Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

  “Oh, Darrius, do you not understand? Only little girls who are playing at being grown up would use such things. No, I am better off to go about with my face bare, like some Protestant woman.”

  Darrius studied her for a moment. “You find that repugnant?”

  “Have you read their tracts, Darrius? I do, indeed, find it repugnant. I attend church like any other God-fearing citizen, but I do not spend my day agonizing over whether the things I have done are sin. I take it on good faith that as long as I am obeying my father and the laws of my King, that I am right with the world.”

  “I am not sure I have thought it through even so much as that.” Darrius considered it for a moment. “No, I am sure I have not. One must obey the laws of the land, of course. My father expected obedience while he was alive, but now that he is not, how could I obey his wishes?”

  “Our marriage, for one,” Blanche replied. “He must have wished it, else why arrange it? Are we defying our fathers if we do not wed?”

  “Mine is out of reach, but we could certainly ask your father. Perhaps he would have some insight into their reasoning. He might even be relieved to learn of not having to hold onto the dowry for you.”

  Blanche shook her head. “No, that was set up by my maternal grandfather. None of us can touch it unless I am married. At that time, it will pay me an allowance for the length of my life, and then go to my daughter should I have any.”

  “What a very odd arrangement,” Darrius commented. Meanwhile, his thoughts were racing. Even if they were wed, he would not have access to Blanche’s dowry. Oh, his creditors would just love that development!

  Still, as long as the wedding was in the planning, he could hold out the hope that his wife’s fortune might be substantial.

  Hope was what had allowed him to send two cooks for his mother’s household, while making do with a single additional cook at the Main House. He hoped that he would be able to persuade her to pay them out of her allowance at the end of the quarter. Otherwise, he would scarcely clear the housekeeping budget, let alone be able to consider repairs or a new carriage. He mentally said goodbye to thoughts of a new, super-fine dinner jacket or even so much as a new set of shirts.

  He realized that Blanche was still talking.

  “ —I will never be as robust as I might have been. Do we not live in a strange world, where to make ourselves beautiful, we also make ourselves ill?”

  Darrius suddenly had a vision of himself setting up something similar for a little girl who looked a lot like Blanche. “It is a strange world,” he said, trying to shake the vision. “But men are expected to make provision for their families. A gentleman does not work, but from him, jobs are created, money flows, and the society as a whole is rewarded, which then flows back to him for his keeping.”

  “Is it so, Darrius?” Blanche stared at him. For a moment, it was as if he had never seen her before. There was an odd expression upon her face, as if she could not quite believe what she was hearing. She shook herself, and then said, “Never mind. I am sure that you are right, that it does work that way. To be certain, a manor house provides work for many hands.”

  “For which they are paid,” Darrius point out, “thus spreading wealth far and wide.”

  My wealth, he thought. The wealth I do not have. Whatever shall I do? Well, I will do what I can, for a gentleman must pay his debts and appearances must be kept up.

  “Of course,” Blanche smiled at him. “So what are your thoughts, Your Grace? Shall I announce that I have grown tired of waiting for you? Or that my health has put me more in mind of a nunnery than a wedding?”

  “Are you tired of me?” Darrius asked. “Would you prefer a nunnery to a wedding?”

  “In truth, I am not overly fond of the idea of either,” Blanche replied. “But we have waited this long to set a date, I do not think a day or two more will matter. My greatest desire is to regain my health.”

  “A worthy goal,” Darrius conceded. “What does your father say to that?”

  “He says that he is highly in favor of it, even if it means selling off the heirlooms. He incurred a great many debts taking me from one physician to another.”

  “And now you discover that by leaving off the face paint, ceasing the medicinal draughts, and simply eating ordinary food will make you well?”

  “Dr. Alton says that remains to be seen. He is certain that such a course will, at the very least, not make me any worse. Since each day I felt more disconnected from the real world, more light-headed and yet heavy of heart, I will certainly accept the thought of not feeling worse.”

  Darrius nodded. He knew the feeling of spiraling down into despair all too well.

  “If it is any comfort to you,” he said. “I rather like this new aspect of yours. If it is not too great an imposition, I think I would like to stay the course for a bit. Let us get to know one another, as we are now. Not as we remember each other as children.”

  “The thought has merit,” Blanche replied. “I think I should like that. But Darrius, there is a possibility that I might not be able to give you an heir. Dr. Alton is not certain that I shall be sufficiently robust.”

  “Let us become better acquainted before we think of such things.”

  “Thank you for your forbearance.”

  “Think nothing of it. We are agreed, then, to wait a while.” Darrius said.

  They sat in silence for a time. Then Blanch drew a shaky little breath. “Well, this is certainly a difficult way to get to know one another. Perhaps we should find something pleasant to talk about. Have you read any good books lately?”

  “Only Waverly, which my mother summarily dismissed as rubbish. Did you read it?”

