The Fall of a Saint

by Christine Merrill

  The clothes were like the food at the feast today, beautiful, expensive and unpalatable. The room was overflowing with more clothing than she could ever have time to wear. St Aldric did not seem bothered, but the sight of the gowns made her feel guilty and wasteful.

  She missed her old clothes. The dull and inoffensive wardrobe appropriate for a governess had been comfortable. Her maid, Peg, had set them aside with a sniff, and Maddie had not seen them since. She suspected, if she searched the shops frequented by the servants in this area, she would find that Peg had sold them.

  Before they had gone, she’d managed to save a grey shawl, arguing that it was both soft and warm, despite the bland colour. She’d also salvaged a wrapper that she’d stitched herself out of dark blue flannel. Peg argued that it was not the least bit romantic. She much preferred the lacy pelisse that was meant to go with a nearly indecent gown. God forbid his Grace see the horrid blue thing; he would return to his rooms and not come back.

  That was precisely what Maddie hoped. She reached for the shawl, rubbing it against her cheek for comfort as she examined her new room. It did not matter if it had been unused for years. It was a testament to quiet elegance, the green-striped silk on the walls and the cream satin of the coverlet, the gleaming brass of the candlesticks and the well-oiled wood of tables and cabinets. In comparison, her clothes were as garish as the parrots in the ballroom.

  Peg did not seem bothered by them in the least. She plucked the shawl from her mistress’s hands and ran an admiring hand over the gowns in the cupboard. ‘You have so many nice things, your Grace. So much nicer than the old ones. And the gown you are wearing now does not need a shawl.’

  ‘The neck is too low,’ Maddie muttered. Peg had declared it decent for church. But it still felt too low, too light and far too frivolous.

  ‘It was no lower than the other ladies were wearing,’ Peg said firmly. ‘And much prettier. Though it is a pity that it will not fit for long.’ She eyed Maddie’s midsection speculatively.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Maddie said bluntly.

  The girl blushed. ‘It’s all right, your Grace. There is very little that a lady’s maid does not notice and even less that she talks about.’ She touched the gowns again. ‘The dressmaker did not allow much in the seams, but I will have to let out the bodices soon enough.’

  ‘I am only just married,’ Maddie insisted.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Peg repeated. ‘You can hardly be blamed for getting an early start with a man like the duke.’

  ‘Why is that?’ There was little point in denying further what Peg would see with her own eyes each time she was dressed.

  ‘He is a most handsome man,’ the maid said with a giggle.

  ‘Is he prone to...?’ How best to ask this question? It was better to be prepared than to find out more unfortunate truths and be surprised by them. ‘I do not know him well at all, really. People think so highly of him that it is hard to believe the truth of it. What sort of master has he been to the household?’

  ‘The best one in London,’ Peg said with a grin. ‘In all of England, most likely. Kind, thoughtful and never has a sharp word for anyone.’

  ‘There are so many in the peerage that abuse their power,’ Maddie said as delicately as possible. ‘They are given to all sorts of excesses. Drink, gambling, women...’ She waited, hoping that the desire to gossip would prove too great to resist.

  The girl gave her a wide-eyed look, as though she could not imagine such a person. ‘Then we are doubly fortunate to be in this house.’

  ‘Working for a man with no vices?’ She had seen for herself that it was not true.

  The girl paused for a moment, as though wondering how much she might admit to. ‘There were some dark times, after the illness. Brooks, his Grace’s valet, was quite worried. But his Grace is right as rain now.’

  ‘And these dark times—were there events that I should know of? Problems with the household, perhaps?’ The man had all but admitted his need to prove his virility. He must have started under his own roof.

  To this, Peg’s only response was an incredulous laugh. ‘Oh, no, your Grace. Certainly not. He was far from home is all. And missing from Parliament, which was not like him. He is most diligent about that. And we are always glad to have him here, for it is a point of pride that we work for him. The duke is a perfect gentleman.’ She leaned forward, as though she was afraid to be caught gossiping. ‘He does not like it much, but the people here in town call him The Saint because he is so generous and good.’

  ‘I would prefer not to hear that particular nickname in the house.’ And there was the supposed saint, standing in the doorway that must connect their bedrooms.

  The maid started at her master’s voice and went hurriedly back to straightening the folds of the gowns she was hanging.

  ‘I would not worry, for you will not hear it from me,’ Maddie said, staring directly into his eyes in challenge.

  ‘I did not think I would,’ he said in a dry tone and glanced to the maid.

  She curtsied, ready to leave the happy couple alone, and Maddie resisted the urge to grab for her arm and demand that she remain. She was not ready to be alone with the duke.

  St Aldric stood his ground, leaning against the door frame, neither advancing, nor retreating. ‘That’s all right, Peg. You may stay.’

  There was no logical reason for her to fear him, but her heart was in her throat to be in a bedroom with him again. It created a weird mixture of terror and excitement to remember his touch. He knew her as only one other man had. But unlike Richard, who she had loved with all her soul, St Aldric was still a stranger to her. He did not seem equally bothered. But he had known many women. What did he even remember of her, other than that she carried his child? And how much of that night did she remember clearly herself?

