The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  The same order one would give a dog. Yancey defiantly raised her chin and pretended not to be terrified as she met his dull gaze. Still, she took a subtle step back, away from that pointing finger. Then she remembered her trunks outside and the threatening rain. She pointed to the closed doors behind her. “My belongings. They’re outside. And it’s going to rain. Could you—”

  “No.” With that cryptic word, he turned away from her, making his lumbering way over to a wide sweep of stairs that curved up to the second floor.

  “Hold on. Where are you off to?” Yancey took tentative steps forward, her eyes finally sending signals to her brain regarding what she was seeing. Gold-flecked wallpaper. Elaborate light fixtures in sconces upon the walls. A center table upon which resided a huge vase stuffed with fresh spring flowers. And, finally, ornately framed oil paintings of most probably past dukes and duchesses, some with their children and dogs and horses and even, incongruously, a few chickens scattered about in the background. Yancey called out again. “Will you please tell me where you’re going?”

  Now about three steps up, the huge man turned and faced her. Again he pointed at her. “Stay there.”

  Yancey was getting sorely tired of this man. She tried duchess-haughty. “You’ve no right to order me about. What is your name?”

  He ignored her, turning around and making his way up the stairs. The man’s heavy footsteps echoed like a cannon shot through the space where she stood. She wondered if the creature would come back at all. And if he did, would he have some sort of weapon with him—or, worse, other large beings of his kind? Or both?

  Then a most unsettling thought popped into her consciousness. Dear God, maybe he’s the duke. Yancey had spent a fair amount of time trying to imagine what a duke looked like, but she certainly hadn’t pictured this lumbering giant. She shook her head, dismissing the notion that this man could be a peer of the realm. He was the butler, plain and simple, given his livery and the duties he’d performed, such as answering the door and going to announce her to the family … if that’s actually what he meant to do.

  Yancey exhaled. Was she really supposed to just stand here for the rest of her days?

  She glanced to her right and to her left. Behind one of these many closed doors had to be a drawing room. Surely the rude man would not begrudge her a chair, Yancey fussed silently, denouncing him as not the least bit hospitable. Of course, she realized that she was the uninvited one here. But it wasn’t up to this man to snub her. That was the job of his employers. And what exactly had she envisioned that those people would do? Had she thought the duke would fall on her, crying and thankful? His mother might, she decided. She envisioned a dinner party to introduce her. Perhaps a welcoming-home fete. A soirée.

  But then she came back to reality. They’d hardly do any of that. For one thing, they were in mourning for the firstborn son. And for another, she was not the second son’s actual wife. So their most likely response would be to toss her out. If they tried, she’d tell them who she was, a Pinkerton, and offer them her services. She’d be willing to bet they hadn’t anticipated that, much as she hadn’t anticipated the daunting servant who’d only now disappeared around an upward swirl of the stairs that led to the upper floors. Who could have anticipated him?

  Just then, Yancey became aware of movement to her right. A door was opening quietly, cautiously. She tensed, clutching at her handbag … and the gun inside it … as she waited to see what would happen next. Slowly a very aged and gnarled hand crept out, its arthritic fingers holding on to the thick wood that comprised the solid door, which stopped just barely ajar. Almost breathless with fear and anticipation—given the appearance of the butler—Yancey raised her eyebrows and her chin, ready to fight or flee, whichever seemed more prudent as events transpired or even stranger beings revealed themselves.

  But the hand stayed where it was, clutching at the door only several inches above the polished brass knob. This told Yancey that the owner of the fingers was probably someone of small stature … who neither opened the door farther nor presented himself or herself for Yancey’s inspection. Which was fine with her. Then, a tiny, tinny voice all but whispered, “Is he gone yet?”

  Yancey looked from the fingers … to the empty stairs … and back to the fingers. “Gone? Do you mean the butler?”

  “Shhh! He’ll come back and find me.”

  Yancey frowned, a sudden fierce and protective instinct welling up in her chest for this obviously ancient and perhaps crippled person. “Are you afraid of him? Has he mishandled you?” She could certainly imagine that he had or could.

