by Julia Quinn
He’d come so far; he’d travel to hell before he went back to the way he’d been.
None of this, of course, was Daphne’s fault. He knew she had no ulterior motives when she asked about his childhood. How could she? She knew nothing of his occasional difficulties with speech. He’d worked damned hard to hide it from her.
No, he thought with a weary sigh, he’d rarely had to work hard at all to hide it from Daphne. She’d always set him at ease, made him feel free. His stammer rarely surfaced these days, but when it did it was always during times of stress and anger.
And whatever life was about when he was with Daphne, it wasn’t stress and anger.
He leaned more heavily against the fence, guilt forcing his posture into a slouch. He’d treated her abominably. It seemed he was fated to do that time and again.
“Simon?”
He’d felt her presence before she’d spoken. She’d approached from behind, her booted feet soft and silent on the grass. But he knew she was there. He could smell her gentle fragrance and hear the wind whispering through her hair.
“These are beautiful roses,” she said. It was, he knew, her way of soothing his peevish mood. He knew she was dying to ask more. But she was wise beyond her years, and much as he liked to tease her about it, she did know a lot about men and their idiot tempers. She wouldn’t say anything more. At least not today.
“I’m told my mother planted them,” he replied. His words came out more gruffly than he would have liked, but he hoped she saw them as the olive branch he’d meant them to be. When she didn’t say anything, he added by way of an explanation, “She died at my birth.”
Daphne nodded. “I’d heard. I’m sorry.”
Simon shrugged. “I didn’t know her.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a loss.”
Simon considered his childhood. He had no way of knowing if his mother would have been more sympathetic to his difficulties than his father had been, but he figured there was no way she could have made it worse. “Yes,” he murmured, “I suppose it was.”
Later that day, while Simon was going over some estate accounts, Daphne decided it was as good a time as any to get to know Mrs. Colson, the housekeeper. Although she and Simon had not yet discussed where they would reside, Daphne couldn’t imagine that they wouldn’t spend some time there at Clyvedon, Simon’s ancestral home, and if there was one thing she’d learned from her mother, it was that a lady simply had to have a good working relationship with her housekeeper.
Not that Daphne was terribly worried about getting along with Mrs. Colson. She had met the housekeeper briefly when Simon had introduced her to the staff, and it had been quickly apparent that she was a friendly, talkative sort.
She stopped by Mrs. Colson’s office—a tiny little room just off the kitchen—a bit before teatime. The housekeeper, a handsome woman in her fifties, was bent over her small desk, working on the week’s menus.
Daphne gave the open door a knock. “Mrs. Colson?”
The housekeeper looked up and immediately stood. “Your grace,” she said, bobbing into a small curtsy. “You should have called for me.”
Daphne smiled awkwardly, still unused to her elevation from the ranks of mere misses. “I was already up and about,” she said, explaining her unorthodox appearance in the servants’ domain. “But if you have a moment, Mrs. Colson, I was hoping we might get to know one another better, since you have lived here for many years, and I hope to do so for many to come.”
Mrs. Colson smiled at Daphne’s warm tone. “Of course, your grace. Was there anything in particular about which you cared to inquire?”
“Not at all. But I still have much to learn about Clyvedon if I am to manage it properly. Perhaps we could take tea in the yellow room? I do so enjoy the décor. It’s so warm and sunny. I had been hoping to make that my personal parlor.”
Mrs. Colson gave her an odd look. “The last duchess felt the same way.”
“Oh,” Daphne replied, not certain whether that ought to make her feel uncomfortable.
“I’ve given special care to that room over the years,” Mrs. Colson continued. “It does get quite a bit of sun, being on the south side. I had all of the furniture reupholstered three years ago.” Her chin rose in a slightly proud manner. “Went all the way to London to get the same fabric.”
“I see,” Daphne replied, leading the way out of the office. “The late duke must have loved his wife very much, to order such a painstaking conservation of her favorite room.”
