Duchess by Design

by Maya Rodale

  —Nelly Bly, The New York World*

  Union Square

  A few days later

  Within a week, a duke had ruined her life. Last week, Adeline had been so close to success that she could feel it—like the finest silk and delicate lace against her fingertips. Now she was back at the bottom of the scrap heap, skipping meals and pleading for positions that were beneath her talents, all because Madame Chalfont had dismissed her without even a reference.

  The stain on her satin was that she wouldn’t even get to finish her order for Miss Burnett. Until she’d been fired, she had labored late into the night, pouring her heart and soul into the construction of those gowns. Now she wouldn’t even get a glimpse of them.

  It was cruelly unfair that even having a man walking with her in broad daylight was enough to ruin her reputation and professional prospects.

  When Rachel and Rose invited her to join them for an evening out on the town, an invitation Adeline couldn’t accept fast enough. She needed a distraction. Whatever it was.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, once they were all out on Broadway.

  “Union Square. Emma Goldman is giving a speech after she’s just gotten out of jail,” Rachel explained. “It’s sure to be a crush.”

  “I don’t know who that is, but as long as she provides a distraction from the wreckage of my life, I’m all ears.”

  “She’s one of those reformers,” Rose explained. Indeed, the city—America—was full of them these days, agitating for laborers and the working class, for women’s right to vote or do anything other than get married, and some even fought for the rights of birds.

  To say the square was a crush was an understatement. It was very nearly a mob scene. Union Square was full of people from all walks of life who had rallied to hear the anarchist reformer. In the crowd, ladies and gentlemen mingled with gamblers and prostitutes; there were rich bankers and crooked politicians next to common laborers and seamstresses like her; there were sportsmen and suffragists. Adeline had never seen such a mix, never even imagined it and here they all were, one seething mass of humanity, present to hear a woman speak.

  She wondered what the duke would think of a spectacle like this.

  “Come back to Madame Chalfont’s. We miss you terribly,” Rachel said loudly, trying to make her voice heard over the dull roar of the crowd while waiting for the speaker to take the stage.

  “I was fired, remember?”

  “That damned duke!” Rose said, her eyes flashing. “If I had known he’d get you fired I never would have encouraged you to walk in the park with him.”

  That damned duke, indeed. Not a day went by that she didn’t think of him—and none too fondly, either. Sure, he was handsome in a forget-your-own-name, weak-in-the-knees kind of way. Sure, he had that accent and spoke in a voice of kings and wealth and power and security, which made mere flirting feel like something else entirely. And yes, he had been interested in her—asking and listening to her ideas, even if they contradicted his—and that was its own kind of seduction.

  But none of that was enough to compensate for the fact that he might have just ruined her life.

  He should have known what it looked like when a man of his station took up with a woman of hers and he should have stayed away. Yet they both let his prestige cloud their judgment.

  Adeline didn’t know if she were angrier with the world than with him.

  “He owes you,” Rachel said. “He should at least give you money to tide you over until you find a new position. It’s the least he can do.”

  Rose scoffed. “She doesn’t want his money.”

  “He offered and I refused. I didn’t want to take his pity money to assuage his guilt.”

  Or did she? At night, as she tossed and turned and listened to every sound her neighbors made, she thought maybe she should have taken it. Especially when she thought of those massive beds in the massive bedrooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Just a few dollars, just to tide her over would have been fine, right? Like a tax, or some other payment that she was owed. Perhaps she should demand it of him. She had only to march uptown and demand an audience.

  He would see her. She knew he would.

  What an interesting, tantalizing feeling to know that a man as powerful as he would drop everything to see her. His lips would turn up into a slight smile and his gaze would do not-unpleasant things to her insides. She might find herself tempted by him.

  No, she would not go to him, asking for what was owed. She did not wish to grapple with any thoughts and feelings of desire.

  She wanted her pride more than she wanted his money.

  “I think he owes her,” Rachel said.

