by Amy Lake
"Yes, milady?” said the coachman, sounding a bit hesitant. He was an older man, selected by Jason and Annabelle as unfailingly loyal to their family and unlikely to spread gossip. He had also received careful instructions from the Fitzroy siblings concerning Lady Millicent, and Lord Peabody, and about not driving outside the confines of Mayfair.
"Driver, can you find Audley Square?"
"Ah. Yes, milady,” said the man, relieved that the young lady's instructions sent them nowhere near Scotland. He clucked at his team.
* * * *
Benjamin, indulging in a second brandy, had stretched out on the sofa in the newly renovated music room when he heard a light, almost tentative knock at the front door. Silence followed. Josiah was somewhere belowstairs, it seemed; probably chatting with Mrs. Throckmorton, for Benjamin had been amused to notice an association forming between the housekeeper and his valet.
And Marchers House had no butler as yet. Benjamin went to answer the door himself, wondering who would be paying a call in the early hours of the evening.
He found his heart racing. But it couldn't be her, he knew. It couldn't.
Yesterday afternoon, in the park, Lady Pamela had scarcely seemed to recognize him. But her smiles had been warm for Lady Millicent, and the introductions had been performed without a hitch. Lord Torrance chided himself for expecting anything less, for being worried, when he saw her carriage, that the meeting would be awkward.
No, Pamela Sinclair had been courtesy itself, and Benjamin thought that Lady Millicent could have had no possible complaint about her reception by his ... friends. He found himself imagining the years to come, years seeing her during an afternoon's drive in the park, and at balls and soirées and other events of town society. He could not avoid London. He could hardly keep Lady Millicent permanently ensconced in Wiltshire, separated from her family and friends, regardless of what he might wish for himself.
The years of hearing Lady Pamela's name mentioned, the moment he would learn of her marriage, meeting her husband and children...
Her husband.
Benjamin's heart skipped a beat, then thudded painfully back to life. His steps quickened across the marble floor of the entrance hall, and he opened the door of Marchers with somewhat more force than was necessary. A young woman stood there, apparently of gentle birth, although sans maid. Her face was partially covered with a shawl, and ‘twas a moment before recognition came.
"Lady Millicent!"
Millicent Chambers was flushed and slightly bedraggled from the evening's rain. She looked surprised to find herself greeted by the master of the household.
"Oh! Your ... your grace,” said Lady Millicent. “May I come in ... I mean, may I speak with you ... just for a moment?"
What was this? wondered Benjamin. His first inclination was to shut the door, gently, in the girl's face, for if word ever got out that Lady Millicent had paid an unchaperoned visit to a bachelor gentleman—
Pah. The duke reminded himself that worry for Millicent's reputation was nonsense under present circumstances and that, in fact, he himself seemed to be the one person in London with any concern for the young woman's well-being.
Lady Millicent was regarding him expectantly, and Benjamin realized that, whatever her purpose, nothing would be served by having her stand in wait upon his doorstep.
"If you please.” He held out his hand and ushered her inside.
"My goodness, how lovely,” breathed Lady Millicent, stopping abruptly and looking about her. “I thought ... people said that..."
"Marchers was a wreck?” finished the duke.
"Well, yes,” she answered. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that I ever thought it really so, but Lady Annabelle said it had been vacant for so many years, you know, and—"
"Lady Annabelle?"
"A friend—"
Lady Millicent, eyes wide, began wandering away as they spoke, circling around the marble floor of the entrance hall. Her head craned to look at the balustrade and the windows far above her, and Benjamin began to worry she would topple over backwards.
"Lady Millicent. Ah, might I enquire..."
Her chin came down. Millicent favoured Benjamin with a wide smile.
"The draperies are beautiful,” she enthused, “and that rug-it's an Aubusson, is it not? I've never seen one with such depth of colour."
"Lady Pamela selected it,” said the duke, without thinking.
Lady Millicent went suddenly still. She cocked her head and stared at him. “Did she?"
