by Diane Farr
He dropped back into the chair and scrubbed his face tiredly with his hands. “Your mania for control has led you astray this time, Mother. If you prepare Celia for her new life by making her like yourself, you will only place the prize further out of reach. The more like you she is, the less inclined I will be to offer her marriage.”
The tell-tale signs of anger were cracking the surface of the duchess’s rigid calm. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the chair, and her voice, although she did not raise it, had taken on a tight, furious note. “You are insolent. How did I manage to raise a son with so little sense of duty? You defy me, you are unmannerly and insulting—your way of life, your entire demeanor, is slipshod and slovenly—you are nothing, nothing, like the son I hoped you would be.”
“Yes, I know, and I am sorry for it,” said Jack, with quiet candor. “A pity Harry did not live. But he did not, and here I am, Mother. I am all you have. You must make the best of me.”
The duchess’s breathing quickened. “Make the best of you? I can make nothing of you! You take a perverse delight in thwarting me. I have gone to great trouble and expense to find—or make!—a suitable bride for you. You seem to think there is something wrong with that! I do not understand you. Persons of rank have chosen marriage partners for their children for centuries. You must marry one day. Why, why do you scorn my advice and assistance?”
A slight frown crossed Jack’s features. His mother’s anguish was so extreme, it appeared physical. “I do not mean to insult you. But you must be as aware as I am, that you and I rarely agree on any matter of importance. It seems unlikely that we will agree on this one.”
The duchess’s back remained ramrod straight, but her head fell back to rest against the top of her chair back. With her head thus supported, she continued to glare at her stubborn son. “The importance—of romantic love—in marriage—has been vastly overstated,” she panted. “You would do well—to consider—what I have said—”
Jack rose, perturbed. He had never seen his mother so overset. “I will do so,” he promised quickly. “Do not perturb yourself. Really, there is no need for this distress. May I bring you something?”
“No. No, nothing.” She seemed to be struggling to control herself again, and her strange, panting breathing became more even. “Please go, John. We shall—address this—tomorrow.”
He bowed, tight-lipped and worried, and removed his disturbing presence. The instant the door closed behind him, the duchess took a huge gulp of air. A low moan escaped her and she writhed, speechless, in her chair. Hubbard immediately appeared at her side, medicine glass in hand, and slipped one arm behind the duchess’s arched back.
Despising her own weakness, the duchess drank. “I hate this—vile stuff,” she gasped.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Hubbard soothingly. Her hand rubbed gently, rhythmically against her employer’s back, distracting the duchess from her pain. The duchess closed her eyes, knitted her brows in fierce concentration, and struggled to banish the terrible burning sensation.
It was growing more difficult every day to keep the pain at bay. She was growing weaker, there was no denying it. Her strength was ebbing. Soon she would no longer be able to hide her torment from those around her. The realization sent a stab of such intense anger through her, she was able to open her eyes and straighten in her chair once more.
“Thank you, Hubbard,” she said, managing to sound almost normal.
Hubbard respectfully withdrew her arm. “You’re quite welcome, Your Grace.”
Normally Hubbard would bow herself out at this point, but this time she did not go. She remained, standing at a respectful distance, watching the duchess with compassion in her eyes. Her Grace hated to be observed like this, but had not regained sufficient strength to argue with Hubbard or order her away. In a moment, she promised herself, still fighting back the grinding waves of pain. In a moment, I will tell Hubbard to go. She clamped her teeth tightly and stared at a point on the wall directly ahead of her, willing the pain to recede.
Whether through the strength of her iron will or the assistance of the laudanum, the pain soon retreated far enough to enable her to look at Hubbard again.
“Well? Why are you still here?” she asked, in a voice that should have sounded more formidable than it did. She had meant to snap at Hubbard, but only a whisper came out.
“I was thinking, Your Grace, that if you’re feeling a bit poorly, I might sleep on a pallet in your dressing room,” said Hubbard quietly.
The two women looked at each other. They had known each other a long, long time. Gertrude Hubbard had waited on the duchess when she was still Lady Gladys, fresh out of the schoolroom and enjoying her first London Season. How long ago it seemed, thought the former Lady Gladys.
