by Darcy,Regina
“You have an bishop in the family?”
“My dear Miss Lang, not merely a bishop, but the Archbishop of Durham. But it’s too far for us to travel and we must return home today.”
“The Archbishop of Durham is related to you?”
“Indeed he is,” the Duke replied cheerfully as the quill pen scratched across the foolscap. “I cannot believe that it brings him great joy, which is why I shall be able to prevail upon him to wed us immediately since he will be of the mind that I have kidnapped you on a lark and completely besmirched your name and maiden state.”
“Are you known for doing such things?” she asked.
His brown eyes, candid and for once devoid of laughter, met hers. “I am not a villain, Miss Lang. I have done a number of things for which I shall no doubt burn in eternal flames. But I have never forced a woman against her will. It would be an egregious blow to my self-esteem should I have to use force,” he said with a beguiling smile, as the laughter brightened his eyes again. “I shall be, if not a model husband, at least a discreet one. Will that serve?”
She was not sure that she had any choice, and did it matter? Women did not define the boundaries of marriage; they merely stayed within them. Men did as they pleased.
“Does the Archbishop know that the marriage is for a year only?”
“Certainly not! He would be shocked and one should never shock one’s elderly relatives who have ecclesiastical responsibilities. He will be waiting for us at Redmond Hall.”
“You are sure of this?”
“My great-uncle is a man of propriety,” the Duke assured her. “He will not permit you to stay under the Brentford roof for a mere second without benefit of clergy.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, we shall travel as we now are, because to the world, we shall be known as a married couple and there is no need of chaperones. But Great-Uncle will know that we are not married and he will be all in haste to wed us. It is, I think you will agree, a masterful plan.”
“I do not know if it is a masterful plan or a plan hatched out of madness Your Grace,” Hermione replied truthfully.
The Duke laughed.
“Please call me Brentford; after all we are to be married.” He looked at her with twinkling eyes and winked. “Besides, Miss Lang, the best plans come out of some degree of madness, wouldn’t you know.”
FIVE
The Archbishop, true to Brentford’s prediction, had indeed been waiting when they arrived after their journey. He had glared at his grand-nephew with indignant eyes underneath bushy grey eyebrows. Hermione barely had time to observe the grandeur of Brentford Hall and the majesty of its furnishings before the Archbishop strode over to them in robed authority. “Brentford, I have no idea what shenanigans have inspired this latest prank of yours but if you have brought ruin upon this poor girl, I vow that I shall inflict the worst possible penalty upon you.”
“Please, Uncle, do not say that you will require me to attend church services every Sunday. I could not endure it you know and such a fate would only lead me into further sin as I sat there, contemplating the delights of Bathsheba in her bath, or Salome as she danced, or Delilah—”
“Enough!” exclaimed the cleric in what sounded to be an outraged tone, although Hermione noted that he appeared to be struggling without success to conceal a smile. “You are an irreverent young rogue and you should have been whipped more often as a boy.”
“As I recall,” Brentford said, “My backside was the site of many a whipping when I was young. They appear to have done no good. Even Mother once laid into me with her prayer book and you know she was a saint. Simply marry us, Uncle, so that we are in good standing. And do stay for dinner and for the night before you return to Canterbury, will you not?”
As it turned out, the Archbishop would. When Brentford, under the beneficent, but vigilant eye of the Archbishop, bent to give her a nuptial kiss, she found her lips curving in response to his. It was not unpleasant. How strange that a kiss from Mr Wilder could be so odious, but one from Brentford quite different.
After the ceremony, Brentford instructed Michaels to bring the servants to the drawing room so that they could meet his Duchess. As she and her father had lived quietly at Fitzgerald Manor, Hermione was unprepared for the assembly of servants in their uniforms and livery who gathered.
“This is Mr Michaels, the butler,” Brentford introduced her to a tall man with broad shoulders, red hair and a dignified bearing. “He is father to my Michaels. It’s very confusing to everyone except me. This is Mrs Hines, my cherished housekeeper; she will be of immense help to you as you manage the household.”
Hermione observed that, though all of the staff from the butler down to the scullery maid maintained expressions of impassive respect, there was no warmth in their greetings. Their bows and bobs were perfunctory and when they rose again, she felt their eyes upon her as if they were judging her. But when Brentford spoke to them, they responded with smiles and even giggles. It was somewhat of a mystery, but she decided that they had gotten used to running a bachelor establishment and were now dubious about having a mistress at the helm.
They needn’t have worried. Brentford Hall was vast and gorgeous, quite unlike the cosy Fitzgerald Manor that was greatly different from a ducal estate.
“Sir, shall I take the Duchess to her chamber now so that she can settle in?”
“Quite so, Mrs Hines. My wife is likely tired from her busy day, and I have no doubt that marrying the likes of me is an exhausting enterprise.”
“Will milady’s luggage and belongings be coming along later?’
