Christmas with the Duchess

by Tamara Lejeune

  “I don’t know, Harry,” said Emma, bringing him his cup. “I suppose it was put away.”

  “Put away? Put away! By whom, may I ask?” He looked around angrily.

  Lady Susan, still smarting from his rebuke earlier, looked down at her hands. Emma quietly sat down next to Grey.

  “Who would dare do such a thing? Carstairs!” Harry shouted, catching sight of the old butler at the other end of the room. “Do you know the picture I mean? It was one of my father’s favorites.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Carstairs answered placidly.

  “By whose authority was it taken away?” Harry demanded.

  “Lord Hugh’s, your grace,” Carstairs replied.

  A quick glance around the room told Harry that his father’s uncle still had not put in an appearance. “Where is he? Go and fetch him at once.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “And have that painting restored to its proper place.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “And, Carstairs? In the future, you may disregard anything Lord Hugh says to you. Just disregard it. That goes for all the servants.”

  “Oh, very good, your grace,” said Carstairs.

  As he withdrew, Julia sidled up to the duke. “What are you going to do to Papa, Cousin Harry?” she asked curiously.

  He glanced at her. “Well, if he weren’t your father, I suppose I’d throw him out.”

  From her chair a few feet away, Emma noticed that Harry did not insist that his pretty cousin call him Warwick. She hurried to interrupt the tête-à-tête. “You have not yet met your uncle’s wife,” she said, leading him up to Lady Michael.

  Harry’s French was of the worst English schoolboy variety, perfectly incomprehensible. “I see they do not teach French at Westminster School,” Lord Michael joked.

  Harry’s face reddened. “I remember nothing of my time at Westminster,” he said. “Nothing but the birch!”

  Emma gasped. “You were not beaten, Harry!”

  “Grey got the worst of it,” Harry answered grimly.

  Seeing Emma’s white face, Lord Michael said quickly. “Of course you were birched at Harrow, too. I know I was, and so was your father, Harry.”

  Harry sniffed. “One doesn’t mind being beaten in front of one’s own class,” he answered. “But, at Westminster, we were surrounded by the sons of bankers and lawyers—Cits,” he added, summing up middle-class London with one scathing syllable. “I will not be beaten in front of Cits. No doubt the loathsome creatures have all gone home to their families, gloating of how they saw the Duke of Warwick and Lord Grey Fitzroy birched.”

  “Don’t worry, my love,” said Emma. “You will not be going back there.”

  “Quite,” Harry said, rather coldly.

  “Pity it’s going to rain,” said Emma, after a moment. “I had hoped we could all ride out together to the forest to select the Wienachtsbaum.”

  “I couldn’t go in any case,” Harry answered carelessly. “Rain or not, I’m going to have a look at my stag this afternoon.”

  “Your stag?” Emma echoed.

  Harry’s eyes widened. “You haven’t forgotten, Mama!” he exclaimed. “It’s only the most important moment of my whole life!”

  “Your first stag hunt,” Emma whispered. “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” she lied.

  “Not my first hunt,” he said impatiently. “My first stag. My first kill. I’m afraid I won’t have time for anything else. I selected a beast last year, and I’m eager to get another look at him. He will have grown.”

  “He has,” Lord Michael assured him. “The most splendid red hart! I vow, he’s as big as a Cumberland!”

  “I trust he has nice horns,” said Emma, a little sourly, because she felt left out.

  They both laughed at her. “By that, I think she means antlers!” said Lord Michael. “Yes, Emma! The beast has very nice antlers—eighteen points. And while you have been planning your ball, I have been meeting secretly with the harbourer. We’ve been observing Harry’s stag. He’s magnificent, Harry.”

  Harry was staring at his uncle. “Did you say eighteen points?” he said breathlessly. “It was sixteen points last year!”

  “That’s impossible,” said Lord Michael. “It must be another buck, new to the herd.”

  “I have to see him,” Harry exclaimed. “An eighteen-pointer! I don’t think I can wait another minute! Who cares if it rains? I don’t regard it in the least.”

