The Duke made her a bow. ‘Miss Cash, I accept the challenge. I will ride out with you and I promise not to baulk at your pace, however reckless. If we break our necks, at least we shall do so together.’
Cora bridled at the implied criticism, she knew she was an excellent horsewoman. ‘I assure you, Duke, I am not in the habit of falling off my horse. What happened the other day was completely out of character. Unfortunately the fall has destroyed my memory of the moments leading up to it, but I am sure that something quite untoward must have happened for me to lose control like that.’
‘Perhaps you saw a ghost. Lulworth is full of them: headless cavaliers, wailing monks, medieval chatelaines rattling their ghostly keys. You won’t find a housemaid who will go into the gallery after dark in case she bumps into the Grey Lady.’
‘The Grey Lady?’
‘One of my ancestors, Lady Eleanor Maltravers. It was in the Civil War. Our Civil War, we had one too…The Maltravers were Royalists of course, but Eleanor fell in love with a neighbour’s son who went to fight for Cromwell. When she was told that he had been killed at the battle of Marsden, she fell into such despair that she threw herself off the cliffs. Turned out that the boy she loved wasn’t dead after all so she can’t leave the house till she finds him.’
‘And why is she grey?’
‘Oh, because she started wearing grim Puritan clothes – to please her lover or to annoy her family, who’s to say?’ The Duke gave Cora a knowing smile that suggested she might know something about the latter situation.
Cora was wondering whether to smile back when two rangy grey dogs raced between them, yapping shrilly and jumping up on to Cora’s skirts, leaving a pattern of dirty brown paw marks.
‘Aloysius, Jerome, stop it at once.’ The Duke spoke with an authority completely unlike his usual quiet tone. The dogs subsided instantly. ‘I’m sorry about your skirt, Miss Cash. Would you like me to get a maid to sponge it down?’
Cora shook her head. ‘No indeed. I want my tour. But I am curious about your dogs’ names. Back home we call our dogs things like Spot or Fido. These must be very special animals to warrant such fancy names.’
The Duke leant down to one of the dogs and pulled its ears. ‘The Maltravers have been breeding Lulworth lurchers for God knows how many generations but I think I am the first duke to name them after medieval popes.’ He stood up and the dog ran lightly to the bottom of the steps. ‘And now, Miss Cash, you shall have your tour.’ He bowed to her and raised his hand in a mock flourish.
‘Lulworth was originally built as a hunting lodge for Edward the Third. The long gallery, the dining room and the music room where you found me yesterday,’ he gave her a half smile of recognition, ‘were part of this original building. In 1315 he gave it to my ancestor Guy Maltravers as a reward for his services in the Hundred Years War. The front of the house and the great hall were built by my namesake Ivo, the First Duke. He was a favourite of James the First, who made him a duke and gave him the monopoly on sealing wax so he was able to build all this. Ivo had very good taste, he got Inigo Jones to do the designs. They ran out of money – the Civil War was very bad for the Maltravers – but with the Restoration things improved, except for poor Eleanor, and they were able to finish it. After that things went downhill rather. The Maltravers stayed Catholic when the rest of the country went Protestant so they spent a lot of time down here, praying. The family has only become smart again since my mother married into it. She had no intention of being a dowdy duchess. She spent a fortune on the place, put in the new servants’ wing and built the station so that her smart friends could get here easily from London. Very energetic woman, my mother, she did more to Lulworth in the last twenty years than had been done in the last two hundred.’ The Duke’s voice trailed off. They were walking along a paved path that led up a small hill to the right of the house. At the top was an elegant white stone building. The Duke paused on the steps flanked by two weathered stone pillars.
‘And this is the chapel, which as Father Oliver will have no doubt told you is the oldest consecrated Catholic site in continuous use in England. This chapel was built by the Fifth Duke who had a French wife who was very devout. She didn’t like saying her prayers in the draughty medieval chapel, so she ordered her husband to build her something modern, and this is the result.’ Ivo held open the grey painted door for Cora. As she walked past him, her hand brushed against his. It was the tiniest contact, as fleeting as a moth’s wing brushing her cheek, but it sent a tremor through her arm. She gave a gasp and Ivo looked at her.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? A French bonbon in deepest Dorset.’