  “Well no one is disagreeing with that,” Adeline replied.

  “Shh . . .”

  Then a woman took the stage. Alone. A petite woman in a blue serge Eton suit with a blue muslin shirtwaist and little heeled boots that peeked out from under her skirts. The people in the square went silent.

  “It’s her,” someone next to Adeline whispered fiercely yet adoringly. All around her faces were turned upward in rapt attention. Adeline listened as this woman alone on the stage spoke of . . . love.

  Of all things, she spoke of love and desire and not getting married.

  Marriage and love have nothing in common; they are as far apart as the poles—are, in fact, antagonistic to each other.

  Adeline snapped to attention. This she knew to be true. Her own mother was testament to that, three times in succession with not a drop of affection from any of her husbands. Just desperation—mother and child had to eat, after all. Adeline wondered: was the duke really any different? Her heart was almost moved to pity when she thought of the cold nights awaiting him if he married for a reason other than the deepest and truest affection.

  Can there be anything more outrageous than the idea that a healthy, grown woman, full of life and passion, must deny nature’s demand, must subdue her most intense craving, undermine her health and break her spirit, must stunt her vision, abstain from the depth and glory of sex experience until a “good” man comes along to take her unto himself as a wife?

  And Adeline felt the heat unfurling within her, from her cheeks to the tips of her toes in her little French heels, which pinched her toes. What a scandalous thing to even think, let alone to speak aloud, let alone to declare to this crowd of mixed company. That a woman might have those feelings and might freely indulge in them without marriage, and without censure, was a shocking idea to Adeline. One that, heaven help her, made her think of the duke. What if her desire wasn’t wrong? What if they could exchange nothing more than hearts and bodies, without money and marriage getting into the mix? She had to admit to herself that the fire she felt for him wasn’t entirely fury.

  Love, the strongest and deepest element in all life, the harbinger of hope, of joy, of ecstasy; love, the defier of all laws, of all conventions; love, the freest, the most powerful moulder of human destiny. How can such an all-compelling force be synonymous with that poor little state- and church-begotten weed, marriage?

  And Adeline thought, Tell that to the duke. Tell that to a man intent on marrying for money, not love. The more Adeline listened to Miss Goldman, the more she reaffirmed that love and passion she might welcome, but she would never, ever marry at all.

  In the crush of women exiting the square Adeline got separated from Rose and Rachel, so she found a spot on the sidewalk to wait for them. She was standing in the glow of the streetlight when she heard someone call her name.

  “Miss Black!”

  Adeline turned and saw Miss Burnett strolling toward her, and she was wearing one of the dresses she had created. A lump rose in her throat because she was finally seeing one of her gowns on a real woman and not just in her imagination, and the experience was more emotional than she would have imagined.

  It was the midnight-blue taffeta, with a deceptively plain skirt in front, while the bustle was a gorgeous bundle of fabric and ruffles cascading to the grou
nd, like a waterfall at midnight. The fabric around the chest was shirred not only to add simple decoration but also to give an ease of movement. The decor on the gown was simple but stark: white mother-of-pearl buttons in a line from throat to tapered waist, as if to say eyes up here!

  “Miss Burnett, what a surprise to see you here!” Adeline said. “Your gown is lovely, if I do say so myself.”

  “Thank you. All my friends have been jealous of my new wardrobe.”

  Adeline had scarcely noticed the three friends with Miss Burnett until one of them spoke. Miss Burnett introduced her to a Mrs. Dean and a Mrs. Bergen. Miss Lumley was in attendance as well, standing close to Miss Burnett.

  “We have been plaguing her for the name of her dressmaker ever since she wore that forest-green afternoon dress to our last meeting,” Mrs. Dean said.

  “But we went to Madame Chalfont’s to ask for you and was told you were no longer employed there,” said Mrs. Bergen.

  “I should think she would want you in her employ, because you have talent,” Miss Lumley added.

