The Wallflower Duchess

by Liz Tyner

  Edge took a step closer.

  Before Edge could move, the blacksmith turned, swinging the serious end of the pinchers which held the red-hot blade tip towards Edge. Edge stepped back to keep from being seared, the heated air smothering his ability to breathe.

  The man stopped, eyes narrowed in thought. ‘Aren’t you the ledger man from the Bear and Boar?’

  Edge nodded.

  The man shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me questions I don’t want to answer.’

  ‘It seemed to me like you’d answer anything until I spoke of the Hightower woman.’

  ‘You wouldn’t answer anything, though. Didn’t say a thing about yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t there to find out about me.’

  ‘Well, if you’d talked a little more, I might have felt like telling you what you wanted. But I didn’t then and I don’t now.’

  He stepped to the forge, laying down the metal and hammer. He exchanged the pinchers he’d been using for a longer pair. Then, using the ones with the lengthier handles, he pushed the scythe blade back into the flames.

  Edgeworth didn’t step closer. His jaw locked. Heat danced along his cheeks like devil’s fingertips.

  ‘You know anything about smithing?’ the man asked.

  ‘I know it’s hot, hard work,’ Edge said.

  He saw the burning glow of the forge and he could feel the pressure from its heat.

  ‘First rule of blacksmiths is don’t walk up behind one when he’s working. Second rule of blacksmithing is... Well, there’s so many rules I forgot the second one.’ He looked at Edge, holding the blade into the heat. He examined it. ‘Imagine what this blade could do to a man’s softer skin.’

  Edge stood solid. ‘Imagine what the forge could do to a man should he go into it head first.’

  The man pulled the glowing metal closer, examining it, the darker room making the hues of the hot metal easier to see. ‘I don’t have to imagine where metal is concerned, or the fire. I’ve been doing this so long, I don’t have blood in my veins, but molten steel. Makes it hard to get the bones moving on a cold morning.’

  He glanced at Edge, pulling out a wadded, blackened cloth he’d had tucked at the back, under his apron ties. He dotted his forehead and put the rag back in place. ‘Why’d you return?’

  ‘Unanswered questions.’

  ‘Just ’cause a man asks don’t mean another man has to answer.’

  ‘True.’

  Edge pulled the stool near the table, wiped the bead of sweat from his brow and listened to the clanging of the hammer meeting metal again. The man continued, repeating motion after motion.

  Edge studied the man, noting him taller than most, the same as Lily. The brown eyes. The studious face. The white shock of hair dripped water on to his face and his shirt clung wet against his body, and the leather apron protected him from flying embers.

  ‘You want to try this?’ the man asked Edge, examining the glowing metal.

  ‘No.’ Edge stood. ‘But I will.’

  ‘Might as well,’ the man said, putting the metal on the anvil and giving Edge the pinchers. ‘I’m not speaking about myself and you’re not speaking about yourself, so you need to earn your rent to stand in my shop.’

  * * *

  He’d walked in the garden twice and she’d not stepped out. Of course, she could have been unaware he was there. The houses were side by side and her window faced the back, not the side as her sister’s did.

  He took the handkerchief from his pocket. White. Embroidered initials.

  Every day that he reached into the pocket, he always found a precisely folded handkerchief. Always looking new. Folds ironed, he suspected, so it would lie flat.

  He’d never asked Gaunt to provide the handkerchief because he’d never needed to. He wouldn’t have thought of it. Edge looked at the initials, wondering if Gaunt did the stitching or someone else did.

  He raised his eyes to the home, the handkerchief in his hand.

  Lily’s house showed no hints of life. On occasion he’d see a carriage leave or return. At times he would see activity beyond a window or a servant rushing out on an errand. But except for Lily, and sometimes Abigail with her, the house kept to itself, much like his own.

  He could remember her mother living there. Lily’s mother didn’t merely leave or arrive. She parted the way in front of herself and dangled a parcel or a servant or a child along with her. A plume. A dash of red. Something gold.