Cora nodded. The chapel was perfectly proportioned. The main body was circular. A gallery ran round the top beneath a domed ceiling painted with voluptuous saints and attendant cherubs. The walls were white, and the woodwork a pale greyish-green picked out in gold. The pews were upholstered in the same shade of velvet. There were two padded armchairs in the front row, with coronets and the ducal W embroidered on the backs. The altar was covered with a green velvet cloth decorated with elaborate gold embroideries. An ivory prie-dieu hung between two gold candlesticks. The overall effect was rich but graceful – rather, thought Cora, like the Duke himself.
Cora had never been in a Catholic church before. Catholicism was something she associated with the Irish maids at home. On Sunday mornings they would be taken in a shiny-faced, giggling bevy to Mass at the local Catholic church. The Irish girls always looked so excited, as if they were going to a ball rather than to a place of worship. Cora, who found attending the Episcopal church on Sunday mornings an ordeal only mitigated by the knowledge that of all the exquisite examples of the milliner’s art on display, hers was undoubtedly the finest, had envied the maids their gleeful high spirits.
She tried not to stare as the Duke dipped his fingers into the stoup at the entrance of the church and knelt down and crossed himself. This automatic act of devotion surprised her. She wondered if he expected her to do likewise. But he got to his feet and walked towards her without constraint.
The Duke gestured towards the ducal chairs. ‘Embroidered by Duchess Mathilde herself. Must have been rather reassuring to sew your own coronet when all your friends were losing their titles and even their heads. Her mother was one of Marie Antoinette’s ladies-in-waiting. Her brother lost his head to La Guillotine.’ The Duke gave a theatrical shiver.
Cora noticed that in the alcove behind the altar there was a rectangular patch that glowed whitely against the faded paint that surrounded it. She guessed that a picture, quite a large one, had hung there until quite recently
The Duke noticed the direction of her gaze. ‘Yes, there should be a picture there. Rather a fine one actually, my father always said it was the finest Rubens in the country even if St Cecilia was a touch on the fleshy side.’ He voice trailed into silence as if he had forgotten his reason for being there. His hands absentmindedly picked at the gold tassel hanging from the ducal cushion.
‘We have a Rubens,’ said Cora brightly. ‘Mother bought it last year from Prince Pamphilij. She is very proud of it but I find it a little overpowering. But where is yours? I know Mother would love to compare them, although of course hers will be the superior.’ She smiled but the Duke did not smile back.
‘Not possible, I’m afraid. The Rubens was sold, along with a very pretty set of Fragonard panels that were part of Duchess Mathilde’s dowry. My mother had some royal guests to entertain and the house needed to be brought up to scratch. My father was quite cut up.’ He wrenched the tassel so hard that it broke off. ‘But now, fortunately, she has married into another Rubens. I’m sure she will be only too happy to tell Mrs Cash about it.’
Cora felt her face burn. She thought of the picture gallery in Sans Souci and the faded outlines of past glory that its magnificence represented. She tried to imagine what it must be like to have to give up something because you needed the money. She saw that the Duke, too, was flushed and instinctively she put
her hand on his arm in mute apology – for her lack of tact, for her Rubens, for underestimating him.
‘You have every right now, Duke, to think of me as the worst kind of vulgar American, but I can tell you that while there is much – so much I don’t know, I am a quick study. I never make the same mistake twice.’
Ivo said nothing. For a moment Cora thought he was about to shake her hand away but then he took it in his own, turning her palm upwards.
‘What a crisp line of destiny you have.’ He traced the line that tapered round the mound of her thumb with his finger. Cora felt as if her whole being was concentrated under his fingertip. ‘You are going into an unblemished future, Cora. A bright, confident, American destiny. You will have no faded patches on your walls, no missing pictures. There is nothing you need to learn from me, unless of course you want to.’ He hesitated and then slowly raised his eyes to look at her. Cora felt she could not meet his gaze; she stared hard at the ducal W embroidered by a dead French duchess, but she could not ignore his hand on hers and the warmth she felt in the cold morning.
