Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

  “I am well now.” Mary Alice tried to deflect the fuss. She didn’t enjoy being the center of attention, even as a semi-invalid. “I was so singularly determined to rest on my holiday that I found a way to be conveniently bed-bound for its duration.”

  “Don’t you dare joke!” Francesca cried. “Look at your head. Dear Lord, must you decorate your bandage with a pin and flowers? Can you not be serious?”

  “Never!” Mary Alice exclaimed.

  “If you will pardon me, ladies,” Stratton piped up from where he’d waited quietly in the corner. “I shall attend to some estate details while you catch up.” He bowed and strolled away, turning at the door to glance at Mary Alice again and then disappearing.

  Mary Alice’s friends gazed at the empty threshold that he had filled just moments before. “What have you done to that man, Mary Alice?” Olivia said slowly. “He is quite smitten.”

  “E’molto innamorato,” Francesca supplied in Italian.

  Mary Alice had to quickly nip this line of thought in the bud. “He is only behaving as a gentleman, given the inconvenience I have caused. He kindly tended to my wounds. That is all.” She glanced up at her friends with what she hoped were innocent, guileless eyes.

  They would have none of it.

  “Well, I’m certain he would enjoy tending to more of you, should you let him,” Francesca purred.

  Mary Alice usually enjoyed her friends’ delightfully wicked talent of making the lurid sound innocent, except when their game was directed at her.

  “He was merely being kind,” she said.

  “Of course,” Francesca agreed with a straight face and gleaming eyes. “I wouldn’t have thought otherwise from that look he gave you. How would you describe it, Olivia?”

  “Smoldering,” Olivia replied.

  “With perhaps a smattering of soulful desire,” Francesca added.

  “There will only ever be Jonas in my heart!” Mary Alice barked, and then bit her lower lip, surprised at her passionate outburst. “Please stop talking that way,” she pleaded. “It’s not funny. Do you not recall that Stratton and I have been enemies for years? Do you not recall all the pain he once caused me? Yes, he is sorry now. He told me as much. But our newfound friendship is a fragile, scary terrain for us and could crack at any moment. Our history is too horrid.”

  Her friends exchanged glances.

  “Mary Alice, my dear, you are young,” Francesca said. “People change, including you. Consider the possibility that you may fall in love again.”

  Mary Alice shook her head. “I loved Jonas so much that I cannot conceive of it. Please speak no more on the matter. Please.”

  “I’m sorry,” Francesca conceded after a long moment. Mary Alice had the unnerving feeling that her friends thought they knew more than she did, but they were choosing to remain smugly silent.

  Francesca’s wicked smile returned as she focused her attention on Olivia. “So, tell me of your white knight. I must say, you are sporting a rather satisfied smile this morning. I do hope you have been delightfully naughty.”

  Olivia didn’t answer but flung the conversation back at Francesca. “Ah, but you must tell me of this handsome scientist you’ve sequestered yourself with. Are you going to help him with his, hmm, studies? Perhaps a few exciting chemistry experiments?”

  And so, the ladies dived back into their usual banter. But Francesca’s somber words continued to echo in Mary Alice’s head. Consider the possibility that you may fall in love again.

  Never!

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  Stratton spoke with his man of business and to his steward, and then saw to a few pressing correspondences and authorized several cheques. Afterward, he walked to the nursery to visit his daughter, but the nurse informed him that Eleanor had finished her lessons and the garden walk that Stratton had instructed she must take every day, then fled again to the solitude of her chamber. Stratton swallowed his sigh, not wanting to show his disappointment to the nurse. Everyone in the house tried, but no one seemed to reach Eleanor. She preferred to spend her days alone in the safe shell of her chamber in the companionship of her doll—an ugly toy with leaking stuffing and a cracked, hairless head. Eleanor had been clutching the doll, Helandria, like a shield when she first laid eyes on her true father. Neither Stratton nor anyone else in his household could break or even loosen the fierce bond Eleanor had with her ugly bundle of cotton and porcelain.

  He quietly turned the knob to Eleanor’s chamber, cracking the door. His daughter—small for her age—lay beneath the table that held her dollhouse. He’d had the enormous dollhouse constructed for her, realistic to the minutest detail and large enough for regular-sized dolls, not the miniature ones. It was a marvel to look at. But Eleanor insisted on playing on the floor, using thimbles and boxes for furniture.

  Currently, she had all the new dolls he had gifted her arranged in a semicircle around herself. She kept Helandria nestled protectively beside her and held up another doll, as if it were a barrister addressing a jury of dolls.

  “Eleanor and Helandria broke the water bowl,” Eleanor said in a harsh, admonishing tone. “How should we punish them?”

  His daughter altered her voice, taking on another character. “Spank her with a switch and lock her in the cellar with the rats for the night.”

  Then Helandria spoke in soothing tones. “Don’t worry, Eleanor. I know how to find the secret passage in the cellar that the fairies made.”