  He hadn’t paid attention when she’d moved out because he’d really only paid attention to Lily. Even though her parents had separated, they’d each moved back and forth between the two houses at first.

  No one had bemoaned Lily’s mother leaving, not even the Duchess. And—on the day when he was a child and his parents had mentioned the possibility of Abigail being his wife—his parents had said something about it being only a consideration because Mrs Hightower left the care of her daughters to the staff.

  He examined the house once again. He wasn’t waiting.

  At the hedge in his gardens which concealed the bench, he stepped to the back, towards her window. He wrapped the fabric loosely, but knotted it enough to hold it to the greenery. He was reduced to a surrender when there wasn’t even a war.

  * * *

  Abigail stood at the window of her bedroom. She clasped the edge of the curtains and her head darted about like an indecisive turtle. ‘He’s looking this way. He’s frowning. He’s staring at his hand. He’s—’

  ‘Get away from the widow,’ Lily ordered. She turned the page of the recipe book. She sat on top of the covers, her back against the headboard of the bed, her ankles crossed and rocking her stockinged foot. ‘Violet Wafers. Have we had those?’

  ‘He’s tying something,’ Abigail muttered. ‘I think.’

  ‘Get away from the window,’ Lily commanded again. She didn’t look up.

  ‘Something white. He tied something white on the hedge.’ She put her head closer to the glass. ‘He’s walking around the hedge. He paced in front of it. Maybe someone is sitting on the bench. But he’s not talking.’

  Lily read the contents page. ‘Bergamot Drops. That sounds medicinal. Or like something a man might add to shaving soap.’

  Abigail tilted her head from left to right. ‘I think it’s a handkerchief.’

  ‘Yes. Could be.’ Lily read. ‘What about Damson Drops? The plums won’t be ripe until autumn, though.’

  ‘Why would anyone tie a handkerchief like that? Maybe he wishes his gardener to trim the hedge and he’s telling him just how deeply he wants the cut.’

  ‘Peppermint Drops?’ Lily skipped over the Orange Drops. Too much like orange biscuits and no doubt they would not compare.

  ‘It just seems odd...’

  ‘Barley Sugar Drops. I think the person who wrote this just needed another recipe. Barley sugar? Not for me.’

  ‘He’s sitting because his head dropped from view. Remember when he used to read there?’

  ‘Not really.’ Lily looked up. ‘I don’t care what the Duke does.’

  ‘I do. He’s Foxworthy’s cousin.’ She let the curtain fall into place. ‘And don’t tell me you don’t care what he does. You’ve always watched him when he was in the gardens.’ Abigail peeped around the merest edge of the cloth.

  ‘You really made Father angry when you told him what you said to Edgeworth. That was the only time Father ever threw anything. It was always Mother before. You shouldn’t have told him what you did. You should have said Edgeworth changed his mind.’

  ‘I didn’t want to lie.’

  ‘Well, you should have. It would have been the right thing to do.’

  ‘I know.’ Lily kept her book in front of her face.

  Abigail put her hands on her hips and walked over to her
sister. ‘I cannot believe you. Sitting alone in this room all day when there are shops to be visited. Babies to be adored. Perfumes to sniff. New fabrics begging to be made into dresses.’ Then she looked back to the closed curtains. ‘Odd. Just odd. Tying something on a plant like that.’

  ‘I’m reading.’

  ‘Recipes.’

  ‘You will appreciate this when Cook makes something absolutely divine.’

  The door shut as Abigail left the room.

  ‘Orange Drops. Seville Orange Drops. Orange Wafers. Orange Prawlongs...’ Lily spoke to the book. ‘Orange Drops,’ she repeated. ‘Seville Orange Drops. Orange Wafers. Biscuits. I would so love some orange biscuits...’

  Chapter Seven

  The Duke sat on the bench, tapping each finger of his left hand against the wood, one at a time. He’d had enough of this average-man business. He did not like being ignored. Not after he’d put out the white flag.

