My Dear Duchess

by M C Beaton

  The Duke planned an expedition to Scotland to view his estates in the north. He naturally expected Frederica to go with him and was surprised when she announced her intention to remain in London. Where, he wondered grimly, was the shy miss who once took every opportunity to be alone with him? He was confronted instead by a dashing young matron who traced patterns in the carpet with the ivory tip of her parasol and refused to meet his eyes when she reminded him that theirs was a marriage of convenience. He felt hurt and angry but had to agree with her since he had clearly set the terms himself. He accordingly departed on his lonely journey for the north, unaware that as soon as his carriage had disappeared from view, his young bride cried as if her heart would break.

  Frederica finally dried her eyes and could only be glad that her husband was far removed from Clarissa. Her step-sister had become a constant visitor and Frederica could not refuse her company. And every time Frederica took precedence far above her at a ball or assembly, Clarissa became more determined than ever to carry out Jack Ferrand’s wishes despite the hold he had over her.

  Never by word or look had he referred to the dreadful night of the masquerade but his calm assumption that she should be ready to receive him at all hours of the day told of his power enough.

  After the Duke had been absent for a month, Jack Ferrand made one of his abrupt calls on Clarissa. She came down the stairs tranquilly enough to meet him. There was little he could expect her to do with the Duke gone from town. And she had already set up some very promising flirtations which she wished to see mature undisturbed. Her heart sank as she entered the drawing room to find him pacing restlessly up and down. He whirled around as she came in and began without preamble. “Something must be done before Westerland returns,” he snapped. “Your dear sister has snubbed me on occasion after occasion and last night was enough! I solicited her hand for a dance at the Jennington’s ball and she said meekly that she had the headache and did not care to dance and the next minute I saw her waltzing off in the arms of that superannuated old fool, Giles Bellamy.”

  “You have only yourself to blame,” remarked Clarissa spitefully. “You could not help gloating over her when she saw me and Henry together.”

  He stopped his angry pacing. “I thought that would have been enough to break the marriage. But now I have another weapon for us to use.”

  “Us?” questioned Clarissa faintly.

  “You, rather, since your dear sister will not let me near her. There is a French emigré I know, of devastating charm and looks. He is low both in funds and in moral fibre—just what we need. He is plain Monsieur Duchesne but we shall rename him Le Comte Duchesne and furnish him with the necessary funds to keep up his appearance.”

  “I don’t understand.…” began Clarissa but he interrupted her rudely.

  “You never do, my hen-witted friend. The Comte is to lay seige to Frederica’s heart. She cannot love the Duke. You are sure there was no scene following the masquerade?”

  “For the hundredth time NO,” snapped Clarissa. “She was very quiet, of course, but nothing out of the way.”

  She looked up at him suddenly. “What have I to do with this so-called Comte? My part is simply to flirt with Henry which I can’t do at the moment.”

  “You dull-witted jade,” he roared. “Frederica will not let me near her and would be suspicious of any friend of mine. The Comte shall escort you to the opera tonight and you will take him to your sister’s box. He will take things from there. But be careful! Archie Hefford is back in town and I don’t want him putting a spoke in our wheel.”

  When he took his leave after some final instructions, Clarissa moved to the window and watched him crossing the square. She had a sudden longing to tell everything to the Duke on his return, but the thought of the consequences made her shudder.

  Unaware of the dark plans that were circling around her head, Frederica wearily prepared for the opera that evening.

  She found herself sometimes day-dreaming of Chartsay—a Chartsay without the Lawtons, a Chartsay filled with friends like the rector and his wife, friends one could be comfortable with for an evening instead of the constant straining conversation to be endured nightly with a host of new acquaintances. There would not be much consolation in the music tonight, she reflected. The opera was a place to see and be seen. The constant shuffling movement from box to box went on even during the performance. The top ten thousand were not happy unless they were all crushed shoulder to shoulder in some small suffocating place. With an expertise beyond her years, Frederica had learned to avoid the over-familiar overtures of some of her determined gallants.

