Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

  Her face appeared tired and ashen. Blood stained the left side of her bandage. He felt ashamed. “I have distressed you, and you’ve already suffered too much today.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I asked you for the truth, and then I abused you for your honesty. I am sorry. Thank you for satisfying my curiosity by explaining why you said those horrid words years ago.”

  She hadn’t looked at him with any degree of kindness since that first Season. He remained still, fearful of doing something that would take away that coveted tender light again. But then the silence stretched on too long, turning uncomfortable.

  “You should rest,” he said.

  “I fear I must ask you to leave.”

  “Of course.” He headed to the door. “But you shouldn’t be left alone with such an injury. I shall see if my tenant is awake. Her servant girl comes back in the morning.”

  “Wait, please,” she said, stopping his progress. “You needn’t bother your tenant any further on my account. Just… stay.” She gave a light, wry chuckle. “It’s not as though anyone would believe we spent the night together if word were to circulate. They would sooner believe I joined Astley’s Circus as a lion tamer.”

  He joined in her chuckle. He returned to the chair and began sliding it into the corner. “I’ll just hide here in the shadows, and you can pretend I’m not here.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m well aware of your presence.”

  Instead, she turned in the bed, giving him her back. Her lustrous locks spilled off the pillow’s edge. He watched her as the rain continued to fall and the tallow candle burned down. He thought she had drifted into sleep when she softly spoke. “Thank you for tending to my injuries, Colonel Stratton.”

  “Always, Your Grace. Always.”

  * * *

  Jonas waited at the foot of Mary Alice’s bed in her chamber in London. His cravat hung loose, and black strands of hair fell over his forehead. His dark eyes glowed with tender desire as he gazed down at her. “My love,” she said, beckoning him to join her so that they might make love. But he edged away, a mysterious smile on his face.

  “Jonas?” She laughed, rising from the bed. Jonas turned and dashed into the corridor. In her bare feet, she hurried after him, as if they were playing a silly lovers’ game. She almost caught his hand when he vanished before her eyes. “What? Jonas, where are you?”

  She whipped around at the sound of a footfall to see Jonas turning the corner at the end of the corridor. She rushed to catch up, but the faster she ran, the farther away he seemed. She saw only the flutter of his shirt as he turned another corner or exited through another door. She became panicked, running from room to room, shouting his name. “Where are you, my love? Come to me.”

  In her frantic chase, she bumped into a side table, knocking it over. Dozens of bottles, all Jonas’s medicine, shattered on the floor. Their brown, liquid contents flowed by her feet. “What have I done?” she cried. “I’ve ruined his medicine. Jonas, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s well,” she heard a reassuring male voice say. It wasn’t Jonas’s, but it was as rich and soothing as his and elicited a calming, peace in her body. A man’s comforting hand rested upon her arm. “You’re merely having a dream. You can go back to sleep. I’m here.” She turned, drawing the strong hand closer, and sank again into deep sleep.

  * * *

  When Mary Alice opened her eyes, the rain and darkness were gone. Morning light peeked through embroidered ivory curtains. Sweet lavender scented the air. Last night, Mary Alice had perceived the chamber as squat and dingy, but in the light, it was airy and feminine.

  Across the room, a woman in a black dress and plain muslin collar and cap stood by the commode. She turned as Mary Alice attempted to sit up. Her face was tanned and weathered, but her eyes were a vivid blue that complemented the lavender in the vase she held.

  “Aye, you’re blessed, ma’am.” Her voice was coarsened with age. “The angels must be watching over you.”

  She crossed the room and set the vase on the bedside table. “My brother fell out of a tree onto his head when he was seven.” She arranged the flowers. “He didn’t utter a word of sense for the rest of his short life. Stayed in a bed in the stable and had to be clouted like a baby.”

  “Are you Mrs. Fillmore?”

  “I am.”

  “Thank you for allowing me to stay in your home.”

  “Aye, I feared the worst for you, ma’am. You were a pitiful sight, you were.”

