My Dear Duchess

by M C Beaton

  She heard the chink of money being exchanged in the taproom and then the burly “landlord” demanding in a peeved voice, “Can’t un stay ter watch, zur?” This was met by rapid curses in French and the sound of a blow and then the heavy clogs could be heard trudging off in the distance.

  Frederica picked herself up off the floor and ran to the small window. Never opened, it was now warped shut. There was an iron bed in the corner of the room covered with a greasy patchwork blanket and, apart from a hard upright chair, there was no other furniture in the room.

  She whirled round at the sound of the key in the lock and found herself facing her captor. Leaning against the door jamb, he looked solemly down at her frightened face. “I am sorry this happened, Frederica,” he said bluntly. “But I am being paid to do this and I need the money.”

  “Who is paying you?” whispered Frederica, “And what are you going to do?”

  “The purpose of this,” he said, not meeting her eyes, “is to ruin your reputation. You will stay here with me for the night and I suggest you… er… lie back and enjoy it, as you crude English put it. Otherwise, you will find the exercise somewhat painful.”

  He had to admire the way she did not weep or cry out. She simply turned her back and sat down on the upright chair, a stately little figure, her face hidden by her frivolous bonnet.

  Frederica’s eyes searched frantically round the room for a weapon. She spoke again to try to gain time. “Who is paying you?” she repeated. “Who hates me so much?”

  Still he avoided her questions. “I am going to get some provisions,” he said gruffly. “We shall deal comfortably together, you shall see.” And with that, he went out, carefully locking the door behind him.

  As soon as his footsteps had died away, Frederica began to search for a means of escape. With a sob of relief, she remembered the large lethal hatpin which secured her bonnet to her head. She drew it out and looked at it. It winked evily in the gloom. At least it would furnish some sort of weapon. She tried to use it to prise open the window but the weathered and warped frame held solid. She then tried swinging the chair at the window, but it only bounced from the leaded panes.

  She sat down again and stared up at the ceiling. A tiny winking diamond of light caught her eye. Could it possibly be daylight? She remembered the heavy, sagging thatch at the front of the inn. Perhaps this part was in disrepair. The inn looked as if it had not been inhabited for a long time.

  The ceiling was so low that she could easily reach it by standing on the chair. She pried at the soft plaster with the hatpin and choked as she was surrounded by a fine powder of dust. There was a little more light. She worked feverishly with the hat pin and her nails for what seemed an incredible length of time, listening all the while for the sound of returning footsteps.

  With a sudden crrump, a great piece of rotting plaster gave way, nearly braining her, and she found herself looking up at the blue summer sky through a wide jagged piece of torn thatch.

  Now the problem was how to get up there! She could see, over the edge of the hole, a tall space between the crumbling plaster of the ceiling and the thatched roof above. Mercifully, it had never been turned into an attic.

  With feverish strength, she dragged the iron bedstead across the floor until it was under the hole. She placed the chair on the bed and tried to climb up on it. Twice she fell to the floor, then she suddenly thought to tear out the straw mattress and balance the chair on the wooden planks underneath.

  Bitten by various vermin which had escaped from the mattress, her arms scratched and her bonnet in ruins, she thrust herself up through the hole and caught at one of the upper beams just before a large part of the ceiling gave way beneath her.

  Sobbing and sweating, she found a precarious toehold on a piece of lathe and clutched the slippery edges of the thatch with both hands. How she ever got up onto the roof, she never knew, but the sound of horses hooves drove her to such a desperate effort, she almost seemed to fly. She found herself lying on the dirty thatch on her stomach with her feet in the gutter.

  Down below, she could hear the sounds of the Comte moving about the tap. He seemed to be in no hurry to rejoin his captive.

  She twisted her head and looked downwards. For such a low building, the ground seemed to be a long way away. Then to her horror, she heard another lump of plaster falling from the ceiling to the room below.