  Clarissa would no doubt be there, fluttering her eyelashes and telling the world how she doted on her little sister, and Mrs. Sayers would be waving her plump and mottled arms as she described the glories of Chartsay to her twittering circle of toadies. And Mrs. Byles-Bondish would be stage-managing in the background attired in some costly gown, the bill for which would be somewhere in Frederica’s desk.

  Shortly after her return to town, Frederica had received a call from Mrs. Byles-Bondish. That stately if withered lady had announced to the startled Duchess that she had bespoke a new wardrobe and had requested that the bills be sent to Frederica. “For you know, my dear Duchess, as I am one of your family so to speak, you would not wish me to continue to appear as a dowd.” This effrontery was delivered in such a calm, well-bred manner that she had gone from the house before Frederica had even begun to think how she should cope with the situation.

  She shuddered to think what her normally open-handed husband would say about it on his return, but her thoughts quickly returned to the present when the arrival of her escort for the evening was announced. With a little sigh she picked up her fan and prepared to descend the stairs.

  Her escort for the evening had been carefully chosen. A young and languid Dandy by the name of Peregrine Pellington-James, he professed a passion for Frederica which was as false as his head of golden curls. Frederica had become the fashion in a small way and Mr. Pellington-James was merely following the fashion.

  Though he flirted boldly in public, he was almost inarticulately shy in private and patently grateful to Frederica for allowing him to cut a dash in front of his friends.

  He was a sturdy plump young man with a broad, rosy, countrified face which he hid behind a mask of white lead. He was as corsetted and beribboned and scented as Mrs. Sayers but managed to achieve the air of a bluff country squire unwillingly performing in a masquerade.

  He swept Frederica a magnificent leg as she entered the room but the intricate whalebone in his corsets locked and he slowly keeled over on the carpet in front of her. Unabashed and trying not to giggle, Frederica rang the bell and summoned the aid of two burly footmen to straighten the distressed young man out, retiring tactfully to the corner of the room while they wrestled under his waistcoat and finally freed the interlocked stays with a snap like a pistol shot.

  “And how do you do this evening?” asked Frederica politely when he had been stood upright again.

  “Very well, I thankee,” said Mr. Pellington-James, waving a gossamer wisp of handkerchief and releasing a little yellow cloud of scent, strong enough to stun a cockroach at forty paces. “Is there any news of your husband?”

  “I believe he is shortly to return,” lied Frederica. She did not want him to know how feverishly she searched the mail every morning, crying with disappointment each time not so much as a line arrived from the north.

  They experienced some difficulty as they settled themselves in the carriage. Mr. Pellington-James proved to be so tightly laced that he could not sit down. Cushions were produced from the house and he lay back against them, staring up at the quilted roof of the coach. No woman could suffer more for beauty, reflected Frederica.

  There was more difficulty when they arrived at the opera house. Two footmen had to push and pull the large gentleman out of the coach and then heave him upright in the forecourt of the theater. Puffing and panting, he sho
ok out the lace at his wrists, seized his long be-ribboned cane in one hand and then offered Frederica his arm with a great flourish. But as they swept towards the entrance, Frederica felt a wrench at her arm which nearly overset her. To her horror her large companion went hurtling off backwards into the crowd. His long cane had stuck firmly between two cobbles and catapulted him out of view into a mass of grinning Hogarthian faces. The servants moved like lightning and in no time at all Mr. Pellington-James had been plucked from the crowd. But he was in a sorry mess. His lace had gone from his throat and wrists, along with his diamond stick pin. His shoes were minus buckles and his wig was on sideways.

  “So sorry,” he gasped, “My dear Duchess, do proceed into the opera. I shall join you later after I have changed. Here, fellow!” he snapped his chubby fingers.

  “Escort Her Grace to her box,” he commanded one of the footmen. “Apologies. Sincere apologies, dear Duchess.” He turned to the crowd. “Murderers! Robbers! Canaille!” he yelled.

