A Spinster's Luck

by Rhonda Woodward

  After a dessert of hothouse fruit and fresh cream was served, the talk eventually came around to the forthcoming Season. The major asked the duke when he would sojourn in London.

  “Most likely the beginning of April. I am hoping to convince Imogene to join me this year. I believe she will enjoy herself very much, what with Princess Charlotte’s wedding and all.”

  “Indeed she would,” Major Rotham agreed, turning eagerly to the duchess. “The town is already in a fever over it. All the great hostesses are planning celebrations that will long be remembered for their gaiety,” he said, watching Imogene for any signs of enthusiasm.

  “Indeed, the way you and Drake describe it makes it sound enticing, and I own that some dancing would set me up quite well, but there is so much to do here.” Imogene was just waiting to be talked into it. She looked at her brother and the major with shining eyes, already anticipating the wonders of a London Season.

  The men each took turns cajoling her and describing the incomparable merriment she would enjoy.

  “All right, all right, we shall go. Oh, Celly, won’t it be lovely?” Imogene asked her friend excitedly.

  Imogene was young, beautiful, and a duchess. Celia knew London was the place for her.

  “You will have a wonderful time.” She smiled encouragingly, already imagining all the delicious gossip she would be able to share with Edna when Imy wrote to her from London.

  “But of course you are going too, Celia,” Imogene said in wide-eyed surprise. “Where else would you be?”

  Celia did not know where to look, such was her shock at her friend’s words. She could imagine few things more horrid than being forced to reside in the duke’s home, even if only for a month or two.

  “My sister could not do without you, Miss Langston,” said the duke when Celia began to protest. Their eyes met, and Celia felt a little breathless at the expression in his. What a peculiar man he was, she thought. One moment he was rebuking her on the road to Harbrooke, and the next he was gazing at her quite kindly.

  “I just didn’t think—” she began uncertainly until Imogene interrupted her.

  “Don’t be a goose, Celly. You will come to London. The boys will be visiting my mother-in-law, so you needn’t worry on that score. Besides, I wouldn’t enjoy myself half so much if you weren’t there.” Her eyes pleaded with Celia not to protest.

  Celia observed her friend’s anxious face. That niggling feeling of resentment that had plagued her all evening vanished. What is wrong with me? Celia wondered to herself. Why am I suddenly so beset by the blue devils? I must stop thinking this way, she chided, hating the feeling of dissatisfaction that had invaded her thoughts of late.

  “Of course I will go, if you want me to. Thank you very much.” Once she became familiar with the duke’s London habits, Celia mused, it would be just as easy to avoid him there as it was at Harbrooke. Actually, when she thought about it for a moment, London would be a rare treat, duke or not.

  “Wonderful!” Imogene clapped her hands together in delight. “Heavens! There is so much to do! We shall be leaving in a week and I am not prepared for anything.”

  “You will have time to spare, Imogene. I will send a note to town tomorrow and let Porter know I will have two guests for the Season. The servants can take care of everything else.” The Duke of Severly leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine with an air of satisfaction.

  Chapter Five

  The charming Major Rotham had stayed at Harbrooke Hall two more days before departing with the promise of seeing them all in London. On the morning of his departure, Celia noticed the major give a last warm look to Imogene. Smiling to herself, Celia wondered if her friend was open to receiving his attentions.

  The duke stayed at Harbrooke Hall until a few days before his sister and Celia were set to leave, giving instructions and making all the arrangements for the trip that would take a full day. Celia was extremely careful to avoid him, finding his company even more unsettling since their walk home from the village. Being in his presence had proved unavoidable though, on the day he set off for London.

  She stood on the steps with the boys and Imogene as they said their good-byes. As much as she tried to deny it, she had to admit to herself that he cut an extremely dashing figure. This new opinion confused her because she had always thought he looked like the devil. Had her opinion changed because she was about to receive the unimaginable treat of going to London? She rebuked herself for having such nonsensical ruminations, but couldn’t help noticing how his shoulders appeared even broader in his many-caped coat.

  After dislodging himself from Peter and Henry, the duke kissed his sister’s cheek. “Do not worry, Imy. Everything is arranged. I shall see you in a few days.”

  He ruffled Peter’s hair and gave a salute to a curtsying Celia before jumping into his phaeton and departing, the perfectly matched chestnuts prancing a little as they turned the drive. Celia stayed on the steps as he drove off, a confused frown touching her brow.

  A few days before they were to leave for London, Celia walked over to Harford Abbey to say farewell to Edna Forbisher.

  Upon her arrival, Matthews led her into a salon that overlooked the overgrown front garden. Celia was very pleased to find Edna sitting up in a chair, instead of lying on the settee in her usual mode. After greeting her friend, Celia decided that Edna appeared more robust than she had in months.

  “So you are off to London to stay in the duke’s fine town house. Are you excited?” Edna asked.

  “Yes, I am. I have never been beyond our village,” Celia said after making herself as comfortable as she could in a sagging chair.

  “I know you have not. That is why you must endeavor not to behave like a country bumpkin,” Edna stated bluntly, casting a beady eye over Celia.

