My Dear Duchess

by M C Beaton

  “Well, Duke, how do we go on?” cried Mr. Ferrand. “And I trust your good Duchess is as lovely as ever.”

  “Lovelier,” remarked the Duke simply with a certain warmth in his voice that made Mr. Ferrand narrow his eyes slightly.

  But he replied, “Splendid. I shall no doubt have the pleasure of seeing her at the Countess of Buckinghamshire’s tomorrow night. Do you attend Albinia’s housewarming?”

  The Duke smiled, “Thank you for reminding me. I must send our regrets. My wife and I have decided to spend a quiet evening at home together.”

  Jack Ferrand affected a sudden air of drunken jollity. “Come now, this will never do. If you set the fashion, London will be bereft of pretty ladies. Tell you what. Play you the dice. You win, you stay home. I win, you go to Albinia’s.”

  The Duke laughed and tried to pass by into the gaming room but Jack Ferrand seemed to become drunker and jollier, his friendly, open face positively beaming with goodwill. “I am determined on the wager,” he said with an infectious grin.

  “Oh, very well,” said the good-natured Henry who was used to the mad bets of the more ebullient of his friends.

  Like magic, an ebony box of dice appeared on Jack Ferrand’s palm. “Don… don’t worry ’bout the gamingroom,” he slurred. “We’ll play right here.”

  The Duke threw and found himself looking at a three and a two. Jack Ferrand threw with a deft turn of the wrist and turned up a pair of sixes. “I win,” he crowed. “See you tomorrow night.”

  The Duke clapped him on the back in a friendly way and recommended the efficacy of several pots of black coffee and went off to join his friends. Archie Hefford rose to meet him. “You’ll find yourself out in the street an’ you persist in gaming in the hallway.”

  “Oh, it was only Ferrand, as drunk as a lord,” laughed the Duke.

  Archie raised his thin eyebrows in surprise. “He looked as sober as a judge just before you came in. Still, there’s no telling. How’s Frederica? How on earth can she tolerate that fop, Chuffy Pellington-James?”

  “Oh, Chuffy’s all right,” said the Duke easily. “He grows on one.”

  “Well, he looks as if he’s growing over there by the window and Brummell don’t like it. It ain’t as if he’s one of the Bow Window Set, you know. Alvanley told him to move and he simply said ‘Can’t’ and went on staring out into the street like a damned cod’s head.”

  There indeed stood Mr. Pellington-James, resplendent in one of Trufitts best nutty brown wigs reeking with oil, a prodigiously padded and wasp-waisted evening coat, knee breeches, silk stockings, and the inevitable high heels. His eyes lit up with relief when he saw the Duke approaching.

  “Are you stuck or something?” asked the Duke sympathetically.

  “It’s my coat,” whispered Chuffy hoarsely. “It’s caught in the window. Flunkey closed it on me before I knew what was happening and I felt such a fool, I didn’t like to tell anyone.”

  “Why didn’t you just take off your coat and free yourself,” said the Duke reasonably.

  “I couldn’t,” moaned Chuffy. “It took two strong footmen to get me into it.”

  The Duke grinned and released his fat friend who wheezed with relief like a grampus. “I had better go home,” said Chuffy, after thanking him profusely. “Will I see you at the Countess of Buckinghamshire’s tomorrow?”

  “No, I’m staying home.…” The Duke suddenly frowned. “Yes, you will, dammit. Jack Ferrand was a bit bosky and he wagered me I would go. What on earth made me accept such a curst stupid bet I’ll never know.”

  “He’s like that… Ferrand, I mean,” said Chuffy. “Something about his eyes. Gets a fellow to do the stupidest things. You know what? I don’t like him. Somethin’ about him makes me feel as if I’ve just turned over a stone.”

  “It’s that blow on your head, Chuffy,” teased the Duke. “Ferrand’s one of the most open and easy going fellows I’ve come across. Off to bed with you. Hey, wait a minute. I’ll introduce you to Brummell.”