  They cheered back, “Go it, fat ‘un. That’s a great barrel o’lard ye’ve got along o’ ye, missus!” and various other insults in mercifully too broad a cant for Frederica to understand. The harsh warning rattle of the watch sounded at the end of the street and the crowd dispersed as if by magic.

  Feeling shaken and very unprotected, Frederica had a sudden stab of longing for the powerful escort of her husband.

  The opera had already begun when she took her seat. Glad that she had not invited any guest other than the unfortunate Mr. Pellington-James, she was able to let the world of society slip away and lose herself thankfully in the music. When the house lights went up she was still caught in the opera’s magic spell and focussed dimly on the magnificent entry of the refurbished Mr. Pellington-James into her box. She pulled herself together to cry out desperately, “Oh, please don’t!” as he bent over her hand. But it was too late. His treacherous corsets locked again and with the slow, inexorable movement of a vast avalanche, he toppled headlong over the edge of the box and crashed into the pit below.

  Frederica stumbled to the door of her box to rush to his aid and ran into the arms of Clarissa and her escort. “Pray be seated, my dear Duchess,” said a tall, very handsome man with a faint French accent. “I will attend to all.”

  Still she would have followed but Clarissa held her back. Both women peered over the edge of the box.

  The handsome Frenchman shortly appeared below, quickly reaching the injured man’s side despite scores of angrily shouting men and fainting women. Two attendants appeared and the great body was heaved onto a make-shift stretcher.

  Gallant to the last, Mr. Pellington-James raised his eyes to Frederica as he was borne away and kissed his plump, be-ringed hand to her.

  Clarissa was unusually solicitous. “My dear Frederica,” she cried. “Pray be seated and relax. The Comte will take care of everything.” She hesitated for a minute, wondering whether to rush her fences and tell her stepsister that the Comte was vastly enamored of her, but decided against it, knowing that Frederica met all unsubtle approaches with dignified disdain.

  The Comte returned to the box just as the house lights were dimming for the second act. Clarissa whispered that they would stay with her in case of further mishap.

  But Frederica was no longer able to concentrate on the music. She was aware of a new and powerful personality beside her. She was also aware that the Comte was studying her in the darkness.

  When the lights went up for the second time, Frederica was able to see the Comte clearly. He was dressed with tasteful and quiet elegance. His most startling feature was a pair of emerald green eyes, framed by heavy lashes, which glittered oddly in his thin, handsome, white face. His jet black hair, as black as Frederica’s own, was dressed in the style known as Windswept—a miracle of the hairdresser’s art. When he smiled, his whole face lit up with an irresistible charm. Frederica realized that if she were not so completely in love with her husband, her heart would indeed be in danger.

  He was introduced as Le Comte Duchesne and like many French emigrés had a sad tale to relate of lost lands, lost fortunes, and degrading flight from the land of his birth.

  He then began to tease Frederica gently over the downfall of her escort, establishing a subtle atmosphere of intimacy between them with his laughing eyes and charming smile. He was delightful, he was witty, and he was extraordinarily handsome. Frederica felt very young and breathless, somehow a little of the lonely aching of her heart lessened, and by the end of the evening she heard herself agreeing to ride with the Comte in the park next morning.

  It was only when she had left him that she realized with some amusement that the handsome Comte had so bewitched her that she had forgotten to inform him that she hardly knew one end of a horse from the other. But why worry! She had observed many ladies riding staid mounts in the Row.

  There was nothing to it, surely, for all that horsy people talked and talked. One simply found a quiet animal from the stables, one sat on top, the animal moved, and that was that.

  She did not feel quite so optimistic in the morning despite all the glory of a blue velvet riding dress which had hung unused in the wardrobe since her marriage. It was unfortunate for Frederica that the town servants were so correct, for although the head groom wished to ask Her Grace whether she had ridden before or not, he did not dare for fear of seeming impertinent. He contented himself with selecting the most docile animal from the stables instead. Since there were no suitable mounts for a lady, he chose a large hunter which should have been put out to grass months ago.