For the first time, it occurred to her that Hubbard had devoted her entire life to serving her. In truth, Hubbard was her most intimate friend. What a strange thought. And she knew nothing about her.
For a moment, she felt an urge to ask Hubbard: why did you do it? No husband, no children, no family. No life. Has it been worth it? Did you have any choice?
But, of course, one did not have personal conversations with servants.
Her gaze was clouding over, and she blinked, focusing with difficulty on the soberly-clad woman who stood so humbly before her. Her Grace’s mouth twisted in a strange little smile. Hubbard looked as diffident as if she were still the meek and lowly servant, and Her Grace the strong and all-powerful employer. But the balance of power had shifted. Both of them knew it. It was kind of Hubbard to keep up the pretense, but Her Grace was almost completely helpless now.
The duchess realized, blearily, what Hubbard’s offer really meant. She would never again sleep without a nurse nearby. Day and night, someone would watch over her. This was a moment she had dreaded. Now it was here. And she was too exhausted to feel more than a fleeting pang of regret as she bid farewell to solitude.
She was taking one more step, she thought. One step closer to the end. But for as long as she could, by heaven, she would step gracefully.
“Thank you, Hubbard,” said the duchess mildly. “You are very good.”
Chapter 8
Jack stood in his dressing room in his shirtsleeves, studying his wardrobe. His mouth pursed thoughtfully. Will Munsil hovered at a respectful distance, awaiting instructions. A cold winter sun lit the room with blinding brilliance, illuminating the obvious: most of Jack’s wardrobe was handsome and tasteful. Confound it. He ought to have made more provision for this. He could not wear the pink pantaloons every day. Besides, his mother had requested that he dress soberly. It would be entirely too disrespectful to flout her request by inflicting pink pantaloons upon her.
Very well. No loud colors. But something mismatched, perhaps. Something silly. He quickly chose a morning outfit of buff and brown with a bottle-green waistcoat, but when he saw them laid out together he realized that the combination was unexpectedly attractive. He frowned.
“Is something amiss, sir?” asked Will anxiously.
Jack thought about changing the waistcoat, but his stomach rumbled in protest. No, he was too hungry for all this folderol. He had no intention of hanging about in his dressing room all morning.
He eyed his temporary valet speculatively. “Will, do you know how to tie a cravat?”
“No, sir.”
“Ha! Excellent! High time you learned. Try your hand at this one.” Jack pointed to a formidable swath of starched linen and seated himself confidently before the looking glass.
The hapless lad gulped nervously. As Jack had hoped, poor Will handled the cravat exactly as if it had been a dangerous snake. He held it at arm’s length, approached his master gingerly, and, blushing for his ineptitude, attempted to wrap it round Jack’s outstretched throat. His timidity resulted in a loose and lopsided mess. When he was done, Jack’s head appeared to be sitting atop a wasps’ nest.
“Perhaps I should try it again, sir,” suggested Will, scarlet-faced.
Will looked doubtful. “Do you think so, sir? P’raps if I just redid that last bit, where it’s higher on one side than the other—”
Jack rose, waving him away. “Do not change it one iota. I like it as it is. I only hope you can duplicate your efforts in future.”
Will beamed, dazzled by this vote of confidence, and happily helped his lordship into his waistcoat and coat. Jack went down to breakfast devoutly hoping that the unfortunate boy had an interest in horses or something. He really had to be distracted from this valet ambition of his, and the sooner the better. “No aptitude,” muttered Jack to himself. “No aptitude at all.”
The breakfast room was occupied, but only by Elizabeth and Celia. When Jack entered the room, Elizabeth’s teacup paused halfway to her lips.
“Good morning! Good morning!” Jack boomed, rubbing his hands together in feigned enthusiasm and making a beeline for the side table. “Beautiful day, what?”
“Good morning,” said Elizabeth repressively. “For pity’s sake, lower your voice! And what is the matter with your throat?”
Jack picked up a plate and, since he could not turn his head, rolled one eye at her. “Eh? What’s that?”