  “Well, I think so,” Adeline replied, feeling the heat of shame and embarrassment rise up within her. She did not want to admit her situation to these fine women. “I cannot say the same for Madame Chalfont, though.”

  “Where can we find you?” Mrs. Dean asked. “I should like to commission some dresses for myself and my daughters.”

  Adeline did not wish to provide the address of her dismal, depressing lodgings, full of dismal, depressing people.

  “I don’t have an establishment at present,” Adeline admitted.

  The group of ladies did that thing women do, where they communicate volumes with only their eyes, never even uttering a word. When this silent conversation apparently concluded, Miss Burnett slid her gloved hand into one of the pockets that Adeline had lovingly sewn into her gown, removed a card, and pressed it into Adeline’s hands.

  “We take callers on Tuesdays.”

  “Be sure to come alone.”

  “Tell no one.”

  Adeline looked down at the card in her hand. The paper was plain white, but of an exceptionally fine quality. The words were printed in formal script with black ink.

  The Ladies of Liberty Club

  25 West Tenth Street

  New York City

  When Adeline looked up again, the women were gone, disappearing into the crowd that Rose and Rachel pushed their way through, casting backward glances at the women Adeline had just been speaking to.

  “Who were those women?” Rachel asked.

  “They look fancy,” Rose remarked.

  “Just some women who liked my dress,” Adeline replied because she wasn’t sure what else to say. Were they future clients? Fairy godmothers? Were they just figments of her imagination?

  “Have you ever heard of the Ladies of Liberty Club?”

  Both Rose and Rachel shrugged to say nope, never heard of ’em. Nevertheless, Adeline slipped the card into her own pocket and wondered if maybe she didn’t need Madame Chalfont or the duke and his money after all.

  Chapter Nine

  Nora threatening elopement. Stop. Clara refusing wealthy suitor because of nonsense about love match. Stop. Solicitor says more repairs needed at Lyon House. Stop. Please tell him it is imperative that the Duchess of Kingston needs to be height of fashion. Stop. Ermine cape essential. Stop.

  —Telegram from Her Grace,

  the Duchess of Kingston

  Meanwhile, uptown . . .

  The Metropolitan Club

  One East Sixtieth Street

  Though it was newly established, the Metropolitan Club was, in Kingston’s eyes, the Manhattan equivalent of White’s in that it was the exclusive haven of wealthy, powerful, and privileged men. It was a place where they might not be plagued by the problems of the world, or females, or especially the female problems of the world.

  It was a place where telegrams from his mother could not reach him, relating the very latest in family and fashion dramas, such as the one burning a hole in his jacket pocket now that the concierge had handed to him on his way out of the hotel. Putting her message out of mind was another problem, though, one he expected a drink at the club would help him forget.

  The club was where he might take a break from the business of securing an heiress, what with the lack of scheming mamas and darling daughters present to potentially ensnare and entrap him. While they had all the wealth in the world, they did not have his aristocratic title—and they weren’t used to not getting what they wanted.

  But here, he could sit back, relax, sip a fine whiskey, and consider whether Miss Olivia Watson, the blond railroad heiress was The One. Or perhaps Miss Elsie Pennypacker, the brunette daughter of a shipping magnate, was his future duchess. After a whirlwind of soirees, musicals, and social calls, Kingston had narrowed his prospects down to these two women. There were certainly more eligible ladies for him to meet, but one of these two would have to do, for time was of the essence.

  His mother needed an ermine cape.

  Thoughts of marriage, money, and ermine capes made his thoughts turn to Adeline. Who was he fooling? He couldn’t stop thinking about Adeline. She was a young woman alone, at the mercy of an unfriendly world. He was simply concerned for her welfare, he told himself.

  But it was those fiery arrows of truth that she’d aimed and fired directly at him that really claimed his cognitive functions and held on tight.

  You think being broke is when your club membership comes due or when you need to make some repairs to one of your houses.

