He stopped, lowering his eyes to the folded hands in his lap, and the duke raised one dark, eyebrow as a little smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Why, Greene,” he said in pretended astonishment, “your knowledge of my affairs and your encomiums positively amaze me. I did not realize the extent of your admiration for my prowess with the fair sex. One would think I had only to beckon to have a lady succumb to my charms.”
“Just so, your Grace,” his valet agreed, unperturbed by this raillery. “We must hope that marriage has not dulled your well-known powers of persuasion in this most delicate and important matter. After all, the Duchess of Wrotherham is not to be compared in any way to those other, er, ladies.”
The carriage rumbled on to the coast, Mr. Greene once more the silent, obsequious servant. The duke sat and stared out at scenery he did not see, for his mind was busy reviewing this amazing conversation and the possibility that there still might be, as Greene had suggested, something he could do to resolve the problem.
Doctor Randall made one of his regular visits to Wrotherham Park three weeks later and announced he would return to stay in a few days’ time, for the duchess was very near her term. Emily smiled at this good news, for the last few days had been especially difficult for her. She had retired to her rooms, having her meals sent up, for it made her so breathless to climb the stairs, even supported by footmen. She told herself there was some good in this final separation from Charles, after all, for although she longed to have him close to her, giving her his love and strength, something in her rebelled at having him see her in these last stages of pregnancy. How much more satisfying to meet him with their baby in her arms, as slim as she had been when they first fell in love.
The third week of March, the doctor was duly established at Wrotherham Park, along with two nurses, and four days after their arrival, Emily awoke in the middle of the night to find herself in labor. It was not until the following afternoon that she was delivered, and although childbirth had been harder and more painful than she had ever imagined it would be, she had not lost her courage, even in the final stages when she felt she was being torn apart.
The labor pains had surprised her, beginning almost as backaches that built up and then ebbed away. Sometimes they ceased completely and she was able to doze for a while, but eventually they grew inexorably into harder and harder contractions, with less time between them for her to catch her breath and try to relax. The most frightening thing of all was to know that there was no way she could influence or stop them, that they would control her until the baby was born, and she held tightly to Darty’s hand and the nurse’s hands for reassurance.
“Charles!” she cried out whenever the pain threatened to overwhelm her, and his name seemed to give her strength.
She lay panting on the bed, her eyes closed in exhaustion, moments after the seventh Duke of Wrotherham entered the world, lustily squalling his indignation at having to leave that safe, warm haven where he had spent the previous nine months.
“A fine boy, your Grace,” Doctor Randall said with a smile as he attended his patient. “And you will be fine in a short time as well.”
“Oh, let me see him, please,” Emily begged, opening her eyes, and the nurse who had washed the baby and wrapped him in a blanket brought her her son. She had no idea what color his eyes were, for he had them tightly closed as he continued to wail, but the top of his little red head was covered with soft black hair. Emily smiled and held out her arms, and as the nurse put the baby into them, she felt a wave of love such as she had never known for this tiny mite that she and Charles had made between them.
“Charles Thomas Wyndham Saint Allyn, how nice to meet you face to face at last,” she murmured.
There was great rejoicing among the staff, and Mr. Wilkins took the liberty of writing of the happy event to the servants left in London. Emily slept, waking only to eat and try to nurse the baby. By the time her milk came in, her son was protesting loudly at this enforced famine, in what Emily thought a very ducal, demanding way, and when he finally settled down at her breast, she could not imagine which one of them was happier that it was over.
As soon as she was able, she wrote Charles a short letter, telling him his son had been born and what she planned to name him, but although she longed to write of her love and beg him to come home to England quickly, she did not. Soon after Charles’ arrival in Vienna, she had learned from the papers that were sent down from London that the treaty had been delayed by Alexander I of Russia, who wanted it to include a Holy Alliance of European Emperors; a league of allied rulers all sworn to come to one another’s aid in times of war, and she knew from what she read that this was causing difficulties among those nations who had no desire to be tied to such an alliance. Since it was clear that England was one of the foremost objectors, there was no chance that Charles would be able to abandon his post until the czar had been brought to reason or England had forged another way.
Emily regained her strength quickly, and as soon as there was no possibility of her contracting childbed fever, Doctor Randall took his leave. She was supposed to remain in bed for two weeks, but she felt so well that she insisted on rising, for part of every day. In this she was abetted by Mrs. Dartmouth, who claimed it would help her back to her normal good health that much sooner, although the London nurses could be seen to shake their heads at such folly and disregard for doctor’s orders.
The baby, now that he was able to nurse, settled down into a placid routine of feedings, changes, and baths, and endless hours of sleep. His eyes seemed to be turning a very dark gray-green that reminded his mother of the stormy Channel, and he had a steady, unblinking stare and an occasional frown that was very much like his father’s. The entire house revolved around him, from the lowliest scullery maid to Mrs. Dartmouth and her attendant nursemaids.
Emily privately thought her son would be so spoiled by all this adoration that he would grow up impossibly proud and self-centered, but there was no way she could stem the flow of love and admiration from the staff for the tiny baby that everyone was calling “the little duke.”