  Frederica smiled nervously at her companion from what seemed to be an enormous way from the ground. The Comte looked even more handsome than she had remembered in his snowy cravat, black velvet coat and shining hessians. His huge black steed snorted and cantered and pawed the ground and made Frederica’s knees shake with terror. To her relief, he set off at a slow walk with Frederica’s large hunter following amiably behind.

  As they reached the park gates, she began to feel more confident. Very few riders were abroad at that early hour. The grass gleamed like green glass under its coating of dew. A faint breeze moved the leaves of the trees and the hum and bustle of London fell away behind her. A nervous quiver ran through the great beast beneath her as it tossed its head to smell the air of freedom. The head groom had elected to escort her himself and he eyed her hunter with an anxious eye. There was undoubtedly something in the lax way Her Grace held the reins which made him fear that she had had little experience in riding.

  “Will you forgive me, Duchess, if I give my mount his head,” called the Comte. “He is fresh and restless.” And indeed he was, having changed masters over the card table the night before. Frederica waved her hand in assent and the Count galloped off headlong down the path. Before Frederica’s groom could grab her bridle, her horse had tossed up its head and followed suit.

  Her mouth open in fright to form the scream that never came, Frederica clutched the pommell for dear life as she hurtled past trees and bushes. Finally the horse slowed to a canter and she was thrown helplessly up and down on the sidesaddle. Trees and sky whirled round for a few crazy seconds, then there was a sickening thud and Frederica felt herself lying on the ground, stunned and shaken, but miraculously unhurt.

  Hooves thudding, the Comte galloped to the scene. He sprang from his horse and gathered Frederica in his arms, murmuring endearments in French, which Frederica did not understand, Mrs. Sayers having considered any education for females to be an utter waste of money. “There is nothing more charming to a gentleman,” she was wont to say, “as a completely uninformed mind.”

  But something in his tone of voice rang alarm bells somewhere in Frederica’s brain and she detached herself from his embrace and struggled dizzily to her feet. Still she could not bring herself to confess that she had never ridden before, and luckily her groom stepped forward, saying that Her Grace was obviously too shaken to remount and that he would ride and fetch the carriage.

 
; The shrewd Comte had sensed her withdrawal and immediately began to chat to her, walking along by her side, until she obviously felt reassured. He must not rush his fences, he decided, if he were to earn his salary from Jack Ferrand. He looked down at her animated little face and felt a slight twinge of misgiving. But to draw back now would mean to return to the hand to mouth existence of picking up what he could at the card tables. Luck had been with him last night and it had amused him to play for the horse instead of money. Thanks to Jack Ferrand’s munificence, it was a whim he could afford.

  “Move quickly,” Jack Ferrand had cautioned, “before people become too curious and some nosy French aristocrat decides to enquire into the lineage of the Comte Duchesne.”

  He had already asked after the Duke’s health and hearing (as he already knew) that he was absent in Scotland, said teasingly that she must miss him. “Yes, very much,” Frederica had answered simply.

  He sensed a loneliness in the girl and quickly decided his best approach must be that of a friend. This idea was to be reinforced a few minutes later.

  A heavy horse came wheezing and panting towards them carrying its equally wheezing and panting burden. Magnificent in a frogged coat complete with gold epaulettes and a curly-brimmed beaver hat came Mr. Pellington-James. Apart from a few purple marks which shone faintly through the white lead on his face, he seemed not to have suffered much from his fall of the night before. He ponderously dismounted, catching his high-heeled boot in the stirrup. He hopped up and down, cursing genteelly, as he tried to free himself while his uncaring horse cropped the grass. There was a terrific rending sound as his canary yellow inexpressibles cracked under the strain. Finally freeing himself, he turned with a much flushed face, keeping his back against his placid mount.

  “My dear Duchess!” Chuffy bent his head by way of a bow so as not to reveal too much of his back.

  To the Comte’s amazement, Frederica did not seem at all embarrassed by the sartorial collapse of her friend, merely exclaiming with relief, “Ah, here is my carriage, my dear Mr. Pellington-James. Allow my coachman to escort you home.”