  That was the second time Mrs. Fillmore had called Mary Alice ma’am. Stratton must have kept her identity a secret, and Mary Alice was thankful. She resented the fuss made over her simply because of her title. At times it was more bothersome than helpful.

  “I didn’t want to tell the colonel my fears,” Mrs. Fillmore continued. “Never seen a man so scared. A colonel, mind you. I thought he would have seen it all in the war.”

  As Mary Alice pondered how to introduce herself, the door opened, and Stratton entered holding a picnic basket with a tray atop its lid. “I bring a grand feast, Mrs. Fillmore.” He had donned a fresh, stiff shirt, a pair of flesh-colored pantaloons, and a vivid blue coat.

  “Let me fetch some plates so we can eat grandly like you do up at Rose Heath,” Mrs. Fillmore said.

  “No need to trouble yourself. My servants must have packed the entire china chest in this basket.” He grunted, making a show of straining to lower it onto the floor beside the bed. “I merely require a little hot water, and to that end, I have set Fiona and Betsy to the task in your kitchen.”

  “What?” Mrs. Fillmore cried. “You’ve set those two silly girls loose in my kitchen? Not a single wit between the likes of them. And I better not find that you have stocked my pantry with honey and jam again.”

  “Oh no, I learned my lesson after the scolding I received the last time I committed such a heinous atrocity,” he called after her. The merriment tugging the corners of his mouth suggested that the disapproving Mrs. Fillmore would find her kitchen overflowing with such goods.

  He laid the tray on Mary Alice’s lap. He smelled of cologne, and his cheeks shone from a fresh barbering. Still, his handsome face bore the tired traces of a sleepless night. His proximity solicited a wife-like instinct in her. She almost reached out to cup his cheek and say that he should rest and that she worried about him, as she would have done to Jonas. Why did she want to do that? Stratton didn’t remind her of Jonas in any aspect. They were quite different men.

  Stratton didn’t notice her small, embarrassing lapse. He continued setting out silver utensils, a china plate, and jars filled with golden honey, butter, and various berry jams. “We didn’t know how you prefer your scones,” he explained. “So, I brought every possible option.”

  “You are very kind, especially to Mrs. Fillmore. I didn’t expect…” She stopped. It would have been most impolite to say that she’d never imagined that he was so generous and humble. “I didn’t expect you to bring breakfast,” she finished weakly.

  “Your friends, Mrs. Pomponio and Miss Thorpe, send their regards.” He removed a scone from the basket, broke off the end, and dabbed it with butter. “They were highly worried, but I assured them of your recovery and pending move to my estate this morning.” He held out the buttered pastry. “Do try this.”

  She smiled at the mention of her friends. “So, they are still playing at their little masquerade. It’s rather foolish now.” She took a dainty bite of the scone that waited before her lips. The flaky, airy bread and butter did magical things on her tongue. She took another, bigger bite and unthinkingly spoke with her mouth full—something she always admonished her children for doing. “Oh, oh, this scone is heavenly.”

  “I laugh at many of the follies of fashionable Society now, but a French chef is a bare necessity. Should my fields burn, my estate crumble, and the market collapse? All I require to live are proper boots, good books, a dependable horse, and my French chef.”

  She noticed how
her chuckle brightened his face.

  “And I don’t find your and your friends’ masquerade silly by any shade,” he reassured her. “I wish I could pretend to be someone else every time I set foot in London. What is your pretend name?”

  “Mrs. Marcela Misslemay. She’s actually a character in an epic story that my children and I tell each other. It includes courageous maidens, knights, evil bog lords, vicious trolls, ugly ogres, and heroic dragons. Homer would be envious. “

  “You are a wonderful mother. You are…” He gazed down at her for a long second and then shook his head as if waking from a daydream. “If I were to make up another existence, I should be Mr. Archibald Higgins-Carstairs.” He straightened his cravat and assumed the stiff-rumped countenance of a disapproving man by comically drawing down his mouth and scrunching his nose. The effect ruined his handsome face but displayed another side to Stratton that she hadn’t known existed. He was playful.