  He could not believe it. He might have to enlist Napoleon’s help. He’d heard the Frenchman had written quite a scandalous love letter that had been stolen and published. Not that he, as a duke, would ever write such nonsense. It was unseemly.

  Stilling, he listened. The door to Lily’s house closed.

  Ah, he didn’t need a general’s help. The flag wasn’t a flag of surrender, really. An invitation. His invitation had been accepted.

  The hedge rustled with the handkerchief being extracted and he stood. He heard rustling and footsteps. Miss Abigail walked around the hedge.

  He did not move.

  ‘Oh, Your Grace.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I didn’t realise you were about.’ She thrust out her arm, holding the silk to him. ‘Somehow this was tangled in the greenery. I was going to send a maid with it, but...’ She looked at it, eyes perusing the stitches of his initials. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘It’s yours.’ Her hand fell to her side and her nose wrinkled. She turned her chin away, but her eyes stayed on his. ‘Why is it on the hedge? Lily and I were watching from the window. She couldn’t stop talking about it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took the silk from her hand and didn’t blink when he stared into her eyes.

  She curtsied and dashed towards her house. ‘You’re welcome. Any time.’

  Perhaps his look wasn’t as nice as he’d thought.

  He glanced at the Hightower windows, certain he was being watched. He waved his hand out in a strong gesture, then swung his arm towards his garden—a very un-ducal way to request someone’s presence, but still commanding—much like he would have imagined Wellington doing to a single soldier who might need to be silently moved from one direction to another.

  He waited. The window opened and two feminine arms reached out, grasping a book, then releasing it to fall on to the ground.

  He didn’t need to see it to know it was a book on proper manners.

  * * *

  ‘Lily,’ her father’s voice challenged. He held a note. ‘From the Duchess. She asks if you might visit. Today.’

  Lily didn’t move.

  ‘My father would have traded me away for an invitation such as this,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going to do the same?’

  He shook his head, and read the paper again. ‘I suppose I’m wealthy enough. Abigail is going to marry well. There will be someone to pass my business to. Do as you wish. I did.’ He stared at her and tossed the paper into the waste bin. ‘You see how well that turned out.’

  Lily took one last glance at the paper before she left the room. In the past, the invitation had included Abigail. Lily’s stomach tumbled at the thought of visiting the Duchess alone. Her entire life, she’d been invited to have tea with the Duchess six or seven times. But always with Abigail. She sighed deeply. In truth, there was no avoiding it. She must go to the Duchess.

  Choosing the dress with the silk ribbons on the sleeve, she called her maid to help her dress. But she didn’t tell anyone else where she was going because later she might have to tell the truth and that hadn’t ended well the last time.

  The maid brought out the slippers for Lily to wear. The pointed-toe ones that were impossible to dance in. Lily frowned at the maid, and the servant smiled and put the shoes on the floor. Lily sighed. Of course she would wear them. They were elegant, according to Abigail. They matched the dress so perfectly, according to Abigail. But still, Lily had only worn them the one time and all the tricks the maid knew about stretching them or cushioning them hadn’t kept them on Lily’s feet more than a few seconds.

  Lily walked gracefully to the house next door. She had no choice. If she hurried, she’d fall on her face or leave a slipper behind.

  The ducal sitting room had to be the largest room in the house because if all the other rooms were the same size, fitting more than one or two under the roof would have been impossible. Glittering orbs hung from the sconces, reflecting the colours in the room and falling like drops of gold.

  The brightness of the Duchess’s earrings and her simple dress could have looked out of place, but they didn’t because the Duchess wore them. She greeted Lily, thanking her for sparing the time to visit.

  As Lily sat, a servant appeared with a tea tray.

  ‘Recently I’ve been staying with my son Andrew and his wife. She is painting my portrait.’ The Duchess smiled. ‘She’s quite good.’ She patted the lines at her eyes. ‘But she forgets to add nature’s lace. Took all these out, smoothed out my skin.’ She held up her ring. ‘Made the jewels bigger, though.’