  She did not want to remember it. It was over. They were together because of an accident, she reminded herself. A mistake. And the duke’s weak character. And she would not allow it to happen again, for another night in his bed would mean that she was little better than a lustful animal.

  She focused her mind on a battlefield far away, and a good man lying in an unmarked grave. Then she stared at the duke, safe and whole and undeserving. ‘You wished something, your Grace?’

  He smiled. It seemed normal and natural, and she heard the maid sigh at the sight, for the duke was even more handsome when he chose to smile. But Maddie could see it for what it was: a polite mask hiding whatever it was that he actually thought when he looked at her. ‘I only came to suggest that you dress to go out. It is a fine afternoon and I thought we take advantage of the weather to purchase your wedding present.’

  Chapter Five

  A gift.

  Maddie hardly knew what to say to that. Courtesy had the words you needn’t have bothered rushing to her lips. She had taken so much already. The gowns...

  A duchess cannot wear rags, she reminded herself.

  The breakfast...

  A social success.

  And the ring on her finger, heavier and more magnificent than anything she’d ever hoped to have.

  And entailed, the voice in her head said firmly. If he wished to buy her something that was truly hers, then why should he not? It was a bribe to keep her silent and in good humour.

  When he had retreated into his own room, Peg chose a smart walking dress of pale blue muslin and a bonnet trimmed in silk cornflowers. Admiring herself in the mirror, Maddie could not help but smile. While she did not feel like a duchess, in this simple gown she felt less like a governess in fancy dress.

  Then she went downstairs to find St Aldric waiting in the hall wearing buff breeches, Hessians and a wine-coloured coat, along with the same unflappable smile he had been using in her bedroom. He was so polite she might as well have been a stranger.

&n
bsp; As he glanced up at her, it faltered, but not with the annoyance she’d expected to see when she caught him unawares. He was staring at her with admiration.

  In response, she could feel herself colouring. The most handsome man in London was looking at her as though he was eager for her company. Lord help her, she was smiling back. Her steps quickened on the stairs, hurrying to his side.

  Then she remembered her resolution in the bedroom less than an hour ago. She must not forget who she was, who he was and what had brought them to this. He remembered as well, for the look in his eyes faded, the sincere smile faltered like a guttering candle and the false courtesy returned.

  She nodded in acknowledgement, wiping the smile from her own face, and allowed him to hand her up into the seat of his high-perch phaeton.

  If there was any trace of excitement in her, he could attribute it to the carriage. The vehicle was as impressive as everything else about St Aldric: expensive and elegant, it was so new that the paint was barely dry. But the unsteadiness of it wore on her nerves. Suppose they were overset? Was such a conveyance safe for anyone, much less a woman in her delicate condition?

  She considered fussing about it, or offering some snide comment implying that he meant to kill her on the very first day of their marriage.

  But he handled the ribbons himself and it might be unwise to upset him while he drove and create the accident she worried about. They were travelling at as spritely a pace as could be managed through the busy streets of London, but he navigated with confidence and took no foolish risks. As she watched him, so obviously skilled, she felt that creeping admiration of him that rose in her whenever she did not stop to remind herself what a complete bounder she had married.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ She tried to sound petulant, but the words came out as curious and excited.

  ‘Tattersall’s. You cannot be a smart woman of the ton without a curricle of some sort, or at the very least a mare to ride in Rotten Row.’ His smile was serene and distant, but she noticed the faintest smirk at the corner as he added, ‘I expect it will be very expensive.’

  That might have been the case. Perhaps this was a peace offering to her, formed in a way that saved face for the both of them. If she meant to spend his money, here was a chance.

  Then he added, ‘At breakfast, Rayland mentioned some fine stock he has up for auction today and I do not want to miss a chance at them.’

  So that was it. He had been talking horseflesh on his wedding day when they were barely out of the church. He was making a public show of her wedding gift, so that anyone keeping a tally of correct marital behaviour would not be shocked that he had abandoned her at home to go to an auction.

  Her feelings meant nothing to him. If he’d have asked her, she’d have announced quite truthfully that the thought of handling a carriage herself, or even parading on the back of some blood mare, was terrifying. She knew little of horses and even less of driving. To develop such skills while with child went against all common sense. If he’d wished to torture her, he could not have found a better way.

  * * *

  It grew even worse when they’d arrived at their destination. St Aldric handed the reins to his tiger and helped her down into a throng of men, hounds and horses. It was loud, dusty and intimidating. With the huge beasts stamping the dirt on all sides of her, she was near to panic.

  And that was the only reason that she found herself clinging to his arm, as though his presence would be any kind of security at all. It was degrading. She hated having to ask him for help. Before they had met, she had made her way in the world alone, using good sense to avoid situations that were not safe for an unattached female. After Richard had left, she’d been scrupulous of her own safety and her honour. But if being the Duchess of St Aldric meant that she would be dragged into such places and forced to rely on her husband for security, then she was likely to dislike this marriage even more than she’d expected.

