Bething's Folly

by Barbara Metzger

  “I have decided to join you for luncheon, if I may, your Grace,” were the Duchess’s polite words, “though I was sorely tempted to have Greaves bring you some thin gruel, suitable for one in your ‘condition.’ ” Nothing but pleasantries were exchanged while the footmen served from silver-covered dishes, then withdrew. The Duke poured himself another glass of wine and looked at his wife closely.

  “All right, my dear, what is it that has you burning with indignation? Come on, Claire, out with it so I may enjoy my wine. You are not going soft on me, are you? You know we decided it was time we took a hand in the matter.”

  “No, sir. You decided. But, yes, I was willing to let you play this cruel hoax on poor Alexander, but ... but you need not enjoy it so much! That is what galls me. He must be worrying himself sick, and you lay there reveling in your schemes, taking pleasure in tricking him and ... and smirking!”

  The Duke laughed outright. “Yes, Claire, I am enjoying myself hugely, and I am sorry you’re disturbed by it. But remember how much worry the dratted cub has caused us? Haven’t you been in a turmoil over his reckless ways, afraid he would make himself thoroughly unacceptable to any decent family, or worse? I am only paying him back a little—it’s only for a day or two—and you’ll see, it will be worth it.”

  “You’re sure it will work?” asked the Duchess, all resentment spent the moment it was mentioned, now only concern left to crease her brow.

  “It worked on me, didn’t it? Why, my father must have lived thirty years after his ‘deathbed’ scene. If it hadn’t been for the promise he tore out of me then, I am sure I would never have married. No”—the look on his wife’s face caused him to hurry on—“I have never regretted it for one instant, my dear. Never. I loved you the moment I set eyes on you; but I never would have been looking, except for such a prank.”

  “But what if he marries the wrong woman just to please you? What if he selects someone he cannot grow to love and must live with her the rest of his life, never knowing the happiness we have found?”

  The Duke took her hand across the table and held it tightly in both of his. “Claire, my beautiful, precious duchess, he will not—he cannot—choose the wrong woman. He is my son.”

  FOUR

  At precisely ten minutes to five hooves sounded in the long ride leading up to Carlyle Hall and a groom sprang from the stables. A horse came to view through the trees, white with lather, laboring but still game. The rider jumped off when he neared the groom, not bothering to hand the reins over, just bounding up the wide steps to the double doors. The horse merely lowered its head; Carleton called back over his shoulder: “See you cool him off well and bed him down. He’s done a good job.” Then he pulled open the doors, not waiting for the butler or footmen, who were hurrying at the sound of visitors. He grasped the butler by his shoulders.

  “My father?”

  “His Grace is upstairs resting, Lord Alexander. Lady Claire is in her rooms. Mr. Campion, the doctor and Reverend Albright are in the blue parlour. Shall I—”

  But Carleton was past him, down the hall, throwing his wet, muddy coat over a gilded chair. He glanced into the door on his right where the three men were speaking in subdued voices over glasses of port, but he did not greet them. He looked up at the double-arched staircase, then bounded up the nearest flight. Without pausing to knock, he burst in to the Duke’s bedroom at the head of the stairs but came to a halt as he took a step into the darkened room. The curtains were drawn and only a single candelabrum cast faint light on the Duke in his bed across the vast room.

  From this distance the Duke seemed small in his enormous bed, and almost colourless against the white of his pillows and nightclothes, the dark of his hair the only accent.

  How pale he looks, thought Carleton, how vulnerable. He had never considered his father like this, old, weak, without the vital strength the Duke had always seemed to personify.

  He walked over to the bed as softly as he could in topboots, leaving a trail of caked mud on the hand-tied carpet, and silently drew a chair up to the bedstead. He sat there, staring at his father for what seemed an age. At last the old man’s eyes slowly opened part way, closed, then widened again in surprised recognition.

  “Alexander? Is it you, son?” The voice was only a whisper.

  “Yes, your Grace. I am here. I came as soon as I got your message. How do you, sir?”