  Miss Black did not understand the position he was in, he protested, in a silent conversation with himself. Being a young woman alone in the world, she simply did not understand the number of people who relied upon him to protect them and provide for them.

  His sisters.

  His mother. And her dressmakers. To say nothing of the milliners.

  His servants, who lived and worked in his houses and would like to do so without the roof crashing down on their heads. Some had even devoted their entire lives to serving the Kingston estate, and it felt like the worst sort of betrayal to let them go now.

  His tenants were finding it harder and harder to make a living off the land, especially since his father had refused to allow a train station to be built on the estate. They were hardworking families who’d farmed the land for generations: the Smythes, the Blackwoods, the Harrisons. Families faced separation and poverty if he could not find a solution to the estate’s pressing problems.

  The world was changing. He admittedly fought it by holding on tight to tradition. After all, it had worked for countless generations of Kingston dukes before him.

  Wed an heiress. So simple, that.

  It was much, much easier than changing the world, as Adeline had admonished him to do.

  With this fortune he could restore his world to rights. He could be the duke and gentleman that he’d been born and raised to be. He could ensure that everyone under his protection was provided for.

  This loveless marriage of convenience was the right, honorable thing to do. So he would do it.

  What will I say when prospective employers have reason to question my virtue?

  Kingston sipped his whiskey and gave a hard look at the men around him. No one questioned their virtue as they schemed to obtain fortunes by methods both honest and dishonest. There was no question about their virtue as they told lewd and ribald stories about things they did with mistresses downtown, all while sipping expensive champagne and lighting imported cigars with hundred-dollar bills set aflame, in the vicinity of priceless works of art.

  And she might not be able to eat because of him.

  His stomach churned. The whiskey. It had to be the exceedingly fine whiskey, aged eighteen years, and selling for an astronomical sum. He did not even know how its price compared to a working woman’s wages.

  It was not the whiskey. Or the champagne or caviar or cake.

  It was guilt. Hot, festering, churning
guilt. It was the slow dawning awareness that while he might be a savior to some, he was undoubtedly the villain in her story. He had gotten a poor seamstress fired by his mere presence. By sniffing around her skirts and nipping at her heels.

  Making matters even worse was the unavoidable and deeply uncomfortable fact that he had developed some sort of feelings for the woman, that spitfire female with the sparkling doe eyes and kissable lips. She teased and challenged him, forcing him to question the very foundations of his existence.

  It wasn’t every day a man had the pleasure of meeting a woman like that.

  It wasn’t every day a man lost her.

  All because he’d been so blinded by anger. He never really believed that she had intentionally deceived him. If he was emotional at all it was because he’d had a glimpse of a future where he could please everyone: do his duty by the dukedom and find a bride he actually wanted. That possibility had been wrenched away.

  He did not think he could fall in love with Miss Pennypacker or Miss Watson.

  “What has you so glum?” Freddie strolled in and dropped into the seat opposite. “Let me guess—women troubles.”

  “You could say that.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. The club is an excellent spot to avoid women troubles. Hence my presence here. If you see my wife, tell her I’m very sorry for skipping her mother’s birthday tea but I could not miss the races that day. Say, are you still debating between your two charming heiresses?”

  “Yes. That. I cannot decide if I prefer blondes or brunettes. If I prefer railroad money or shipping money. The problems of a man of my position.”

  “You know, Duke, that some people work in coal mines.”

  “Yes, like my tenants when I cannot afford to keep the estates up and running. What is your point?”

  “Some people have real problems and you’re here sulking over which heiress you would like to wed. Some people even have to marry the only heiress who will have them.” Freddie heaved a mighty sigh. Poor Marian. “You at least have the title. I had to rely on my boyish good looks, English accent and prospect as second in line. Fortunately, that was enough to charm Marian. And her giggling. But anyway, I can’t imagine why you are having trouble landing an heiress.”