by Joan Wolf
Adrian smiled. “Yes, but I knew that before the fact, so I can’t complain.”
“Certainly not,” said Lord Liverpool, looking at Tracy with open admiration, and all of the gentlemen smiled in agreement.
Nobody seemed to be at all disturbed by her radical stand. As time went on, and she continued to speak her mind, she realized that they simply did not take her seriously. She was an American. They didn’t expect her to be sensible about politics.
Her initial feeling was indignation at what she saw as their smug condescension. Then her common sense took over. If they had taken her seriously, her marriage would be in deep trouble. All in all, she decided philosophically, as long as she had Adrian, she would tolerate being condescended to.
Chapter 14
For leaving apart what honor it was to all of us to serve such a lord as he whom I declared unto you right now, every man conceived in his mind an high contentation every time we came into the duchess’ sight.
—The Book of the Courtier
The unofficial government convention broke up at the end of August with everyone looking forward to pleasant leisure doings in the country. Tracy discovered to her dismay that it was a custom for political and society hostesses to entertain large parties of people at their estates for a week or more, but Adrian assured her that they would be spending a quiet month or two at Steyning Castle before undertaking any more socializing. She was delighted to hear this news; the last month had been rather a strain.
Aside from the politics, there were other aspects to life in English high society that Tracy found strange and upsetting. The political issue appeared to have been solved, but other problems remained. For instance, the amount of gambling that went on in her husband’s world shocked her to her core.
Tracy was a Yankee; she had a value for money. She knew where it came from—it came from hard work and effort. The sight of dozens of glittering aristocrats sitting up all night over a table of faro, winning and losing fantastic sums of money, disturbed her profoundly. Her husband did not seem to be interested in gambling, but she was uneasy. She said something of the sort to him once, tentatively, and had been surprised by the abruptness of his response. She said nothing more to him about gambling but the uneasiness remained.
The other aspect of English upper class life that shocked her was the promiscuity. She did not think she would ever in her life forget the casual words of Lady Fanny Melburn when she answered Tracy’s question about the identity of a very pretty young woman who was talking to the Duke. “Oh, that’s Sophia Hawley. One of the Hawlian Miscellany, you know.”
Tracy did not know. “The Hawlian Miscellany?” she asked, puzzled.
“The Hawley family,” her informant answered readily. “The children of the Countess of Cambridge.” Lady Fanny laughed lightly. “They are called the Hawlian Miscellany on account of the variety of fathers alleged to be responsible for their existence.”
Tracy, a true daughter of Puritan New England, was horrified. Marital infidelity was almost beyond the scope of her comprehension. Yet, once her eyes were opened, she saw it all around her in London. Among married women the practice of having lovers was too common even to stir much comment. The only rule, it seemed, was that one must keep up appearances.
This was a subject she never broached to Adrian. She was afraid to. She was afraid to find out what he thought on the subject.
She was very glad to be going home to Steyning Castle. She wanted to have him to herself for a while.
Unfortunately, life at Steyning Castle was not quite the reprise of her honeymoon that Tracy had hoped for. For one thing, Steyning was a very much larger establishment than Thorn Manor. Tracy had been stunned to drive up to the front door of her new home and find forty people waiting for her on the lawn. They were the servants the Duke explained to her kindly, and Tracy felt her jaw drop. She thought she had had a large household staff in London, but it was tiny compared to this.
At Steyning Castle she had a housekeeper, a butler a cook and many many housemaids, footmen, coachmen, pantry boys, scullery maids and still-room maids. There were also grooms for the stables and gardeners for the gardens.
“I don’t see how anyone can say there’s an employment problem in England,” she said to her husband, after she had run the gauntlet of the servant line-up. “Half of the country appears to work for you!”
She renewed her acquaintance with the Duke’s sister, who was reserved but shyly friendly, and made the acquaintance of Mary’s governess, Miss Alden. Miss Alden was a pleasant, intelligent woman of about thirty, and Tracy had great hopes of making a friend of her. However, to Tracy’s dismay, the English consciousness of class interfered with this promising idea. Even when they were conversing alone together about books, two women who had quite a lot in common, Miss Alden always made it clear that she knew that Tracy was the Duchess and she was just a governess. Miss Alden never sat until Tracy was seated, never spoke until Tracy was finished speaking, never disagreed with any opinion Tracy might advance. Tracy felt as if they were both caught in a cobweb of convention and protocol from which escape was impossible. She was the Duchess. The social distinction between her and the governess was too great to be overcome. She found the whole relationship very depressing.
And always, at the back of her mind, was the thought of her father. She did not consciously think of him all the time; indeed she tried not to. But the awareness of him and his illness was always there, a dull ache that became noticeable as soon as she was quiet and had time to remember. She wrote him long, newsy letters full of cheerfulness. And she cried when she folded them up to be sent.
There was another reason as well for the unsteadiness of her emotions. She thought she was with child. For the time being she kept her suspicions to herself. She did not want to tell the Duke until she was certain. Having a child would be a very serious matter to him; she did not want to make a mistake.