  ‘I’ve heard she’s quite talented.’ And that somewhere a quite naked portrait of Beatrice’s husband existed, although for the life of her, Lily just could not imagine Lord Andrew allowing such a thing.

  ‘My wish is that she might paint a single large portrait of my three sons standing together. They wouldn’t even have to pose at the same time, but individually, and Beatrice could place them in the same room. I gave three polite hints politely missed from the men so I guess it isn’t to be. I’m sure they’d do it for me if I insisted, but I don’t want to be that kind of mother.’ She twitched a shoulder and smiled. ‘At least, I don’t want to be that kind of mother on a daily basis. I suppose I am allowed one insistence on their time per adult child each year so I try not to squander it.’

  ‘You have it worked out mathematically.’ Lily sipped the tea, the temperature warm, just slight of being too hot. Exactly right. The blend wasn’t the same Lily usually tasted, but a mix all the Duchess’s own.

  ‘Realistically. My sons were taught to think for themselves, except the Duke. He was raised to think for other people...’ She paused, her headshake filling the air with a medicinal-scented hair tonic. ‘If I have made one error in my life, it was in how firmly I raised Edgeworth.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Remember, Foxworthy is not my son so I take none of the responsibility for him, although he is a dear, dear nephew.’

  She continued, returning to the previous topic of her conversation. ‘Edgeworth was never punished for his mistakes because he wasn’t allowed to make them. From morning until his bedtime, he had a person at his elbow guiding him.’

  ‘But a little child sometimes rebels.’

  ‘He couldn’t very well. Imagine when you’re only this high...’ she held a hand out to indicate the height of a small child ‘...and a servant whisks you out of bed to do your lessons and if you are to sit on the floor and refuse to go further—as he once did—two servants lift you and deposit you in front of your father. Your mother is called. The tutor and governess attend and all the adults stand around you, discussing how this type of behaviour is to best be handled in the child.’

  The Duchess shook her head. ‘He was my first. He was to be perfect. The whole family’s future rested on this young child should something happen to his father.’

  ‘He seems perfect.’

  ‘Oh.’ The Duchess smiled. ‘He is
. He is perfect. He is so perfect. He is so perfect he doesn’t understand imperfection. His tolerance for others’ errors is learned. He doesn’t feel it, but knows that his duty is to expect less from others and be benevolent about it.’

  She laughed softly. ‘I cannot be satisfied. I have the most wondrous children a mother could hope for and I complain they don’t make errors.’ She touched the earrings. ‘Even my youngest son, Andrew—that little mix-up with the portrait was not his fault.’ She discreetly turned her eyes away, as if even speaking of such a thing was improper.

  Lily looked at her tea cup.

  ‘You’d think I wouldn’t like his wife, Beatrice. She’s...’ the Duchess searched for a word ‘...exuberant. But I adore her. She’s exactly what Andrew’s serious side needs. And my other son, Steven, his wife lightens his day.’

  She continued. ‘Think of it, I raised Edgeworth so carefully—a little boy whom it took six adults to convince to do something he didn’t wish to do and each of us spoke openly about which privilege we should remove from him if he wouldn’t behave. And we could come up with nothing. No favoured toy. No game. No treat. He finally looked at us, stood and said if we would leave he would do his lessons.’ Her eyes watered. ‘That night, my husband and I scheduled his Sunday afternoons so that he and his brothers could go to my sister’s house to play with their cousin Foxworthy.’ She crossed her arms over herself. ‘That took courage for me. My sister is not exactly the same kind of parent I am. I promised myself if the boys came back alive I wouldn’t complain.’

  She uncrossed her arms, one hand resting atop the other. ‘Edgeworth came back alive and the games with the toy soldiers didn’t go quite as planned. They were furious with each other. Foxworthy just wanted to blast ahead with cannons and didn’t go by their rules. Andrew planned the supply lines so precisely that he needed more soldiers than allotted. Steven was upset because he wanted the troops to lull the enemy in for an ambush. And Edge could not enjoy it because the troops kept arguing with the general and he felt they should forget supply lines, march forward and do their duty.’