The Emerald Duchess

by Barbara Hazard

  She was not any more successful in her search for employment than she had been the first time she was in London, for it was now July and a hot, humid summer. Most of society had retired to their estates, those who did not rent a house at one of the more fashionable spas, and Emily was beginning to feel a little desperate after several days passed and she had trudged from one agency to another, finding nothing that was suitable.

  Finally, at Mrs. Finches’ agency, she was told to return the following day when there might be the chance of an interview, and she was climbing the dusty stairs with a glimmer of hope in her heart at last, when the door of the agency opened and a familiar voice spoke harshly above her.

  “Thank you! If the lady you have just described returns here, I shall certainly reward you for your trouble if you send me word at once and keep her here until I come. You have my direction.”

  Emily stood frozen for a moment, her heart pounding, but then she turned and fled down the stairs and out into the street. She saw Thomas holding the duke’s team, but fortunately he was deep in conversation with another groom, and so she was able to escape around the corner before the tall, lean figure of the duke appeared. She watched him leap up into his curricle and drive away, and then she leaned against the palings, trying to control her breathing, and oblivious to the stares of the passersby. What a narrow escape! If he had not spoken when he did, she would have walked right into him. She saw a man leering at her and beginning to approach, and she hurried away, taking the back streets and alleys until she reached the safety of her hotel.

  She spent the rest of the day in her room, pacing up and down and thinking hard. London was not a safe haven any longer, and although she felt a kind of glad triumph that the duke had not given her up and was still trying to find her, she knew she had to leave immediately. But where could she go? Perhaps it would be best to travel to some factory town where she would never see anyone but cits, but if she did that, how was she to support herself? Her money would not last forever. Emily ran her hands through her hair in distraction. She was only trained as a lady’s maid, therefore she had to go somewhere the haut ton assembled and trust to luck that she could evade the duke.

  As she went down for her supper, she passed a middle-aged couple on the stairs. The lady was complaining that they had to return to the heat and dirt of town when the sea air and breezes of Brighton had been so delightfully refreshing. Taking the conversation as a good omen, Emily made arrangements with the porter to take the first Brighton stage in the morning, and retired to her room as soon as she had eaten, to pack her bags. Brighton, Bath, Worthington, Tunbridge Wells—what did it matter where she went as long as she was out of the duke’s immediate vicinity?

  She went to bed remembering his deep voice at the employment agency, that voice that never again would roughen with passion as he made love to her, or soften in contentment when she came laughing into his arms, and she shed a few tears before she slept.

  When she reached Brighton the following afternoon, she was quick to ask the innkeeper for the address of the best employment agency, and she made her way there early the next morning, not even stopping to stare at the Royal Pavillion.

  Mrs. Huddlewick, the owner of the agency, shook her head sadly when Emily explained why she was there.

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Wiggins,” she said, and Emily’s heart sank. “There’s nothing like what you require. Now, if you were a parlormaid or a footman, I could place you in a minute, but there’s no call for lady’s maids this season. Brought their own with ’em from town, I have no doubt.”

  Emily thanked her for her time and said she would inquire again, and gave her the name of the inn where she was putting up before she took her leave. If there was nothing in Brighton, she would have to travel farther, she decided, but she would stay here for a few days in case an opening occurred.

  As she strolled back to the inn, she took the time to look about her, and wished she might remain here. The salty tang of the air was refreshing and it was nowhere near as hot as London had been. She paused to admire a white straw bonnet covered with tiny pink rosebuds and moss-green netting in the window of a milliner’s shop and became aware of a commotion behind her. As she turned to see what the matter was, she heard people shouting, and then she saw them running to escape. For herself, she seemed unable to move when she saw a large horse bearing down on her. There was an elderly lady on the perch of the old-fashioned carriage the horse was pulling, and her bonnet was askew with her efforts to bring him under control. Too late, Emily made a dive to one side, but she was not quick enough and one of the horse’s hooves struck her a glancing blow on the head, and she slipped unconscious to the cobblestones and knew no more.