  She heard his quick footsteps, then silence, then the sound of retreating footsteps and then she heard her name being called from directly below her.

  She twisted her head and looked down again. He was standing in the small weedy yard directly below her, his handsome face alight with amusement.

  “I didn’t think such a little thing as you would have such a lion’s courage,” he called. “But you can’t escape now.”

  With a sinking heart, Frederica noticed a ladder lying against the Jericho at the end of the yard. Still lying on her stomach, she began to pull herself upwards by grabbing handfuls of the rotting thatch.

  Gone were the proprieties of the London salon. Her Grace, the Duchess of Westerland hitched up her skirt and swung one leg over the ridgepole and looked down.

  Still laughing, he was climbing slowly towards her. “What a spitfire!” he mocked. “You make the game all the more exciting, my dear.”

  Frederica looked down the other side. Even if she could escape to the ground, there was nowhere to hide before he caught up with her. Little wisps of smoke rose from the houses of Barnet across the fields. Somewhere a thrush was pouring out his song to the untroubled sky. She turned back abruptly just as the Comte was reaching out a well-shaped white hand to catch her ankle.

  She looked down in horror at that hand. It seemed like some crawling and disembodied creature. She seized her hatpin and stabbed down as hard as she could.

  He gave a startled yelp of pain and lost his hold on the roof. His boots scrabbled along the slippery thatch trying to find a foothold. His face, white, drawn and startled stared up at her for a second and then disappeared from view. There was a tremendous crash and then absolute silence apart from the sound of Frederica’s ragged breathing.

  She waited and waited and listened as hard as she could but no sound came from the yard below. She eased herself back down the roof and then slowly down the ladder which the Comte had propped against the side of the house, expecting every minute to hear his hated voice explaining that it had all been a trap.

  No one could have possibly been killed by falling such a short distance.

  But the Comte had caught his heel in the gutter and had been thrown backwards. His head had struck a woodpile in the yard and he had been knocked unconscious. He lay motionless with his eyes closed and his mouth open.

  Frederica edged past him with trembling legs, frightened that he would suddenly rise up to mock her. She heard a whinnying and stamping from the side of the house. She stood, irresolute, wondering if she had enough courage left to take one of the horses. But all the strength seemed to have left her arms, and she did not know the first thing about harnessing a horse.

  The Comte gave a faint groan and she took to her heels, racing through the tap, out of the inn door, across the road and into the fields.

  She did not slow her pace until she had left the inn far behind.

  She had a long time to think as she trudged wearily across the fields in the direction of Barnet. Much as she wanted to reject it, an idea was taking shape in her mind. Surely the only person who might wish her disgraced was her husband. Divorce was rare but not impossible. Perhaps he still longed to marry Clarissa and what better way to get out of a distasteful marriage but to prove his wife a slut. And what did she know of this man? They had hardly been alone together, even for breakfast, since the day they were wed. And at Chartsay, he had always seemed to be in the company of Clarissa.

  Tears began to run down her dusty cheeks. But where could she run to? As she plodded on, a slow burning anger began to drive away her grief.

  She wo
uld hire a chaise in Barnet and return to London. She was to attend a ball at Almack’s Assembly rooms in King Street that very evening. Well, she would be there. If any questions were asked, she would say she had become tired of the Comte’s company and had asked him to set her down in Bond Street so that she might do some shopping. Since Frederica, with all the privileges of a young married woman, often dispersed with her maid on shopping expeditions, no one would think it odd. No matter what pain and effort it took, she would never mention the episode to anyone.

  In her rage over her husband’s supposed guilt, she hardly spared a thought for the injured Comte.

  The Duke and Chuffy had made exhaustive enquiries throughout Barnet while Frederica was still abroad in the fields. Lots of carriages had gone through, said people shaking their heads. This was one of the busiest roads in England. And who could say which lady had been milord’s wife?