  “I will do my best,” Celia responded with a seriousness that belied her amusement at Edna’s manner.

  “You must not gape and gawk at the sights you will see. I have been to London, so I know of what I speak.”

  Celia continued to struggle with her laughter. She knew it had been at least forty years since the old lady had been to town. Even so, Celia was touched and gratified by Edna’s concern.

  “I will try not to be overset by the wonders of London,” Celia reassured her.

  “Good.” The old lady nodded her approval.

  The salon room door opened and Matthews entered. She carried a tray bearing a battered old tea service and a chipped plate with two scones.

  “You play mother,” Edna said to Celia, as she waved Matthews from the room. “Since you will be in such superior company at the duke’s residence, you might find yourself in the company of some young gentlemen,” she continued with a hint in her tone.

  Celia concentrated on preparing the tea. This was not the first time Edna had broached this subject. Celia knew how dogged her friend could be when she found a subject she liked.

  After handing Edna a cup of sweet tea and a scone, Celia settled back in her chair and looked at Edna’s wizened face.

  “Even if I am thrown into the path of a dozen gentlemen, it would serve no purpose. I am a spinster.”

  Edna snorted her objection to this statement.

  “Besides, Miss Forbisher, I could not be more content with my life as it is,” Celia asserted firmly.

  “Don’t be silly. You are not quite a spinster. You just need a little luck.”

  Not wanting to overly excite her friend, Celia conceded her point with a delicate shrug. She then tried to coax Edna into eating the second scone. Celia rewarded Edna with a smile when she accepted half of the treat.

  The two women sat quietly for a bit, enjoying their tea. Celia’s eyes wandered around the dark and dusty room. Accustomed to Harbrooke Hall, Celia wondered how Edna could abide this depressing atmosphere. It could not be good for one’s health, she thought.

  Leaning forward, Celia said hesitantly, “Miss Forbisher, may I call Matthews? It is a lovely spring day. We will remove the holland
covers from the furniture. Dust the mantel. Maybe even clean the windows.”

  Edna’s wrinkled face hardened into mutinous objection. “No, I would not dream of having you clean my house.”

  Celia did not think that Edna’s tone was as emphatic as it could be. Jumping up, she went to the door, saying, “Please, Miss Forbisher, I would so enjoy sweeping away the last bit of winter.”

  Edna continued to protest, but more mildly, as Celia called to Matthews. When the sturdy maid came in, Celia relayed her plan enthusiastically.

  “Praise be,” she said under her breath. “I’ve been trying to get to that room for years.”

  Celia continued to calm Edna’s protests as Matthews headed back to the pantry for cleaning supplies. When she returned, burdened with dustpans, rags, and aprons, the two women set about immediately putting the room in good order.

  They worked steadily all afternoon. Edna grumbled and barked orders occasionally, but Celia was sure she was pleased when they had thrown open the curtains to reveal sparkling-clean windows.

  By the time Celia took off the large apron Matthews had provided, she was pleasantly worn out and very satisfied. Ever since coming to Harford Abbey as a child, Celia had thought this room could be made charming if given a little attention.

  “You really needn’t have troubled yourself,” Edna said to Celia. “Though I own that the room looks much better.”

  Celia smiled, knowing how difficult it was for the old lady to thank her. Celia walked over to where Edna was seated, wrapped in her threadbare robe. Bending down, Celia kissed her friend on the cheek affectionately.

  “Think nothing of it. I shall be able to go to London happy, knowing that you can enjoy yourself in this lovely room.”

  “Well”—Edna sniffed—“you must write to me often while you are away.”

  Celia promised that she would.

  “I shall miss you, Miss Forbisher,” Celia said gently.

  “For goodness’ sake. You will only be gone a couple of months,” the old lady said gruffly. “You won’t have time to miss me.”

  With amused resignation, Celia shook her head over Edna’s cantankerous ways. She said a breezy farewell, for she knew Edna hated any sentimentality, and left the salon.

  “I shall write you as soon as I reach London,” Celia called from the foyer.

  “See that you do,” Edna called back.

  As the well-sprung carriage turned up the long flower-and tree-lined drive, Celia was convinced she must be dreaming. Her first glimpse of the Duke of Severly’s town house, from the carriage window, made her gasp in astonishment. Never had she seen anything so magnificent, yet so imposing.

  Severly House was enormous and perfectly proportioned, with wide marble steps that led to the huge front doors. As the carriage pulled to a stop, a footman liveried in vermilion and gold opened the door and helped Imogene alight. Celia adjusted her bonnet, took a deep breath, and followed unassisted.

  Pulling off her gloves and surveying the house’s impressive facade, Imogene said with pleasure, “Well, we are here, Celia.”

  Celia couldn’t quite make herself believe that she was actually in London and would be staying at the duke’s London home. Just a few days ago they were in a flurry of fittings and packing and listening to the boys’ protests. And now, suddenly, they were in London. She felt excitement flutter through her veins.

  The only thing that had put a damper on Celia’s anticipation was the sad state of her wardrobe. She knew it would have been a hopeless task to have tried to make even one gown before they were to depart, so she had just determined to make the best of it. But Imogene had come to the rescue by insisting on making a gift of a few gowns.