  “Ah, Alexander. The doctor says I ... I don’t know how long I... ”

  “Don’t speak, Father. All will be well. You’ll see. You’ll have a good rest, that’s all. You’ve most likely been working too hard, taking too much on. Those doctors don’t know everything; you’ve said it often enough yourself.”

  “But so many things ... the crops...”

  “No, Father. You have a bailiff for that. I’ll speak to Mr. Caulfield myself. I can manage, really I can. But you must rest.” Carleton made as if to rise, but the Duke lifted one hand from the bed. The hand fell back, as if the effort was too much.

  “No, Alex, I have to talk ... something important...”

  Carleton settled himself again, leaning closer to make it easier for the Duke to be heard. “Anything, Father, anything.”

  The old Duke sighed and looked up at his son through eyes half-closed as though in weariness. “Alex,” he said, then paused to catch his breath. “Alex, I cannot find peace; I cannot rest easy for worrying. What will happen to all this?” The same tired hand made a circle over the counter-pane. “I had wanted to know your sons, to see them grow, to teach them to love this place as I do, as I thought you did.”

  “Of course I do, your Grace, hut what—”

  “Please, Alex, while there is still time ... please promise me you will marry soon, and let an old man die happy.”

  “Do not speak like that, Father! Of course I promise. But I—”

  “Soon, Alexander? Within months, while I still have strength to welcome your bride?”

  Carleton looked down at the man laid in his bed, the hand already too weak to grip his firmly, and gave his solemn oath.

  “Ah, Alexander,” and the voice was miraculously stronger, “now I can rest.” The Duke’s eyes were drifting shut but he opened them a last time and smiled faintly at his son. “Go to your mother now, Alexander. She will be needing you.” His nose wrinkled slightly. “But, Alex, do change your clothes first.”

  It was a subdued Lord Carleton who went down the hall to his own rooms. He silently nodded to Greaves, who just as silently helped him off with his boots. A footman brought hot water to fill a tub, but not a word was spoken beyond “thank you” and “that will be all.”

  Carleton dressed himself in a coat of blue superfine, then slowly and methodically tied his neckcloth in front of the mirror. He combed his blond curls through with his fingers, still staring at the image, almost looking for an answer there to some deep, unspoken question. At last he walked past his father’s door to his mother’s suite and tapped softly at the door.

  The Duchess herself opened the door and stood still a moment, seeing the dark circles under Carleton’s eyes, the weary look to his mouth, the deep lines at his forehead, the droop to his shoulders.

  “Oh, Alex,” she cried, and stepped forward to hold him in her arms as she would a child, this boy—man now—who stood so tall.

  Misreading her emotion as grief, Carleton awkwardly tried to comfort her. He held her close, gently patting her back as she rested her cheek on his shoulder, her golden head incidentally creasing his fresh neckcloth. “There, my Lady, all will be well. Come, sit by me.” And he led her to a window seat where velvet hangings made a frame for her lavender gown. Two pairs of blue eyes exchanged worried looks until the Duchess had to lower hers. Carleton took her hands and squared his broad shoulders.

  “Mother, I”—he cleared his throat—“I need your help. I ... I have made a promise.”

  FIVE

  A ball was planned at Carlyle Hall for a short few weeks later, a ball of such grandeur its like had not
been seen in the county in recent memory. The dance was ostensibly the Duke’s gift to his niece Margaret, Jack’s daughter, to announce her engagement to Captain Mark Hendricks, which explained all the scarlet regimentals seemingly billeted at Carle Manor, Margaret’s home. Carlyle Hall itself would host many of London’s finest families, all manner of distant relations and a near-score of Carleton’s own friends. The young men were invited for a week’s hunting, and to sustain Carleton, though only Ferddie Milbrooke knew the desperateness of the case.

  Not everyone could accept the Duchess’s kind invitation, of course, owing to the haste of preparation and previous engagements—the Prince of Wales, for one, was abroad but sent his regrets. It must be noted that among the refusals, not a single one was from a household with an eligible daughter.

