The Servant Duchess of Whitcomb

by Vicktor Alexander

  “Why, my dear brother, do not forget me. You know that I quite adore a chance to spend Lord Kent’s money,” Lady Kent, Lady Lucien’s sister, stated with a huge grin.

  “One really can never do too much shopping in their lifetime,” the Duchess of Norfolk stated. Chester’s eyes widened as the duchess stepped forward. While it was the duty of higher ranking servants like his mother and maldy to know the ranking of titled members of the gentry and to know who outranked whom, even Chester had known that the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk were extremely high ranking. Orley was as well, being from the Dukedom of Whitcomb. He wasn’t too far below the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk in standing; the second dukedom he had been awarded by the King had put them even closer according to Orley, but the only people who held a higher social standing than the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk were the King of Angland and the Princess Regent, Princess Edward.

  Chester was shocked and humbled and a maelstrom of other emotions that the duchess would be coming with him to go shopping for a new wardrobe, and yet as they stepped out into the entryway, it was the Duchess of Norfolk who stepped up to him and captured his chin.

  “Listen to me, Chester. You are embarking on a very treacherous journey. That man in there? The Duke of Whitcomb? He does not understand the war he is sending you into by taking you as his husband. But I will tell you.” The duchess’s eyes narrowed and his dark brown eyes flashed intensely. “There will be people who will do all they can to split up your marriage. They will try to sleep with your husband. They will try to sleep with you. Not because they want him or because they want you, but because they do not think you deserve to be with him.

  There will be columns in the Times about you. When you have children, they will be teased mercilessly at first, and then they will be befriended by all.” The duchess gripped his shoulders. “You will have to be strong, Chester. You have spent your life serving others, learning to say ‘yes, my lady’ and ‘no, my lady.’ But now, the tide has turned, and you are going to have people saying those things to you.”

  Chester’s eyes widened and he felt his chest tighten. All of the air was sucked out of the room, and Chester was desperate for it to return. He felt the other ladies surrounding him, touching his arms asking him what was wrong. Someone called out for his mother, and Chester could hear the click-step-click-step of Orley rushing toward him. The room spun around him and Chester was disheartened at the realization that at the very moment his every fantasy was being handed to him, he was going to die.

  The noxious odor of smelling salts being shoved under his nose jerked him out of whatever darkness was pulling at him, and when Chester opened his eyes he found himself lying on the settee in the blue drawing room. He moved to sit up quickly but felt his mother’s hand upon his shoulder, the room filled with concerned ladies and Orley hovering in the doorway.

  “Do not sit up quite so hurriedly, Chester. You gave us all a death of a fright,” Wilhelmina’s voice was shaky, and Chester’s gaze flew back to his mother’s face.

  “Mother?” Chester reached out to grab hold of his mother’s hand and wanted to cry when she jerked slightly at his touch.

  “Shall we give them a moment?” Lady Lucien stated.

  A chorus of agreements went up, but Chester paid them no mind. His attention was focused solely on his mother’s dark face staring down at their hands. When the door closed, Wilhelmina rose quickly from beside him and began to pace, speaking rapidly in her native tongue.

  Chester watched her for a while, catching only a few words here and there before he held up his hands. “Mother! Why are you so angry? I would think you would be happy that I am bettering my situation.” Chester sat up fully, grabbing his mother’s hands and looking up at her, smiling. “I am to marry the Duke of Whitcomb. I am to become a duchess. Is that not a dream?”

  Wilhelmina stared at Chester in shock, and she shook her head. “No.” She fell to her knees and captured his face in her hands. “My son, my dream for you is not to become a member of the gentry. My wish has always been for you to find what I have with your maldy. I want for you what I have desired for all of my children. Love. And you will not find it with the duke. And I—” Wilhelmina choked on a sob.

  “Mother? What is it?” Chester’s eyes burned with his own unshed tears at his mother’s obvious distress, and he ached to be able to ease it. If his marriage to Orley was going to cause his family such heartache, perhaps he should not do it.

  “I fear that you will forget me. That you will become a duchess, and when the wolves of this society come after you because your mother is Tafrican, you will hate the part of you that makes you so. That you will hate me,” Wilhelmina said softly.