The girl must find that rather odd, realized Benjamin. But how to explain? “Yes,” he said, adding quickly-"both she and Lady Detweiler have been assisting me in renovations."
Thank goodness for Amanda, thought the duke.
"How nice,” said Millicent. “She must have spent a great deal of time, then, at Marchers?"
"Lady Detweiler?"
"Lady Pamela."
"Ah, well ... Recently, yes."
The duke was uncomfortably aware of how inappropriate this association might seem to his young fiancée, but Lady Millicent gave no indication of jealousy. She appeared, if anything, to be more cheerful at the intelligence.
"You said you wished to speak with me?” he said.
"Oh, yes."
"Come, then. There is a comfortable fire in the music room."
She held out her hand for his escort. In the music room Lady Millicent began another wide-eyed tour, exclaiming over each of the recent improvements, until Benjamin took her firmly by the elbow, and settled them both onto the sofa. The girl took a deep breath and smiled at him.
"Your grace,” began Lady Millicent.
"Should we not attempt first names?” replied Lord Torrance.
"Oh, yes. Well, mmm—"
"Benjamin,” supplied the duke.
"Benjamin,” repeated Lady Millicent. “Yes, of course.” She flushed. “I don't know how to explain this, but—"
The duke took a deep breath, saying nothing. He was tired and dispirited, and not much in the mood for a young girl's megrims, but something about Lady Millicent's demeanor kept his impatience in check. She seemed ... determined.
"I realize this visit is unexpected. But the problem is ... I thought I should tell you ... I mean, I know I should be grateful that you were willing to offer for me. And I am grateful, of course, very much so. But—"
"Perhaps,” said the duke gently, “if you could explain exactly where the problem lies...?"
"We cannot marry,” finished Lady Millicent abruptly. She flushed, and looked at him from beneath lowered lashes.
"I beg your pardon?” The duke had expected anything but this.
"We cannot marry,” she repeated. “You are in love with someone else."
Benjamin heard the words ‘love’ and ‘someone else,’ but the rest of Lady Millicent's speech foundered beneath the sudden riot of thoughts in his own head. Millicent was in love with someone else, the duke heard, his mind unprepared for the girl's true meaning.
What else, thought Benjamin, could go wrong with this day? Now, in addition to his own pain over the loss of Lady Pamela, and the difficulties-which he was sure would be ongoing-of dealing with the Earl of Banbridge, he would have a heartsick girl on his hands.
And yet, at the same time, the duke felt hope battle with confusion. If Millicent loved another, and refused their engagement, he might yet be free. But who could she have fallen in love with? No-one acceptable to her father, it would seem, for otherwise why bother with Lord Castlereaugh?
No, it makes no difference, he realized. They could not simply end their engagement, leaving Lady Millicent to the twin wolves of a despicable, bankrupt father and whatever feckless young buck she might have taken a fancy to.
And with his recent luck, thought the duke, Lady Millicent was in love with a footman.
"Might one enquire,” said Lord Torrance, “as to the name of this young man?"
Millicent looked at him in shock. Then her countenance suddenly cleared.
/> "Oh!” she laughed. “Oh, no, you didn't hear me, you didn't understand—"
"Hmm?"
"You are in love with someone else.” Lady Millicent laughed again and for a moment, just a moment, their roles were reversed, and Benjamin felt himself the younger and less experienced of the two people sitting on the music room sofa, with the slight girl at his side possessed of a wiser head.
"I am in love-?"
"-with Lady Pamela Sinclair."
Speech evaded Lord Torrance.
"And I don't blame you, you understand. Not at all. She's quite the most beautiful lady I've ever seen-did you see the gown she was wearing today, in the carriage? The fabric was beyond anything, and her skin is perfection, and I've never seen that colour of hair before, it's gorgeous."
"Lady Millicent."
"You must tell me the story of how you met. I'm sure ‘twas ever so romantic. Obviously,” added Millicent, blushing slightly, “obviously you've loved her for a long time."