  Margaret’s engagement might serve for propriety, but rumours were as thick as starlings on the lawn. For the local gentry there were too many people—and servants—who knew otherwise. Every housemaid and groom with a connection to the Hall was suddenly known by name. The details were mere speculation, but the Duke’s intentions were not. As for Town, there were just too many young women invited for coincidence. Even the Duchess could not claim kinship with so many families. Perhaps, gossip went, the Marquis was in difficulties with some outraged husband and this was the solution. The dowagers gloated—it was about time the impudent cub was leg-shackled—while betting at White’s filled an entire page: Would the Duke pull it off? How soon? What were the chances of the Season’s Beauties? Carleton wisely remained at the Hall in the country.

  The Marquis had no need to seek an heiress, which brought joy to the hearts of mamas whose daughters were more blessed with beauty than material endowment. Those of more generous means spent a deal of it improving the debutante’s physical assets. Such a flurry of activity kept every seamstress between London and Carlyle Hall burning candles late into the nights. The country misses, especially, did not want to be eclipsed by their London cousins and had their ball gowns cut a little lower, their stays pulled a little tighter, their hair piled a little higher. There was a rush at the dancing instructors of the vicinity also, for the waltz would be performed. Some of the local mothers had never seen the waltz danced and only knew it by reputation. They worried lest their daughters be considered fast for dancing, or dowdy for sitting it out. Much tea was consumed over deliberation of this question, which was finally settled with the argument that, after all, if the Duchess of Carlyle permitted it in her home, the waltz must be unexceptionable. All around the countryside and among those soon to be assembling at the Hall, delicious anticipation was another house guest.

  At the Hall itself there was much less time for deliberation. Extra staff was hired from the village and even borrowed from Carle Manor. Not merely extra bedrooms but entire unused wings of the ancient rambling castle were opened to house the great numbers of guests. Dinner for the ball must be planned and preparations started, and meals and entertainment for the weekend house guests.

  The gardens had to provide decoration for the immense ballroom, each guest’s bedchamber, and the rest of the house—without looking bare to anyone out for a stroll. The hothouses had to provide corsages for all the lady guests, and out-of-season fruit. The silver had to be polished, the linen must be aired, the champagne ordered. All of these duties naturally fell to the capable hands of Lady Claire, Duchess of Carlyle, to organize, besides the complicated guest lists themselves. That lady glided as smoothly and gracefully through all the details as the black swans glided on the Hall’s twin lakes. Carlyle Hall was always well run, of course, but the Duchess won even more admiration for her sweet, even nature, especially in a decidedly trying situation. For if all the preparations for the ball itself were well in hand, the tempers of the Carlyle menfolk, father and son, were definitely strained.

  The Duke, whose nature had never been exactly even, was chafing under the enforced seclusion in his upstairs chambers “for his health’s sake.” An extremely active man, used to overseeing every detail of his vast holding himself, he was furious at having to wait for his bailiff s reports. When it was decided to open unused portions of the cavernous stables to house the horses of the weekend guests, the Duke ached to supervise, to see it was done well. Instead, Lord Alexander went to see what repairs were necessary, what farm hands must be called in to help, what other out-buildings could serve to store equipment moved from unused stalls. Carleton worked right alongside the men, delighted to have an occupation outside the furious activity in the house. His absence only aggravated the Duke’s boredom and irritation, as now no one had time for a chess game or a round of piquet, except for the doctor’s pro forma visits every other day. When the Duke grumbled to his wife in the rare moments she had to spend with him, she merely smiled and sweetly reminded his Grace that he had no one but himself to blame. At last he declared himself well enough to dress and go down to meals, but his son’s solicitude grated on his nerves—“No, I do not need your arm down the stairs. No, I do not require a tonic”—and the haunted look in Lord Alexander’s eyes did not aid his digestion, or disposition.