  Chester gasped. He couldn’t believe his mother felt that way. He launched himself into his mother’s arms and pressed the side of his face against her bosom, crying softly. He wrapped her tightly into his embrace as salty tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “There is no force on Tearth that will ever make me hate you, Mother. None,” he promised her.

  “We shall see, my son. We shall see.”

  Orley stood outside Heathcliff’s study, freshly changed, and knocked on the door. While Heathcliff Eddington III, Duke of Pompinshire, was a dear friend, Orley felt a bit like he was about to face his father for some grievous offense. His back began to sting, age-old injuries flaring with phantom pains, and Orley swallowed nervously. He had, in fact, disrespected Heathcliff’s home while there had been guests about and while his daughter, Eshe, had been awake. The young girl could have easily come into the library with her governess and found Orley and Chester in flagrante delicto. Heathcliff was well within his rights to challenge Orley to a duel. Orley could only hope the man did not, because he and Heathcliff were evenly matched when it came to revolvers, and they both had much to live for. Orley wasn’t sure which of them would come out ahead.

  “You may enter, Whitcomb.” Heathcliff’s voice sounded stern, and Orley exhaled before twisting the doorknob and stepping within. He stopped short at the sight of Imogen Boland, Chester’s maldy, and two other gentlemen, one a Tafrican, standing with Heathcliff. Suspicion and paranoia began to cloud Orley’s mind, memories of Badajoz and his kidnapping graying the edge of his vision, and he clutched the side of the door in a firm grip.

  “Pompinshire.” He nodded. “Gentlemen.” He inclined his head at the other men in the room. “Forgive me, Pompinshire, I was under the assumption we were to have a discussion in your study at this prearranged time. You are obviously busy. I shall return when you are not otherwise engaged.” He bowed and turned to leave.

  “Oh no, Whitcomb. This is our meeting. The matter concerns Mister Imogen Boland’s son, so it was only the height of justice that the man be present, do you not agree?” Heathcliff asked.

  Orley turned and found Heathcliff sitting back in his chair, flipping a cigar back and forth between his fingers, an amused smile on his face. Orley was sorely tempted to walk over and engage Heathcliff in fisticuffs were it not for their long history of friendship. Heathcliff smirked at him and gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk.

  “Be seated, Whitcomb. This shan’t take long.”

  Orley sat in the proffered chair and looked at the two men seated on either side of him. One of them, a thin, pale, almost pasty fellow, stared at him from behind a pair of spectacles and offered him a tremulous smile. Orley dipped his head and took note of the threadbare brown suit and scuffed black boots the man wore. The man was obviously not a gentleman and not strong enough to take Orley down in a fight, and the tension in Orley eased a fraction.

  The man sitting on Orley’s right, the Tafrican, was round, and though his face was pleasant, his eyes were shrewd. His attire was cut of the finest material. Though it was not something a nobleman would wear, it was definitely something a man who often worked with members of the genteel class would wear. Orley tensed again as he returned his gaze to Heathcliff’s and quirked an eyebrow.

  “Ah. You are probab
ly wondering about the presence of my associates. They live here in Southerby. That is Mr. Granville Moreton. He is a solicitor and will be acting in the best interest of Che—” Heathcliff cleared his throat when Orley glared at him. “Forgive me. He will be acting in the best interest of Lady Chester Boland and is representing Mr. Imogen Boland. And next to you is Mr. Norman Presley. He will be

  representing you and acting in your best interest.”

  Orley nodded at Mr. Presley before returning his focus to Heathcliff.

  “Concerning what matters exactly, Pompinshire?”

  “Your wedding contract, Whitcomb.”

  Orley looked in shock at Imogen, whose jaw was clenched as she stared at him. Orley shook his head and held up a hand. “I was not under the assumption there would be a wedding contract, Pompinshire. I wasn’t even aware Chester had a dowry.” He wanted to recapture the words as soon as they were spoken, for he could sense the effect they had on Imogen, but Orley could not be faulted for his mistake. Chester had been a servant until Orley’s declaration of their intent to marry only an hour prior.