“Your throat. Have you a sore throat?”
“Lord, no! Never better in m’life.” He lifted the cover off one of the serving dishes and sniffed appreciatively. “Buttered eggs! Hurrah!” He attempted his whinnying laugh, but his voice had not yet warmed up. It broke halfway through and petered out, rendering his new laugh even less convincing than usual.
Elizabeth looked alarmed. “It appears to me that you have wrapped flannel round your throat, and then tied your cravat over it to hide it,” she said accusingly. “Are you quite certain you are well?”
Jack busied himself in heaping buttered eggs upon his plate with the maximum amount of clatter. “Perfectly fine. Very well indeed, thank you, very well indeed. Hah! Where’s the toast?”
Elizabeth frowned. “You will have to ring for some. You know, John, if you are unwell, it’s quite selfish of you to come downstairs and inflict your sore throat on the rest of us.”
Jack dropped his heavily-laden plate onto the breakfast table beside his scowling sister. He offered Celia a rather vacuous smile. “My sister has a horror of illness,” he explained.
“Many people do,” said Celia diplomatically. She sat composedly at her place, some distance from theirs, and calmly addressed her breakfast. She was garbed this morning in a high-necked round gown of black bombazine. Mourning did not flatter her, decided Jack. Black was a ghastly color for an ivory-skinned, brown-haired girl. And still she managed to look rather sweet. He felt a stab of anger as he pictured this pale, sad-eyed child at the mercy of his ruthless mother. Mother ought to scrap with someone her own size, he thought. This defenseless girl is not a worthy opponent.
But then he remembered: Celia was not necessarily Mother’s victim. She might be a willing, even eager, accomplice. He ought not to be so hasty, letting his guard down merely because she had a tragic history and a sweet face. Really, it was unsettling to discover what a soft-hearted chap he was! Mercenary females were not immune to life’s vicissitudes. A harpy might lose her family and still be a harpy. It was difficult to keep that thought in mind while actually looking at Celia, so he tore his eyes from her and dug determinedly into his breakfast.
Elizabeth had lapsed into offended silence. Jack slurped his coffee and made as much of a racket with his silverware and china as he could, hoping that Celia would prove to be one of those females who abhorred bad table manners. The audience he was aiming for seemed to take no notice. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was growing visibly cross.
“Do not tell me again that there is nothing wrong with you, for I will not believe it,” she announced at last. “Why must you be so provoking? Go upstairs at once and take to your bed like a sensible person.”
“I don’t wish to go to bed,” said Jack, with his mouth full. “Nor am I a sensible person, as you have frequently told me.”
Elizabeth rose angrily from the table and flung her napkin onto her half-empty plate. “Very well. If you stay, I go. I’ve no wish to spend Christmas nursing a sore throat.”
Jack, swallowing hastily, reached out a hand to stop her, but she was gone. He looked remorsefully after her. “Now look what I’ve done. I ruined Elizabeth’s breakfast.”
Celia looked skeptical. “You meant to, didn’t you?”
Jack opened his eyes at this. “No, no! Not in the least. I told her I wasn’t ill, but she wouldn’t believe me. Should I go after her, d’you think?”
“I daresay if she is still hungry, she will order a tray to be sent up to her.”
“I hope so.” Jack looked guiltily at the plate she had left behind. “She needs her breakfast. Too slender by half, my sister. Awfully touchy, too. Dash it, she knows better than to pay any heed to my antics! I wonder what the matter is? I hope she’s not pining over Kilverton after all.”
“Who?”
“Richard Kilverton. Chap she almost married.” Jack looked up. Celia’s eyes were round with surprise. He grinned and reached for the pepper. “Didn’t you know?”
She shook her head. “No, I’d no idea. What happened?”
“Oh, it caused the deuce of a scandal,” said Jack cheerfully, thickly peppering his eggs. “Kilverton is Lord Selcroft’s heir. A thoroughly decent chap, too. I liked him. Pity! But there it is. They were actually engaged last Season. Notice in the papers, wedding date set, betrothal parties and all that. But then Elizabeth flew into one of her rages. Broke it off in a fit of pique, I believe. Six months ago, or thereabouts.”