She was quite certain of its importance, although he had said nothing to her on the subject. He rarely spoke about the things that deeply mattered to him. For all his charm and his instinct for relations, he was a very reserved man. For instance, he rarely ever mentioned his years in the army. Only once had she gotten an inkling of how he felt about the war. Lord Mulhaven had been talking about the military situation in Greece and had asked the Duke’s opinion. “About war I agree with Wellington,” her husband had answered shortly. “The only thing as bad as defeat is victory.” And he had removed himself from the conversation.
Tracy respected his reticence. He had been an exceptionally good soldier, as she discovered from sources other than himself, but the war had evidently left some scars. To her mind, a war should leave some scars, and his sensitivity only increased her admiration for him.
She admired him. She loved him. But he seemed more than ever obscure to her. He was as busy at Steyning Castle as he had been in London. He was a landlord on a scale unheard of in America, even in the South. In addition to his work for the government, he was Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, and as such presided over the local court of Shepway as chief magistrate. The extent of his duties and responsibilities staggered her.
It was the precise nature of her duties and responsibilities that remained unclear. Adrian always managed to find a part of the day to take her driving. He held a Public Day and introduced her to his tenants. He appeared to expect no more of her than that she be an ornament to his home, but that was not a position that appealed to Tracy.
She seemed to be so extraneous to his life and his activities. She wanted to share with him some of his life at home, since she was so unable to share in his political life. He was often closeted for hours at a time with his man of business and estate managers, but when she asked him what they spent so many hours doing, he had answered with unusual shortness, “I am trying to rectify the neglect of generations. It is not an edifying job, I may say.” His attitude had not encouraged further inquiry and Tracy, feeling rather snubbed, had said nothing more on t
he subject
Clearly, he did not want her to intrude into his domain. He was also, equally clearly, a very busy man who did not have the day to devote to entertaining his wife. She had too much time on her hands and began, tentatively at first, to take up the reins of her household. Here she met with rather more success. Mrs. Map, the housekeeper, was very pleasant and the servants adored the new Duchess. She was so lovely, so friendly, so interested. She noticed them. She noticed Molly, the sixteen-year-old scullery maid who was red-eyed from crying because she was homesick; she noticed the gardener’s assistant, whose face was swollen with toothache; she noticed the lumpy mattresses in the servants’ wing and ordered new ones.
She was shocked by what she regarded as the servility of the British working class and spoke her mind forcibly to Miss Alden one afternoon. Mary was out riding and Tracy and the governess were having tea in the library. “I’ll tell you what I think of the whole English servant system, Miss Alden,” she said, angrily stirring sugar into her tea. “I think it is disgusting.” She had just sent the gardener’s assistant to the dentist, and she was really disturbed.
Miss Alden looked startled. “I don’t think I understand, Your Grace,” she replied cautiously.
Tracy told her about the morning’s incident. “Why didn’t that child say anything about his tooth?” she asked rhetorically and then answered herself. “Because he didn’t think he was important enough to matter, that’s why.” She put down her cup with some abruptness. “An American would look you right in the eye, tell you he had a toothache, and damn well expect you to pay attention. And if you didn’t, he’d soon find another job.”
“There aren’t that many jobs available in England, Your Grace,” said Miss Alden softly.
“So it seems. And the ones that are available all seem to involve creeping about under the feet of somebody else. It all makes me terribly uncomfortable.”
Miss Alden looked at Tracy for a moment in silence. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she said slowly. “As an American, I suppose it is rather difficult to adapt to our ways.”
Tracy met the governess’ eyes, her own very somber. Making one more attempt to break through the class barrier between them, she said, “I could use a friend. Miss Alden.”
After a moment the older woman smiled. “I should be happy to be your friend, Your Grace.”
“Thank God!” Tracy said devoutly. Miss Alden laughed and Tracy went on. “Please, won’t you call me Tracy? There is hardly a soul in this whole country who calls me by my own name. It makes me feel very lonely sometimes.”
“All right,” said Miss Alden, hesitating. “Tracy.”
Tracy smiled her irresistible smile. “It is not that I mean to complain, Elizabeth, but everything is still very strange to me. And I don’t like to bother the Duke with all my little problems. He is so very busy, you see.”
Miss Alden did see. For the first time she saw Tracy as she was; not as the Duchess, but as a young girl who found herself in a strange land far from all the people she had always known and understood. She was so beautiful, and seemed so assured, that Miss Alden had forgotten that she was only nineteen. “I shall always be happy to try to sort things out for you, Tracy,” she said gently.
“Thank you so much, Elizabeth.” Tracy’s eyes moved beyond Miss Alden’s shoulder and her smile warmed to radiance. The governess knew, without looking, who had come into the room behind her.
“Would you like to go for a drive with me, ma mie?” a soft, familiar voice inquired.
“I’d love to,” said Tracy and as Miss Alden watched from the window a few minutes later, the Duke and Duchess drove together down the wide drive. Tracy was looking at her husband and laughing at something he had said to her.
Watching them, Miss Alden felt a sharp pang of envy and her sympathy for Tracy considerably lessened. How could one feel sorry for a girl who was married to the Duke of Hastings?