  “I mean no offense, Mr. Boland,” Orley apologized quickly.

  Imogen nodded and straightened the lapels of her butler uniform. She fixed him with a hard stare. “My wife and I have served Southerby Manor and the Darlington family faithfully for many years, Your Grace. Due to the change of heart my wife brought upon the former Duke of Pompinshire, every year we received a bonus. We have put that money away, for we want for nothing and have no family to send it to. His Grace—” Imogen looked at Heathcliff. “The former duke allowed Wilhelmina and I to raise our children here at the manor since it was not in town, and it brought him and his wife joy to have babes afoot.” She inhaled deeply. “When he passed, he left an inheritance for every servant, our children included, provided they stay on and work for his heir, the current duke. The sum he left for my wife and I was more than enough for us to be able to provide a dowry for Chester and any other of our children who should so need it.”

  Orley blinked at Imogen in surprise, then turned to look at Heathcliff in shock. Heathcliff raised his hands in the air. “On my honor, Whitcomb, I knew nothing of this. I pulled Imogen aside to offer Lady Chester a dowry of my own only to be told that the young woman had one.”

  Orley wondered for a moment if Chester was aware his parents had saved up money for him, but knew if Chester had in fact known, things would have possibly turned out quite differently between them. Orley nodded. “Right, then. So shall we begin?”

  Heathcliff nodded and gestured at Mr. Moreton. “Moreton?”

  “Lady Boland brings into the marriage a dowry the sum of which totals five thousand three hundred pounds sterling.”

  Orley gasped and stared at Imogen. “Five thousand three hundred pounds?” While it was a mere trifle compared to the coffers he had— inherited from his father, earned serving in His Majesty’s Navy, and procured from differing business ventures and the sales of horseflesh— Orley had to admit the sum was impressive. Especially for a butler and housekeeper to have acquired.

  Imogen blushed. “The three hundred pounds are from my wife and I, Your Grace. The five thousand pounds are….”

  “A wedding gift from Her Grace, Lady Lucien, and myself,”

  Heathcliff interrupted with a smile. “Along with some other trifle things.” Orley quirked an eyebrow. “What other things?”

  Mr. Moreton cleared his throat. “If I may continue, Your Grace?” Orley waved his hand and settled in, smiling as he thought of Chester’s face when he discovered what his maldy and Heathcliff had done for him. “Lady Boland also brings to the marriage an entire wardrobe, separate from that which will be purchased by His Grace of Whitcomb, two prime pieces of horseflesh, dishes with which to set up his household, a stipend with which to hire a suitable lady’s maid, and….” Mr. Moreton paused, glancing up at Heathcliff before looking at Imogen. “Is this correct, Mr. Boland?”

  Imogen smiled and nodded. “Yes,” she answered without even looking down.

  Mr. Moreton nodded. “As well as a number of seeds and plants to plant at the Wilts Estate to start his own garden.”

  Orley chuckled. “I dare say the lady will love it.”

  “I know that he will,” Imogen replied with a small sniffle.

  They continued on with the contract. Orley listed his vast property holdings from both dukedoms and the subsequently entitled land and homes. Chester was given a very generous allowance, having a sizable amount for his pin money, for which Imogen sighed in relief and thanked Orley. The subject of heirs and children caused embarrassment for not only Orley but also for Imogen and Heathcliff as they all remembered what had occurred earlier and had eventually led to the meeting of solicitors. More than once Orley had to put Mr. Presley in his place, due to the man’s insistence that Orley was being taken in by charlatans who were treating him like quite the pigeon. Had Orley not known the man was acting in his best interests, he would have planted him a facer.

  When the negotiations were over, Orley sat back with a sigh and opened his watch fob that rested on a chain at the bottom of his waistcoat. He checked the time and shook his head. It was half gone three. They had been in Heathcliff’s study for over three hours! He could only hope his future groom had achieved quite a bit and was even now being outfitted in clothing more befitting of the lady Orley had always known him to be.

