by Mary Balogh
He still did not know why and could speak only the truth.
“I don’t know.” He turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were on their clasped hands on the seat between them. He lifted their hands to his thigh. “I only know that when I thought of marrying as something I wanted to do, it was not marriage in the abstract of which I thought, but of marriage to you. It felt right when I thought it and it felt right when I saw you again. It felt right during the month in London, and it felt very right on our wedding day. It has felt right ever since.”
She lifted her head to look into his eyes. She did not reply. She smiled instead. He loved her smile.
The weather was not good as they traveled across Devon and into Cornwall, the sea often in sight to their left. The sky was persistently gray with heavy clouds and the wind buffeted the carriage from the west. The sea, as a result, was rough and a gunmetal gray flecked with foam. At least the rain held off, but it must all look very dreary to someone who had not been there before. Like a boy, he had wanted everything to be perfect for his bride’s homecoming.
“I wish I could have brought you here in sunshine,” he told her on a late morning when they were within ten miles of home, “but I have no say in what the weather decides to do.”
“Oh, but the sun will shine at some time,” she said. She drew breath as though to say something else but did not do so. When she did speak, it was with a smile in her voice. “George, let us talk about our wedding day.”
Instinctively he pressed farther back into his seat.
“Three or four minutes do not make a day,” she told him. “Let us forget those minutes and remember all the rest. I want to remember it as the most wonderful day of my life.”
Ah, Dora.
“And of mine,” he agreed, settling his shoulder against hers. “What is your most precious memory?”
“Oh, that is difficult,” she said. “I suppose the moment when the bishop told everyone gathered in the church that we were man and wife and no man—I suppose he meant no woman either—was to put us asunder. That was the most precious moment of my life. But there were many other memorable moments.”
“Seeing you step into the nave on your father’s arm,” he said.
“Seeing you waiting for me,” she said, “and knowing that you were my bridegroom.”
“Sliding the ring onto your finger,” he said, “and feeling how perfectly it fit.”
“Hearing you vow to love and cherish me.”
“Watching you sign the register, using your maiden name for the last time and knowing that the deed was officially done and you were my wife forever.”
“Walking back along the nave and seeing so many smiling faces, some familiar, many not. Oh, and the music, George. That must be a magnificent organ.”
“I shall take you to see it the next time we are in London,” he promised her. “And to play it.”
“Would it be allowed?” she asked, her eyes widening.
“All things are allowed a duchess,” he said, and they smiled at each other—no, they grinned.
“The flower petals Flavian and your friends hurled at us when we left the church,” she said.
“The metallic decorations attached to the carriage.”
“The receiving line in the doorway of Chloe and Ralph’s ballroom,” she said, “and all that goodwill directed just upon us.”
“Hugging our family and friends,” he said. “Seeing them happy for us.”
“The food and the wedding cake.”
“The wine and the toasts.”
“My shiny wedding ring,” she said. “I kept deliberately raising my hand just so that I could see it.” She did it now.
“Our wedding night,” he said softly, “though that happened on what was officially the day after our wedding. I am sorry that—”
“No,” she said, cutting him off. “We are not to regret anything. Nothing is perfect, George, and our wedding day was no exception. But it was as nearly perfect as any day could be. Let us remember it happily. Let us stop trying to forget it merely because there was that merest flaw in it.”
A merest flaw. Ah, Dora.
“A mere speck of dust,” he said. “A mere grain of sand. It was the loveliest day of my life too.”
“The . . . first time was not that?” she asked.
He drew a slow breath and released it. “No,” he said. “Not the first time. Look, we are home.”
The carriage had turned onto Penderris land, and the house was coming into sight on Dora’s side. It could be seen as a forbidding sort of place, he supposed, especially in this weather. It was a massive mansion of gray stone set in cultivated gardens that at least displayed some color at this time of year even if the sun was not shining. Below the gardens at the front was wild coastland scenery of coarse grass and gorse and heather and rugged rocks and, of course, the high cliffs, which fell away to more rocks and golden sand and the sea below.
“Oh.” She sounded awed. “It is so vast. How on earth am I going to learn to be mistress here? Even my father’s house would look insignificant if it were set beside it. My cottage would look like a gardener’s shed.”
He set an arm about her shoulders. “I have a perfectly competent housekeeper, who has been with me forever,” he told her. “I married you because I wanted a wife and a friend, not because I needed a mistress for Penderris.”
She turned her face away from the window and regarded him with what he thought of as her practical, sensible look. It was laced now with a touch of exasperation.
“What an utterly foolish thing to say,” she said. “As though one can marry a duke and expect to get away with being simply his wife and his friend. How all your servants would despise me! And they would speak to other servants and merchants, and they would speak with their employers and customers, and very soon everyone for miles around would look upon me with scorn and contempt. I am not just your wife, George. I am also, heaven help me, your duchess. And don’t you dare grin at me like that, as though I were a mere amusement to you. I am going to have to learn to be mistress of this . . . this mansion, and don’t try telling me anything to the contrary.”