  “Perfect,” she cried.

  “Mr. Archibald Higgins-Carstairs is a fusty, disapproving fellow who wanders about in museums or science exhibitions wearing such a sour expression that everyone leaves him blessedly alone.”

  He gave her a sample of this contemptuous expression, which caused her to giggle.

  “What’s so amusing?” he croaked. He approached her, closed one eye, and pretended to hold a quizzing-glass before the other. “Science is for serious, humorless people. I will not suffer any merriment or mirth. Frivolity is out of the question. Don’t even consider glee.”

  That was an invitation for more giggles. “I wager your daughter adores you.”

  His face tensed. All of his playfulness vanished.

  What had happened? What had she said that was so terribly wrong?

  He strode to the chimneypiece. There, he picked up a small wooden box from the mantel and turned it in his hand, rubbing its carvings with his thumb. “My daughter doesn’t adore me at all.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “As am I.”

  His head was bowed as if in defeat. She desired to comfort him as she would her upset child. But what would she say? Don’t worry, it will get better? Because sometimes it wouldn’t. Sometimes cancer would take your young husband. Or your daughter would be born with a mysterious affliction and would never enjoy a normal life.

  He looked at her in a way that made her think he wanted to say something more but held back his words.

  She leaned in and extended her arm across the quilt, a gesture of reaching out to him. “Colonel Stratton, I would love to meet your daughter. Above all things.”

  “She’s a bastard child,” he said brusquely, as though issuing some sort of challenge. “Other genteel ladies would—”

  “I’m not other ladies.”

  “No, you’re not.” His tone softened again as his eyes held her gaze. “I would like very much for you to meet her. I saw how you handled your daughter in the park, and, well, perhaps you can help me… us. You see, Eleanor is different. Fragile. She hides in her own safe world.”

  The vulnerable, imploring expression on his face seemed at odds with his powerful frame. This wasn’t the man she had been spoony over all those years ago in London. This man was different. In the vivid light, she could see the premature lines etched under his eyes and around his mouth. She didn’t know what horrors he’d witnessed in the war, but she well understood the pain of being unable to reach your child. Those first years with Anna had been hard, when she hadn’t known if her daughter would ever talk to her but would always just gaze off, endlessly fascinated by a shaft of light on the wall or some such thing.

  “I can only love your child,” Mary Alice said. “It’s all I really know how to do.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  He suddenly appeared restless, as if the conversation had cut a little too close to the bone, and now he was uncomfortable. “I shall send in Fiona and Betsy to help you dress. When you reach my home later, you may write your children, if it pleases you. I shall send the message with an express.”

  “That would please me very much.” Her voice cracked. “I miss them so terribly. Thank you for your kindness.”

  * * *

  Mary Alice discovered that Stratton’s servants, Fiona and Betsy, were hardly witless, as Mrs. Fillmore claimed, but clever, bright-eyed, and properly mannered young women. Sometime in the early morning, Stratton had had the overturned carriage hauled away for repairs and requested that the ladies’ trunks be taken to Rose Heath. By some miracle, Mary Alice’s clothes had remained dry. Fiona and Betsy had brought one of her gowns and helped dress her in it. They laughed when Mary Alice, despairing of her unfashionable bandage, adorned her head with a sprig of lavender held in place with a pin.

  “I call my coiffure L’accident,” she replied when Stratton teasingly complimented her as he helped her wobble to his carriage, for she flatly refused to let him carry her as he wanted. Her swollen ankle didn’t hurt much except when she put the tiniest bit of pressure on her foot. Then it felt akin to having nails hammered into her.

  Once the female servants were installed in their seats, Stratton asked the groom to drive slowly and take care to avoid any potholes. As a result, slugs could have made better time. She jokingly asked if they would require a postilion change as they inched down a long, oak-lined drive. He chuckled, an easy sound, and the light reflected in his eyes, turning their gray to a lovely polished silver color.

