“I fear I have no formal education to speak of.”
Miss Thin frowned. “What do you do with all your time then?”
“I endeavor to see the world. My husband was a stonemason and left me with sufficient funds to travel at my leisure.”
“When did he die?” Miss Thin prodded.
“Ladies,” Mr. Roth interrupted finally, “she is not applying for a position. Mrs. Lyons is our guest.”
Saved from the inquest, the duchess directed her appreciative smile at him. “Shall I tell you about Luxemburg?”
“Please do,” Douglas Roth answered. As soon as they were served, he quickly cut a bite of steak, and put it in his mouth. He savored the taste and nodded his approval to the waiting waiter.
“Well, it is the most beautiful country I have yet to see. We toured an ancient castle, where…” The duchess did not like the daughters, but then, she had little use for all perspective in-laws. However, these two managed to get on her nerves much faster than most. They had not the least amount of formal grooming, and in London society, they would soon be laughed out of town. To return the irritation she felt toward them, the duchess thought to tell in great detail, about the torture chamber found in the bottom of the castle – blood stains and all. Unfortunately, she doubted Mr. Roth would find that to his liking.
While she talked, the duchess continued to consider the daughters. Neither was very attractive, both would likely end up spinsters, and she doubted she could withstand the whining for very long. Still, there were ways to keep in-laws from visiting often. While Miss Plump seemed interested in her story, Miss Thin could not have looked more bored. In fact, she appeared to be half-asleep when the duchess finished her story and asked, “What do you do?”
“What?” Miss Thin asked. She had yet to touch the pork chops she so rudely demanded.
“Have you an occupation?” the duchess asked. Her steak was perfectly cooked and she would have delighted in being left alone to enjoy it. Such was not the case on this evening.
“I…I take care of my father’s house.”
What that meant exactly, the duchess hesitated to ask. “Oh, I see.”
“As do I,” said Miss Plump.
“You are not married?” the duchess asked, taking the time to enjoy yet another small bite of steak. “I assumed such pretty girls would…”
Miss Thin interrupted, “We cannot leave Father all alone.”
It was probably the freckle that kept the suitors away, the duchess decided. Whatever the reason, the daughters presented a much larger stumbling block than she expected – they still lived at home!
Douglas Roth changed the subject, and waited until the duchess had finished eating before he said to her, “Although my lovely daughters are most considerate where I am concerned, I have been thinking of correcting the situation at home.”
“What situation?” Miss Thin stammered.
“The one where you care for me, instead of seeking your own happiness.”
“Correcting it how?” Miss Thin further insisted. She was about to cry.
“You should be married,” Mr. Roth answered, “and I do not wish to stand in the way of your happiness any longer. Therefore, I intend to take a wife.”
Miss Plump giggled. “Oh, Father, you need not marry on our account.”
“I am aware of that,” Mr. Roth continued. He was not smiling and both daughters noticed. “Nevertheless, it is long since time to push the chicks out of the nest. Oh, I shall see that you are well situated, but…”
“Father, what are you saying?” asked Miss Plump. She looked as if she might cry as well.
He turned his grin on the duchess. “I am asking Mrs. Lyons if she will marry me.”
Truly taken aback, the duchess let her mouth fall open. “I…we have only known each other a short time, Douglas.” That was the first time she called him by his first name, and it seemed to widen his grin.
He put his hand over hers. “Rarely does it take me more than a week to know what I want, and I want you. I promise a life of leisure with all that you desire, and…”
“Father, have you lost your mind?” Miss Plump interrupted.
Miss Thin glared at the duchess, but Douglas did not seem to notice. Apparently, he was accustomed to his daughter’s foul attitude. Miss Plump was so horrified, she could think of nothing more to say.
The duchess finally pulled herself together. “Douglas, I do not quite know what to say.”
“Say yes.” He reached in his jacket pocket, and withdrew a gorgeous diamond ring. “If I am to put it on, you must remove your glove.”
Still playing the part of the thrilled, yet somewhat reluctant future bride, she searched his beaming eyes. She let just the right amount of time pass, curled her mouth into a smile and began to remove her glove.
“No!” Miss Thin gasped.
“Yes,” her father insisted. “Mrs. Lyons, forgive me for not being on bended knee, but will you be my wife?”
Her grin positively glittered as she let him slip the ring on her finger, “How you do honor me, Douglas. I shall be very happy married to you.” Under her breath, she prayed that would be the last time she would ever have to utter those stupid words.
“I do love you madly,” said he.
“I love you too,” said she, maintaining her stupendous glow of extreme happiness, which was ignited by the two-caret diamond on her finger.
Miss Thin’s voice abruptly changed from whiny to gruff. “You love her? You have only known her a short time!”
Douglas admonished, “I beg of you, Matilda, of all places, do not cause an uproar in here.”
Matilda? The duchess thought. That was it. Miss Thin’s name was as putrid as Gormelia. For a moment, the duchess almost pitied her, but it passed quickly enough. Miss Plump looked as though she was about to lose her happy home – which she was. It made the duchess the happiest she had been in years.
“Is it too soon to set a date, my love?” Douglas asked.