  “I could only get through the first chapter,” Blanche confessed. “I am not a great reader like Mrs. Swinton and the Duchess.”

  Darrius laughed. “In truth, I do not think they read it, either. I gave it to my mother some weeks ago, but when I visited a day or two later, she and Mrs. Swinton were reading my father’s old journals.”

  “That actually sounds rather interesting,” Blanche remarked.

  “Do you think so?” Darrius stared at her in surprise.

  “I do. I’ve kept a journal for ever so long, but I fear it is only interesting to me.”

  “What kinds of things do you have in it?” Darrius enquired.

  “Oh, what we had for tea, who we visited during a week, that sort of thing. My thoughts. Nothing of great interest, I fear.”

  “I see. Perhaps you might read a passage or two for me at some time.”

  “I will look through them and see if I can find something that might interest you,” Blanche said calmly. “What kinds of things do you enjoy, Darrius?”

  “Riding to the hounds. It is not so much whether we catch the fox or not, it is more about the horses, the dogs, and the companionship of the other riders.”

  “That makes sense. Do you enjoy shooting?” Blanche asked.

  “I like shooting clay pigeons, but not the real thing,” Darrius replied. “I am not fond of all the blood and feathers that comes from bringing down a real bird.”

  Blanche considered that for a few minutes. “Clay pigeons would be a great deal less messy, and no live thing is being killed. Yet you practice your skill.”

  “Yes. One never knows when it might be needed.”

  “When do you think you might need it?” Blanche asked coyly.

  “Oh, I don’t know. To bring down a real pheasant for dinner, or to defend your wife from a marauding highwayman.”

  Blanche laughed. “But you just said you hate the blood and feathers. Do you think a highwayman would be less full of the fluid of life?”

  “I think he would be likely to fight back, which is more than any pheasant could do. Although, I will own up to liking a bit of pheasant for my dinner.”

  Blanche shook her head at him. “Oh, Darrius. How fortunate it is that you are unlikely to need to defend me from highwaymen.”

  “It is, isn’t it?�
�� Darrius gave her a boyish grin.

  It is more likely your imaginary fortune will protect me from my creditors. And now I learn that you are unlikely to provide me with an heir. Who knows what exigencies I shall have to resort to in order to have one. How did I ever come to such a pass? Why could you not have been as robust as Mrs. Swinton? Well, time to pull the belt in another notch and put the best face on it that I can.

  Chapter 39

  The following day brought several changes to the Dower House. When Evelyn entered the Duchess’ sitting room, she found that Betty had assisted Her Grace, and had her settled in her comfortable wingback chair before the fireplace.

  “I made porridge for Her Grace,” Betty explained to Evelyn when she entered the room. “I’m not much of a cook, but makin’ porridge was my morning chore when I lived at home. I hope that was all right.”

  “Oat porridge?” Evelyn asked.

  “Yes, Mrs. Swinton. Mum used to make Scottish broth, too, but I wasn’t allowed to help with that.”

  “Why not?” the Duchess enquired querulously. It was clear that she was not in a good mood.

  “Because meat was ever so dear, so Mum would not let any of us help with the supper. She said it cost too much to let us go messing about.”

  “I see,” the Duchess commented. “Do you think that you could remember enough of your Mum’s recipe to make some for my dinner? Or, better yet, do you think your mother could be persuaded to come work for me for a few days?”

  “Why, I’m pretty sure she could, Your Grace. My youngest brother just signed on with a Navy ship, so she don’t have no one at home to care for.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Me what? Oh, him. He spends his days at the tavern, drinkin’ up Mum’s sewin’ money. I’m pretty sure Mum could be talked into cookin’ for you for a few days. I don’t know about cookin’ for the whole house, though.”

  “Mrs. Swinton, quickly write a letter to this woman who taught her daughter how to make porridge fit to eat. Then you shall have a bowl of it, for Betty seems to have made enough for a threshing crew.”

  “All here on the hearth, Betty?” Evelyn asked, glancing at the large pot that seemed to take up most of the hearth space.

  “Yes, Mrs. Swinton. I hope that was all right. I brung up the smallest pot I could find in the kitchen, an’ made it the way Mum taught me. I had eight brothers, and there was only three o’ us girls, so’s it always tuck a big potful to feed us.”

  “Share it out with the staff, if you would, please Mrs. Swinton,” the Duchess directed. “It will only get cold sitting there, once you have had your fill.”

  “I will do that gladly,” Evelyn said, dishing up a small bowl of the oatmeal porridge. “Oh, my! This is delicious! Your mother let you use cinnamon?”

  “Well, only on special occasions, like. Because at home cinnamon was ever so dear an’ we din’ have it often. But I thought it would be something that you would have often, Your Grace.”

  “Not too often,” the Duchess declared. “But I must say it is all the difference between a bland, gummy mess, and a delicious, creamy concoction.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace!” Betty curtsied, and gave a beaming smile in response to the praise.