  “Oh, dearie me!” the elderly lady exclaimed as a groom ran up and grabbed the bridle of her horse, turning it aside before it could kick Emily again or smash the milliner’s window. He backed it into the street, and the lady driver was quick to get down and go to the small, huddled figure of Emily, lying there so still. A crowd was beginning to gather, and the lady pushed her way through, using the point of a large black umbrella to gain her passage.

  “Stand back! You there, oh, my, do not crowd the poor dear, she needs air.”

  At her refined though nervous accents, two gentlemen, the milliner’s assistant, and a small urchin obeyed her without question. The lady, who appeared spry for her age, knelt beside Emily and began to chafe her hands.

  “Hortense! What is the meaning of this? What are you doing?” a querulous voice demanded, and the old lady looked up in relief.

  “I am trying to restore this lady to consciousness, Horatia, as you can see. Oh, dear, the accident was quite all my fault, but when Pegasus bolted, I could not hold him...”

  “Pegasus? Bolted?” the other lady asked, turning to stare at the horse in some surprise. The others followed her gaze to where the horse was now tied to a post. He was a very elderly, placid animal. “A likely story! Hmmph! Pegasus has never bolted in his life. I knew I shouldn’t have let you take charge of him, for a sillier widgeon I have never seen. Get away from there and let me see to the woman.”

  “Oh, Horatia, I am so afraid She is dead,” Hortense moaned, obediently moving so her sister could kneel beside her.

  “Nonsense! She has lost consciousness, that is all. But we must get help. You there,” she snapped to the urchin, not even looking in his direction, “run ahead to Doctor Spears and tell him what happened. Now, you two ... lift her carefully into the carriage. And as for you, gel,” she said in an acid tone to the milliner’s assistant, who was exclaiming and sobbing and wringing her hands, “I don’t know what you’re carrying on so for. The horse didn’t touch you. Be off with you, this isn’t a raree show!”

  “Coo-er,” the girl said, her mouth open in amazement, but she was quick to withdraw into the shop again.

  The gentlemen deposited Emily in the back of the carriage, and the first lady got in to support her as best she could in her arms, while her domineering sister collected her umbrella, Emily’s reticule, and her own packages before she climbed into the driver’s seat and took up the reins, nodding to the groom to untie the horse. He did not hesitate, for Pegasus was quiet now to the point of somnolence, and indeed it took Miss Horatia several minutes of determined duckings and rein slappings across his broad back to stir him into his customary slow shuffle.

  “I shall never understand what made him bolt,” she muttered over her shoulder. “He never moves above a walk and hasn’t for years. Hmmph!”

  “I think it was one of those naughty, er, children, Sister,” Hortense ventured from the backseat, the bouncing of the carriage tipping her bonnet farther over one eye. “I saw them whispering after you refused to give them a penny to hold the horse when you went into the draper’s shop.”

  “Hmmph. Very likely, nasty little monsters,” her sister replied, pulling a willing Pegasus to a halt at the door of the doctor’s office. “I knew we should have sent Agnes to do the errands instead of
coming into town ourselves. Just see what has happened because we put ourselves in close proximity to them.”

  The two sisters waited together while Doctor Spears examined the young woman. Hortense sat very still, her hands clasped and her eyes closed in prayer, but Miss Horatia used the time to examine Emily’s purse. “She is a Mrs. Wiggins, a Mrs. Regina Wiggins, Sister,” she announced in her curt voice after she had read Emily’s letter of reference. “A lady’s maid, I gather. Funny, she does not look like her name is Wiggins, or as if she is in service. I would have taken her for a lady herself.”

  “A-men,” her sister whispered, opening her faded-blue eyes very wide. “Oh, dear, do you think you should go through her reticule? So ... so unethical!”

  “How else can we find out who she is, or her direction?” Horatia demanded, fixing an equally faded but sharper eye on her sister.