So much for her famous inner serenity. Poor Dora. While he had been looking forward to coming home with her, she had clearly been approaching it with growing agitation. Even though he had not imposed any expectations upon her, she had imposed them upon herself. He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her.
“Just keep in mind,” he said, “that there are hearts fluttering with fright within that mansion. It is not because I am coming home. I am a known quantity. It is because you are coming, the new Duchess of Stanbrook. They would be quite mystified if they knew that you are frightened of them.”
She sighed. “I told you about Miranda Corley a couple of days ago,” she said. “She is tone deaf, to put it kindly, and there are ten thumbs attached to her hands instead of just two with eight fingers. She is also of an age at which she is experiencing all the sullen rebelliousness of oppressed youth. Yet her parents believe her to be a musical prodigy and employed me to nurture her genius. I tell you this so that you will understand what I mean when I say that I would rather at this moment be facing a triple lesson with Miranda than facing my arrival at Penderris.”
He chuckled as the carriage rocked to a halt at the foot of the front steps, and withdrew his arm from about her shoulders.
“We are home.”
* * *
Just keep in mind that there are hearts fluttering with fright within that mansion . . . because you are coming, the new Duchess of Stanbrook.
Dora kept those words firmly in mind for the rest of the day. She had adjusted to new circumstances before in her life, and she would do it again. Besides, she was not without experience at being mistress of a home. It was just that Penderris was on such a grand scale. So much grander than any other place she had li
ved.
At least she was spared here the formal welcome she had received at Stanbrook House on her wedding evening, perhaps because it had been impossible to predict exactly when they would arrive. However, by the time she sat down to a late luncheon with George, she had met the butler, who had greeted them at the front doors upon their arrival, and the housekeeper, a plump, matronly lady who had looked appraisingly at Dora but without any open disapproval. Dora had informed her that she looked forward to a lengthier meeting tomorrow and perhaps a tour of the kitchens.
She met Maisie, the maid who had been appointed her in London, in her dressing room, which was as large as her whole bedchamber in her cottage. She spent an hour or so alone in the duchess’s bedchamber, presumably resting. Instead she sat on the window seat, her knees hugged to her bosom, gazing across the park to the cliffs and the sea in the distance beyond. The stark beauty of it all was going to take some getting used to. George took her for a short walk in the inner park afterward, and then it was time to dress for dinner, which was taken according to country hours, earlier than it had been in London. Dinner was served in a large dining room at a table that seemed to stretch almost its whole length. Fortunately her place had been set beside her husband’s at the head of the table, and they were able to converse without having to yell at each other over a vast distance.
It was a bewildering but not an unhappy homecoming. Within a few days, she was sure, she would become familiar with her surroundings and her new duties and would be able to relax and feel at home.
Something had bothered her from the moment of her arrival, however. Or perhaps it was the absence of something. She had expected signs of the first duchess, however slight. She had not seen very much of the house yet, of course, for George had taken her outside for some air, at her request, when she might have asked for a quick tour of the house instead. But from what she had seen there was nothing to suggest that Penderris had ever been anything but the home of a bachelor until now.
Dora ought to have felt relieved, for she had felt some unease during the days in the carriage over the knowledge that she was the second duchess, that her predecessor had lived here and ruled here for almost twenty years. She had stepped inside the duchess’s bedchamber, feeling a bit like an interloper, fearing that it would somehow bear the stamp of the other woman. What she found instead was a beautiful room decorated in varying shades of mossy green and gold, but one that was also quite impersonal, like a guest chamber or like a room waiting to take on the personality of its occupant.
There were no signs of a woman’s touch anywhere else either—not in the drawing room, not in the dining room, not even in the gardens. There were also no signs that there had been a child here once, a boy, a young man, the son of the house. It all made Dora feel a little uneasy. Of course, both the first duchess and the son had been gone for more than ten years, and since then Penderris had been used as a hospital and convalescent home. Perhaps orders had been given recently that any remaining signs be stripped away out of deference to her. If that was so, then it had been a tactful move upon someone’s part but quite unnecessary. No two people’s lives should be so obliterated from the place that had been their home.
It was almost as though they had never been.
But Dora was tired after the long journey. Perhaps tomorrow when she toured the whole house she would see all sorts of evidence of George’s first family—perhaps a nursery still filled with books and toys, perhaps a young man’s room still kept as it had been, perhaps a portrait of the duchess. Dora had no idea what she had looked like.
After dinner George drew her hand through his arm and led her from the dining room. But instead of taking her to the drawing room, he took her upstairs to what he described as the duchess’s sitting room. It was between their dressing rooms and the bedchambers beyond each. Dora had not looked into it earlier. It was a cozy room, she thought immediately, furnished with comfortable-looking upholstered furniture. A fire crackled in the hearth and the candles in the two candelabra gave a warm, cheerful light.
