When Reynolds came in with her tray, she returned to bed. As the maid was arranging her pillows, she noticed her mistress’s pallor and silence, and in an effort to cheer her up, said, “Why not stay in bed this gloomy morning, your Grace? Since the duke has gone to London, there is no need to hurry your dressing.”
The spoon that Emily was using to stir her tea clattered against the side of the cup. So he had already gone. She could not know he had ridden away at dawn after a sleepless night because he could not bear to remain in such close proximity to her when now, by circumstance, they were so far apart.
Emily felt bereft. Somehow she had imagined she might see him once more, had thought he would be unable to go without coming to bid her good-bye. Then she realized the maid was speaking again, asking for her orders, and she collected herself with an effort.
“No, I shall dress, Reynolds. Be so kind as to tell Mrs. Turner I desire an interview with her in an hour, if that is convenient.”
The maid curtsied and went into the dressing room, and Emily forced herself to eat a roll and some fruit. The long solitude was beginning and there was no sense in trying to put it off. With her eyes fixed unseeing on some distant point, she squared her shoulders. Very well. She would be the best duchess Wrotherham had ever known, no matter how she felt.
But in the weeks that followed, there were times when she almost lost her courage, times when she felt so lonely she thought she must die of it. There was no one she could talk to freely. All the servants had begun to love her for the politeness with which she gave her orders and her smiling thanks for a well-performed task, and for her quiet interest in and concern for their well-being; but even though Emily remembered only too well now what it was like to be one of them, the gulf that stretched between the duchess and the staff was as wide as the ocean. She might inquire for the under-butler’s sick mother, or arrange for the still-room maid to have a painful tooth extracted, or congratulate Reynolds on her brother’s army promotion—she could not confide her own troubles in return.
Charles had remained in town for over two weeks, and when he returned the first time, it was only for a short three days before he was off to visit friends in Scotland. He was scrupulously polite to his wife when they were forced to be in each other’s company. At the dinner table, he chatted of the amusements of the Little Season, which was drawing to a close, and told her of the on-dits of society and the current plays that could be enjoyed. Emily responded by discussing the estate, the illness of one of his elderly pensioners, and her plans to refurbish the gold salon.
They were so casual and normal, she had all she could do not to scream. If she had thought it horrible to be at Wrotherham Park by herself, she now realized that when the duke was in residence, it was twice as difficult and painful, so it was almost with relief that she bade him good-bye the night before he was to leave for Inverness. Charles stared at her as she curtsied and prepared to leave him to his port. She had announced she was going to bed immediately, rather than waiting for him in the solitude of the drawing room. He almost spoke, for his wife did not look well. Her pregnancy was obvious now, and her face, although still and composed, was pale. His arms ached to hold her close while he begged her to end this farce, as only she could do. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded, his fingers tightening on the stem of his glass. As Emily moved to the door, which the butler was holding for her, he said, “I shall return by Christmas, my dear. Have a care for yourself.”
“I shall, Charles,” she answered, smiling a little at Wilkins as he bowed. “Everything will be in order when you return.”
“I am sure of it, my admirable Duchess,” he murmured, pouring himself another glass of port. He waved to his butler and attendant footmen to leave the room, and then he sat there in a brown study, his eyes frowning in concentration.
Even now he did not trust himself to remain near his wife for any length of time. His anger at her had dimmed quickly, after all, and he loved her so much it was nearly impossible to contain himself when all that he longed to do was sweep her into his arms and force her to admit she loved him the same way. He had hoped that a period of quiet and lonely introspection would bring her to her senses, but he saw no signs that she was relenting, nor even that this stiff, formal marriage of convenience was not at all to her liking. He shook his head and grimaced, wondering what he was to do now.
Emily was awake early the following morning, standing concealed behind the curtains to watch the duke’s carriage leave. As he came down the broad steps, followed by Greene, and Thomas opened the door of the coach, he paused for a moment and turned to stare up at her windows. Emily drew in her breath sharply, afraid he could see her there, but his face bore such a tortured look of yearning and unhappiness that, without thinking, she moved forward, determined to sweep the curtains aside and wave to him. Before she could do so, Charles turned away and, bending his dark head, entered his coach, which started down the drive at once at a spanking pace. Her heart sank.
Emily kept busy, making preparations for Christmas. Even though she had no desire for it, the servants would expect the park to be decorated for the season, and there were gifts to be selected for each and every retainer, and special delicacies and wines to be ordered from town. The duke had left his youthful secretary, Mr. Watts, to assist her, and he was very helpful, falling under the duchess’s spell as had all the staff.
Emily wished there were guests coming, for spending Christmas alone with the duke was sure to be an uncomfortable experience. But whom could she ask? She knew no one, and the duke had not left any guest list of his own. Her chin went up and her eyes darkened. At least he could have invited some of his family, but of course she knew he had no desire to parade her before them. She quite understood!