  The two were very much alike, although Miss Hortense favored a hairdo of graying sausage curls, a style that had been popular thirty years before. Her sister, although as tall and thin and with the same gray hair, wore it pulled back in a ruthless, tight bun. On her spare, black-clad bosom hung a pince-nez, which she had used to read Emily’s letter, and now she raised it again as she investigated the rest of the contents of the reticule, ignoring her sister’s distressed murmurs of protest.

  “Hmmmph! How very singular,” Horatia said at last. “Now if she is indeed Mrs. Wiggins, Hortense, why does she also carry three letters concerning a Miss Margaret Nelson, tell me that?” She bent her sharp eyes on her sister’s face as if she fully expected the lady to come up with a plausible explanation, although it was plainly not in her power to do so.

  Just then the doctor entered the waiting room, and Miss Horatia turned her back on him, leaving a flustered Miss Hortense to question him about the patient. Doctor Spears had known the Rutherford sisters for a good many years, and so he was not in the least offended by Miss Horatia’s rudeness or the sight of her rigid back.

  “She is still unconscious, but I do not think there has been any permanent damage. Fortunately she was wearing a heavy wig that cushioned the blow somewhat,” he said, patting Miss Hortense’s hands and smiling kindly at her.

  “Thank heaven for that,” Miss Hortense cried, feeling her prayers had been answered.

  “Ask him what treatment he prescribes,” Horatia ordered her. The doctor waited courteously until Miss Hortense had relayed the message he had just heard so plainly before he recommended complete quiet and bed rest in a darkened room. “She is apt to have the headache when she comes to herself,” he added. “I should like to see her again to be sure there is no danger of concussion. Head injuries are not to be taken lightly. Can you give me her direction? I take it she is a friend of yours.”

  “Oh, dear me, no,” Miss Hortense explained. “We have never seen her before in our lives, Doctor, but it was our horse who kicked her in the head in the first place. What should we do? We do not know where she lives, or ... or anything about her, but—”

  “Nonsense, Hortense,” Horatia interrupted. “At least we know she is not what she seems to be, at all accounts. However, since it was your fault and Pegasus’ that she was injured, and since I can find no address for her in Brighton in her reticule, I suppose as Christians we must take her home to the hall to recover. ”

  “Oh, thank you, Horatia,” Miss Hortense whispered. “I did not like to suggest it, but I do feel it would be the kindest thing, and—”

  “I hope I know my duty, Sister, as well as you do. Ask the doctor to carry the girl to the carriage. I will wait outside.” She moved abruptly to the door and slammed it behind her, and the doctor twinkled at the look of confused distress on Miss Hortense Rutherford’s face.

  “No need to explain, dear lady,” he said. “I quite understand. I shall come out tomorrow to see the patient. Shall we say about ten?”

  Miss Hortense agreed to the visit and once again climbed into the back of the carriage to hold Emily safe for the journey home.

  Rutherford Hall was some six miles from Brighton, and since Pegasus did not feel the slightest urge to hurry, it was some time later before the carriage turned into the gates and made its way slowly up the weed-choked drive. The two sisters had spent the trip speculating about Emily, and now Miss Horatia said as she climbed down from the perch, “We will have to wait until she wakes before we find out any more, Sister. Now we must get her to bed.” She turned and called in a loud voice, “Agnes! Bessie! Gertrude, come at once!”

  The door to the hall opened and three elderly maids came down the steps, exclaiming at the unexpected guest and asking a dozen questions all at once.

  “Yes, yes, later we will explain everything,” Miss Horatia Rutherford said. “Agnes and Bessie, you will help me carry her into the house. We will put her in the blue bedroom. Gertrude, you and Hortense run ahead and put clean sheets on the bed immediately.”

  Still Emily had not moved or opened her eyes, and perhaps that was just as well, for with Agnes and Bessie each supporting her under an arm, and Miss Rutherford taking her feet, she had an awkward journey. The women were not able to avoid bumping her arm on the door jamb or knocking her foot against the newel post as they started slowly up the stairs.