  Tired and dusty the pair halted at a posting house to rest their weary horses. Pegasus was munching oranges with his eyes closed in ecstacy. “Would die for ’em,” said Chuffy Pellington-James proudly to explain his ancient animal’s stamina. The Duke was looking strained and worried.

  “You know what I think,” said Chuffy cautiously.

  “No. What?”

  “I think the Duchess never went to Barnet. That’s what I think. Lay you a monkey, she’s sittin’ now in Grosvenor Square.”

  The Duke’s stern look lightened. “I think you may be right,” he said slowly.

  “And,” pursued Chuffy, “he probably made up that fake letter from the Jennington’s so’s to get an opportunity to drive out with her. Probably didn’t have anything more sinister in mind.”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  Chuffy looked at him peculiarly. “Well, me bucko, your wife is a deuced pretty little thing. All the crack. Told you so. Everyone’s copying her style. Lots of females have stopped cuttin’ and frizzin’ their hair ’cause of her.”

  The Duke looked at him in surprise. “Little Frederica? I would never have believed it. But… yes… now you mention it, she does look remarkably well on occasion.”

  Chuffy looked solemly at his horse as if for inspiration. What a curst rum marriage!

  When the weary pair returned to Grosvenor Square late that evening, after giving their horses a long rest before embarking on the road home, it was to find that the Duchess had indeed left for Almack’s.

  They did not know that while they rested at the one posting house, a ragged and battered Frederica was hiring a chaise at a rival establishment, fortunately having enough money in her purse to pay for it in advance.

  Frederica had learned of her husband’s return and was more than ever determined to keep up appearances. Long gloves hid the scratches and bruises on her arm and rouge disguised the pallor of her cheeks.

  It seemed to the Duke that Frederica had learned of his return and had not even troubled to wait for him. By the time he was dressed in his evening clothes, he was in a towering rage.

  What the famous assembly rooms of Almack lacked in appearance, being a set of singularly unpretentious rooms, was more than made up for by the sparkling glamour of the guests’ gowns and jewels. The news of the Duke’s return to town had already been whispered about and curious eyes followed the little Duchess as she danced with admirer after admirer with a hectic glint in her eyes.

  Jack Ferrand was first to see her and, being the most unobtrusive of gentlemen, none noticed his hurried flight from the ballroom.

  Frederica might have heard of her husband’s frantic search for her had Chuffy Pellington-James been able to arrive in time. But that social gentleman had dropped in at his club on the road to chat with his cronies and to display the glory of his new swans-down waistcoat. Even the elegant Mr. Brummell had only declared it to be “startling but unseasonable,” instead of delivering himself of one of his more famous setdowns.

  Chuffy was enjoying a cheroot and watching the play at one of the tables when one of his rivals in the Dandy set, young Lord Sacket, minced up to him.

  “Pon rep, if you ain’t the downy one,” he lisped and then sniggered and patted Chuffy on the waistcoat. “Downy! Get it.”

  “Don’t want it,” said Chuffy huffily, trying to move away.

  But his tormentor pursued him along the table. “You won’t be able to squire the pretty Duchess around anywhere now that the Duke is back,” he said.

  “The Duke is as dear to me as the Duchess,” said Chuffy acidly, striking the palm of his chubby hand against his heart to emphasise the point.

  “Dear me, how touching,” sniggered Lord Sackett. Like a hound he sniffed the air with his small pointed nose. “Dear me! What a ghastly smell. You should tell your man not to overheat the curling tongs so much.”

  “I don’t need curling tongs,” complained Chuffy, speaking the absolute truth, since he was wearing his blonde wig.

  “Then what the dooce is that demned odor,” pouted his rival. “Let me see… reminds me of Christmas in the kithens. Cleaning the goose? No. Plucking the goose? No. Aha, I’ve got it. Singeing the feathers. Why, you silly chump.”