  Mr. Pellington-James had received many samples of the Beau’s wit but he had never been formally introduced. His great chest swelled with pride, particularly as he saw the small, venomous face of Lord Sackett peering enviously at him from across the fog-filled room. The famous Beau shook hands and remarked in his light, pleasant voice that he had in fact noticed Mr. Pellington-James on many occasions. His dress was most extraordinarily eye catching. Chuffy beamed and swelled so much that the Duke, being well aware that Beau Brummel was about to deliver one of his famous set downs, urged the beaming and gratified Chuffy from the room.

  On his return he noticed Lord Hefford sitting idly at the window, staring out into the fog.

  “What’s the matter, Archie?” he said, looking down at his friend. “Emily’s all right isn’t she? Wedding all set?”

  His friend nodded gloomily. “Oh, everything’s all right with Emily, when I see her that is. ‘Course you won’t know since you’ve been keeping your head down in the manure at Chartsay, but Emily’s got landed with some platter-faced female from the country and everywhere we go, she goes.

  “Her name’s Priscilla Wheatcroft and I suppose she ain’t that bad ‘cept she’s always underfoot, if you know what I mean. She’s terribly shy and wispy and clings and is terrified of London. I tried to point out to Mrs. Cholmley that she was supposed to be the chaperone, not me and Emily, and she not only went into that stone deaf act of hers but her butler, Stafford… biblical cove… he pretends he’s deaf as well. Priscilla’s not pretty enough to take or I’d have unloaded her on some unsuspecting acquaintance long ago.”

  “Well, we must just rack our brains for a suitable gallant,” said the Duke. He glanced out the window to where a furred and jewelled Chuffy was being heaved into his chariot by two footmen. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “I know just the fellow…”

  Frederica looked at her spouse with amazement across the length of the breakfast table. “We have to go to Albinia’s. But why?”

  The Duke could not bring himself to tell her about the wager. “I remembered last night that I had promised her particularly that we would attend.”

  Frederica would have argued but the butler announced that Mrs. Byles-Bondish had arrived and requested to see Her Grace. He had put her in the Egyptian room. Frederica flushed. She knew that Mrs. Byles-Bondish had come to present some bill or other and she did not have enough experience to cope with such a domineering lady. She trailed off miserably and the Duke looked after her with some surprise. There was a great deal about his wife’s private life, he realized, that he did not know. He decided to go and investigate.

  Silence fell as he entered the Egyptian room. Mrs. Byles-Bondish looked wary and Frederica flushed scarlet with embarrassment. She was clutching a piece of paper. With a few quick strides, he crossed the room and took it from her nerveless fingers.

  “What is this?” he said levelling his quizzing glass. “Rundell & Bridges… to cleaning of jewelery… but your jewelery had just been cleaned, my dear. I shall call on them personally.”

  Mrs. Byles-Bondish cleared her throat. “That bill is mine, Your Grace. I get Her Grace to check my accounts from time to time. She has a wonderful head for figures.”

  The Duke swung the quizzing glass round on Mrs. Byles-Bondish. “You’re talking fustian, you know,” he said pleasantly. “You were trying to get my wife to frank this.

  “Frederica! What other bills have you paid for this person?”

  “Oh, just clothes and things like that,” whispered Frederica with her head bowed.

  The Duke crossed to the door and held it open.

  “Out!” he commanded. Scarlet with rage, Mrs. Byles-Bondish swept to the door.

  “Worthing!” called the Duke to the butler. “Please make sure that this woman is never admitted again.”

  He went back and sat down opposite his wife who still sat with her head bowed.

  “Why did you not tell me that you had been troubled by that encroaching f
emale?”

  “I felt ashamed,” whispered Frederica. “I felt I should be able to cope with her on my own but somehow I couldn’t.”

  He took her hands and raised her to her feet. “If anything like that happens again, you must leave it to me,” he said gently, putting a stray curl behind her ear.

  “There now, don’t look so worried. I shan’t scold,” He bent and kissed her gently on the lips. “It’s a nuisance we have go to out tonight. The Countess lives in the King’s Road which is a damned inconvenient distance from town without being exactly in the country.”