  Evelyn could see the sense in getting someone who had a deft touch with food preparation to take over the kitchen. She quickly penned a letter for Betty to take to her mother.

  “How long to go and come back?” Evelyn asked.

  “Oh, not long at all, Mrs. Swinton. But there’s just one thing. Me mum can’t read.”

  “Can she not?” the Duchess asked in surprise. “I took great care some years back to make sure there was a good school and a teacher in the village. “

  “Well, you see, she doesn’t come from around here. Me Da does. An’ he can read—I think. I can read.”

  “Very well, then you must read it to her. But hurry back, and bring her with you if you can. Take one of the footmen so he can carry her things. Make haste, Betty, for I think another day of these abysmal meals, broken only with the foods you and Mrs. Swinton can make for me, and my palette will die of ennui. And me along with it.”

  “Oh, surely you would not!” Betty exclaimed. “But I shall hurry, all the same.”

  Evelyn made arrangements with Mr. Wilson to share out the porridge, including sending two bowls to Mayson’s room where Mr. McElroy was keeping him company for the day.

  “This is delicious,” Evelynn said to the Duchess. “I’m glad Betty was able to do for you this morning. I am sorry to be late.”

  “Don’t be sorry, my dear,” the Duchess replied. “You look worn to death. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

  “A little. Mr. Bruce came in after his shift and sat with Mr. Rudge until it was time for Mr. McElroy to arise. I looked in on them just before I came up. They were waiting for their breakfast, since neither of them are in a condition to use the hearth for cooking.”

  “How is Mr. Rudge?” the Duchess asked.

  Evelyn searched for the right words. “Not doing as well as could be desired, Your Grace. I fear it will be some time before he can return to his duties.”

  “Do not fret on that account. We shall not turn him out of doors for being ill, Mrs. Swinton. But a cook who can prepare a decent meal, even if it is plain, country cooking, we must have. I cannot think what Darrius was thinking to send these two.”

  “Perhaps he was unaware of their lack of skill,” Evelyn commented. “If they had been working as undercooks at the estate manor house, perhaps they have never had full charge of a kitchen.”

  “That could be, but Mrs. Swinton, how many cooks does my son need? he is a bachelor, and rarely entertains.”

  “Perhaps that is also an answer, Your Grace. In all events, Betty will be back soon with news for us. While I do not mind cooking for the two of us, I believe the whole house would be happier with better food.”

  “Truer words were never said, Mrs. Swinton.”

  “Would you like for me to read to you, Your Grace?”

  “My correspondence, yes, if you would please. I tried to make sense of it, but my eyes are not what they once were, and the letters all seem to turn into blobs no matter how I turn them about. “

  Evelyn obligingly settled down with the stack of correspondence, handbills, and papers that threatened to tumble over and inundate the tea table.

  She and the Duchess were thus pleasantly engaged when Dr. Alton came bustling in. “What news?” the Duchess asked.

  “I will tell you as soon as I have any to impart,” Dr. Alton said. “I have not yet been in to see Mr. Rudge. The carpenter is here, and is doing the fine measurements for Mr. McElroy’s leg. I will go down directly and help with the final padding and fitting.”

  “He will be glad of that,” the Duchess commented. “I’m sure it has been difficult for him, not being able to get about as he is used to do.”

  “Very true, Your Grace. And having his recently injured arm bruised and over-stressed has not improved the situation. It is my hope to have everyone feeling better by the end of the day. Now, how are you doing?”

  With utmost respect, the physician turned up the hem of the Duchess’ gown to have a better look at her ankles. Her feet had swollen until they were almost chubby clubs. Evelyn had elected to not try to slip them into shoes, but had protected them from drafts with a pair of over-sized stockings.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Dr. Alton clicked his tongue at the sight. “This is not at all good. Are you sticking to you diet?”

  “It has been difficult,” Evelyn quickly put in. “The new cooks are not at all up to Mr. Rudge’s standards. Will we soon be able to have Jemmy back, at least?”

  “I’ll look in on him before I go back to the village. But unless something untoward has happened between now and yesterday, he should be able to take up his duties tomorrow.”

  “It is good to know that he is getting on so well,” Evelyn said. “I fear those two cooks are going to prove a se
vere trial to him, however.”

  “Betty Bates and her mother came up the hill with me. It is my understanding that you are engaging Mrs. Bates to at least cook for the Duchess?”

  “That is my plan,” the Duchess said. “Betty made the morning porridge. She has no idea how to cook for one, but the porridge was delicious. There was such a copious amount, there is probably a bowl or two left if you wish to try it.”

  “I had a country breakfast at the inn before coming up the hill, but I’ll taste it before I leave. Mrs. Bates will be a good choice as cook for you. Her dishes are by no means the gourmet offerings prepared by Mr. Rudge, but she has good comprehension of taste and substance. She also knows how to cook according to directions.”