  Chuffy looked slowly downwards after sending a fervent prayer up to whatever fickle God looked after the Tulips of the ton and the pain in his hand almost matched the pain of wounded vanity in his large breast. He had crushed his cheroot into his precious waistcoat over his heart and now a dark brown smoking hole was spreading over the snowy-white down.

  His agonies were not over. Before he could beat a retreat, the elderly Earl of Durr who was playing piquet at the table in front of Chuffy turned round abruptly and barked, “Damme, man! Don’t you know you’re on fire?” And seizing his glass of madeira, the noble Earl threw the contents straight onto Chuffy’s massive bosom.

  Gathering the rags of his dignity and his waistcoat about his large form, Chuffy teetered off to change again for the ball.

  Too late to secure Frederica for a dance, he contented himself by rocking back and forth on his preposterously high heels at the edge of the ballroom floor and mourning his lost waistcoat.

  His lugubrious face brightened at the arrival of the Duke of Westerland. It was not often that members of the Corinthian set favored him with their friendship, and he had sensed in the tall Duke a kindness of spirit not often to be found in the members of his own set.

  He titupped forward eagerly, missed his footing on the polished floor, and prostrated himself at the feet of one of the patronesses, Sally, Lady Jersey.

  “There is no need to go to such extremes, Mr. Pellington-James,” trilled Lady Jersey. “A simple bow would be quite enough, I can assure you.” Then she ran away, flitting from group to group, her high voice carrying back to Chuffy’s red ears, “And, my dear. Isn’t it killing. I said, ‘A simple bow will be enough…’”

  Poor Chuffy, He longed to pour his troubles into some sympathetic ear and looked for Frederica, but she was now dancing with her husband. Both were waltzing beautifully, both were looking at each other with hard, glittering smiles and both were obviously furious. It says a lot for Chuffy’s large and generous heart that this sight distressed him more than any of the humiliations of the evening.

  “Well, madame,” the Duke was saying. “And did you not consider it important to wait at home for my arrival?”

  “You did not ever care to write and tell me of your arrival,” snapped Frederica. “You expect too much, sir.”

  “And what about this Comte you have been parading round with?” he demanded, doubly angry now that she had made him feel guilty.

  “Oh, the Comte,” said Frederica faintly. She had a sudden vision of the Comte lying unconscious in the inn yard and the awful reality that she had a dangerous enemy—probably her husband—who would strike again.

  She turned deathly white and swayed on her feet. “I have the headache,” she gasped. “Please take me home.”

  The Duke bit back the angry remarks on his lips. What was there about this Comte which should make her so up
set? But she looked indeed ill and he led her silently from the ballroom.

  Silently they swayed side by side in their carriage through the dark London streets.

  Silently they separated and went off to their respective rooms.

  They could not have been further apart had Jack Ferrand’s plot to compromise her with the Comte succeeded.

  Chapter Nine

  The long summer passed, the Little Season began, and four people were absent from the social scene.

  The Duke of Westerland, it was rumored, had thrown himself into modern agriculture in a way unheard of since the days of “Turnip” Townshend.

  The Honorable Jack Ferrand had ridden to Barnet on the night of the ball at Almack’s to find the Comte nursing a bandaged head in the parlor of the posting house where Frederica had hired her chaise. He had ordered him to return immediately to France which the Comte promised to do… only after he had forced Mr. Ferrand to pay him a considerable sum to keep his mouth shut.

  There was nothing left for Jack Ferrand to do but retire to his estates, increase the tenant’s taxes—to compensate for the sum paid to the Comte—and plan his next move.

  Clarissa kept him informed by post of the cheering coldness in the ducal marriage.

  And Frederica, Duchess of Westerland, had discovered the joys of reading.

  Her youthful education had been scant. She had been allowed to benefit from the crumbs of wisdom left over from Clarissa’s tutoring—the fundamentals of reading and writing, some little use of the globes, needlework, water-color painting, and a little tutoring on the pianoforte. Once she discovered the little-used library at the back of the Grosvenor Square house she had plunged into an orgy of reading.