Mrs. Colson didn’t quite meet her eyes. “It was my decision,” she said quietly. “The duke always gave me a certain budget for the upkeep of the house. I thought it the most fitting use of the money.”
Daphne waited while the housekeeper summoned a maid and gave her instructions for the tea. “It’s a lovely room,” she announced once they had exited the kitchen, “and although the current duke never had the opportunity to know his mother, I’m sure he’ll be quite touched that you have seen fit to preserve her favorite room.”
“It was the least I could do,” Mrs. Colson said as they strolled across the hall. “I have not always served the Basset family, after all.”
“Oh?” Daphne asked curiously. Upper servants were notoriously loyal, often serving a single family for generations.
“Yes, I was the duchess’s personal maid.” Mrs. Colson waited outside the doorway of the yellow room to allow Daphne to precede her. “And before that her companion. My mother was her nurse. Her grace’s family was kind enough to allow me to share her lessons.”
“You must have been quite close,” Daphne murmured.
Mrs. Colson nodded. “After she died I occupied a number of different positions here at Clyvedon until I finally became housekeeper.”
“I see.” Daphne smiled at her and then took a seat on the sofa. “Please sit,” she said, motioning to the chair across from her.
Mrs. Colson seemed hesitant with such familiarity, but eventually sat. “It broke my heart when she died,” she said. She gave Daphne a slightly apprehensive look. “I hope you don’t mind my telling you so.”
“Of course not,” Daphne said quickly. She was ravenously curious about Simon’s childhood. He said so little, and yet she sensed that it all meant so much. “Please, tell me more. I would love to hear about her.”
Mrs. Colson’s eyes grew misty. “She was the kindest, gentlest soul this earth has ever known. She and the duke—well, it wasn’t a love match, but they got on well enough. They were friends in their own way.” She looked up. “They were both very much aware of their duties as duke and duchess. Took their responsibilities quite seriously.”
Daphne nodded understandingly.
“She was so determined to give him a son. She kept trying even after the doctors all told her she mustn’t. She used to cry in my arms every month when her courses came.”
Daphne nodded again, hoping the motion would hide her suddenly strained expression. It was difficult to listen to stories about not being able to have children. But she supposed she was going to have to get used to it. It was going to be even more strenuous to answer questions about it.
And there would be questions. Painfully tactful and hideously pitying questions.
But Mrs. Colson thankfully didn’t notice Daphne’s distress. She sniffled as she continued her story. “She was always saying things like how was she to be a proper duchess if she couldn’t give him a son. It broke my heart. Every month it broke my heart.”
Daphne wondered if her own heart would shatter every month. Probably not. She, at least, knew for a fact that she wouldn’t have children. Simon’s mother had her hopes crushed every four weeks.
“And of course,” the housekeeper continued, “everyone talked as if it were her fault there was no baby. How could they know that, I ask you? It’s not always the woman who is barren. Sometimes it’s the man’s fault, you know.”
Daphne said nothing.
“I told her this time and again, but still s
he felt guilty. I said to her—” The housekeeper’s face turned pink. “Do you mind if I speak frankly?”
“Please do.”
She nodded. “Well, I said to her what my mother said to me. A womb won’t quicken without strong, healthy seed.”
Daphne held her face in an expressionless mask. It was all she could manage.
“But then she finally had Master Simon.” Mrs. Colson let out a maternal sigh, then looked to Daphne with an apprehensive expression. “I beg your pardon,” she said hastily. “I shouldn’t be calling him that. He’s the duke now.”
“Don’t stop on my account,” Daphne said, happy to have something to smile about.
“It’s hard to change one’s ways at my age,” Mrs. Colson said with a sigh. “And I’m afraid a part of me will always remember him as that poor little boy.” She looked up at Daphne and shook her head. “He would have had a much easier time of it if the duchess had lived.”
“An easier time of it?” Daphne murmured, hoping that would be all the encouragement Mrs. Colson would need to explain further.