  “Mishandled me? Who? Scotty? I’d like to see him try. No, we were playing hide-and-seek. And he’s ‘it.’ Although I don’t believe he actually hunts for me. I think he allows me to hide and then he goes on about his business. That’s quite rude, don’t you think?”

  As insane as the conversation was, Yancey found herself agreeing with the elderly person. “Yes. It is rude. Especially since I think he’s done it to me, too. Ignoring me, I mean.”

  “See? Rude, I tell you.”

  Nodding her continued agreement and eyeing the stairs, Yancey now feared that she hadn’t been dropped off at Stonebridge at all. Instead, she’d been left on the door of an asylum for the mentally infirm. And apparently they were in charge. That was the only explanation that made any sense. No wonder Tom the coachman had been so eager to be off. Yancey berated herself, thinking she should have known. Fine detective instincts she possessed. Such honed skills and keen perceptions. The Fox had been outfoxed.

  “You’re her, aren’t you? The American.” This was from the person still behind the door.

  Yancey’s nerve endings pricked up alertly. “Yes, I am. I’m Sarah Margaret … Treyhorne. The Duchess of Somerset.” There. She’d gotten it out. “And who are you?”

  A pause of several moments’ duration passed. Yancey wondered if the person hidden behind the door intended to answer her.

  Then … that same scratchy, aged voice said, “I’m Sarah Margaret Treyhorne. The Duchess of Somerset.”

  Chapter Three

  Stuck out in the horse barn while he waited out the downpour, which was finally slacking off, Samuel Isaac Treyhorne, the twelfth Duke of Somerset, stood smoking a cigar as he leaned a shoulder against the rough wood frame of the open oversized doors. The smell of rain freshened the air as a stray tendril of breeze swirled past, carrying away his cigar smoke. Squinting in concentration, Sam marked the hired coach’s progress up the curving driveway until the manor house blocked it from his view.

  He didn’t get much company at his country house. Especially during the season. And especially from persons in hired coaches, immediately identifiable to him by its distinctive coloring. His equals owned their own conveyances. Besides, anyone who would have visited them in their time of mourning had already done so and would now be in London enjoying the mindless rounds of balls and other assorted inane gatherings that marked the upper class’s social life.

  Sam’s smile was sardonic and self-directed. Too much time in America had left him pained by the very notion of such ritualized social expectations. And speaking of such, who dared to visit without an express invitation? In his mind, he could hear his mother saying it simply wasn’t done. Now, that bit of etiquette he did like. All a man had to do was not invite anyone to visit, or decline certain invitations, and thus be spared a fair amount of tedious company.

  But apparently that rule had been broken by this person or persons in the hired coach. Suddenly he didn’t like the feel of this visitation. Whoever it was, he reasoned, had to be the bearer of bad news because that was the only kind he’d had of late. But no matter the reason, he’d know soon enough because Scotty would greet the interlopers, determine the nature of their visit, and then simply toss some hapless young page out the back door and send him running to the barn at risk of life, limb, and general health to tell him that the duke’s presence was needed in the manse.

  The duke. That
got a snort of self-derision out of Sam. He was the duke. That had a nice ring to it, but it sure as hell hadn’t been his idea to assume the title. He’d had the good sense to be born the second son and to leave as soon as he’d achieved his majority. He’d gone to America to seek his own fortune and had left all the titled responsibility to Geoffrey Charles, firstborn and a man ideally suited to the task of administering a thriving duchy. Or so Sam and everyone else had thought.

  His expression hardened with grief and no small amount of anger. Geoffrey. Tall, strong, capable. Intelligent. A very good man. Compassionate. But secretly and privately troubled. And now … dead.

  Sam’s throat worked. He handled his cigar, tamping the ash before once again clamping the rolled tobacco between his teeth. Squinting now against the rising emotion in his heart that beat painfully in his chest, Sam fixed his gaze on the ancient tower that formed the cornerstone of the grand manor house. His and Geoff’s favorite place to play when they’d been small boys. Sam admitted that he missed his older brother more than he would let on to anyone.

  “Dammit, Geoff, how did this happen?” His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

  “Did you say something, Your Grace?”