One person she did write to, however, and that was her old nurse. She had been inspecting the nursery suite, at Mrs. Turner’s request. All the servants knew that something was wrong between their master and his bride, although Mr. Wilkins and Mrs. Turner were careful to keep their speculations to themselves and allowed no one to gossip in their presence. Poor dear, Mrs. Turner thought now, watching Emily rock the ancestral cradle, a little smile coming to her lips as she did so. Why is she so unhappy? I’d like to shake his Grace for whatever is wrong. Seeing that thinking about the baby made her mistress brighten a bit, she began to talk of nursemaids and the refurbishing of the nursery, and Emily remembered her own dear nanny Darty, and wrote to her at once. Mrs. Dartmouth replied she would be delighted to come to Wrotherham Park, and a carriage was dispatched to fetch her. She took charge of the preparations for the baby at once, and more importantly, of Emily herself, cajoling her to eat more and to get her rest as well as some regular exercise, and she would stand for no nonsense in the fulfillment of her instructions. Mrs. Turner was delighted when the duchess seemed happier and more content, although even with Darty, Emily had not gained a real confidante or close friend.
The duke returned shortly before Christmas and the first morning of his stay, he asked Emily to join him in the library. When she entered the room, her heart beating strangely, she found him seated at his desk, frowning over some cards of invitation.
After he had bowed and seated her, he returned to the desk to tap the cards before him.
“We have been asked to a number of festive occasions in honor of the season, madam,” he said in a voice that seemed cold and indifferent to Emily’s ears. “Would you care to attend? There is no need, of course, to put in an appearance at this time if you should not wish to, for everyone knows of your condition.”
Emily felt a surge of anger. “It is a matter of indifference to me, your Grace, but of course I should be happy to accompany you if that is your wish.” There, she thought, you cannot know by that statement how mortified I am that you cannot bear to have me meet your friends.
“I do not care,” the duke replied carelessly. “I find I am hardly in a festive mood this Christmas.”
“In that case, I suggest you refuse
them, one and all,” Emily snapped, getting to her feet to terminate the interview before she lost her temper. The duke did not notice her mood as he held up one card in his strong hand.
“Perhaps we should at least ask the Earl and Countess of Gant to dine one evening, even if we do not grace their ball. Nigel is one of my oldest friends, and I am sure you will like Jessica. However, I will not press you. Perhaps in the spring...”
“I see no need to put off the inevitable any longer, sir, regardless of my condition, which is, after all, not so noticeable as yet. By all means, extend the invitation. I look forward to it and I shall do my best not to put you to shame.”
Her voice shook a little and then she curtsied as the duke rose from his chair and stared at her, his dark eyes intent.
“You could never do that, Duchess,” he said softly as she moved away down the long length of the library, her back straight and her skirts swaying with the graceful movement he had always admired. She gave no sign that she heard him.
A few evenings later, resplendent in one of her new silk gowns and the Saint Allyn emeralds, Emily stood beside her husband to welcome Nigel and Jessica Cathcart. She liked the young Countess of Gant immediately. She was a few years older than Emily and not at all a beauty, but her tall, lanky figure and straight sandy hair were more than compensated for by a pair of sparkling blue eyes and a warm smile. Emily thought it was amazing how much she looked like her husband, almost as if they were sister and brother instead of man and wife.
As they all waited in the drawing room for Wilkins to announce dinner, the countess shook her head at the gentlemen, already deep in conversation over by the fireplace.
“You can see how I am ignored, your Grace,” she laughed, “but I did not expect the duke to treat his bride in such a cavalier fashion. Charles! Nigel! It is too bad of you to be going on and on about politics and peace treaties, cotton mills, and steam engines when we are here. The duchess and I are most offended, are we not, ma’am? But please, if I start to discuss people and places you do not know, you must stop me as well, for I do have a tendency to rattle on and on.”
Her husband so promptly agreed with her assessment of her character that they all laughed, and Emily begged the countess to call her by her first name. It turned out to be quite the most pleasant evening she had spent at Wrotherham Park since October. She discovered that Jessica was the mother of a seven-year-old daughter and twin boys, age four.
“The monster duo,” she remarked in gloomy tones even as her eyes lit up. “I shall pray you do not repeat my mistake, Emily. Harry and Thomas are double trouble, I assure you, and what we are to do when they are a little older, I do not know. Horses and guns and pranks—oh, dear! Marianne was an angel compared to these two. They have quite put me off having any more babies, although Nigel would like a dozen. Do you know what they did yesterday?” She went on to describe how the twins had stumbled into some of the Christmas decorations and the havoc that had resulted, and Emily laughed out loud. The duke felt a stab in his heart. How long had it been since Emily had laughed with him like that? How long since he had been able to bring such a warm smile to her face?
By the time the Cathcarts left, shortly after the tea tray had been brought in, for their home was six miles away and it was beginning to snow, they were all fast friends. Emily promised to call on the countess soon after the New Year. “I must see for myself, Jessica,” she said. “I cannot believe your twins are as bad as you have painted them.”
“Worse—much, much worse,” Nigel intoned, his expressive face glum. “Jessy is too fond a mother to tell you the whole, but if I did not feel it put a blight on your dreams of the heir to Wrotherham, I would tell you the whole horrible tale.”