“The duke just never understood that poor boy,” the housekeeper said forcefully. “He stormed about and called him stupid, and—”
Daphne’s head snapped up. “The duke thought Simon was stupid?” she interrupted. That was preposterous. Simon was one of the smartest people she knew. She’d once asked him a bit about his studies at Oxford and had been stunned to learn that his brand of mathematics didn’t even use numbers.
“The duke never could see the world beyond his own nose,” Mrs. Colson said with a snort. “He never gave that boy a chance.”
Daphne felt her body leaning forward, her ears straining for the housekeeper’s words. What had the duke done to Simon? And was this the reason he turned to ice every time his father’s name was mentioned?
Mrs. Colson pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You should have seen the way that boy worked to improve himself. It broke my heart. It simply broke my heart.”
Daphne’s hands clawed at the sofa. Mrs. Colson was never going to get to the point.
“But nothing he ever did was good enough for the duke. This is just my opinion of course, but—”
Just then a maid entered with tea. Daphne nearly screamed with frustration. It took a good two minutes for the tea to be set up and poured, and all the while Mrs. Colson chitchatted about the biscuits, and did Daphne prefer them plain or with coarse sugar on top.
Daphne had to pry her hands off the sofa, lest she puncture holes in the upholstery Mrs. Colson had worked so hard to preserve. Finally, the maid left, and Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea, and said, “Now then, where were we?”
“You were talking about the duke,” Daphne said quickly. “The late duke. That nothing my husband did was ever good enough for him and in your opinion—”
“My goodness, you were listening.” Mrs. Colson beamed. “I’m so flattered.”
“But you were saying . . .” Daphne prompted.
“Oh yes, of course. I was simply going to say that I have long held the opinion that the late duke never forgave his son for not being perfect.”
“But Mrs. Colson,” Daphne said quietly, “none of us is perfect.”
“Of course not, but—” The housekeeper’s eyes floated up for a brief second in an expression of disdain toward the late duke. “If you’d known his grace, you would understand. He’d waited so long for a son. And in his mind, the Basset name was synonymous with perfection.”
“And my husband wasn’t the son he wanted?” Daphne asked.
“He didn’t want a son. He wanted a perfect little replica of himself.”
Daphne could no longer contain her curiosity. “But what did Simon do that was so repugnant to the duke?”
Mrs. Colson’s eyes widened in surprise, and one of her hands floated to her chest. “Why, you don’t know,” she said softly. “Of course you wouldn’t know.”
“What?”
“He couldn’t speak.”
Daphne’s lips parted in shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“He couldn’t speak. Not a word until he was four, and then it was all stutters and stammers. It broke my heart every time he opened his mouth. I could see that there was a bright little boy inside. He just couldn’t get the words out right.”
“But he speaks so well now,” Daphne said, surprised by the defensiveness in her voice. “I’ve never heard him stammer. Or if I have, I-I-I didn’t notice it. See! Look, I just did it myself. Everyone stammers a bit when they’re flustered.”
“He worked very hard to improve himself. It was seven years, I recall. For seven years he did nothing but practice his speech with his nurse.” Mrs. Colson’s face wrinkled with thought. “Let’s see, what was her name? Oh yes, Nurse Hopkins. She was a saint, she was. As devoted to that boy as if he’d been her own. I was the housekeeper’s assistant at the time, but she often let me come up and help him practice his speech.”
“Was it difficult for him?” Daphne whispered.
“Some days I thought he’d surely shatter from the frustration of it. But he was so stubborn. Heavens, but he was a stubborn boy. I’ve never seen a person so single-minded.” Mrs. Colson shook her head sadly. “And his father still rejected him. It—”
“Broke your heart,” Daphne finished for her. “It would have broken mine, as well.”
Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea during the long, uncomfortable silence that followed. “Thank you very much for allowing me to take tea with you, your grace,” she said, misinterpreting Daphne’s quietude for displeasure. “It was highly irregular of you to do so, but very . . .”