  Startled, Sam pivoted around, looking for the speaker.

  There stood a work-dirtied stableman who held a pitchfork in his calloused hands. He’d obviously been mucking out the stalls. Standing in the barn’s dim interior, the big man bowed and then waited deferentially for Sam to speak. Impatience had Sam quirking his mouth. He’d grown up with this deference, of course, and was used to it. But, again, his years in America, with its brash openness and ideals of equality, had changed him. Taking the cigar from between his lips and exhaling the smoke, Sam searched his mind for the man’s name. “Daniel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He appeared pleased that Sam could recall his name.

  Sam was, too. He knew that his notice of a servant was outside the norm in most upper-class households where, for the most part and with only a few exceptions—such as the butler, a valet, or a lady’s maid—servants remained out of sight of their employers and totally anonymous. “Well, yes, Daniel, I did speak. But it was nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Daniel turned away, going solemnly back to his chores. Hay rustled underfoot as he tramped through it and turned left toward the next row of stalls.

  Just as Sam turned back to the open doors and reflected on a life spent mucking out manure and how similar, figuratively speaking, that existence was to his own life of late, a sudden darting movement from up at the manor caught his eye. What’s this? He tensed, but then he spotted the source of the disturbance and relaxed. Just as he’d predicted. Bursting out of the ornate gardens and tearing down a hill, then across the open meadow, and running with total abandon toward the horse barn, came a young boy splashing—no doubt happily—through puddle after puddle. Indeed, his course zigzagged as if in an effort not to miss a single one.

  Sam chuckled, surprising himself that he did. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled. And now here he was laughing. That lifted his spirits. Maybe it was the running boy. The exuberance he showed. The freedom and joy. This didn’t look like bad news. Or feel like it, either. As he watched the boy coming his way, an air of expectancy seized Sam, all but shutting off his thoughts. Within a few more moments, the joyously soaked boy slid to a halt in front of Sam, who urged him to step inside the barn.

  Out of the weather now, the lad stood dripping and silent. Sam half expected the freckled page to shake himself like a dog would. Instead, staring up at Sam, his brown eyes wide with respect, the boy sketched a formal bow. Instead of being annoyed, Sam found it rather amusing under the circumstances. After all, here they were out in the horse barn with the smell of manure all around. The boy’s clothes were soaked. And Sam’s riding attire—buff breeches, white, open-necked shirt, and Hessians, his favorite pair of tall black boots—was informal, to say the least. Yet manners and rituals would prevail. As would protocol.

  “Well? What is it, lad? Speak up,” Sam encouraged.

  Blinking, with water dripping off his longish brown hair and into his eyes, the page looked up at Sam. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Scotty sent me. He says you’re to come to the manor house at once.”

  “I see.” Sam doubted if Scotty had actually said all those words. They would comprise his entire vocabulary. Sam tossed his cigar butt out on the wet gravel. “Were those his actual words?”

  “No, Your Grace. What he said was ‘Fetch.’”

  A word for a dog. Sam raised his eyebrows. “And you assumed he meant me and not perhaps Mr. Marples?”

  “No, Your Grace. I mean yes, Your Grace. He meant you, Your Grace.” The boy’s face colored, further emphasizing his brown freckles. Then his eyes widened, perhaps with a new doubt. “Was I wrong, Your Grace?”

  “Probably not. Did Scotty say why you were to fetch me?” Of course, he knew why—the visitor in the hired coach. But he thought by questioning this boy he might find out something about what awaited him in the manor.

  “Yes, he did, Your Grace. You have a lady visitor.”

  An unexpected thrill chased through Sam. Not so much a pleasurable one, but certainly one of anticipation. “A lady visitor, is it? That can’t be bad.” Or boring.

  “No, Your Grace.”

  One more Your Grace and Sam felt certain his teeth would itch. Trying to have a meaningful conversation with anyone since he’d assumed the title had become a tedious and protracted chore. “Do we know who the lady is?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  And there it was. Another Your Grace. Sam’s teeth itched. “Well, lad? Who is she?” He assumed a proper upper-class glower and crossed his arms over his chest.