"Ah,” managed the duke. “Well.” He hesitated. “Lady Millicent, perhaps we should have this discussion at a later time. You must be tired...."
She smiled up at him. “I thought we were to use Christian names. I'm quite fond of ‘Milly'-that's what Annabelle calls me."
"Milly—"
"Lady Pamela loves you as well, by the way."
Lord Torrance found no quick answer. He had no idea how the girl had arrived at this conclusion, but it seemed ridiculous to argue.
"Are you saying,” he asked finally, “that you wish to bring our engagement to an end?"
"Yes.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Does it matter, do you suppose, which one of us cries off? A mutual announcement, perhaps—"
"Have you informed your father of your plans?"
The young girl's face fell. “No,” she admitted. “But it does not signify. Lord Castlereaugh—"
"You cannot marry Lord Castlereaugh,” interrupted Benjamin, who was aghast that Millicent had even mentioned the man's name.
"Good heavens,” said Milly. “No, of course not."
"Then—"
Lady Millicent's chin rose. She squared her shoulders and announced, “I will make my own way in the world."
Benjamin stared at her.
"I've been thinking about this ever since ... ever since our drive in the park. I'm quite good at languages, you know. And I adore geography. I could be a governess."
"A governess.” The duke's mind turned immediately to his cousin, Helène. She had been employed for a time as a governess and, although affairs had turned out well in the end, ‘twas not an easy occupation, nor one to come naturally to a gently-bred young women.
Lady Millicent had no real idea, the duke was certain, of what being a governess entailed.
"You have not been raised for service,” he pointed out, the first excuse that occurred to him.
"I could learn."
"You would be at your employer's beck and call—"
"As I am my at my father's, now."
"-and there are few ladies, I think, willing to hire a young woman of higher station than themselves."
"Then I shall take on a new name. I shall be plain Miss Chambers."
The duke repressed a sigh. He was hesitant to simply tell the girl that she was talking nonsense, but, unfortunately, she was. “Your family would never allow it,” he began, deciding it was time to end this folly.
Lady Millicent rose to her feet. Her eyes flashed with anger. “My family, as you say, was willing to make me a ... a jezebel to Lord Castlereaugh. I can't see what possible objection they could have to my taking a respectable occupation."
She burst into tears.
"Oh, come now, my dear,” said Lord Torrance. He reached for her hand but she waved him away. “Matters cannot be so bad—"
"And Annabelle says that father could go to prison, but I'm sure that cannot be true—"
"Lord Chambers and I have agreed to settlements. No-one is going to prison."
"Your grace-Benjamin,” interrupted Lady Millicent, dabbing away tears. Her voice was passionate, and sharp with indignation. “You would not wish to be married to someone who loved someone else, would you?"
"Well—"
"I am not a commodity. I am human being with feelings just as yourself. How happy do you think my life would be, knowing that my husband loves another woman?"
"But—I would never mistreat you."
Lady Millicent shook her head, her words still betraying exasperation. “As I am well aware. And I assure you that, under other circumstances-were we to love each other, for example-I would be more than happy to be your wife.” She gave him a sudden, wide smile. “You're quite handsome, you know."
"Ah—"
"But I will not marry you. So,” added Millicent, “we had better think of something else."
* * * *
The day was gloomy and chill, but without rain, and Lady Pamela decided to take her usual afternoon walk in Green Park. She donned a fine wool dress with matching redingote and sent for Maggie who, for once, had no complaint. The maid had been unusually solicitous of her mistress for the past few days, and Pam assumed that the girl was aware of the duke's engagement to Lady Millicent.
As was everyone else in the Hillsleigh household, no doubt. London society might never learn of Lady Pamela's past relationship with the Duke of Grentham-such as it was, such as it had been-but her servants knew, and on this matter Pam trusted them not to breathe a word.
Lady Pamela selected one of her sturdiest pairs of shoes. She needed the time out-of-doors and planned to walk until simple fatigue set her free from worries and self-recrimination. She and Maggie made their way down Charles Street and past Berkley Square to the park, taking care that they strayed nowhere close to Marchers.