Dora’s general impression of the room was a fleeting thing, though, for her attention focused almost immediately upon one familiar object—her pianoforte, looking old and battered, looking like home.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and she withdrew her arm from George’s and took a few hurried steps into the room before stopping again and swinging around to face him, her hands held prayer fashion against her lips.
He was smiling. “I hope,” he said, “you were not congratulating yourself upon being rid of it at last.”
She shook her head and bit her upper lip—and lost sight of him.
“Don’t cry.” He laughed softly, and she felt his hands clasp her shoulders. “Are you that unhappy to see it?”
“It is such an ugly old thing,” she said, swiping at her tears with both hands. “I did not like to say anything about it. I said goodbye to it at the cottage and hoped whoever bought the place would have some use for it. What made you think of having it brought here?”
“Maybe a desire to please you,” he said. “Or perhaps a memory of listening to you play it for a very short while the day after I asked you to marry me. Mainly a desire to please you—and myself. Are you pleased?”
“You know I am,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, George. How very kind you are and how good to me.”
“It is my pleasure to please you,” he told her, his hands squeezing her shoulders. “Will you play it for me, Dora? After we have drunk our tea?”
“Of course I will,” she said. “But before. I cannot wait.”
She played for an hour. Neither of them spoke a word during that time, even between pieces. He did not applaud either or show any other sign of appreciation—or boredom. Dora played without looking at him even once, but she was aware of him at every moment. She played for him, because he had asked her to play, but even more because he had thought to have her pianoforte fetched from Inglebrook, because he had looked so pleased at her surprise, because he was there, listening. She felt more fully married during that hour than she had at any time before. She was consciously happy. Words, even looks, were unnecessary, and that was perhaps the happiest thought of all.
As they drank tea afterward and conversed comfortably on a variety of topics, Dora thought of how very, very sweet marriage was and how fortunate she was to be married at last.
“Time for bed?” he suggested after the tray had been removed.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I am tired.”
“Too tired?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she assured him. “Not too tired.”
How could she ever be too tired for his lovemaking? Or for him? She was, of course, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him. She had admitted that to herself long before now. It made no real difference to anything, however. They were just words—being in love, romantic love.
She did not need words when the reality was so very lovely.
13
George spent most of the next morning at home, first with his secretary, then with his steward. He had some catching up to do since he had been gone for a while, first for Imogen’s wedding and then for his own. Dora, looking neat and trim in one of her new dresses and with her hair simply styled, had informed him at breakfast that she would spend the morning with Mrs. Lerner, the housekeeper, and that she intended to visit the kitchens too and make the acquaintance of the chef and some of the indoor servants. She intended to have all their names memorized within a few days and hoped they would make allowances for her until she did. She would be careful not to tread upon any toes, however, for she understood that some chefs guarded their domain quite jealously and resented interference even from the mistress of the house.
George had listened fondly and wondered what the servants would make of her. She had made no attempt to look like a duchess—she actually looked more like a provincial music teacher—or to behave like one. Ne
vertheless, she intended to be the duchess and mistress of her new home. She would do it her way.
“Even Mrs. Henry, my housekeeper in Inglebrook, could get cross if she felt I was encroaching upon her duties,” she had added.
George would wager that his servants would soon respect his wife and even come to love her. He doubted his first wife, Miriam, had known any but a very few of the servants by name. But he did not intend to be making comparisons.
He had planned to suggest a walk down on the beach during the afternoon, but the weather continued inclement. A cloudy, blustery morning gave way to a drizzly, windy afternoon, and he was forced to think of some indoor amusement instead. It was not difficult, for of course she had not yet seen a great deal of the house. He had learned during luncheon that her morning activities had taken her no farther than the morning room and the kitchens.
He took her on a tour of the rest.
First she wanted to see where everyone had stayed during the years when Penderris was a hospital. He showed her the rooms each of the Survivors had occupied, and time passed quickly as he reminisced with some stories about each of them—at her instigation.
“It may seem strange to you that I think back fondly on those years,” he said as they stood at the window of what had been Vincent’s room. It faced the sea, though he had been unable to appreciate the view. He had liked to listen to the sea, though, after his hearing returned, and he had kept his window open even on the most inclement of days so that he could smell the salty air. “There was a great deal of suffering, and sometimes it was almost unbearable to watch when there was so little I could do to ease it. But in many ways those were the happiest years of my life.”
“I daresay you saw human suffering at its worst and human endurance and resilience at its best,” she said. “I do not know all the wounded who spent time here, of course, only the six who became your friends. But they are extraordinary human beings, and I believe they must be such strong, vital, loving people at least partly because of all their suffering rather than despite it.”