“A date?” the duchess stammered. Reality hit her hard. This was happening so fast, she momentarily forgot her primary objective. Should she marry first and then seek her revenge against Hannish MacGreagor, or should she… “I must go to Colorado to see my daughter first. I promised and I am already overdue.”
“How old is she?” Miss Thin snidely asked.
“Fourteen?” the duchess answered.
“You must bring her to live with us,” said Douglas.
“Truly? You would not mind?” the duchess asked.
“Not at all. Any daughter of yours is more than welcome.”
Miss Plump folded her arms in a huff. “Yet, we are your daughters and we are not welcome?”
“Clovis, you have not been fourteen for a decade. It is time you set about caring for your own household.”
The duchess had to hide her laughter. Clovis? What mother in her right mind would name a daughter Clovis?
“You know I love you,” Douglas continued, “but three, and perhaps, four women living in the same house spells disaster. It shall be Rebecca’s home now, and the two of you shall make your own way in the world.”
Miss Thin gritted her teeth, “What about our inheritance?”
Douglas scoffed, “There is more than enough to go around.”
“You have no other children?” the duchess dared ask.
“Only these two daughters, I am sad to say, and with your daughter, three.”
Miss Plump moaned, “You mean to leave money to her daughter?”
“Clovis, I am not yet dead. Can you not fight over the money after I am gone?”
At last, he managed to settle his daughters down. Nevertheless, a look between the two told the duchess all she needed to know – before Douglas was cold in his grave, the fight would be on. It was a fight she was looking forward to, one which she had no intention of losing.
And so it was that the future of the ex-duchess of Glenartair was well set.
*
The day befor
e she left for Colorado, the duchess paid close attention to her appearance. At a general store, she invested in a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, inspected her black blouse, black taffeta skirt and put them in her hatbox. She chose another outfit to wear on the train, and early the next morning, she dressed, put on the black hat she also intended to wear to Colorado Springs and boarded the train to Denver.
Two more days on a train gave her ample time to go over her plan detail by detail. When she arrived, she carried her hatbox to a red brick hotel just two blocks from the station, one that catered to traveling salesmen, and those who could afford nothing better. The hotel was not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but for her purposes, it would do. She needed a place to leave her things and to hide if she were followed back to Denver. From there, she could easily catch the next train out, no matter the destination. Besides, Hannish MacGreagor would never look for her in such a disreputable hotel.
At the lobby counter of the four-story hotel, she paid for three nights, and specifically asked for a room on the top floor with a view of the mountains. She cared nothing for the mountains, but she always seemed to be cold, Hotels were notoriously stingy with their heat, and she hoped the afternoon sun would warm her room.
Once in the room, she nodded her approval. The bellboy set her bag on the bed, walked out and closed the door behind him. She hung up the clothes she intended to wear the next day, and then went shopping. Her destination was, of course, a bookshop. For the better part of an hour, she perused the books, decided her book had not yet made it that far west either, bought a sandwich for dinner and went to mail a very special package. Wrapped in plain paper, she paid the postage and watched the man at the counter place a copy of her book, addressed to Dr. Morris in New York City, in the pile of outgoing mail.
How she wished she could see the look on his face when he saw it.
In a way, she was disappointed her book was not spreading across America quickly. She hoped all of Colorado had read it, and that Hannish was so embarrassed and humiliated, he had not set foot out of that awful mansion in days. The very thought made her smile.
On the other hand, if it were widely read, a full description of her in the book would make it more difficult to slip in and out of Colorado Springs unnoticed. She put her sandwich on the table in her hotel room, and checked to make certain her sleeve covered the scar. She pulled the spectacles out of her purse, put them on, and once more examined her appearance in the wall mirror. Hopefully, the color of her hair and the spectacles would be enough of a disguise to fool them. Hopefully as well, she would not have to stay in Colorado Springs for more than a day. In fact, she might be able to accomplish her goal in just a few hours.
The duchess sat at the small table in her room, ate her dinner, got pencil, and paper, and began to make a list. She paused to remember the lay of the land, the road that led up the hill and exactly where she recalled Marblestone to be. She remembered the marble foyer well enough, for it still reminded her of a mausoleum. If she was grateful for anything just now, it was that she was not doomed to live in Marblestone Mansion.
Next, she tried to recall everything Charles had said about the town and the people in it. She should have listened more carefully, but he obnoxiously rattled on and on about the gold mines and his precious family, so she failed to pay attention.
The duchess finished her list, and stared at the paper. A lot could go wrong, she suspected, but she was determined to make the best of the only chance she might ever have. With nothing left to do, she went to the window and let the sun warm her. The mountains were indeed beautiful – as well they should be, for they were Jedediah Tanner’s mountains. In fact, she was certain the money from his last train robbery was still hidden in the foothills somewhere. She should have asked him where it was and fully regretted that she hadn’t.
The duchess sighed, “Too late now.”
CHAPTER 9
At breakfast, in the servant’s dining room at Marblestone, Lillie Mae could hardly sit still. The bottom of her foot itched. She knew better than to take off her shoe while they ate, but oh, what misery it caused. The subject at hand was various illnesses, causes and cures. She finished her second pile of flapjacks, and unable to bear it another moment, she asked, “What does it mean when your foot itches?”