  “I won’t hear a word on it, Celly. We have been friends for far too long for there to be any strain between us. You need some new gowns and I want to give them to you,” she had pressed in an unusually stern voice.

  So Celia had gone to Mrs. Miniver, the village of Harford’s most reputable modiste, and explained her predicament and the need for urgency. Mrs. Miniver had been quite obliging, and within the week Celia had four new gowns, all very simple, yet far superior to anything she possessed. Celia hugged Imogene effusively when the finished articles had arrived and spent an extra hour before bedtime trying them on and carefully packing them.

  Now she was in London, being admitted into the most beautiful house she had ever seen.

  The duke, dressed for riding, was descending the wide, curving oak staircase as Celia and Imogene were being admitted into the splendid foyer. He appeared very much in his element, Celia thought, the lord of the manor.

  Celia knew that the first Duke of Severly had received the title after the battle of Agincourt, and the succeeding seven dukes had improved upon the holdings. Evidently this duke was not the exception.

  Everywhere Celia looked she saw magnificent treasures. She knew that the Duke of Severly was one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom. The wealth of his family had been built upon from generation to generation. But still, the unexpected beauty of Severly House was very overwhelming.

  After kissing his sister, the duke asked after their journey. Even though Celia tried to stay in the background, the duke’s expression included her in his inquiry.

  “We’ve had a wonderful time! Oh, Drake, do you realize the last time I stayed here, Mama and Papa were alive and it was my first Season?” Moisture welled in her hazel eyes and she searched her reticule for a hankie. The duke offered her his.

  “Yes, that was a very happy time for us all. You have been away much too long, Imy.” Severly gazed down at his sister tenderly, and Celia found herself amazed by his gentleness. She was so used to seeing him with that bored and worldly expression, she could almost like him when he behaved this way.

  The duke looked up at that moment and caught Celia’s speculative gaze upon him. His countenance became closed and once again he wore an expression of cynicism.

  “I hope you did not find the trip too arduous, Miss Langston.”

  “No, indeed, your grace, we were very comfortable,” she said, then continued in a hesitant tone, “I wish to thank your grace.…”

  He languidly waved off her thanks. “I believe this is your first time in London?”

  “Yes, it is, your grace.”

  “Perhaps we can show you some of the more famous sights while you are with us.”

  Celia could only stare at him with incredulous eyes.

  “That would be marvelous, Drake! We shall have so much fun! Celia, just you wait,” said the duchess after recovering from her attack of nostalgia.

  Celia agreed that they would, but was still shocked that the duke would suggest such a thing. She reasoned that his unexpected kindness was because he realized that she and his sister were good friends and he wanted to ensure that Imogene would enjoy her stay. What else could explain his attentions to a governess? she mused.

  The duke’s introducing a plump woman dressed in dark gray brought Celia’s attention back.

  “Mrs. Chambers is the chatelaine. She will show you to your rooms. I hope you will both join me for tea in an hour.”

  More surprises were in store as the housekeeper led a chatty Imogene and a wide-eyed Celia up the staircase. They passed remarkable pictures painted by Gainsborough and Van Dyck. The ceiling, Imogene pointed out, had been created by Thornhill. Celia would have assumed that the duke’s home would seem rather cold and forbidding. This house was the farthest thing from cold. Admittedly, it was magnificent. The servants bustled about happily. The large windows allowed the struggling spring sun in, and every flat surface held fragrant bouquets of the season’s earliest offerings.

  They were first shown the chamber Imogene would occupy. It was a gorgeous suite decorated in varying shades of peach and cream. Mrs. Chambers and Celia left the room with Imogene’s promise to see Celia in an hour’s time.

  Expecting Mrs. Chambers to continue to the third floor, where the servants were housed, Celia was surprised wh
en the housekeeper led her a few doors down from the duchess’s rooms.

  There must be some mistake, Celia thought when they entered a sumptuous room of rose and gold. A petite blond maid skittered about, already unpacking Celia’s meager belongings. A canopy bed draped with rose satin curtains stood between two long windows. A lovely little secretary and chair stood against the opposite wall. Two rose-and-gold-striped chairs were placed by a large fireplace, and a dressing room could be seen through an open door on the other side of the room.

  “I’m sure there must be a mistake, Mrs. Chambers,” Celia exclaimed, turning to the plump woman. “This cannot be my room.”

  “This is the room his grace chose for her grace’s friend. I know there is no mistake, miss; his grace told me himself,” Mrs. Chambers said anxiously, looking at the young lady with great concern because she looked as if she might be going to faint.

  “Are you feeling well, miss? May I bring you something?”

  “No … no, I am fine,” Celia assured her, removing her small bonnet. “I just need to rest for a bit. Thank you very much.”

  “Very good, miss. Please ring if you need anything,” the housekeeper said, indicating a bellpull near the bed. “Dora here shall attend you during your stay,” she stated before exiting with the little maid following close behind.

  For a long moment, Celia stood in the middle of the room, trying to absorb the serene beauty all around her. A deep flush stained her cheeks, and a queer feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. The duke had told Mrs. Chambers to put her here! It was most astounding.