Daphne looked up as Mrs. Colson searched for the correct word.
“Kind,” the housekeeper finally finished. “It was very kind of you.”
“Thank you,” Daphne murmured distractedly.
“Oh, but I haven’t answered any of your questions about Clyvedon,” Mrs. Colson said suddenly.
Daphne gave her head a little shake. “Another time, perhaps,” she said softly. She had too much to think on just then.
Mrs. Colson, sensing her employer desired privacy, stood, bobbed a curtsy, and silently left the room.
Chapter 16
The stifling heat in London this week has certainly put a crimp in society functions. This Author saw Miss Prudence Featherington swoon at the Huxley ball, but it is impossible to discern whether this temporary lack of verticality was due to the heat or the presence of Mr. Colin Bridgerton, who has been cutting quite a swash through society since his return from the Continent.
The unseasonable heat has also made a casualty of Lady Danbury, who quit London several days ago, claiming that her cat (a long-haired, bushy beast) could not tolerate the weather. It is believed that she has retired to her country home in Surrey.
One would guess that the Duke and Duchess of Hastings are unaffected by these rising temperatures; they are down on the coast, where the sea wind is always a pleasure. But This Author cannot be certain of their comfort; contrary to popular belief, This Author does not have spies in all the important households, and certainly not outside of London!
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 June 1813
It was odd, Simon reflected, how they’d not been married even a fortnight and yet had already fallen into comfortable patterns and routines. Just now, he stood barefoot in the doorway of his dressing room, loosening his cravat as he watched his wife brush her hair.
And he’d done the exact same thing yesterday. There was something oddly comforting in that.
And both times, he thought with a hint of a leer, he’d been planning how to seduce her into bed. Yesterday, of course, he’d been successful.
His once expertly tied cravat lying limp and forgotten on the floor, he took a step forward.
Today he’d be successful, too.
He stopped when he reached Daphne’s side, perching on the edge of her vanity table. She looked up and blinked owlishly.
He tou
ched his hand to hers, both of their fingers wrapped around the handle of the hairbrush. “I like to watch you brush your hair,” he said, “but I like to do it myself better.”
She stared at him in an oddly intent fashion. Slowly, she relinquished the brush. “Did you get everything done with your accounts? You were tucked away with your estate manager for quite a long time.”
“Yes, it was rather tedious but necessary, and—” His face froze. “What are you looking at?”
Her eyes slid from his face. “Nothing,” she said, her voice unnaturally staccato.
He gave his head a tiny shake, the motion directed more at himself than at her, then he began to brush her hair. For a moment it had seemed as if she were staring at his mouth.
He fought the urge to shudder. All through his childhood, people had stared at his mouth. They’d gazed in horrified fascination, occasionally forcing their eyes up to his, but always returning to his mouth, as if unable to believe that such a normal-looking feature could produce such gibberish.
But he had to be imagining things. Why would Daphne be looking at his mouth?
He pulled the brush gently through her hair, allowing his fingers to trail through the silky strands as well. “Did you have a nice chat with Mrs. Colson?” he asked.
She flinched. It was a tiny movement, and she hid it quite well, but he noticed it nonetheless. “Yes,” she said, “she’s very knowledgeable.”
“She should be. She’s been here forev—what are you looking at?”
Daphne practically jumped in her chair. “I’m looking at the mirror,” she insisted.
Which was true, but Simon was still suspicious. Her eyes had been fixed and intent, focused on a single spot.
“As I was saying,” Daphne said hastily, “I’m certain Mrs. Colson will prove invaluable as I adjust to the management of Clyvedon. It’s a large estate, and I have much to learn.”
“Don’t make too much of an effort,” he said. “We won’t spend much time here.”
“We won’t?”
“I thought we would make London our primary residence.” At her look of surprise, he added, “You’ll be closer to your family, even when they retire to the country. I thought you’d like that.”