“Do not listen to him, Emily; he exaggerates even more than I do,” her new friend advised. “I will look forward ten your visit. Oh, I am so glad we have met at last. And, Charles, you are to be congratulated. Not only is your duchess beautiful, which of course everyone certainly expected, she is nice as well. That will come as a surprise to a great many old busybodies, for she is not at all what they have beer imagining.”
“Now I know it is time to go home,” Nigel said firmly, putting his arm around his outspoken wife and marching her to the door. “You have said quite enough, Jessy, not that I don’t agree with you.”
“Have a happy Christmas!”—“Sorry you must miss the ball!”—“Be sure to call.”—“Good night, good night!” Amid the laughter of the leavetaking and quite without thinking of what he was doing, Charles put his arm around his wife and hugged her. He felt her stiffen and dropped his arm as if he had touched a red-hot brand from the fire.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said softly, so the footmen could not hear, and then he added in his normal tone.
“My congratulations on the evening. The dinner was excellent and you were everything anyone could ask for as chatelaine here. I was very proud of you.”
Emily noticed that his stiff expression was at odds with these warm words as she swept him a curtsy, and her own face grew still and wary. “Thank you, sir. I beg leave to retire now, for the evening has tired me.”
The duke said good night, but before he went to his library, he watched her climb the wide stairs, and his eyes were stormy. The pleasant evening had ended, and so abruptly too.
Shortly after Christmas, he announced his plans to leave the park again one evening at dinner. Nodding to the footman who was offering him a platter of veal, he said, “I am off again tomorrow, madam. Viscount Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, has asked me to attend him in London. It seems there may be a mission I can undertake for him abroad. I hesitate to refuse Robert, especially now that we are setting up the peace at last, but I will make every effort to return to England before the birth of our baby.”
Emily nodded and sipped her wine. Since life at the park had returned to stiff, formal playacting again after their one dinner party, she was not at all reluctant for the duke to take his leave. Knowing that she would not be so lonely, now she could see Jessica Cathcart as soon as the holidays were over, made her able to bid the duke good-bye with a composure she was far from feeling. Indeed, she was sure if Charles remained, she would be more apt to disgrace herself by bursting into tears before him or screaming she could not stand this travesty of a marriage, and she was sure that would disgust him.
She was sure he did not want her anymore except as the mother of his son, for, if he did, why did he keep leaving her? Even the gifts he had brought her for Christmas could not change her mind, although the sable cloak was glorious and the pearls the most perfectly matched she had ever seen. But a week after the duke’s departure, Emily received a note from Jessica, canceling their plans. It seemed that her father was very ill and her mother in need of her, and so the Cathcarts had cut short their stay in the country and were even now on the way to London. Jessica begged her to write and tell her about the baby, and to be sure and let her know when she came up to town, before she signed her note in haste.
Emily sighed and took up her solitary existence once again. She had her interviews with the housekeeper, the chef, and Charles’ agent; she read and sewed, and she took some gentle walks around the wintry gardens with her maid when the weather was clement. The only time she left the grounds was to attend church, and since she had not met any of society at the Christmas balls and parties, no one came to Wrotherham Park to break the lonely monotony of her days. She wondered a little at this. Why was she being snubbed when, after all, the Countess of Gant had been so friendly? She did not realize that if a duchess does not show any desire to know you, it would be the height of presumption to try and initiate a relationship. The gentry around Wrotherham Park, one and all, stayed away.
12
By the end of January, Emily could only be glad to be left alone, for her figure was becoming just as heavy and awkward as she had predicted it would.
She was sitting in the newly redecorated gold salon one afternoon, embroidering a small blank
et for the baby, when Wilkins came to announce that Lord and Lady Staunton had called. At first she was tempted to deny them, and her expression of distaste for her condition made the butler add in his fatherly way, “It is only the duke’s aunt and uncle, your Grace. They are on their way to London and beg to break their journey here overnight.”
At that, Emily nodded and folded up her work with suddenly cold and nervous hands. So, she was to meet some of the duke’s family at last! A moment later she rose as the middle-aged couple were bowed into the drawing room.
“How do you do?” she asked, coming toward them with a welcoming smile on her lips. “Unfortunately, Charles is not here, but I am delighted to welcome you in his place.”
Lady Staunton sniffed and raised her pince-nez to inspect her new niece more closely. “Of course you are delighted, my girl!” she exclaimed in an insulting tone of voice.
Emily stiffened. How dare she speak to me like that, she thought, and where was the curtsy that convention insisted the older woman give her in deference to her rank? She could see Lord Staunton all but wringing his hands, his mouth opening and closing at his wife’s rudeness, and it gave her the courage to say in a cold, proud voice that Lady Staunton could hardly have bettered, “I fear you have been misinformed, ma’am. I am not ‘your girl’—I am Emily Saint Allyn, Duchess of Wrotherham.”
She paused, staring at Charles’ unpleasant aunt until the lady was forced to drop her pince-nez and a shallow curtsy as well. “Your Grace,” she said grudgingly.
The Emerald Duchess Page 23