  “You will when you catch cold and your nose swells up,” Emma protested.

  Harry frowned at her. “You mustn’t fuss over me, Mama,” he said irritably. “Go and fuss over Grey, if you must fuss. What do you say, Uncle Michael?”

  “All right,” said Lord Michael. “I confess I’m eager for you to see him. I remember my first stag like it was yesterday.”

  “Grey and I will go with you,” Emma said quickly.

  “You don’t like hunting, Mama,” Harry reminded her. “You don’t even ride to hounds.”

  “Since your father is not here, it’s my duty to take an interest,” said Emma. “And it will be Grey’s turn in two years. I must prepare myself for that. And,” she added a little tartly, “it is apparent to me that I shall never see you unless I do take an interest. Come, Grey,” she called. “We’re going out to see your brother’s stag. I want you warmly dressed.”

  Lord Hugh came blustering into the room just as Emma was leaving with her younger son. “You stink!” Grey cried, recoiling with his hand over his mouth. “You smell like horse shit!”

  Lord Hugh had no time for Lord Grey. He hurried over to the duke to pay his respects.

  Harry stood looking at him, with one fist on his hip. “Why were you not here to greet me, Uncle Hugh?” he asked coldly.

  Grey paused in the doorway, eagerly watching his brother. “Come, Grey,” Emma said quietly and firmly.

  Lord Hugh babbled his excuses.

  “Cousin Harry wishes to be called Warwick now,” Julia told her father helpfully.

  “But you may address me as ‘your grace,’” Harry told Lord Hugh coldly. “We will talk later, sir. What I have to say to you should not be heard by the delicate ears of females, anyway. Ah, here is the painting!” he added, as a servant came in, bearing Emma’s portrait. Another servant cleared a space for it on the wall by removing another painting.

  “I am going out,” Harry announced, watching the operation with satisfaction. “While I am gone, Uncle, do you think you can refrain from redecorating my house?”

  Julia tittered appreciatively.

  “Of course, your grace,” Lord Hugh said, the picture of humility.

  Harry smirked, enjoying the effect he was having on Julia. “And take a bath,” he ordered his father’s uncle. “You smell like horse shit.”

  Emma spent a miserable, cold, wet afternoon in the woods, sometimes on horseback, and sometimes on her belly, spying on the splendid animal that had been marked for death. She hated stag hunting. In her view, it was even more brutal than fox hunting, but there was no getting away from the Fitzroy family tradition, not without completely alienating her children.

  First, the stag would be selected. Then it would be separated from the herd. The night before the hunt, the harbourer would watch over it all night, keeping it in a tightly defined area. On the day of the hunt, the beast would be chased through the woods for hours, until it literally was too exhausted to take another step. Then it would be shot at point blank range.

  This year, Harry would take the shot.

  Within a few hours, Emma had had more than enough of the sport, but the males of the party showed no signs of tiring of the spectacle of deer munching grass. Despite the rain, they fully intended to watch the herd until nightfall. Before long, Harry was talking of spending the night with the harbourer in his rude hut; that way, he would be able to see his stag at first light. Nor would Grey be denied the pleasure of sleeping on a dirt floor. With both boys clamoring for the privilege, and Lord Michael a
ligned with them against her, Emma could not refuse.

  Lord Michael accompanied her back to the house. “If you were not a married man, I believe you would spend the night with them,” she accused him.

  “I cannot deny it,” he answered, laughing.

  Sunday, December 18, 1814

  The following morning, Emma rode out to the harbourer’s hut, expecting to find two exhausted boys eager to return to the comforts of the house. Instead, she found them with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, cheerfully eating porridge from wooden bowls. They had no intention of leaving until after the hunt. Or so Harry told his mother.

  The hunt was to take place on the twenty-first of December, at the Winter Solstice.

  “That’s three days!” Emma protested.

  “You can come to see us every day,” Harry told her. “Bring me my portable writing desk when you come tomorrow, will you?” he added. “I want to write down all of my thoughts and observations. And Grey wants his bug collection.”