  Lord Carleton himself, the unwilling object of all this activity, had unfortunately inherited a great deal of his father’s temper. He refused to think a ball at Carlyle was proper now with his father’s health so precarious, and grew more vehement about it the closer the date came.

  “But, Alexander,” his mother would try to reason, “the invitations have all been sent.”

  “Well, call them back. His Grace should have quiet in the house, to rest, not this ... this pandemonium. We could have a small dinner in a few months, invite some of the local families when the Duke is more the thing. Or I could just—”

  “No, dear, the Duke wishes to have the ball here, now. He believes it will cheer him to have the house filled with all his friends and so many young people. And I think so, too. Of course he must have his rest—he only comes down for his meals—and see how much stronger he is getting already?”

  Alexander merely glowered. His father was obviously growing more crotchety, if nothing else.

  The situation was becoming more awkward daily, the Duke prowling around, interfering with the busy household servants, and Carleton threatening to return to London, until his friends started to arrive at last. He threw himself into their entertainment—hunting and riding all day, his father’s best brandies half the night—as though this was his last week of pleasure. The Duke, finally free of his son’s scrutiny, could go for short rides around the estate, praising the stable crews, encouraging the gardeners, making suggestions to his bailiff. When Carleton returned with his friends for meals, he could not help but note the healthy colouring returning daily to his father’s complexion, his better frame of mind. Carleton shook his head ruefully as he stared at his wine glass; at least some good was coming from this wretched hall.

  Carlyle Hall was magnificent. Lights gleamed in all the hundreds of windows, the silver birch trees along the drive were hung with lanterns and to the rear fairy lights twinkled over the causeway between the twin lakes. The carriages were lined up for miles, it seemed, but they discharged passengers four at a time at the wide marble steps. Smiling blue-liveried attendants were everywhere. Not one carriage door had to wait to be opened, not one lady had to pause in the hallway for her wrap to be taken. And flowers literally bloomed in every imaginable corner—garlands, wreaths, sprays—all mingling their fragrance with the ladies’ perfumes. Flowers, a myriad candles, the sound of the orchestra playing softly—all the young ladies were intoxicated before their first sips of champagne!

  The receiving line was formed inside the entrance to the ballroom itself, where the Carlyle butler stood to announce each distinguished guest. “Baron and Lady von Hustings, Lady Evaline von Hustings. Lord Ian Clarahan, Earl of Islington, Lady Clarahan, Miss Rachel Clarahan. Squire and Mrs. Jonathan Whitson, Misses Lorinda, Lucinda and Annabelle Whitson. Captain John Hildreth.” And on and on, through every rank of nobility up to pr
ince, with a Scottish laird and a Russian countess there by luck, house guests of other guests, down through the rural gentry of squires and plain misters. Each guest was greeted with the same warm smile by the Duchess, who looked stunning in her gown of sapphire blue. The hem of her gown was cleverly embroidered in diamante, patterned to repeat the swirls of her diamond and sapphire necklace. Her hair was done up high under a tiara, set with one large diamond at the centre. Her blue eyes sparkled with the darker reflections from her gown, and her clear skin was almost white next to the blue, except for the blush of colour at her cheeks. Her charming smile was renewed for each visitor, through curtsey after curtsey, compliment after compliment.

  The Duke had been standing by his wife’s side to receive their guests but excused himself early on to host those already assembled in the game room which, he said, would be less taxing to his newly recouped strength than standing around half the night. This left the Marquis on his mother’s other side to bow over so many gloved hands. He was pleased at first to accept the compliments, on his mother’s behalf, of what a fine picture they made. Indeed, they were a handsome couple with their matching blond hair, his in curls, hers in sleek twists. He was dressed in formal black and white, with the exception of his waistcoat, which was a blue that matched his mother’s dress, but in velvet, with silver embroidery. The white of his cravat was interrupted by a diamond-headed stickpin, set with tiny sapphires. Carleton, glancing from the line of guests to the Duchess, was thinking that he could be content with a woman like his mother, if only one existed.