Chapter 15
But speaking of the beauty that we mean, which is only it that appeareth in bodies, and especially in the face of man, and moveth this fervent coveting which we call love ...
—The Book of the Courtier
Toward the end of September, Tracy told her husband the news she had been harboring for almost two months. They had had an especially pleasant day, driving into Brighton where Adrian had shown her the sights, particularly the Regent’s Palace, which she had found unbelievable. They returned home for a late dinner together and then went to bed.
It had started to rain shortly after their return home, but the night was warm and the Duke had opened the window. Lying close along his body in the sweet, damp night air, Tracy felt more peaceful and happy than she had for many weeks. Her eyes closed, she listened to the slowing beat of his heart. “Adrian?” she murmured.
His hand was slowly caressing her hair. “Mmm?” he said deeply.
“I’m going to have a baby.”
He didn’t say anything, but the hand that was stroking her hair stilled. After a minute she raised her head and looked into the dark blue of his eyes. “Are you pleased?’“ she asked softly.
“Very pleased.” He spoke slowly, gravely. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. I went to see Dr. Brixton yesterday. It will be in March.” Satisfied by what she saw on his face, she rested her head once more on his shoulder. “It will be a boy,” she murmured contentedly.
“Why do you say that, ma mie?”
“Because you will want a boy, and you always get what you want.”
At that he laughed, deep down in his throat. “I begin to think you may be right,” he answered and, very gently, he kissed the top of her head. In a few minutes she was asleep.
* * * *
She had pleased him with her news, and she wanted very much to please him. But still, there was so much about him she did not understand. He came to her in the library the next morning and said, “You must write to tell your father.”
“Yes.” She looked down at the book she was holding to have an excuse to keep her face hidden.
“Tell him if it is a boy we shall call him William.”
“Oh, Adrian.” She looked up at him, all efforts at privacy forgotten. He was standing by the window, dressed for riding in buckskins and worn but polished boots. The sun gilded his face and drew sparks of chestnut from his dark brown hair. “Thank you,” she said softly.
He was looking right at her but, suddenly, and without his eyes even flickering, the shutters came down. He seemed all at once a thousand miles away. “There is no cause for you to thank me,” he said in measured tones. “The debt is all mine.”
It frightened and hurt her when he closed up against her like this. She did not know what to say but sat looking at him out of troubled, golden eyes. He seemed to sense her distress because after a minute he smiled and held out his arms. She ran to him with wild relief, melted, as ever, by the power of his touch.
She decided she would learn to ride. Adrian spent a good part of his day in the saddle, and she thought, if she rode, she could perhaps accompany him sometimes. She asked Mary to teach her.
It was to be a secret from Adrian. She wanted to surprise him with a fait accompli, and Mary entered enthusiastically into her plan. The two girls would sneak out to the stables in the morning, when the Duke was closeted with his men of business or out on the estate, Tracy dressed in one of Mary’s habits, and Mary would give her a lesson. As Tracy was naturally athletic and fearless, she learned very quickly. Soon she had graduated from the longe line to circling the paddock on her own. By the end of the second week she was cantering with graceful confidence and Mary was saying she was almost ready for Adrian to see.
As it turned out, they didn’t have a chance to surprise him; he surprised them. Mary was standing in the middle of the paddock one cloudy morning watching Tracy walk her black gelding along the fence. “All right,” Mary called, “pick up your canter.” Tracy squeezed and lifted and the horse obediently went into motion. “No, no,” Ma
ry called, “wrong lead. Try again.” Tracy pulled the horse up, again gave the signals, and this time Mary said, "That’s it.”
Tracy was busy shortening her reins when she heard a voice, quiet but perfectly audible, cut across the paddock. “What do you think you are doing?”
It was Adrian.
Tracy pulled up in surprise and rocked a little in the saddle. He came across the paddock and took a firm grip on her bridle. “Get off,” he said tersely.
He looked like a stranger; she had never seen that expression in his eyes before. She got off the horse.
When she was standing beside him he said again, “What do you think you are doing?” And she realized, with an odd sense of shock, that he was angry.
“Mary is teaching me how to ride, Adrian,” she replied steadily. “We were going to surprise you.”
He turned his eyes to his sister, who was looking white faced and bewildered. “I don’t suppose you knew,” he said to her. “Tracy is expecting a baby.”
Mary turned even whiter. “Oh my God. No, Adrian, I didn’t know.”
He nodded. “Take the horse back to the stable, Mary.” His sister moved instantly to follow his command. “Come with me,” he said to his wife. “I’ll drive you back to the house.”
Tracy fell into step with him, but she found, as she kept up beside him, that she herself was becoming very angry. She waited until he helped her into the curricle and then said, her own voice icy and dangerous, “What is the matter with you? If I want to learn to ride a horse, then I will damn well learn. I don’t need your permission!”
He didn’t answer, but after a minute he turned his horses off the path to the Castle and onto the path that led through the park. They drove for five minutes in silence, Tracy rigidly upright beside Adrian, until he finally pulled up in the shelter of some large trees that edged the ornamental lake. He stared at the water, his profile unreadable. “I’m sorry, ma mie,” he said at last, sounding very weary. “I did not mean to be so abrupt.”
