Proud Mary

by Lucinda Brant

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘DON’T MUMBLE, Mary! Did you say Wishart? Did you say his name is Wishart Manly?”

  Mary went white. She had voiced her thoughts aloud, and to none other than her mother—the last person to whom she would ever confide. Flustered, she blushed at her ineptitude. Yet, force of habit kept her agitation in check. Her back stiffened, she put up her chin and lowered her lashes. Taking hold of her petticoats, which she lifted slightly, she bobbed a respectful curtsy to the Countess of Strathsay, and then enquired after her health, which she hoped would deflect her mother’s need to have her question answered.

  “How are you, Mama? Has your bilious headache subsided?”

  “No, it has not! But what is a headache—my health—of consequence when history is to be made this night? One must rise above one’s own wants and needs upon such an occasion as this, to know that one has been part of something greater.”

  “I don’t understand. If you are still unwell, you should have stayed in bed.”

  Charlotte Strathsay rolled her eyes and made a familiar clicking sound with her tongue that instantly further stiffened Mary’s back and gave her a presentiment of what was to come.

  “The Duchess of Kinross is about to give birth to the heir to a Scottish dukedom, Mary,” her mother enunciated as one does to a small child when cross. “Her Grace has already provided an English duke with an heir. Surely even you have managed to figure out that with this birth your cousin will be the ancestress of not one but two different dukedoms from two different kingdoms. Now that is something to crow about!”

  “I doubt Cousin Duchess cares for any of that at this moment, Mama. All she wants is a healthy baby and to come through the birth alive, and that is what His Grace wants too.”

  “And how would you know what their wants and needs are when—”

  “Because that is what any new mother would—”

  “Do stop talking drivel. You never fail to surprise or disappoint me with your commonplace observations. Sometimes I wonder if you are my daughter at all. You always manage to take something of great significance and reduce it to the mundane. Your cousin is not just any woman about to give birth, she is a duchess.”

  “I know that, Mama.”

  “Then you also know that in her exalted position she is required to think of the greater good of the dukedom. Though dearest Antonia does occasionally forget who she is and fails to take her position seriously enough. After all, trundling off across the country to fetch you, just because your child has had some sort of infantile fit, was an unnecessary risk to her and the baby, and why, no doubt, she has gone into an early labor. Be it on your head, Mary, should any harm come to the Duke of Kinross’s heir.”

  “My-my—head?” Mary stuttered and was momentarily lost for words.

  “You don’t look well, my lady,” Deb Roxton stated mildly, sweeping up to join mother and daughter. She smiled kindly on Mary, then said to Lady Strathsay, “Perhaps a cup of tea would help?”

  “Yes, I do believe you are quite right, my dear. An excellent notion,” the Countess agreed with a smile and a sigh, and in an altogether different voice she used with her daughter; this voice dripped with obsequiousness. “If you would be so kind, I am sure a cup of tea will help keep the thud in my temple within the limits of tolerance.”

  Mary looked from her mother to Deborah, then glanced across at Roxton and Christopher and saw that both men had broken off their conversation and were also an audience to this exchange.

  Always having been one to concede, to back down, to take on the chin her mother’s petty public criticisms and be put in her place because she never won with her mother, and it was far easier to say nothing than offer an alternate point of view, tonight Mary was having none of it. She was unsure as to what prompted her defiance—her heightened anxiety for her cousin about to give birth, or because Christopher was witness to her mother’s appalling behavior, or because she had finally reached the limits of her tolerance that her family members took in their stride the manner in which her mother spoke to her, and then would intervene on her behalf, as if she were incapable of defending herself. Whatever it was, and she suspected it was a combination of all three—although having Christopher bear witness to her mother’s humiliating behavior did spur her on to take umbrage—upon this occasion she was not going to be belittled.