Lady Millicent would have the charge of the duke's townhome, now. ‘Twould be her tastes and inclinations that informed each new purchase, and her friends-their friends, corrected Lady Pamela, meaning Lady Millicent's and the duke's-that graced that absurdly enormous dining room table.
Marchers House would be a closed door to Lady Pamela for, invited or not, she would allow herself that one grace, that one nod to her own weakness, and never again set foot onto Audley Square. She would never examine her own handiwork in the duchess's chambers, never know if Lady Millicent approved her choices, never again watch the seasons change from the balcony of the sitting room, the grand oaks of the back garden turning scarlet as the autumn chill replaced the benign warmth of an English summer.
Oh, for heaven's sake. She shook her head, as if to clear it of cobwebs, and felt chagrin.
Pamela Sinclair had been blessed with a fine temperament. She had a passionate nature, and enjoyed life greatly, but rarely indulged in the purely sentimental. She found herself doing so now and hated it.
'Twas true that her present situation was one that any woman would have found painful, and she did not chide herself for feeling pained, but neither did Lady Pamela wish emotions to rule her every thought. Children starved in the streets of London. Men were maimed in wars. One lady of the ton, healthy and well-respected, with a loving family and friends in support, could manage to survive heartbreak.
Indeed.
These were not cheerful thoughts, but Lady Pamela began to feel better nevertheless, and she wandered along the graveled paths of Green Park in some equanimity of spirits, admiring the last of the fall-blooming asters. She made an elegant figure, her hair set aglow by the fading light of an October's afternoon, and when her feet had finally tired, and she and Maggie had turned for home, ‘twas then that Lord Torrance came upon her.
She knew, without turning, who had touched her arm.
"Lady Pamela,” said the duke.
"Your grace."
"May I walk with you?” he asked simply.
Lady Pam was cognizant, at some level, of Maggie's outrage. This was the man who had caused injury to her mistress! But Pamela also knew that it would surely be the last time she h
ad a chance to speak thus with Lord Torrance, and she would take that chance, come what may.
She nodded her assent. He offered his arm and they walked for some time without speaking.
"I wanted to explain,” began the duke, after they had passed the reservoir fountain, and turned back toward Constitution Hill.
"There is no need for explanation,” said Lady Pamela. “I was there, that night, in the gardens. I saw."
"You saw?"
"Lord Castlereaugh ran into me-literally ran into me, you apprehend-on his way out. I believe the injuries to his face were your doing?” She ended on a questioning note.
The duke nodded.
A moment's silence. “Lady Millicent is very pretty."
Another moment. Then-"Yes."
"I'm glad you were able to ... be of assistance to her."
"Yes."
So everything was understood between them, everything accepted. Nothing further needed to be said and yet, as if a wall had broken, Lady Pamela and Benjamin began to converse in earnest, in a manner they had not done since the morning after Charles and Helène's wedding. Pam felt more in amity with him than she had in all those months, and a bittersweet joy grew in her heart, even as sorrow prospered apace. Joy-that the love between them existed still.
"Will you remove to Wiltshire upon the wedding?” she asked the duke.
"Yes, I suppose. But I doubt Lady Millicent wishes to remain there indefinitely. I believe she has spent nearly the whole of her life in town."
"The country would be a better place for your children,” said Lady Pamela. “Lady Millicent is such a young girl, she will no doubt be increasing within the year."
Long seconds passed before the duke's answer. Then—
"I had wished it were so for us.” His voice was so low that Pamela barely heard, but she could not mistake his meaning.
"No,” she answered him. “'Twas not."
"I would have insisted, then."
Lady Pamela sighed. “I suppose,” she said, “under such circumstances, I would not have refused you. ‘Tis always at the back of one's mind, of course.” She smiled at him, hiding this new pain. “But what a scandal! You did not arrive in London for near seven months, and I could never have concealed it so long."
A long silence. Then—