13
By the first of April, Emily began to make plans to go up to town. Although she was happy with her son, she could not restrain her eagerness to be in Park Lane when his father came home from abroad so she could welcome him without delay, and in such a manner as to banish this marriage of convenience forever.
Mrs. Turner and Mr. Wilkins advised caution, thinking the move much too precipitate and the air of London dangerous for the little duke, but Darty once again came to her rescue.
“We must let her go, Mrs. Turner,” she said one afternoon when she was enjoying a cup of tea in the housekeeper’s rooms. “She’ll only fret herself to death down here, and that would be the worst thing a nursing mother could do. I’ll keep the baby as safe in town as he is here, and I imagine when the duke comes home, he’ll soon have them back here at the park, you mark my words.”
Mrs. Turner agreed, but remembering the stiffness that had grown up between the duke and duchess, she could not help but feel apprehensive, and she confided her worries to the old nurse.
“Yes, I know there is something wrong, but what it can be, I have no idea, for the duchess has not confided in me. Perhaps that is why she is so eager to be in London when her husband returns. But never fear! I’ll see she travels in easy-stages and doesn’t overtax herself.”
Emily laughed out loud the morning she came down the steps dressed for traveling to find the entourage that waited to take her to town. There was the coach for her and her maid; another large coach for Darty, the baby, and two nursemaids; a huge fourgon loaded with luggage and furniture; and several grooms to serve as outriders, as well as the coachmen and their attendants.
“Even the queen would not require so much,” she scolded Mrs. Turner, knowing full well that Mr. Wilkins and several other servants had already gone ahead to make all ready for her arrival in town. “To think that all this—this
pomp!—is for a tiny baby who barely weighs ten pounds!”
When Emily saw the housekeeper’s worried look that she had displeased her, she went to kiss her. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Turner,” she said as that good lady flushed with pleasure at the gesture. “I was only teasing, you know. You are too good to me. I know you will see that the park is run as smoothly as ever while I am gone, and I promise to let you know when we plan to return.”
She settled herself in the lead coach and waved to all the assembled servants as the cavalcade set off at a decorous pace down the drive.
It was three days later before they turned into Park Lane and she was helped down by a beaming Mr. Wilkins. How long it has been since I was here last, she thought as she preceded Darty and the baby into the imposing town house, and the servants began to unpack the coaches.
The baby was taken upstairs to the nursery, and Emily wandered around the rooms where she and Charles had begun their marriage. She remembered Charles had not made love to her here because of her loss of memory, and smiled. That will soon be remedied, she promised herself as she went up to her rooms. She felt a lightness and happiness to be here, almost as if she were that much closer to him now she was in London instead of at Wrotherham Park. Surely it could not be much longer before he returned! She had had a short reply to her letter that, although formal in tone, could not hide his impatience to see his son.
While she waited for him, she decided to begin to brave London society by herself. She marveled that she felt so strong and sure of this decision after all the time she had feared the haut ton's disapproval. It was almost as if her son’s birth had caused her to be reborn herself, so that the straightlaced, insecure girl that she had been once had been replaced by a mature, confident woman.
She sent a note to the Countess of Gant, informing her of her arrival and begging her to call, and she wrote to Lady Staunton. Emily might not like Charles’ cold, proud aunt, but she was determined to use every weapon in her arsenal to gain acceptance to society, and she knew Lady Staunton would be an invaluable ally. Whether it was the correct, restrained formality of her note, or the fact that she asked the lady’s help with the baby's christening, she did not know, but Lady Staunton called that very afternoon.
Emily instructed Wilkins to bring her guest to the most formal drawing room, and she rose to her feet as Lady Staunton swept in.
“Thank you for coming, m’lady,” Emily said, graciously extending her hand to forestall the necessity of the ritual curtsy she was sure the older woman resented. “So kind of you to give me the benefit of your advice.”
Lady Staunton inclined her head an inch as she took a seat on the stiffest sofa, and Emily continued as if she had just been greeted with the warmest expression of affection. “You see, the baby has not been christened, for I did so much want Charles to be here for the ceremony. You see my quandary!”
Lady Staunton drew herself up even straighter. “By no means must you wait,” she ordered. “It is of course unfortunate that the duke is absent—so like a man to be abroad when he is needed!—but the heir must be christened as soon as it I can be arranged.”
She paused, and Emily noticed the two red spots that appeared in her thin cheeks. “I would be happy to arrange; the ceremony for you, your Grace,” she said in her tight, toneless voice. “I think it safe to say that my knowledge of the correct procedure to be followed for such a momentous event surpasses yours.”
“What a kind offer!” Emily replied, knowing she had won a major skirmish. “Would you care to see your great-nephew, ma’am?”
Lady Staunton professed herself to be all eagerness to do so, and Emily rang the bell. She talked lightly of her journey and affairs at Wrotherham Park, and asked after Lord Staunton until the seventh duke was borne in proudly by a smiling Mrs. Dartmouth.
Fortunately he was fast asleep, so his behavior could not be faulted, and by a lucky chance, Darty had dressed him in one of Charles’ baby gowns, little knowing that Lady Staunton had embroidered those tiny rosettes with her own hands some thirty years before.
