more milk, tasted, nodded in appreciation. “The connection is bound to be unequal.”

  He’d expected some remark about the weather or the local scenery. At most a complaint about Alberdene’s limitations from a visitor’s point of view. The sort of innocuous exchange that oiled the wheels of society, which he could produce automatically and at great length. Now he remembered that Miss Julia Grandison had never dealt in that sort of chitchat, not even when she was seventeen.

  “What commonality can there be between the Earl of Macklin and a lad who, pardon me, seems to have no antecedents whatsoever?” she added.

  “You feel he is beneath me?” He had no patience with such attitudes.

  She gazed at him over the rim of her teacup as if he’d insulted her. “Nothing so petty,” she said. “The differences are simply too large.”

  Arthur was intrigued. His slight acquaintance with this lady seemed worth pursuing, another point of interest in his final visit to the young men he’d singled out in London. This was easily accomplished. As the two oldest members of the Alberdene party, they would naturally be thrown together. “You only have friends who are like yourself?” he asked.

  Her eyes were sharp, her posture imposing. She was actually quite attractive, but the chief impression she gave was of massive dignity, not the least daunted by his rank. “The term ‘friend’ is used far too loosely, in my opinion,” she replied. “People employ it for a wide variety of social connections. Some of which have nothing to do with the others.”

  Arthur sat back, prepared to enjoy this conversation. “What do you mean?”

  Miss Grandison put down her cup. The click on the saucer was like a crisp reprimand. “I do not know you well enough to judge whether you are being satirical. Which proves my point, actually.”

  “I am not,” Arthur said. “I’m quite interested.”

  She accepted this with a nod that seemed to make him responsible for whatever followed. “Some people name everyone they meet at an evening party their friends. For them, it’s enough to have been introduced and exchange empty greetings.”

  “But not for you.”

  “I don’t call that friendship,” she acknowledged. “Those would be mere acquaintances. Distant.” She spread one hand as if to establish a surface. “Some become close acquaintances,” she co
ntinued, indicating a layer above her hand. “When I know their circumstances well enough to ask about their families, that sort of thing.”

  “But they are not your friends?”

  “This is my own way of looking at the matter,” she answered, as if he was arguing with her.

  “And I find it most enlightening.”

  She sniffed as if she didn’t quite believe him. But she went on. “Some of these people may become friends, over time, if we find we have common beliefs and experiences. Spend time together. And then develop bonds based on these things. This does not happen in a few evenings of idle chatter.”

  “It is a matter of effort and interest and goodwill on both sides.”

  “Precisely.” For the first time in the conversation she looked approving.

  “But don’t you wish to have a variety of friends, of different ages and experience? To add a bit of spice to the social mixture?”

  “I find it tiresome if there are too many adjustments to make.”

  “That seems sadly limited to me,” Arthur said.

  “Well, I do not believe we really understand those who have had lives wholly unlike our own. They may tell us. We can listen. But that is never the same.”

  Arthur didn’t like this idea. “We can sympathize.”

  “Of course. But that very act is…a kind of patronage. Even condescension.”

  “It isn’t!”

  His vehemence didn’t appear to affect her. “Wide differences in situation mean differences in social position and power,” she added. “Whether we are speaking of fortune or age or rank. You, who have all of those, must realize that they weigh in the balance.”

  He did, but he took great care not to let them upset it.

  “I do not doubt your good intentions,” said Miss Grandison kindly. “But neither do I believe in lasting friendships at such a great remove. Sooner or later, interests will diverge, and friction will arise.”

  “Perhaps.” Arthur didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t refute it. “In the meantime, there are new things to learn. Insights to offer.”

  “And if your suggestions are rejected?”

  He’d thought something like this before, Arthur realized. How did you help others without imposing your own preconceptions upon them? Could he aid a young friend along a path he felt quite wrong for him, for example? He wasn’t certain he could. And then there might well be friction.

  He put this uncomfortable idea aside. “Have your young ladies gone out as well?”

  “Yes, they expressed a desire to explore the gardens. Which are little better than a wilderness as far as I can see. In reality, of course, they wanted to get out from under my eye so they can chatter nonsense.”

  Arthur thought that was a fair assessment. Except perhaps the nonsense. “How do you come to be chaperoning them?”

  “Ada wished to make this journey, and my brother was against it.” Miss Grandison showed a thin smile. “I like to thwart him when I can. If it isn’t too much bother.”

  “You do?”

  “I’m not above a bit of revenge.”

  Searching his memory, Arthur wasn’t able to recall Mr. Grandison or why he might deserve retribution.

  “You don’t remember the Collingford ball? It has been quite a few years now.”

  “Ah,” said Arthur.

  “Ah indeed.” She gave him a sardonic glance.

  At that long-ago event the youthful Miss Grandison had been drenched by an upended punch bowl. She’d been left sitting on the floor in the supper room soaked, dazed, and dripping on the carpet. Sticky as well, Arthur supposed. “That was unfortunate,” he said.

  “Indeed.” Her tone was desert dry. “Afterward, my brother approached me. Not to deplore my plight or help me up, as one might have thought. But merely to say, ‘You are always so clumsy, Julia.’” Miss Grandison bared her teeth like an extremely civilized lioness. “I learned later that he stood by when he heard that Trask and Quigley were plotting to humiliate me. As if it was my fault that Trask was a little shrimp of a man. You’d think he might have wanted to know that he had a bald spot on top of his head.” She sniffed. “And it wasn’t only that. John found it difficult to endure the come-out of his bumptious sister. He often pretended not to be acquainted with me when we were at parties together.”