“Not a bit of it,” Brentford said quickly. “The Duchess is to have all new attire, I insist. My darling is but lately bereaved and had only mourning to wear. I refused to permit her to travel with it. She must have a new wardrobe. Mrs Hines, will you see that Madame DeVilling is summoned to Brentford Hall tomorrow so that she can begin to prepare the Duchess’ garments. We shall need enough so that we can go to London later in May for the Season.
“Your lordship is going to London for the Season?” Mrs Hines repeated as if she had not heard him properly.
“Yes, of course.”
“Very good, sir.”
Hermione, attending to the tone and not the words, had a feeling that it was not very good and that the housekeeper disapproved of her master’s intent to go to London. The housekeeper said nothing of the matter as she led the way up the imposing staircase to the third floor where she opened the door to a room of such elegance that Hermione gasped.
The bed, a massive four-poster with brocade curtains surrounding it, was the largest bed Hermione had ever seen. Throughout the room were little tables, which created the impression of a salon. Delicate china figurines adorned the room and vases filled with fresh flowers added colour and scent.
“Your bedroom connects to the Master’s dressing room,” Mrs Hines said, opening the door to the room as she did so. “His bedroom is on the other side of the dressing room.”
She did not take Hermione through his rooms, however, and shut the door instead.
“Thank you.” It was a very spacious room for a bride who had arrived with no belongings, except for—
“Mrs Hines, is there a place for my mother’s jewels?”
“Certainly. The Duchess kept her favourite pieces in the jewellery box at her dressing table. The more valuable pieces are kept secure in the vault.”
“Thank you.”
“Are there other belongings which need to be put away?”
“No, I . . .” Hermione feigned a laugh. “The Duke and I decided to leave so swiftly that we didn’t take the time to bring my things along. Brentford—His Lordship decided that I would have a new wardrobe.”
Mrs Hines said frigidly, “The Duke can be impetuous. There are of course consequences that follow such behaviour.”
“Consequences?”
Mrs Hines’ expression was calm. “You have nothing to wear, mi
lady.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, I see. That is—are there an of the late Duchess’ dresses in her wardrobe?”
“They’ve all been put away in trunks in the attic. She has been gone for five years.”
“Oh, yes, of course His Lordship said . . .” her voice trailed off because the Duke had said nothing. He had not mentioned his parents in any depth.
“Thank you, Mrs Hines. You have been most helpful.”
“Cook was unaware that His Eminence was dining with His Grace tonight. Does Your Grace wish to make any changes in the menu?”
“I’m sure that whatever you have planned will be quite satisfactory. More than satisfactory.”
“Shall we meet in the morning room tomorrow and you can instruct me in my duties?”
“Mrs Hines,” Hermione said, her weariness showing, “there is no reason for me to instruct you in the doing of what you have been doing with estimable success since the Duchess departed from this earth. I do not believe that the Duke has any plans to alter the household routine and if he has, he did not informed me. My own household was much smaller than this and required relatively little in the way of preparation. It is I who should be instructed by you. I hope that you will be tolerant of my inexperience and we shall in time get on tolerably well.”
Mrs Hines gaze altered slightly as if she were remembering that she was in the presence of her employer. “Very well, milady. I will meet you, as I did the Duchess, in the morning at 11:00 of the clock so that we can review the menus and other business requiring your attention.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hines.”
The housekeeper nodded, bowed her head, and left the room.
Hermione sighed. The events over the past week seemed to have accumulated in weariness and she was aware that she had perhaps been overhasty in her decision to accept Brentford’s marriage proposal. She was just a girl and now she would be expected to know how to conduct herself as a Duchess, managing the household servants and the domestic routine of Brentford Hall. Brentford was very kind, but they were not in love and he would have his own life to conduct. Now more than ever she missed her father.
Overcome by tears, Hermione pulled back the curtains of the bed and fell upon the mattress, allowing pent-up sobs to be released. She cried until she fell asleep on the magnificent bed that the late Duchess had occupied in her life.
That night after dining, the Archbishop proved to be a most congenial conversationalist with a range of discourse far wider than only theological topics. Hermione pleaded tiredness and went up to her room. Much later, she heard stirring in the room next to hers and realised that the occupant was Brentford, readying himself for bed.
He was keeping his promise. He would not intrude upon the privacy of her room or of her person. He did not promise that he would be faithful and given the peculiarities of their marriage, she could hardly expect him to be. However, he had said he would be discreet. She supposed that, when they went to London, his discretion would be greatly challenged by the opportunities offered to a handsome young man in a city where virtue was accounted as nothing of value. She had escaped from the cage that Mr Wilder would have kept her in, but she realised that marriage to the Duke of Brentford could present shackles of a different kind.
Oh why was her heart beating as if it ached for his company?
SIX
Madame DeVilling came the next day to measure Hermione for a wardrobe that would suffice until she was able to visit the London dressmakers. Madame DeVilling left no doubt that she was quite capable of rivalling any seamstress in London, given the time. Nevertheless, there was no time, and therefore, they would have to manage with what they had.