  The carriage passed through a tall gate made of brick and iron, and the vista of Rose Heath emerged. It was the opposite of the Pymworth ancestral fortress, which was an intimidating edifice, more castle-like than stately. When she and her husband had spoken of spending time there, they had used words like exiled and banished. But Stratton's Rose Heath was a welcoming home, appearing both elegant and cozy. It wasn’t a massive affair, but rather smallish for a manor home and adorned with gracefully arched windows. Trailing vines grew up the brick. Beyond the domicile, the landscape was lush and gleaming from its rain bath. It all appeared as a sentimental painting of pleasant rural life.

  The front door opened, and the domestic staff flooded out. They readily smiled and formed a neat line to receive the carriage’s passengers. Stratton clearly didn’t browbeat and demoralize his staff, as she had witnessed at other grand homes. The staff appeared as happy and neat as the home they inhabited. This was the work of a good master who knew how to surround himself with the proper people and treat them well. After years of despising Stratton and imagining all manner of poor things about him, she was surprised at how much there was to esteem. Of course, she had always admired his handsome visage, but such surface things mattered less to her now that she was older.

  Stratton gripped her across her shoulder, threatening to carry her against her wishes, and helped her from the carriage. He gently assisted her to a lovely set of chambers on the ground floor. A large, gold-painted, canopied bed dominated the room. The surrounding walls were painted a muted shade of turquoise. Once installed upon the bed, Mary Alice could look out two facing windows to a lovely labyrinth garden adorned with sparkling fountains and aviaries.

  To her left, double doors were open, revealing a cozy feminine study. A rose-colored sofa and matching chair sat near a Dutch blue tiled grate.

  “I combed my library for books you might enjoy.” Stratton tapped a stack of volumes resting on her bedside table. “I thought you would like the works of a Miss Jane Austen. Have you read her?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Well, I stayed up one night burning candle after candle and turning the pages of Pride and Prejudice. I won’t give away the plot, but let me just say the characters are like fine wine. You need to give them a little time.”

  She wanted to say, Just like you, but kept the words to herself.

  He gestured to the sitting room. “We have placed your sewing box and a portable writing desk in the study. A servant will gladly fetch them. Just ring the bell.” He pointed to the bell cord, which had been lengt
hened and threaded along picture-frame hooks until it reached her bedside table.

  She smiled at his cleverness. “I shall want for nothing. Well, except for my children.”

  “And I shall restore you to them as soon as can be. I know they miss you.”

  Her throat began to burn, almost preventing her from murmuring a simple, “Thank you.”

  She heard a muted tap by the window and turned to see a dull female peacock pecking the ground by the glass, ignoring the male peacock beside her, who fervently shook his open plumage to get her attention. “I think she has an ardent admirer,” Mary Alice said, happy to move the conversation away from personal matters.

  “That’s Oscar.” Stratton gestured to the preening male. “He’s in violent love, but alas she prefers Pedro, a vain rogue if you ask me. Ah, the romantic intrigues of Rose Heath.”

  “Heartless female,” Mary Alice replied. “See how hard poor Oscar tries. She should take pity. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s always best to take care and love who loves you rather than foolishly give your heart to some peacock that will surely break it.”

  Stratton’s head jerked. Her skin heated with embarrassment. Oh Lord! Did he think she was making a reference to him? How she had once adored him before he smashed her heart?

  “I was merely making a… a general comment with regards to mating peacocks. Not… That is…” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean…”

  Oh goodness, her verbal clumsiness was not improving the situation but making matters worse. She should just be quiet before she did any further damage. So, they lingered in an embarrassed lull for several painful seconds. Even lovesick Oscar felt the awkward silence and drooped his feathers.

  One of life’s chief delights was having friends who come to one’s aid, even unwittingly, as in this situation.

  “Thank heavens,” Francesca cried, bursting into the room with a flutter of skirts.

  “Don’t ever frighten us like that again!” Olivia admonished. “No smiling and saying you aren’t hurt when you are! Do you understand?”