At last she turned to him and then quickly before she lost heart she said, ‘I would like to learn how to make you happy. I think I could, you know.’ Cora could feel her heart beating, her face scarlet. She had spoken before she had a chance to think and yet she knew this was what she wanted.
Ivo raised her hand to his lips and kissed the soft white skin of her wrist. ‘Is that really what you want, Cora? All this?’
This time she did not look away. ‘If this is what makes you happy, then yes.’
She spoke more loudly than she had realised, and the bright ring of her voice hit the clear chill air of the chapel. Ivo looked at her so intently that she felt transparent, that he could see through her, but she had nothing to hide. And when she thought she could bear it no longer, he put his hand behind her head and put his mouth on hers. His lips tasted of honey and tobacco. It was not a tentative kiss.
Cora smelt the musky scent of his neck and ran her fingers through his springy curls. She felt the length of his body pressing against her through her clothes. His arm was round her waist, his mouth moved down to kiss the inch of neck that escaped from the high collar of her morning dress. And then he pulled away from her abruptly.
‘But I am making an unwarranted assumption here.’
He stepped back, his eyes searching her face. Cora stood motionless. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch; was he going to laugh? Then he dropped on to his knees.
Ivo cleared his throat. ‘Cora, will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’
Cora looked down at him. She saw that the tips of his ears were red. This had come before she was ready, everything he did seemed to take her by surprise. Surely there should be more of a courtship, a period of mutual discovery and delicious anticipation. She remembered the long summer in Newport when Teddy had seemed to hover about her consciousness. She remembered the words he had whispered in her ear the day she had fallen off her bicycle. He had seemed to understand her, but he had not made her free. At least Ivo was offering that. She wondered if she was giving in too quickly And yet, and yet…that kiss had been too urgent to be contained for long. She wanted the sequel as much as she regretted the lost dance of courtship. And by marrying the Duke, she would at once dispatch her mother and the lingering burden of guilt that she had carried since that evening in Newport.
Not that Cora’s thoughts were quite so cogent in the minute that she made the Duke wait, kneeling before her on the stone floor of the chapel; but those were the strands which swirled around in her head before resolving into the force that made her slowly but definitely reach out her hand to pull him to her.
‘Yes,’ she whispered into his coat. There were tears in her eyes. Tears for the speed of her surrender, tears for all the other futures there might have been. But then he kissed her again.
They only drew apart when the chapel bell started striking eleven. The noise was so loud and unexpected that they both laughed, as if guilty at having been caught out.
‘I suppose we should go back and speak to Mother.’ Cora dragged out the last word.
‘And will your mother approve?’
Cora smiled. ‘I think it will be the first time that she and I will agree about my future. But what about your mother? How will she feel about your marrying an American girl?’
‘Well that, my dear Cora, you are about to find out. She is coming here expressly to take charge of the situation. But we have forestalled her.’ Ivo took Cora’s arm formally and walked down the aisle with her out of the chapel. It was an oddly solemn moment until the lurchers, who had been waiting patiently on the steps, sensed the change of situation and began to bark and lick their hands.
Chapter 9
The Double Duchess
THE STATIONMASTER’S STIFF COLLAR WAS DIGGING into the back of his neck. It was new and so full of starch that he could only move his head by turning his whole body. He tried to put his finger between the hard fabric and his skin but the extra pressure only made the collar even more like a garrotte. He gave up and tried to stand as still as possible. He could only look straight ahead but he could hear the distant whistle of the train. He lowered his eyes to the red carpet that lay across the platform – a little threadbare in parts but he knew that the Duchess would be pleased with the attention. The red carpet had last been taken out when the Prince of Wales had come for the old Duke’s funeral. The stationmaster wondered if the Duchess would remember; perhaps the red carpet had not been such a good idea after all. Was it too late to remove it? Yes, the train was seconds away from pulling in. The stationmaster turned ninety degrees so that he could face his former mistress.