  Even worse, her husband was patting her hand, as though her frailty was to be assumed. ‘You needn’t worry. The horse I have in mind for you will be far more easy than these brutes. We will find you a mare as gentle as a lamb.’

  Of course he would. He would not wish to risk the safety of his child after all. The thought brought the bitter taste back to her mouth that she had not had since Evelyn began dosing her with ginger.

  She took a deep breath and mastered it. ‘Am I to have no say in the purchase?’

  He looked down at her, surprised. ‘I did not think you knew horseflesh. If you wish, you may decide what you are able to handle.’

  It was a dare, she was sure. A society lady would show spirit and choose some impossible horse and he would laugh at her attempts to control it. He led her towards the auction, examining the mares that would come up for bid. They were big but gentle, with soft dark eyes and velvety muzzles, nuzzling gently at her to see if she’d brought them treats. They were not lambs, precisely. Rather like extremely large dogs.

  She still did not like them. Nor did she like being so far from her element. But he was as content bartering for horses as he was when she’d turned his home into an aviary. It seemed he was at ease in any situation.

  She would always be a step behind. A little lost. Struggling to catch up, even in situations she had orchestrated. At the wedding breakfast, he had greeted each person in the throng she had invited by name, deflected any congratulations that had seemed less than sincere with praise of his wife’s taste and intelligence and even spoken knowledgeably when questioned about the lovebirds. He managed to be all things to all people.

  Except to her, of course. She had seen the true man in Dover. What she was seeing now was nothing more than false coin. If everyone else was fooled, then London must be populated by idiots.

  At the moment, the patron saint of the ton was too busy checking teeth and feeling withers to notice her annoyance. He led her down the row, pointing out a shoulder here, a fetlock there, pulling back lips and staring into eyes, giving no hint as to what was good or bad, treating her as though she might have some idea of what she was supposed to be looking at. He was making fun at her expense, waiting to see her prove her ignorance.

  She let him carry on with it, refusing to take the bait and speak. Then she glanced past him, outside the gates.

  In sad mimicry to the auction here, which was made up of the finest horseflesh in London, a group of farmers and drovers had gathered to make their own trades. Although there were probably some solid plough horses in the bunch, even she could see that many of the animals were as poor as their owners. One or two of the men moving through that crowd were bidding often and buying so many beasts that she suspected their purchases would be nothing more than hooves, hide and glue by the end of the week.

  St Aldric took no notice of that sale. He was too preoccupied by the thrill of the chase on his side of the fence, gauging his competition and readying his bids for horses worthy to carry his new wife.

  She sniffed. Horse mad, just like the rest of his set. He was likely to fritter away more money than she could imagine for the right to own more animals than he could possibly need. More proof that she had been a fool to try to shock him with her gowns.

  She wandered away, in the direction of the drovers’ auction. Her husband did not notice at all, but the groom, seeing her depart, hurried after. It was nice to know that someone truly cared for her safety.

  Seeing the horses here was almost comforting. They were no smaller, of course. In some cases, they were truly massive. They needed the height and weight to pull ploughs and wagons. But at least they were calm.

  It was the calmness of animals resigned to their fate that drew her. They stood between the traces, plodding forward at the pull of the reins. At the end of the journey, they did not come to a green pasture like the fancy horseflesh that her new husband admired. These animals, with their rheumy eyes a
nd drooping heads, were headed towards the knackers. She thought of her own life in service and how it might have ended, too old to be useful and full of employers rather than friends. She turned in sympathy to pat the nearest horse.

  It was the most flea-bitten, spavined nag she had ever seen. Its owner hung back from the crowd, obviously dreading the likely response when it was brought up for bids. When the poor thing was led to the front, there were snickers and catcalls of ‘too thin for dog meat’ and ‘not fit for glue’.

  She felt sorry for the owner, who looked even more dejected at the prospect of being unable to sell it. Bidding began, with the auctioneer’s suggested forty pounds greeted with resounding silence. He followed it with thirty, then twenty, then ten. His voice grew more desperate with each suggestion. Still, the prospective buyers said nothing. The farmer who held the harness looked near to tears, at least, what she could see of him. As usual, she was small and short, and losing sight of the action with each shift of a head in front of her.

  Finally, she could stand it no longer. ‘Fifty!’

  There was a gasp from the men around her and heads turned to find the source of the bid. This resulted in much muttering and rustling in the crowd, and bodies pressing in on her, making it even harder for her to see. She pushed forward, darting under armpits and working her way to the front.

  ‘I am not sure I heard?’ the auctioneer called. ‘Did someone bid?’

  ‘Sixty!’ she cried again, louder so that her voice might carry over the laughter of the mob.

  Someone shouted something about a madwoman in the back and she pushed hard against the man ahead of her, moving forward another few inches. ‘Seventy!’ She was at the front now, staring at the auctioneer as the nag puffed steamy breath into her hair.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ the auctioneer said with a toothy grin. ‘It seems you have wandered into the wrong place. The proper auction is through the gate, yonder. And just past is the Jockey Club, if you are looking for a rider.’