  Frederica’s heart beat very quickly but she said lightly, “At least it will be a fashionable gathering. I trust none of your West End comets will be present.”

  “Outrageous minx,” he teased. “My West End comets are a thing of the past, I assure you.”

  Frederica longed to say, “And Clarissa?” but the kiss was a small victory and with that she had to be content.

  The Countess’s villa in the King’s Road was cold. The female guests were arrayed in light fluttering muslins and lawns and acres of gooseflesh. Some of the more daring had damped their muslins and shivered as they undulated around the draughty conservatory at the back of the villa. Frederica was heartily glad of the latest modish addition to her wardrobe—a pair of knickers.

  Archie Hefford claimed Frederica’s hand for the first dance and she left her husband’s side with a little pang of regret.

  When the dance finished, she found Clarissa at her side, a vision of loveliness in aquamarine muslin with little blue artificial forget-me-nots twined in her golden hair. She waved her spangled fan languidly in the direction of the Duke who was talking to Emily. “So glad Henry decided to take my advice and attend,” she murmured. “He told me that you had planned a little soiree at home but I said ‘My dear Henry, all the world and his wife will be there. You must come.’ And he said in that funny way of his, ‘But will you be there?’ and when I said I would, he replied, ‘Nothing will keep me away!’”

  Her large blue eyes slid sideways to see the effect of her words on Frederica. The girl looked positively stricken.

  Frederica was remembering Henry’s guilty look when he had explained that they must go. He had said that the Countess had been particularly expecting them, but the Countess had not paid them any special attention.

  The Duke was laughing at something Emily said. Clarissa left Frederica’s side and went forward to join them. Frederica moved off into the dance with her next partner, moving like a clockwork toy. Her partner was Jack Ferrand. He noticed the start of surprise she gave and the look of distaste which followed when she realized who her partner was. He set himself to please but with the intricate steps of the country dance, he was afforded little opportunity.

  It was the first ball Frederica had attended for some time and she was never short of partners. The Duke looked on, at first with tolerant amusement, and then with slowly growing anger as he began to understand that she was avoiding him. Abruptly, he turned to Archie Hefford at his side. “I have remembered another engagement,” he said, “please convey my apologies to my wife. Can you escort her home?” As Archie nodded, Jack Ferrand, who had been listening to the conversation, slipped off and went in search of Clarissa. “You must disappear at the same time,” he told her. “Then Frederica will think that you have left together. Leave me to arrange things with Mrs. Sayers.”

  “But I don’t want to go,” pouted Clarissa.

  “Go,” he said calmly, “or take the consequences.”

  Fretting under his re-established authority, Clarissa moved quickly from the ballroom and after the disappearing Duke.

  “Henry,” she called after him. “Please take me home. I think I have caught a cold.”

  He turned round and surveyed her with weary boredom. “Where is your mother?”

  “Oh, mama has elected to stay. That is, if you will give me your escort. There is, after all, nothing unconventional about accepting the escort of one’s brother-in-law.”

  He nodded his head wearily and led her out to his carriage. He could not help thinking that a short time ago it would have meant the world and all to be alone with her. He cursed his wife under his breath. Clarissa deftly laid little pieces of gossip on his anger to fan the flame. Had he noticed how prodigious popular Frederica had become with the gentlemen? And then with a stroke of daring, she said she had taken Frederica to task for having so many admirers. To which he replied through clenched teeth, “And what did she reply?”

  “Oh, you know Frederica,” said Clarissa airily, “she just laughed and said she had a very modern marriage.”

  For the first time, the Duke began seriously to consider his wife in a new light. All her innocence and blushes now appeared to be the manners of a designing minx.

  It was only after he had set Clarissa down in Clarence Square that he remembered the long days that Frederica had spent alone in the library. He remembered also Clarissa’s patent dislike and envy of her stepsister in the early days, and felt a small pang of guilt. He decided to wait up for her.

  But Frederica, with her feet as sore as her heart, from determinedly dancing all through the night, did not return until six the following morning, by which time the Duke was fast asleep in the library.

  Determined to have things out with him, Frederica marched to his bedroom to find it empty and unslept in.