  Orley rose to shake Mr. Moreton’s and Mr. Presley’s hands, thanking them for their assistance, before walking over to pour himself a glass of Tscotch. He turned back around to find Heathcliff and Imogen watching him. He swallowed the potent concoction and gave both men a half smile. Ah, now it was time for the real meeting.

  “Now that’s out of the way, won’t you sit again, Whitcomb? I think it’s time that you, Imogen, and I all had a nice chat,” Heathcliff said, his voice clipped as he closed the door and locked it. The sound was ominous and echoed in the still air. Orley merely nodded and stepped back to the chair he’d just vacated. He only hoped they didn’t damage his face. He was supposed to be heading to Gretna Green to get married that eve.

  Chester was still in awe of the ladies who were shopping with him. He was even more humbled by the carriage that now held a number of purchases just for him. They had gone by the cobbler to obtain a number of heeled shoes for him, then purchased stockings and reticules made of the finest material. It was on to hats, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and other assorted baubles that Chester couldn’t believe he would ever wear in his lifetime. He’d been stunned when the ladies present told him they were only buying him enough to last him a month at most.

  They were now at Mademoiselle Jean-Luc’s shoppe, and though all the other ladies were excited at the prospect of dressing Chester, he was absolutely terrified.

  He stood in front of the gorgeous Tfrenchwoman and listened as she hummed and tsked, making notations on a sheet of paper and speaking in Tfrench to her assistant, a pretty young girl, who continuously looked at Chester and giggled. Every so often Mademoiselle Jean-Luc would reach forward as if to touch Chester and then drop his hand, shaking his head.

  “Non,” he finally said to Chester, wrapping his hands around Chester’s cheeks. “Je ne comprends pas. Pourquoi voudriez-vous cacher votre beauté?”

  Chester stared at Mademoiselle Jean-Luc in confusion. He looked over at the other women to see if one of them would tell him what was being said, but they were extremely unhelpful, merely smiling at him. He focused back on the mantua-maker, who released the chignon from the back of Chester’s head and gasped.

  “Oui. C’est magnifique.” He clapped his hands. “Come. Let us create a masterpiece.” He pointed at Chester. “Last week, I ’ave a young lady. She comes in weeping with ’er mother. ’Er fiancé ’as eloped with ’er cousin. She is devastated. So I console ’er. It is ze least I can do. But she does not want any of ze gorgeous wardrobe we ’ave created for ’er. Ze wedding gown. Ze trousseau. Ze undergarments. Ze clothes for ze bridal
tour.”

  Chester nodded not really understanding what the story of some poor jilted girl had to do with him. He felt horrible for her and a pang of sympathy shot through his heart. How would he feel if he were in her shoes? He would be devastated if Orley were to suddenly cry off their wedding and dash away to wed someone else. Chester shook his head. He had an urge to send a gift to the spurned girl, but with his limited funds did not exactly know what he could afford to purchase.

  “You are about ’er size. Ze fabric will actually be a little tight on you,” Mademoiselle Jean-Luc said with a smile. “But I believe it will look much better on you than on ’er. She does not ’ave ze right coloring for ze fabrics, no? But you? With ze lovely brown skin and ze hair and ze high cheekbones. Oui! C’est bon! Très incroyable!”

  Chester looked on in fascinated wonder as gown after gown was brought forth and laid over every flat surface. Chemises, petticoats, corsets for formal wear, stays for informal wear, drawers…. His eyes widened as spencers, wraps, shawls, pelisses, redingotes, cloaks, and capes were brought out, and even the Duchess of Norfolk gasped at their splendor.

  “Isn’t this too much?” he choked out, his mouth dry as he took in the morning, walking, visiting, promenade, and carriage dresses, plus the riding habits, in addition to the dinner and ball gowns that Lady Lucien insisted he needed.

  The Duchess of Norfolk shook his head. “No, my dear. You are going to be the Duchess of Whitcomb. And while the Season has just ended, you do not have much time to learn all that you need to know before it will begin again, and when it does, you will be attending the theatre, balls, dinners. You will be visiting the homes of other members of the ton, and they will be coming to your home.” He gestured to the clothes that were spread around the shoppe. “You will need everything here and much more.”