  Still, such determination did not stop her feeling sick to her stomach and weak at the knees. In truth, her mother terrified her just as much now she was an adult as she had done when she was still in the schoolroom. Anticipating her reaction to any challenge to her parental authority was almost as crippling as the challenge itself. But for once Mary was not going to buckle, and with her hand holding tightly to her wrist she said quietly but firmly,

  “Mama, if you wish a cup of tea, I will fetch it. Deb should not wait on you. It is a conceit and feeds your vanity to have her at your beck and call. Deb has just suckled her infant, so could do with a cup of tea herself; which I shall also fetch.”

  “Mary, I was only trying to—” the Duchess began, then stopped and changed tack under Mary’s determined gaze. “That would be lovely. Thank-you, Mary. Your mother and I will sit by the fire to take our tea.”

  The Countess stood her ground.

  “You are clearly not yourself, Mary, to dare to speak to me in such a disgraceful tone, and to the Duchess, too. You owe us an apology.”

  “No, Mama, I do not. I have nothing to apologize for. Sit by the fireplace as Deb suggests and I will bring your tea. Then I must return to Cousin Duchess.”

  The Countess of Strathsay stared at her daughter as if she were mad to have interrupted her twice in as many minutes, face flooding with embarrassment. And then she caught the smile exchanged between the Duchess of Roxton and her duke, and was convinced they were having a laugh at her expense, that Mary, whom she had never considered very bright and thought socially inept, had, in one unwitting sentence, unmasked her, and in public.

  Charlotte did indeed enjoy having the Duchess of Roxton wait on her. It reinforced her self-worth and bolstered the delusion that she was an important member of the Roxton inner circle. But to have her daughter draw attention to this vanity was more than she could tolerate. Momentarily stunned, she was lost for a suitable rejoinder, but she knew she had to do something to realign the planets to her worldview.

  “I will sit when I want to sit and not when you tell me to do so,” she retorted, gloved hands clasped tightly about the closed sticks of her fan. She looked down her long nose. “This is as good a time as any to tell you that because you have done nothing to curb your child’s flights of fantasy—which caused a most embarrassing episode I cannot bring myself to repeat—I was compelled to interfere on her behalf. If her mother cannot see what is best for her, then I must step in as that child’s grandmother and do what I see fit.”

  “Are you talking about Teddy?”

  Charlotte made a face at her daughter as if she lacked basic levels of comprehension.

  “Do you have any other children? No! More’s the pity. Of course I am talking about your daughter—”

  “Then please use her name. And I do know what is best for her, so your concern is unnecessary.”

  “Unnecessary? Dear me, perhaps it is you who are living in a fantasy world. That child is not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Naturally I do not blame her, I blame her parents—her father for not allowing her to socialize with her Roxton cousins, and you for not caring in the least that she spends her time cavorting with the unwashed and unkempt brats of pig farmers and woodland dwellers and the like.”

  “I do care. I care very much. And you have never been to Abbeywood so you would not know—”

  “I know her. I don’t want or need to know them. It is as well I had the foresight to correspond with a reputable school for young ladies in Cheltenham. The headmistress has been persuaded to take the child, particularly given my rank and that she has ducal relatives. And you can thank me t
he woman did not request to inspect Theodora before she accepted her, because one look and she’d have thought she was admitting the sister of Peter the Wild Boy!”

  Mary was aghast, but kept her temper in check.

  “You should not have gone to so much trouble on Teddy’s behalf without first consulting with me, because if and when she goes to a seminary for young ladies, it will be because she wants to, and because she has the approval of her guardian Mr. Bryce.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Mary! How can you be such a sapskull as to think an intermeddler from the depths of the Cotswolds holds any sway with civilized people? Roxton merely amuses himself with that supercilious rustic and could, with the snap of his fingers, dissolve that ridiculous guardianship. And after your daughter’s barbaric display upon first meeting the Duke, where she acted like an untamed animal escaped from its cage, I would think now is the time to put an end to that man’s intolerable influence. If you allow this situation to continue upon its present course she will be unfit for good society—Good grief!” she continued with a scoff and a look about the room to make certain she had an audience and they were being attentive to her, and thus would be just as scandalized, “I was never more shocked than when the child told me she wears breeches under her petticoats so she can climb trees. How perverse!”