Even her frigidity could not survive that coincidence, and she pronounced the baby the handsomest infant she had ever seen. She spent several minutes holding him in her thin arms, all the while pointing out the Saint Allyn nose, chin, ears, mouth, and general bearing, and when Emily did not contradict her, she began to think the new duchess not as impossible for her exalted post as she had at first feared. Besides, much could be forgiven the girl who had so promptly produced the heir, and the baby had arrived only a little early and could be considered perfectly respectable.
As she took her leave, she gave Emily the first smile she had ever seen on that cold face. Lady Staunton foresaw little difficulty in manipulating the new duchess, and the chance to have a hand in the molding of the next Duke of Wrotherham—and hopefully with more satisfactory results than she had achieved with his father!—gained her complete capitulation.
Promising to call again soon, she invited Emily to come to her home on Mount Street for tea the following afternoon so she might be introduced to a few of the more select people of the ton, and then she swept away to visit Westminster Abbey to arrange the christening before calling on such of her friends as could be expected to appreciate the marvelous qualities of the newest Saint Allyn.
Emily allowed her the victory, well aware she had also been victorious.
Jessica Cathcart was not long in making an appearance either, and after assuring Emily that her son was the most perfect, well-behaved, and undoubtedly intelligent baby she had ever seen—second only to her own children, of course—she began to talk about the balls and parties and dinners and receptions that the duchess might now look forward to attending.
“But, Jessy,” Emily said as they sat over their teacups in the drawing room, “I really think I should wait until Charles returns before I begin to jaunter about quite as much as you propose. To go to a formal party without my husband ... no, no! I will be thought bold, and you are well aware that, with my background, it is necessary for me to exercise considerable restraint.”
“Rather you will be thought an antidote if you insist on such antiquated fustian! Why, when Nigel had to return to the country for a month, I did not cancel a single engagement. Come, my dear, trust me! I know why you speak as you do, but courage, my friend. We will beard the lion in his den together, and all will be well.”
Finally Emily agreed that there was no harm in riding in the countess’ carriage that same afternoon in the park, and going shopping and then on to a luncheon the next day, but she refused to consider balls and the more formal evenings until she could attend them on Charles’ arm.
“But in three weeks I am giving the most divine ball,” the countess mourned. “I shall be so disappointed if you are not there. Well, we shall see.”
Her blue eyes sparkled and she looked so confident that Emily had to laugh. “Yes, you think that in three weeks you will have time to cajole me into attending, do you not? We shall see indeed, Jessy,” Emily told her as they parted. “Besides, I am nursing the baby and my schedule most certainly must take second place to his. He is a very demanding young man!”
“Aren’t all men, no matter what their age?” the countess asked before she went out to her carriage.
All through the next days, London was treated to the sight of the beautiful new Duchess of Wrotherham, here, there, and everywhere, and if there were some high sticklers who thought to turn up their noses at Althea Wyndham’s daughter, it was not long before they could see they would be much in the minority. To be sponsored by the dashing Countess of Gant was one thing, but a lady approved by the correct and proper Lady Amelia Staunton as well must be acceptable anywhere.
Emily was aware that there were some who still looked askance at her and sniffed and turned away, especially among the older ladies who remembered her mother only too well and had never forgiven her her defection from their ranks, but she held her head high and ignored their stares and whispers. There wer
e plenty of others who seemed to be delighted to greet her, include her in their parties, and introduce her to their friends.
But the final seal on her acceptance came from Lady Merks, an august dowager and friend of Lady Staunton’s, who had the reputation of being society’s most severe disciplinarian.
Emily had gone to drink tea with Mrs. Whyte, a friend of Jessy’s, and was dismayed to find Mr. Edward Willoughby among the party. Teddy, as he was known to all his friends, was by no means needle-witted, but even he recognized the new duchess as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in all his twenty-four years, and he had become quite a nuisance whenever they chanced to meet. In Mrs. Whyte’s drawing room, he hovered over Emily, a vacuous smile never leaving his face as he gazed reverently into her eyes. He insisted on fetching her teacup and all but knelt at her feet in his obvious admiration as he presented it, making, as Lady Merks observed from across the room, a “perfect cake of himself.”
Emily was polite yet cool, and not even his most extravagant compliment or most heartfelt sigh caused her to blush or lose her composure. As she was leaving, Lady Merks close behind her, the young man so far forgot himself as to make her a passionate declaration in Mrs. Whyte’s deserted front hall.
“Assure you, my queen, slain by Cupid’s dart at first sight,” he exclaimed, clasping her hand in his and pressing it to his heart. “Pledge you undying devotion! Eternal love! Say you will be kind to me!”
Lady Merks paused just inside the drawing-room door to shamelessly eavesdrop, as Emily replied, in a cold voice dripping with icicles, “You not only forget yourself, sir, you insult me! However, if I can be assured this distasteful incident will not be repeated, I will not inform my husband of it. He would be most displeased to learn the Duchess of Wrotherham was being bothered in such a way.”
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