Hermione expressed her gratitude, praised Madame Devilling’s designs, and by the end of the fitting, she had thawed to the point where she acknowledged that Her Ladyship was very easy to fit, owing to her exquisite form and proportions. “You are a beauty,” she predicted. “London will be mad for you.”
“I doubt that,” Hermione said nervously. “I’ve been in the country all my life. I shall be quite out of place in town.”
Madame DeVilling, who was near-sighted, squinted at Hermione. They were taking tea in Hermione’s bedroom and going over fabric swatches. “The Duchess of Brentford,” she said forcefully, “shall never be out of place.”
Her French accent had faded during the years that she had lived in England, but it retained enough of its origins to grant a level of authority to her speech.
“I’m sure she was quite lovely and very much an idol of the haute monde,” Hermione said. “But she was familiar with Society and I am not at all.”
“The Duchess of Brentford,” Madame repeated slowly, “shall never be out of place.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“The position, my lady, is one of such importance that even aristocrats recognize their lower standing in comparison. You must enter London as the Duchess, not as the shy country girl. You will be dressed as a Duchess and you shall remember that you are a Duchess. That hair and those eyes . . . we must dress you in bold colours to take advantage of your beauty.”
“I am in morning,” Hermione protested. “I cannot—”
Madame DeVilling held up her hand. “You are the Duchess of Brentford,” she said simply. “You must dress the part. It is no great difficulty to use mourning colours of lavender, white and grey, and with the right fabric and jewels, you will stand out. Mark my words, you will be imitating.”
Hermione had no wish to be imitating but she thanked the dressmaker for her work and found that she did feel somewhat less daunted by the social obligations awaiting her after she had been buoyed by Madame’s forthright talk.
Brentford had gone on to London to open up the house and make sure that everything was ready for her to join him in a fortnight. He had been his usual self during the initial days, but as he became occupied with the inheritance duties that he had decried when telling her of them at the inn, she saw very little of him until it was time to dine. The first day that he was gone, she told Mrs Hines that she would be taking her meals in her room; there was no need for a formal presence in the dining room if she were to be the only occupant.
The house ran with impeccable order thanks to Mrs Hines’ oversight. The servants all knew their tasks and performed them flawlessly. She was the one at loose ends and, after spending the previous year nursing her father, she now found herself with nothing to do. After nearly two weeks of idleness, she decided that it was time to do more than retire to her room.
She decided to venture into the attic, where Mrs Hines had said the trunks of the late Duchess were stored. Perhaps she could find items of clothing to wear that would replace the dress she wore in the absence of others. Black did not, wear well day after day.
She climbed the stairs to the next floor and, as she was in no great hurry, she opened the doors of the rooms along the corridor to familiarize herself with the Hall. Although some rooms were not used and others were only for storage, the housekeeping was still rigorous here. As she walked along the hall, she thought she heard sounds.
She chided herself for being overly sensitive to the inherent noises of a house that had been built when the Stuarts still ruled England. But the noises continued and as she walked down the corridor, they seemed to increase and become louder although she could not distinguish words.
When she stopped in front of the room at the Ned of the corridor, the sounds were both louder and less mysterious. Hermione opened the door.
There was a crib in the room. The crib was not empty. Hermione hurried inside the room. A baby, its dark brown eyes interested in her arrival looked at her with an engaged expression on its face. Hermione had had very little experience with babies, but instinct took over as she lifted the child. The baby looked to be she guessed less than four months old. In her arms, she found the baby was wet.
Hermione found cloths on a table beside the crib. Although the room was obviously intended for the care of the child—she
noted the washbasin, the rocking chair, and the squares of cloth intended for diapering, yet the chamber did not appear to have been designed as a nursery. In one corner were framed paintings on the floor, perhaps taken down to make room for new favourites. The room possessed varying items of furniture that showed some signs of usage. She saw several trunks in another corner and wondered if they contained clothing that had belonged to the Duchess.
Now the idea of additional clothing became unimportant. She raised the child and removed the soiled loincloth. The infant continued to watch her with placid, interested eyes but did not protest when Hermione washed her with a cloth and water that she poured from the pitcher into the basin.
Once the little girl was clean, Hermione sat down with her in the rocking chair and began to rock. The baby stared up at her in contentment. Hermione smiled, but her thoughts were less than cheerful. The Duke had admitted that he was a libertine. Clearly, this was so and the result of one of his romantic entanglements was in the room. It had to be the reason why he had divulged nothing about why he wanted to marry; he did not want her to know that he had a love chid. Did he really think that a child’s existence could be kept a secret, even in a house as large as Brentford Hall? Did he expect—?
“I meant to tell you,” said Brentford’s voice.
Hermione turned her head. Seated in the rocking chair, his child falling asleep in her arms, she could not rise. He came closer, entering the room.
“I intended to tell you,” he said again, standing before her.
“When did you intend to tell me?”
The usual glint of mischievous amusement was absent from his eyes.
“As soon as I mustered the courage,” he replied.
“This is the reason why people are to be told that we were married a year ago,” she guessed.
“Yes. She is two months old.”