  “I made them for her—”

  “More fool you! That tells me you are even more shatterbrained than I thought possible. Why you would indulge her with—”

  “—for the precise purpose she told you. So she can climb trees.”

  The Countess shuddered her disgust. “Barbaric!”

  “I beg to differ. It is not barbaric. What is barbaric is forcing a child to sit straight for hours with a heavy book balanced upon her head to give her correct posture—”

  “It was not in vain. You do carry yourself very well indeed.”

  “—and if the book should slip, to receive correction with a caning across the shoulders for the infraction. That, Mama, is barbarism.”

  “There is nothing wrong with disciplining a child; anyone will tell you so. And if you continue to indulge your child’s ridiculous whims, not only will there be talk of her having a lame brain, but you’ll never be able to marry her off. I am telling you this for your own good, Mary, and for the good of that child. Something must be done about her unconventional behavior before it is too late and you will be forced to hide her away in that Cotswold backwater for the rest of her days.”

  Mary took a deep breath and set her spine straight. It was one thing for her mother to malign her—she had become immune to her constant hurtful insinuations about her intelligence, her looks, and her behaviour—but to turn her talons on Teddy was thoroughly unacceptable and beyond her tolerance.

  “Teddy is just a child, a child who enjoys being outdoors. Dair won’t be confined within four walls, neither will Teddy.”

  “Do be sensible! Your brother has just inherited an earldom. He can say and do and stay outdoors all he likes. Teddy is a mere female and thus must know her place is in the drawing room.”

  “No, Mama. Her place is wherever she is comfortable. And I am appalled you would suggest your only grandchild is mentally deficient. Nor have you any right to speak so disparagingly about her guardian.”

  “I would not need to speak about such an individual at all had you done your duty and remarried by now, or at the very least have had an offer of marriage from a suitable suitor!”

  “You’d be surprised at just whom one meets in the country,” Mary quipped and smiled, and pleased with her jibe, she went so far as to glance at Christopher.

  The Countess saw that glance and the handsome stranger return her daughter’s smile with a smile of his own and a slight bow. This interchange intrigued her and deepened her curiosity to know just who he was. He was not young and while his sober attire suggested a serious disposition, the quality of the fabric and its well-fitted construction, the polish to his shoes and the whiteness of his stock and shirt proclaimed a man of independent means. That he and the Duke were in easy conversation led her to presume they were social equals. It was evident he was interested in her daughter, he had not taken his gaze from her since she had entered the room. So perhaps here was a potential suitor. She decided to test her hypothesis.

  “No doubt by remaining in the wilds of Gloucestershire since Sir Gerald’s death you’ve attracted the sort of riffraff who wouldn’t know a baronet from a barrow boy. But now you’re amongst your own kind,” she said, tapping Mary on the arm with her fan, “you may yet find a gentleman of title and fortune worthy of your pedigree. Though I will not hold my breath; your indifferent looks and age are against you, so that you’ll have to settle for a suitor who is the other side of fifty and gouty.”

  She ended what she thought was a witty remark with a smug smile directed at Deb Roxton, as if the Duchess would be in accord with her depressing summation of her daughter’s chances of finding a new husband. Not only did her remark fall flat, there was a lingering embarrassed silence because all the Countess had done was humiliate herself.

  It caused Mary to blurt out an unguarded remark which had the unwelcome consequence of making her appear fickle and capricious, and before the only man who mattered. And when sometime later she realized this she was mortified. But in the moment, she was too angry to care whose feelings she hurt as long as her mother was put in her place.

  “As it so happens, I am in expectation of receiving an offer of marriage by the end of the month from just such a nobleman. But he is not old nor have I seen any evidence of gout. And if I accept his proposal I will be his countess in the new year. So you see, Mama, I am not as unattractive or unworthy as you suppose.”