“Which foot,” Brookton asked, “right or left?”
“Right,” she answered. When the whole room erupted in laughter, she glared at him. “Very funny, Mr. Brookton.”
“Lilly Mae,” Prescot started. “How…”
“How long has my foot itched?” she asked.
“No, how…”
“I do not know how,” Lillie Mae interrupted again. “That is what I am asking.” Her comment only served to increase their laughter. Befuddled, she wrinkled her brow. “Have I said something else funny?”
“Pay them no mind,” said cook Halen. “However, you might wait until you hear all of Mr. Prescot’s question before you answer.”
She slumped. “Very well. What is it, Mr. Prescot?”
“I wanted to know if you like your new position as lady’s maid to Miss Blair,” Prescot answered.
“Oh yes, I like it very much. It is a lot more fun than cleaning the cinders out of the hearths, washing the floor and beating the rugs, although I do like beating a rug now and then. I pretend it is Mr. Brookton.” She expected them to laugh this time, stood up, took a bow, and then went off to put liniment on her itching foot.
*
Watching to see who got off the train was more of a pleasure than a chore for Provost MacGreagor, and this Saturday morning was no exception. Mr. Simon Merth, Station Manager for the railroad, had grown accustomed to putting a chair outside the door for the Provost to sit on when the trains were due to arrive. After the train left and the Provost moved on, Mr. Merth hauled it back inside. He didn’t mind, he liked the old Scottish gentleman, even if his accent was a little too hard to understand.
Without fail, both in the morning and afternoon, the Provost scrutinized the passengers as they got off, faithfully looking for that wicked woman the MacGreagors mockingly called, ‘the duchess’. He liked her even less than he liked Abigail Whitfield, which was saying something.
Yet, this day a very exciting object took his attention off the passengers. He slowly stood up, made his way through the crowd, and then walked up the tracks to a flatbed car. Tied with heavy ropes to all four corners of the flatbed, was the most beautiful twelve-pound howitzer cannon the Provost had ever seen. It had a spit and polish shine, and sat atop a wooden frame with two large, spoke wheels. Two long, cloth wrapped ramrods lay in holders on either side of the cannon barrel, and a ball bucket hung below it.
In awe, Provost MacGreagor removed his hat and respectfully laid it against his chest. “No wonder the American’s beat the British. They had better cannons.”
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it,” the train engineer said, as he walked up beside the Provost.
“Aye.”
“It is being shipped to a museum in Texas.”
“You dinna say.”
“I am told it was used in the battle at Gettysburg.”
“Gettysburg?” the Provost asked as he put his hat back on.
“It was a major battle in the American Civil War. My grandfather fought in that war and he said…”
*
“Provost MacGreagor? What is he doing here?” the duchess muttered. She waited inside the passenger compartment until the Provost walked away, scanned the crowd through the window for any other familiar faces, and then cautiously disembarked.
Colorado Springs had changed a great deal since she was there last, but fortunately, the stables had not been moved. With no traveling case to collect, she quickly made her way through the multitude, and walked down the street to the stables. She pleasantly smiled, rented a buggy for the day, and assured the man in charge she knew precisely how to drive it.
Just after she climbed into the buggy, she pulled the pins ou
t, removed her wide-brimmed black hat, and repositioned it so it slanted left. If she remembered correctly, the Whitfields lived just up the road from the MacGreagors. For what she had in mind, it was perfect, but first she had to get past Marblestone without being seen. Satisfied her hat was sufficiently slanted, she put on the spectacles, separated the reins, and wrapped one around each hand. Next, she slapped the reins against the horse’s back, and boldly drove to the road that led up the hill.
Halfway up the hill, she spotted Marblestone through the trees and held her breath. An automobile coming down the road caused her to pull the rim of her hat down even farther. Just as it was about to pass, she dared to have a look, and when she recognized the driver, she breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t recognize her, but she sure knew who he was. It was her lucky day – Claymore Whitfield would be one less person to get in her way.
When she reached the lane that led to Marblestone, she resisted the urge to look. Instead, the duchess encouraged the horse to go faster, and passed Marblestone without incident. At the next lane, she turned and was convinced she had correctly found the Whitfield Mansion. The sight of it impressed her not at all, for she had seen the inside of Windsor Castle, and no other structure could possibly compare. She drove up the lane, halted, secured the reins, climbed down, and then walked up to the front door. The duchess boldly rang the bell and waited.
“Yes?” ask the Whitfield butler.
“Is Miss Whitfield at home?”
“She is. May I ask who is calling?”
“She will not recognize my name. Tell her we met on the train a few days ago.”
“Yes, Miss. Do come in.”
“Thank you.” She glanced around the opulent foyer, and realized it was just as Charles described it. The Whitfields clearly could afford the best of everything. Even so, she had seen much finer belongings in the possession of men with far less wealth than Charles bragged of. When she heard footsteps on the stairs, she got ready to greet Gloria with a smile.
Marblestone Mansion, Book 8 Page 13