  Miss Hortense spared a glance back over the railings as she hurried to the blue bedroom, and not for the first time wished for the assistance of a pair of tall, strong footmen, but she was careful to keep this thought to herself.

  9

  Four days later, Emily had still not regained consciousness, and Doctor Spears, who drove out every day, was beginning to become alarmed, although he hid this from the dithery Miss Hortense as best he could. He would like to have discussed the case with her more sensible older sister, but Miss Horatia was never present for his visits, and he knew he had not the least expectation of seeing her. Now, as he gazed down at the still, white face of his patient, he frowned, and Miss Hortense shook her head sadly, her gray sausage curls bobbing in her distress.

  “Dear Doctor Spears,” she whispered, as if a normal voice would disturb the sleeping girl, “what are we to do? I am so afraid that Pegasus has killed her, after all.” She sobbed and raised her handkerchief to her face, and the doctor took her hand in his to comfort her.

  “I must admit I expected her to rouse long before this, but even so, there is no immediate danger that I can see. There is so little we know about head injuries; perhaps this long spell of unconsciousness is nature’s way of healing. Let us hope so. You will continue to administer the drops and give her as much water as you can get her to swallow. I know it takes a long time, but it is most important.”

  “That does not matter, Doctor, indeed it does not,” Miss Hortense said as he picked up his bag and started for the door. “My sister and I will naturally do all we can for the poor girl. Oh, I almost forgot,” she added as she escorted the doctor down the stairs. “Have there been any inquiries for her in Brighton? We would be so much more comfortable if we knew who her family is. That is almost the worst thing of all, knowing that somewhere someone is worrying about her, in an agony for not knowing what has become of her. Oh, dear!”

  The doctor shook his head. “No, no one has inquired. It is very strange. Surely there must be some kin, a servant even ... most strange!” He shook his head again and then remarked as he took his hat and cane from one of the maids, “Be sure to send for me immediately she wakens, Miss Hortense. I will come at once.”

  Hortense saw him out and then went back to the sickroom to find her sister sitting beside the bed. She did not explain what the doctor had said, for she knew Horatia had been hiding in the adjoining dressing room during his visit, listening carefully. Now she rose, and Miss Hortense took her place beside Emily.

  “I shall be back at noon, Sister,” Horatia said in her curt voice. “I do hope it will not be much longer before the girl comes to herself, for then we can dispense with all these visits. It is not at all what I like. Hmmmph!”

  She whisked herself fr
om the room, and her sister picked up one of Emily’s limp hands and patted it gently. Even if she is unconscious, the old lady thought to herself, perhaps she will know that she is not alone, that someone cares about her and waits with her.

  It was late that same afternoon when Emily slowly opened her eyes. There was a dull throbbing at her temple, and she raised her hand to her head, staring about her in wonder at the quiet, dim room. It hurt to move her head, so she lay still, wondering a little where she was.

  “Oh, my dear, at last,” she heard a breathless voice exclaim. “What lovely eyes you have, so unusual. But don’t move, I must tell Horatia at once and send one of the maids for the doctor. Mind now, you must not move.”

  Emily watched the tall old lady bustle to the door and smiled. She felt so weak she did not think she could flex a single muscle, and yet the lady seemed to feel she was about to leap from the bed and disappear before she could return. She closed her eyes again and stayed very still until she heard footsteps coming back into the room. “You are silly, Sister,” a harsh voice exclaimed. “You say she woke? She looks remarkably unconscious to me. Are you sure you are not just making it up?”

  “Of course not, Horatia, she was awake. I saw her eyes, a lovely shade of green. Oh, my dear, have you left us again?” Emily opened her eyes then and tried to smile. “The Lord be praised,” Miss Hortense said, bending over her. “Now, you must not worry, my dear. The doctor will be here soon.”

  “But ... but what happened? Why does my head hurt?” Emily whispered. “I do not understand...” Her voice, coming from a dry throat, seemed stiff and rusty to her ears.