  She was too hurt and angry to cry. Her handsome husband would find no further opportunities to break her heart. She had enough cards and invitations to keep herself fully occupied. It was a marriage of convenience. No more. And the sooner she began to treat it as such, the better.

  The Duke woke late in the morning, stiff and sore from sleeping in the armchair and went in search of his wife only to be informed that she had gone out shopping.

  He decided to immerse himself in work, ordered his bags to be packed, and departed for Chartsay.

  As the weeks passed, the only news he received from London was in the form of various notes from Clarissa coyly teasing him over his wife’s “racketing around.”

  At last, he posted up to town with the intention of bringing his erring wife home to Chartsay for Christmas only to find that she had already left for the Hefford’s country home in Hertforshire.

  For the first time, he seriously began to consider a divorce.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hagglestone Hall, home of the Heffords, was a large square mansion which had been designed by Sanderson Miller in the middle of the last century. It was unprepossessing from the outside, having no portico or grand entrance, but as Archie pointed out it was an essentially English house and “looked very well in the rain.”

  What it lacked in grandeur on the outside was compensated by the richness and elegance of the apartments on the inside. Sensibly planned, the main rooms on the ground floor led into each other on a sort of circuit plan. It was possible to reach the downstairs by a fairly direct route from one’s bedroom instead of wandering helplessly up and down a labyrinth of stairs and passages as one did in some of the older mansions.

  Archie had planned to celebrate Christmas in the Hanoverian manner. The gallery was decorated like a fairground with a table at one end for Archie’s gifts to his friends and a table at the other for the guests’ gifts to Archie. In the middle stood an enormous Christmas tree loaded with oranges, sweetmeats and gingerbread. Archie had decided to let the tenants’ children loose on the tree on Christmas morn.

  Emily was alternately worried about her “platter-faced” friend, Priscilla Wheatcroft, and the marriage of her other friend, Frederica.

  For Frederica would discuss her marriage with no one, and Priscilla collapsed into noisy tears everytime the gentlemen went out shooting, bemoaning the fate of the “dear birdies.” None of Emily’s bracing remarks that her friend’s concern over the fate of the “dear birdies” did not extend to the dining table where Priscilla had consumed almost one whole duck the night before did anything to stop her mourning. />
  Stafford’s interpretation to Mrs. Cholmley that Priscilla “yea, was beating her breast in sore distress over the slaughter in the land” did little to help. It simply made the other guests laugh hilariously at the unfortunate Priscilla who looked in a fair way to become the joke of the Christmas season.

  Frederica was lonely and Jack Ferrand sensed it. He put himself out to be so agreeable that she almost forgot her mistrust of him. He introduced her to the delights of gambling and praised her skill extravagantly. Frederica began to look forward to the card tables in the long winter evenings where she could forget her sorrows in the skill of the game. Archie teased her about her gambling and said she was trying to compete with the Prince Regent who was having trouble in Parliament over his Civil List, being more than €300,000 in debt.

  But Frederica was unconcerned. They were playing for pennies after all.

  The arrival of Mr. Pellington-James was a welcome diversion. He shared Priscilla Wheatcroft’s dislike of blood sports, which should have thrown them into each other’s company, but Chuffy had so long been in the bachelor habit of paying court to unobtainable beauties that he did not know how to go on with an available girl and avoided her as much as he could, much to Archie’s disappointment.

  On Christmas Eve, Archie announced they would have a skating party since the lake had frozen solid. Lanterns were threaded through the skeletal winter trees at the edge of the ice, their myriad colors setting the frosty landscape sparkling and flashing like diamonds. It was a romantic setting and Frederica as she glided inexpertly on Jack Ferrand’s arm, could not but wish that her husband had decided to join them. She had sent him a gift of a Sevres snuff box from Gray’s and kept looking at the presents in the long gallery in the hope that he had sent her something in return to show that he still remembered that he had a wife.

  She saw the forlorn figure of Priscilla standing at the edge of the ice and called to Jack Ferrand to halt. “I am sure Miss Wheatcroft would enjoy a turn on the ice, Mr. Ferrand,” she cried.