  The boy swiped a hand over his brow to sweep his wet hair to the side. “She says she’s the duchess, Your Grace.”

  “The duchess of what exactly?” Sam needed this narrowed down. England was currently overrun with duchesses. A man couldn’t take ten steps without stepping on the toes of one.

  The boy swallowed. “Why, the Duchess of Somerset, Your Grace. Your wife. Newly come from America.”

  * * *

  Inside the manse, on its third floor, a veritable parade had assembled and now marched along a hallway in the west wing. Yancey followed the housekeeper, Mrs. Edgars, a tall, thin, no-nonsense woman who’d come back with the gruff giant unbelievably named Scotty. He too lumbered in front of Yancey. For her part, her hand was lightly held in the gnarled and knobby little hand of the tiny white-haired woman whose game of hide-and-seek Yancey’s untimely appearance had interrupted. At least now Yancey knew the benign reason why the elderly lady had identified herself as the Duchess of Somerset. She tended to repeat word for word what was said to her, but only apparently those words that struck her fancy.

  Flanking Yancey and her new friend were three husky young men who handled her traveling trunks. And behind them trailed three imperious longhaired white cats. They must make quite a sight was Yancey’s opinion as she proceeded as decorously as possible toward the closed door that she’d been told led to the suite of rooms she would occupy.

  Painfully enough, her suite was the one adjoining the duke’s—as befitted his wife, she’d been told by Mrs. Edgars. She’d also informed Yancey that, though she hadn’t known when to expect Her Grace’s arrival, she’d been told in private by Her Grace Rosamond Sparrow Treyhorne, the duke’s mother, to anticipate it. Yancey had accepted this silently, knowing that the housekeeper thought her the actual duchess and not the pretender that she was.

  Yancey tucked away two bits of knowledge from this conversation. One, the housekeeper had been told in private by the dowager to anticipate her daughter-in-law’s arrival. That meant the mother had kept her letter-writing activities a secret from her son, just as Yancey had wondered about with Mr. Pinkerton. And two, no one here doubted for a second that Yancey was who she said she was. Obviously, the d
uke’s household had not ever met the real duchess. Interesting, but in her favor.

  Still, surprising her had been the moment of conscience she’d experienced downstairs. Responsibility for her attack of guilt lay with the tiny elderly woman, whose beautifully tailored though overlong skirts now trailed along the polished floors. Her Grace Nana, everyone called her. She was instantly lovable. And she’d seemed so happy to see Yancey—or Sarah Margaret—when she’d introduced herself that Yancey had almost blurted out the truth right there.

  How distressing. It was one thing to deceive criminals. It was quite another to lie to honest and accepting people such as these. But lie she must, Yancey felt, in order to see the dowager duchess. Get inside by presenting herself as the woman’s daughter-in-law, Mr. Pinkerton had said. Only in that disguise, he’d told her, could she be assured of an audience with the dowager. Any other person could conceivably be turned away. But not the daughter-in-law, the duchess herself.

  Yancey glanced over at her companion. The ancient wispy-haired woman kept up a steady stream of chatter about people and places Yancey had never heard of. Even navigating the many stairs up to the third floor hadn’t winded the ancient woman. Nor did it seem to bother her that Yancey didn’t answer her. She would have been pleased to make polite remarks at appropriate intervals, but her venerable escort had yet to take a breath that would allow Yancey to do so.

  At last, Mrs. Edgars and Scotty stopped. Yancey and company did the same. Along with the housekeeper, the giant turned to face her. Glowering, he pointed to a closed door. “Here.”

  Yancey managed a smile. “Of course. Whatever you say … Scotty.”

  The men with the trunks excused themselves—“Pardon us, Your Grace”—as they pushed around her and followed Mrs. Edgars and Scotty into the room ahead of Yancey, Her Grace Nana, and the three cats. Then Yancey looked again and chuckled. Make that three cats and a dog. Apparently, somewhere along the way they’d picked up a small, fat brown dog to add to the menagerie around her ankles. The terrier stayed a respectful distance from the impassive but watchful cats.