  “Surely not.” Arthur was shocked at the notion.

  “You don’t know him.”

  “It’s true I can’t bring him to mind.”

  Miss Grandison gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, splendid. He would be so mortified. I shall be sure to tell him.” She fortified herself with tea. “Heavens, I haven’t thought of that ball in years.”

  “Only when you’ve been thwarting your brother?” Arthur was unsettled by the idea that she’d held onto a grudge so long.

  His companion waved this remark aside. “A side benefit. I wouldn’t have put myself out, but the thing is…” She examined him as if wondering how much to say.

  The scrutiny was quite thorough. Arthur endured it.

  Seeming to come to a decision, Miss Grandison added, “Ada hasn’t really recovered from the death of her friend.”

  “A terrible tragedy.” It seemed that Miss Ada was as affected as Compton, Arthur thought.

  Miss Grandison nodded. “I believe she thinks people haven’t noticed, but of course they have. Her mother in particular. It has been quite a time since the accident. One must let these things go. I thought she should be helped to do so. Life will offer other trials soon enough.”

  There could be no doubt of that. Arthur nodded. He was glad to see glimpses of a kind heart behind her brusque manner.

  “Ada insisted on this journey, and so it has been allowed to her,” his companion finished. “All the girls are to be presented in London next season. Ada must put this behind her before that. I shall see that she does.”

  Arthur wondered how she meant to manage that. She seemed to imagine it would be simple. A doubtful assumption. And yet, was his own mission here so different? They were on parallel courses, he realized.

  “Ada’s first idea was to come with just her friends. Propriety in numbers.” She snorted. “She was soon set straight about that!”

  “Not acceptable,” he said.

  “No. She was quite despondent. So in the end I agreed to watch over them. A pack of babes in the woods. They can’t be meeting just anyone before they’re even out. Their parents have more sensible plans for them. And on top of everything, Harriet Finch is a considerable heiress.”

  “Indeed?” Arthur absorbed this bit of interesting information.

  “She’s old Winstead’s granddaughter.”

  This was wealth indeed. “I wasn’t aware that he had any heirs.”

  Miss Grandison gestured airily. “There was some unpleasantness in the family, but it has been made up. It’s settled that all will come to Miss Finch. As the world will discover next season. Should be quite the sensation, I would think.”

  Arthur nodded.

  Sounds in the hallway heralded the return of the young ladies. They burst in with red cheeks from the crisp outdoors and a babble of conversation. Arthur examined Miss Finch—a pretty, lively young lady. Of course he would not interfere, but there could be no harm in creating a few opportunities. And then they would see. An heiress was certainly the traditional answer to Compton’s aristocratic penury.

  * * *

  Ada felt a dizzy sense of anticipation as she slipped out of her room early the next morning to take Ella outside. When she returned to leave her with Sarah, despite the little dog’s objections, Sarah merely turned over in bed and murmured a farewell, only half-awake, and thus not able to toss cautions in Ada’s path. Ada had slept peacefully, too, with not so much as a dream, which was a true blessing.

  Downstairs, she surprised one of the new young maids in the
breakfast room, making her jump and tip a plate of scones onto the table. “Sorry, miss,” the girl said as she gathered up the pastries and set them back on the plate. “Mrs. Anselm reckoned no one would be up just yet.”

  “I woke early.”

  “Shall I you bring anything?”

  “Some tea, thank you, Una.”

  The duke appeared as Ada was sipping it. He paused in the doorway. “You’re already up,” he said.

  “We agreed to meet.” She’d put on her favorite blue gown for the occasion. It was a little more dashing than the rest of her wardrobe. Which wasn’t saying much, she acknowledged silently.

  “Would you call it an agreement?”

  “You wouldn’t go back on your word?” Disappointment loomed. “You’re here,” Ada pointed out, hoping he didn’t mean to draw back.

  “As I am each morning at this time.”

  “You promised I could see Delia’s room.”

  “I’m certain I made no promises. You have no grounds for such a ferocious scowl.”

  “I’m not scowling.”

  Rather than reply, the duke indicated the large mirror that hung on the inner wall of the breakfast room. She was frowning, Ada noticed. And her eyebrows did accentuate that sort of expression. Other people had accused her of glowering when she wasn’t doing anything of the kind. “I was only concerned,” she explained.

  “Then you should take more care with those brows.”

  Her breath caught in a gasp. This wasn’t the sort of exchange Ada had imagined when she thought of seeing Delia’s brother. Not in the least.

  Compton looked chagrined. “I did not mean—”

  Taking advantage of the awkward moment, Ada rose and headed for the door. She would push him along before he could go back to refusing. “Let’s go.” She walked out of the room, silently commanding him to follow.

  After a moment, he did. Ada hurried to the first door they’d used yesterday to enter the older part of the house. Compton hesitated as if he didn’t know what to do, but then he unlocked it and let her through, leaving it open behind them. “You could just tell me where Delia’s room is—was,” Ada said. And immediately regretted it. That wasn’t what she wanted.