  Stratton closed his eyes. What had happened to his daughter before he managed to rescue her? He would never dream of punishing Eleanor, or any child, in such a way. Sometimes, he despaired that he could undo the damage inflicted on his daughter before he’d found her, and that Eleanor would forever remain trapped in a shell of terror.

  The plank under Stratton’s foot creaked. Eleanor bolted from under the table and came to her feet. “Yes, sir.” Her features took on their usual guarded expression. She smoothed her cornflower blue dress. Her vivid attire contrasted with her enormous somber eyes—the same gray as her father’s—and pale face.

  Stratton knelt, putting himself at her level. “Good morning, Eleanor,” he said, adopting a kind tone.

  She scooted back, clutching Helandria to her chest. “Good morning,” she answered. Her voice contained fearful suspicion whenever she spoke with adults, as if every word directed at her was a lure to some horrid trap.

  “A very nice lady is staying with us. She has children your age. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, her somber expression unaltered. Eleanor always obeyed but never showed any enthusiasm.

  “You know you can call me Papa.” He told her this almost every day. “I love you. I hope you know that.”

  Her brows furrowed as though he were speaking a foreign language.

  He offered his hand. She stared at it for a moment before slowly volunteering hers. It always amazed him how the touch of his daughter blasted joy through his body. A younger version of Stratton, whose shallow cynicism was a product of arrogance and immaturity, would have never believed he could be so humbled and, at times, broken by a small child.

  * * *

  Just writing her children’s names in her letter made Mary Alice homesick. She didn’t dare tell them of the accident because it would worry them. Since the death of their beloved father, her children were overly concerned with the well-being of Mary Alice and their nursery servants, who formed their extended family. So, Mary Alice wrote of the beautiful place where she was staying that was filled with gurgling fountains and lovesick peacocks. It was how she might imagine King Foradora’s estates. She concluded her letter with, Please, ask Nurse to kiss each of you for me. I miss you dearly. Your affectionate mother.

  She heard someone clear his throat and glanced up.

  Stratton waited at the door, holding the hand of a young girl who peered at Mary Alice with large gray eyes. Mary Alice sensed fear in their depths and in the way the girl clutched her do
ll tightly to her chest.

  Stratton’s smile appeared pained. He spoke with the soothing, slightly higher-pitched voice that adults often use with scared children. “Eleanor, dearest, this is my friend, er…” He paused, his eyes searching her face.

  Mary Alice immediately perceived the problem—that silly game of disguise. “Mrs. Mary Alice,” she finished. “You may call me that.” She smiled encouragingly, but the girl’s dour expression didn’t budge.

  “Dearest,” Stratton said. “Can you curtsey for Mrs. Mary Alice?”

  Panic crossed the girl’s features. “I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m forgetful.” She executed a bob-like curtsey and then another.

  Stratton caught Mary Alice’s gaze. Mary Alice knew that look. She had cast it at enough strangers, pleading for understanding about Anna’s behavior.

  “I apologize that I can’t return your lovely curtsey, for I’ve hurt my ankle.” Mary Alice pointed to the comically huge bandage wound around her ankle. “And my head. Don’t I look like a quiz?” She smiled again.

  The girl scooted back as if Mary Alice might eat her. Oh dear!

  Mary Alice tried another tactic. She held up her letter. “I was just writing to my children. I have a daughter your age. She loves dolls too. What is your doll’s name?”

  “Helandria.” She spoke so quietly that she could barely be heard.

  “Helandria,” her father restated.

  “That’s a beautiful name,” Mary Alice exclaimed. “Did you make it up?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You have a wonderful imagination. You and my children would get along very well. Would you like to hear a secret?” Mary Alice beckoned with her finger.

  Eleanor didn’t move until Stratton knelt and whispered something to her. Mary Alice noticed how tenderly he touched his daughter.

  Eleanor edged forward nervously, still wary.

  “I have a doll too,” Mary Alice whispered to her.

  “G-grownups don’t have dolls,” Eleanor said.

  “Well, I do. Her name is Marcela Misslemay, and she joins my children’s dolls in our alliance against the evil bog lord.”

  Eleanor’s brows drew down.

  Mary Alice scooted closer to the mattress edge, as though importing a great secret to the girl. “You don’t know about the evil bog lord?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, he is a vile sort of gentleman, the kind you can imagine being exiled to a bog by good King Foradora. The evil bog lord’s kingdom is filled with muddy, murky dungeons, vicious dragonflies, hideous trolls and ogres, poisonous flower fields, and mysterious castles hidden in a dark forest. When my children and I play, we take up the entire nursery. Would you care to play with me? For, you see, I’m rather lonely with no one to play with.”

  “You w-want to play with me?” the girl stammered.

  “And Helandria, if she cares to join us?”

  The girl’s hand tightened on her old doll. Mary Alice realized she was drawing strength from it. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh wonderful, but first I need one thing. One very, very important thing. Do you have another doll that you may lend me?”