“Gracious! What a ghastly thing to happen.”
“Pho! If you’re picturing Elizabeth as a tragic heroine, you’re wide of the mark.” Jack chewed thoughtfully. “I hope.”
“But it sounds as if it were nothing more than a misunderstanding. Everything might yet come right, if Elizabeth apologizes to the gentleman.”
Jack shook his head, chewing, then swallowed. “He’s married someone else.”
Celia’s spoon clattered onto her plate as she dropped it. “No! Already? How can that be?”
His eyes twinkled at her dumbfounded expression. “When a fellow like Kilverton is determined to marry, he marries. Plenty of females ready to take him the instant he dropped his handkerchief. Elizabeth ought to have known that. Well, that’s just it: she did know it! Flew into a rage anyway. I would have sworn, at the time, that her heart wasn’t seriously engaged. But the way she’s declined ever since, I don’t know.” He shook his head gloomily. “I must say, I’m a bit worried about her.”
“I did wonder, you know, how it was that she was single. She is such a handsome creature.”
“Yes,” agreed Jack, spooning cream into the bottom of his cup. “That’s Elizabeth, all right. Handsome. She’s elegant, she’s rich, she’s well-born, she’s accomplished—in fact, she’s dashed near perfect. That’s been her undoing.”
“Really?” Celia, fascinated, seemed to forget where she was. She rested an elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand, pondering Jack’s remarks. “I see what you mean,” she said thoughtfully. “It must be difficult to find a suitor high enough on the ladder for someone like Lady Elizabeth.”
“Precisely.” Jack reached for the coffee pot. “For awhile, they thought of trying for royalty—but Mother disapproves of the male members of our own royal family and Elizabeth dislikes foreigners, so nothing came of that. In the end, it was decided the only Englishman good enough for our Elizabeth was the Duke of Blenhurst. They held up their noses at everyone else and bided their time, waiting for poor old Blenhurst to come to his senses and offer for Elizabeth.”
“And he never did?”
Jack shook his head. “He sniffed around for awhile. Raised their expectations, I’m afraid. Elizabeth wasted two or three Seasons on the chap.
But when all was said and done, he couldn’t bring himself up to scratch.”
Celia’s nose wrinkled in momentary puzzlement. Jack quickly swallowed his mouthful of coffee and corrected his last statement. “Couldn’t force himself to do it. Offer for her, I mean.”
“Oh.”
“I daresay he might have done the deed eventually, you know, if he hadn’t met Lord Joyce’s youngest—what was her name? Esther. But once he met her, Elizabeth’s tale was told.”
Celia’s eyes softened with sorrow. “Poor Elizabeth.”
Jack pulled a wry face and tucked back into his eggs. “You needn’t pity Elizabeth. She cared for Blenhurst no more than she cared for Kilverton. It was all ambition. I’ve known her all my life, you know. Elizabeth cares deeply for no one but herself.”
“Yes. She hasn’t any friends,” said Celia slowly.
Jack looked up, surprised. Celia was staring at the tablecloth, her expression troubled.
“What do you mean?”
Her brown eyes focused and lifted to his, their velvet depths still filled with concern for the absent Elizabeth. “It isn’t right,” she said softly. “Everyone should have friends, don’t you think? If she’s in trouble, she has nowhere to turn. No one to talk to. No one to comfort her. At least—” A faint blush was creeping up Celia’s neck, and she lowered her eyes to her plate. “She may have friends elsewhere. Or perhaps she is closer to Lady Augusta than she seems. After all, I haven’t been here very long—”
“No, you’re right,” said Jack thoughtfully. “Very perceptive. I’ve always thought of her as just like Mother, you know. Never needing anyone. Completely self-contained. But I don’t suppose anyone is, really.”
“No. Everyone needs someone.”
Her face had turned so sorrowful, Jack couldn’t bear it. He leaned back in his chair and stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat. “Pretty fine talking, for a girl who steals companions from others,” he said, with mock severity.
As he had hoped, her melancholy vanished in surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you.”