  “Beetle collection,” Grey corrected him indignantly. “I want to show Hawkins.”

  Emma looked at the harbourer and sighed. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I, Hawkins?” she said with mock sorrow. “All right! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Grey hugged her. “Thank you, Mama!”

  Harry only gave his mother a curt nod. “Don’t forget my writing materials.”

  Emma rode back to the stables feeling cross and slightly depressed. Dismounting, she led her mount into the stables, walking in on a loud argument between the head groom and Miss Octavia Fitzroy.

  Emma handed her mare’s reins to one of the stableboys. “Miss Fitzroy!” she said sharply, just as Octavia struck the groom across the face with her riding crop.

  Emma sprang forward and removed the crop from Octavia’s grasp. “How dare you strike my servant!” she gasped.

  The young lady and the head groom began to speak at once.

  “One at a time, please!” Emma said holding up a hand.

  Instantly, they again spoke at once.

  “Miss Fitzroy,” Emma interrupted. “Please explain yourself.”

  Octavia was slightly out of breath. “I am trying to teach my cousin, Lord Camford, to ride,” she said coldly, “but this idiot will not give his lordship another horse.”

  “His lordship’s already ruined one of my mares,” the head groom said belligerently. “I’ll not give him the chance to ruin another.”

  “One of your mares?” Octavia cried furiously. “Why, you ought to be beaten for your insolence, and then turned off without a character!”

  “Where is Lord Camford?” Emma asked. “And since when are you giving him lessons?”

  “His lordship was so insulted by this cretin that he has gone back to the house,” Octavia answered. “I gave him his first lesson yesterday. We have become good friends.”

  “Is that so?” Emma said coolly.

  “Does your grace think it impossible?”

  Emma was spared the trouble of a reply, as the head groom demanded her attention. “Your grace, I arsk you to have a look at our Parley. His lordship brought her in yesterday arternoon. Cut to bits, she were, and frightened harf to death. And today he comes and arsks me for another! As if our Parley were one of his fancy silk neckties and not a living creature like you and me. Begging your grace’s pardon,” he went on fiercely, “but I won’t do it. I don’t care what anybody says.”

  “What are you going to do about this?” Octavia demanded of Emma. “The man is insubordinate.”

  “Benjamin, I’m sure Lord Camford didn’t mean to harm Parley,” Emma began gently.

  “Of course it wasn’t his fault,” Octavia snapped. “It was completely the mare’s fault. She refused the wall.”

  Emma fired up. “What the devil was he doing jumping, Miss Fitzroy? Lord Camford is an absolute beginner! Was Parley badly hurt?”

  “She’s an old mare,” said Octavia. “His lordship wanted to try jumping. What does it matter? She’s obviously not been very well trained.”

  “Good God,” Emma said faintly. “You’re banned! Lord Camford, too, if he has no more sense than that! You will never come into these stables again, Miss Fitzroy. Is that clear?”

  “You can’t do that!” Octavia protested.

  “I just did! Now, you’d better go, or I shall have the stableboys drag you out!”

  Trembling with impotent rage, Octavia flounced away.

  The head groom led Emma to the injured mare’s stall. A boy was dressing the mare’s cuts and scrapes. As they approached, the old brown mare shied away nervously, her eyes rolling back in her head, but the boy calmed her with a few soft words.

  “Your grace can see her mouth is swollen to hell, and that’s a serious cut on her leg,” the head groom complained.

  “Will she be all right?” Emma asked anxiously.

  “With proper care,” the head groom assured her.

  “I’ll take over,” said Emma. “I have nothing better to do, after all, now that my sons have decided to become woodsmen.”

  Clucking her tongue softly to the mare, she entered the stall.

  Tuesday, December 20, 1814

  The morning before the stag hunt, Emma rode out to the harbourer’s hut as usual. Upon her return to the stables, she was surprised and more than a little vexed to see that Nicholas was there, apparently waiting for her.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded as she dismounted. “I’ve banned you from the stables,” she went on, as a groom came to take her mare. “Didn’t your friend Miss Fitzroy tell you?”