Duchess Fanny looked out of the compartment window as the familiar gingerbread-house fretwork of Lulworth Halt slid into view. She had thought it might be amusing to make the station a little more orné, perhaps an Oriental pavilion or something with shells, but the Directors of the South Dorset Railway had been firm: stations were of a standard design and not subject to the whims even of duchesses. She had been quite put out, even mentioning it to the Prince. This had been a mistake. Bertie had looked bored, his heavy eyelids drooping and the corners of his mouth beginning to sag. Fanny had changed the subject swiftly; she could not afford to be tiresome.
Duchess Fanny had always known, even as a little girl, the importance of not being tiresome. She was the second oldest of four sisters, daughters of a bad-tempered Somerset squire whose moods were as terrifying as they were unpredictable. Fanny was her father’s favourite. She, alone of her sisters, had noticed that when her father was growing irritable, he would start to twist the buttons of his waistcoat. As soon as she saw his fat red fingers pulling at the straining mother-of-pearl discs, she would shoo her sisters away and make a point of asking her father if she could bring him something from the kitchen – a hot toddy perhaps, with cinnamon, just the way he liked it. Her father had appreciated her tact, and so when his rich widowed sister had offered to bring out one of his girls in London, he had sent Fanny.
Before she left, Fanny had considered telling Amelia, the third sister, the secret of the buttons, but decided against it. If, heaven forbid, her debut was not the success she hoped for and she was forced to return, unmarried, then it would be as well to keep this precious lever to herself. Indeed, it was only after her wedding to Lord Maltravers, the heir to the Duke of Wareham, a match that had astonished everyone that season (everyone, that is, except Fanny herself), that she felt she could afford to impart this precious piece of information to her sister. Amelia had been helping Fanny to change into her going-away outfit. Amelia’s transparent envy at Fanny’s good fortune, the titled husband, the beautiful clothes and jewels, the great house and position that would all be hers, had been most gratifying to Fanny. She had whispered to her sister that she wanted to give her a present. Amelia leant in eagerly, hoping for some jewelled cast-off from her sister’s new magnificence and when she received her ‘gift�
��, she had laughed a little bitterly. Fanny had tried to explain to her sister the importance of being able to manage their father, but Amelia was too glassy-eyed with covetousness to understand the significance of the buttons.
Amelia never had learnt to manage men, thought Fanny. It was inevitable, perhaps, that her husband Sholto would take a mistress, but Amelia should never have allowed him to be so publicly besotted. If Amelia had ignored Sholto’s infatuation with Lady Eskdale, it would have passed – no one could stand Pamela Eskdale for more than a season – but to allow herself to look wounded and reproachful had only prolonged the affair. Amelia had been tiresome; it was lucky for her that the Eskdale was even more tiresome and even Sholto had grown tired of her. She really must invite Amelia and Sholto to Conyers. To one of the larger parties, of course.
The carriage jolted and came to a stop. The Duchess smiled when she saw Weld, the stationmaster. Such a handsome man, he had been quite her favourite footman – his calves had been spectacular. She rarely took lovers outside her class – the risk of blackmail was too great – but Weld had proved as discreet as he was muscular. When he had announced he was marrying one of the housemaids, it seemed entirely appropriate that he should be nominated to the South Dorset Railway as a stationmaster. It was necessary, of course, that the stationmaster should understand the needs of the house. Weld had been quite satisfactory. The brass buttons on his tunic were always shiny and he even looked handsome in that cap (such a shame that the uniform was, like the station, standard issue).
The Duchess smiled when she saw the red carpet laid out on the platform. She guessed that this had been the stationmaster’s idea, rather than her son’s. This was her first visit to Lulworth since her marriage to Buckingham, it was only fitting that it should be marked out as a special occasion. The Lulworth staff had always worshipped her. She beckoned to Sybil, her stepdaughter, to follow her.
The American Heiress Page 10