  “A countess? Wonders never cease! As the daughter of the Earl of Strathsay I would hope you would not accept anything less,” proclaimed the Countess, contradicting her earlier statement. “Marrying a nobleman in possession of an earldom will go a long way in rehabilitating you and Theodora in society. Naturally you told him you will accept the offer when it is made. But it won’t happen if he discovers you are deferring to a rustic about your daughter’s welfare, so I hope he is ignorant of present arrangements—”

  “Mr. Bryce is a gentleman of infinite good sense, who cares deeply about Teddy. And you will stop referring to him as a-a rustic. He was educated at Harrow, and spent many years on the Continent, so is a man of considerable address and—”

  “Oh! I am very sure he has considerable address and cares deeply. That he has spent years abroad amongst foreign types only increases my suspicions. I am the child’s grandmother and thus I have every right to voice my fears.”

  “Suspicions? Fears? Whatever do you mean?”

  “The child tells me her guardian is teaching her the minuet and that you allow her to make unchaperoned visits to his house.”

  Mary frowned. “What is there to be suspicious and fearful of in dancing and visiting? Teddy derives great pleasure from both.”

  The Countess let out a trill of forced laughter.

  “La! You simpleton! How naïve you are. Don’t you see he has designs on her—”

  “Designs?” Mary blinked her incomprehension.

  Her mother moved closer and hissed in her face.

  “She is a child now, but in two years’ time she’ll be of legal age. Have you thought of that? Of course you haven’t! This nobody bumpkin could very well marry her out from under your nose, and take her sizeable dowry—well, it would be quite a sum for a yokel farmer’s needs. And as he has already begun to school her with dancing lessons and unsupervised visits, her head would easily be turned and she would give in to his demands. But if you marry this unnamed earl and Theodora is sent off to a seminary, then his plans will be thwarted and the child safe from his deviousness.”

  Mary staggered back apace, as if struck. Dawning realization as to the meaning behind her mother’s lurid insinuations sent her into shock. But she forced herself to find her voice, a hand to the base of her t
hroat which was hot and tight.

  “Oh! You—you—wicked, wicked—wicked—woman,” she uttered. “How—How could you have such—Why would you have such—evil—thoughts? What an appalling accusation to make against a-a gentleman—yes, a gentleman—whom you do not know in the least! If you were not my mother I would think you the very devil—”

  “Oh, do stop these dramatics, Mary! You are being ludicrously naïve,” the Countess stated coldly, unmoved by her daughter’s distress, though when the others in the room crowded in about them, her arrogant self-assurance wavered, but not enough to dissuade her from continuing, adding with a sniff, “You know as well as everyone here that arranged marriages between children are commonplace.”

  “Between children, yes! But what you insinuate is—”

  “—and it is not uncommon for men to be much older than their brides. No one lifts an eyebrow. I need not remind you of your own marriage at eighteen—”

  “No, you need not remind me!”

  “—or the marriage of your cousin to a much older husband.”

  “Cousin Duchess and I were young women, not children of ten or twelve! But whereas I was absurdly naïve, Mme la Duchesse knew her own mind and was educated beyond her years for what was usual for our sex. She was also deeply in love; I was not and never was with Sir Gerald,” Mary enunciated, and such was her angry disgust with her mother that she dared to put up a hand to the Duke to not make comment when he opened his mouth to do so, because she was not finished. “I put it to you that what bothers you most is not the age difference between Cousin Duchess and M’sieur le Duc, but the fact that they had a loving, happy marriage, something you were denied, or denied yourself, the truth be told. And if you want the brutal truth, M’sieur le Duc d’Roxton was more of a parent to me in the short time I lived here than all the years under your roof, Madam!

  “Nor will I allow you to make scurrilous and malignant suggestions about the innocent love between my daughter and Mr. Bryce, a gentleman who has loved Teddy as a daughter all her life, and who has been a far better father to her than her own ever was! And if you wish to continue to have contact with her and with me, you had best find it within yourself to seek out the good in people rather than always insulting them, as if by such hateful assessments it somehow makes you appear better and more decent than you are. Now I will leave you with those thoughts, as I must return to Cousin Duchess and—oh dear! How silly of me…” she muttered when she turned away too swiftly and felt suddenly light-headed.