  “She did,” he answered, and Emma felt even more irritated because he had not denied that Octavia was his friend. “I have not gone in the stables. Nor do I intend to. Indeed, ma’am, I will never go near another horse as long as I live. Is the little horse all right?”

  “Mare,” she corrected him. “She is recovering.”

  “I am glad,” he said. “I would not have hurt her for the world. I feel horrible. I would like to send her flowers or something.”

  Emma frowned impatiently. “Don’t be nonsensical. No one thinks you did it on purpose. I will have one of the stableboys keep you apprised of her recovery, if you like.”

  “Thank you,” he said gratefully. “I really am sorry.”

  She nodded. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to my own horse.”

  “Please,” he said, stepping toward her. “I must speak to you.”

  Emma shook her head in disgust. “Here I thought you were really concerned about the mare!” she said caustically.

  “I am,” he insisted. “But I must speak to you, all the same, in private, if you please.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Nicholas!” she snapped. “Will you stop making a cake of yourself? It should be obvious by now that I want nothing more to do with you. Leave me alone!”

  “I have your letter,” he said sharply, as she turned away.

  Emma’s head whipped around. Her face was white.

  “My uncle was good enough to send a special messenger to London for it,” Nicholas went on, not looking at her. “It arrived last night. This is the first opportunity I have had to see you.”

  “You have my letter?” she repeated stupidly.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “I have it here,” he added, patting the pocket of his coat.

  “Let us walk,” she said, taking him by the arm.

  Nicholas almost had to run to keep up as she led him down the paths into the Lime Walk. Bitterly cold, it was a good place to be private.

  “You brought me here the day we met,” he said sadly.

  “My letter, sir, if you please,” Emma said coldly.

  Opening his coat, he took out the envelope, smoothing it between his hands before holding it out to her.

  Emma looked at it, certain that if she reached for it, he would snatch it from her grasp.

  “I wanted to return it to you myself,” he said. “I dare not entrust it to a servant.”


  Emma smiled incredulously. “I see. You mean to return it to me?”

  He looked surprised. “Of course. Take it.”

  He held it out to her, but she merely looked at it, still not trusting him.

  “What must I give you in return?” she asked. “You must know I would do anything to get it back. If you think this will change my mind about marrying you—”

  He caught his breath. “No, ma’am,” he said. “You have silenced me on that subject forever. But you say I know nothing of temptation!” he added with an ill-conceived attempt at levity. “Take the letter, Emma. Let it trouble you no more.”

  Emma snatched it from his hand.

  “You are safe,” he said. “And the child is safe. Aleta, is that her name?”

  Emma did not know whether he meant to threaten her or assure her. She stared up at him, confused.

  “I must ask you to look at the letter, if it is not too painful. We must be sure it is the letter, after all,” he added in answer to her unspoken question.

  “You’ve read it, of course,” she said. “Why pretend otherwise?”

  The accusation angered him. “No, actually. I don’t read letters addressed to other people. Is this your grace’s letter?” he asked coldly.

  Emma opened it and glanced over the page.

  “It is, my lord.”

  Nicholas bit his lip. “I wonder,” he said. “I wonder you do not marry the man!”

  “What man?” she asked, puzzled.

  “The child’s father, of course. You are free now. Do you intend to marry him?”

  Emma stared at him. If Nicholas thought there was the least chance of ever marrying Aleta’s father, then he really had not read her letter. “He is dead.”

  His eyes flew to hers. “You must have loved him very much,” he said, looking away again.

  Emma laughed. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I adored him—right up until the day he began blackmailing me! I had no choice but to throw myself on my husband’s mercy. Warwick killed him in a duel. Of course, it was all kept secret. It was passed off as a hunting accident. It was never spoken of again. I don’t know why Warwick kept that letter. Hugh found it amongst his effects after he died.”