  “Can you think of a kind doll that would enjoy being Mrs. Mary Alice’s friend?” Stratton brushed behind his daughter’s ear a wisp of hair that had escaped her braid.

  “And a doll for your papa? Perhaps a prince doll or even a dragon. My son pretends to be a kindhearted dragon who recently had his wings hurt by the evil bog lord.”

  Eleanor stared at her for a long time, eyes a little narrowed, as if waiting for Mary Alice to disappear or transform into a child-eating witch. “I have a prince doll,” she began slowly. “I-I have a prince and many other dolls that my father gave me.” She ran from the room, but then reappeared at the threshold a second later, her nervous expression back in place. “But… but… you really are going to tell the story to me, truly? I mean, you wouldn’t say you would and then not?”

  Why did the girl think Mary Alice would lie to her? “Of course, I will, my dearest. I’m delighted to play with you and Helandria.”

  Eleanor began backing away, like a skittish animal, before breaking into a run.

  Mary Alice didn’t know how to begin talking about what she had witnessed. She feared being presumptuous, having listened to too many people tell her what they thought was wrong with Anna and how to “fix” her. Her dear Anna appeared to have been born with her unique and magical mind; but Eleanor seemed like a normal child who had endured trauma that had stunted her childhood and destroyed her trust. From the way Stratton gently held his daughter and quietly encouraged her, Mary Alice knew whatever had happened occurred before the girl arrived here. Her heart hurt for Stratton as she watched him pace. She could see him working through his emotions. She would let him start the conversation when he was ready.

  “How are your injuries?” he finally asked, his voice clipped and nervous.

  “I believe the swelling on my ankle is down, although you would never know it from my bulbous bandage. And, sad to say, the old nob is as hard as ever.” She tapped her head and chuckled, hoping to relax him a little.

  “I’m glad,” he said, and then turned quiet until his gaze came upon her correspondence. “May I send your letter?”

  “Yes, please, but after you play dolls with us.”

  He slipped into the chair by the bed. “You have been very generous, but you don’t have to play—”

  “Good heavens, it’s my holiday, and I desire to enjoy myself.”

  “I appreciate your kindness towards Eleanor. She…” He gazed down, again lapsing into a pained silence for several seconds.

  Mary Alice wanted to embrace him, but all she could do was reach out and rest her fingers on his arm. “I can see that she has a sensitive and kind heart. And I can also see that you love her very, very much.”

  He nodded. “M-may I tell you something both painful and embarrassing?”

  “You can tell me anything,” she whispered.

  “You can see that something is… different about Eleanor.”

  “And something is different about my dear Anna.”

  He began to tap his foot and then rose, visibly restless. “It’s no secret of my affair with Eleanor’s mother, Lady Radley, nor of the child allegedly conceived from our liaison. Eleanor was born when I was at war. I learned of her birth as a casual aside in a conversation with Wellington.” While he spoke, he paced about, straightening a picture that hung from the molding and then rearranging the bottles and brushes on the commode, not looking at her all the while. “I doubted the child was mine, and even if she were, it would be hard to prove. I blamed her mother and assumed she and her husband would see after the child. After all, he was an earl and supported two known bastards of his own. I gave no further thought to the matter of my supposed daughter. You know the type of man I was.”

  “But you’ve changed.”

  He turned. “Have I?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Very much.”

  “Thank you.” This appeared to please Stratton for a moment. Then he combed his fingers through his hair, and several errant strands fell onto his forehead. “A year ago, I received a curious bill shortly after the passing of my former lover. It was from a place called the Sowell Hospital. The proprietor, a Mr. Sowell, said that Lord Radley had requested that all further bills for the keep of Eleanor Stratton—yes, my name—be given to me, her true father.”

  He crossed to the window. Oscar had returned, his feathers folded up. He pecked dejectedly about the ground where the object of his desire had been that morning.

  “The hospital was not more than four hours away, so I visited to clear up the matter,” Stratton said. “As you can see, there is little doubt about the paternity of Eleanor. Same eyes, hair, face. And the institute… It was nothing more than a baby farm. Children treated like cattle, two to a cot. Babies were in boxes, flies buzzing about one that had died that morning.”

  Mary Alice swallowed
her gasp. She had heard about these types of places in her charity work but, thank heavens, had never witnessed the horror. “Oh God, Stratton.”

  “Mr. Sowell defended his hospital’s cruel treatment by saying that these were children of unholy unions, thus they were the devil’s offspring. Their deaths meant nothing.”

  “He’s the devil! He is!”

  “I don’t want to imagine Eleanor’s prior existence. She doesn’t respond to me or anyone except Helandria.” He chuckled bitterly. “Now even I am perceiving the doll as real. Helandria was probably all Eleanor ever had.” His voice cracked. He rubbed his mouth with shaking fingers. “And it’s my fault. I did this out of my—”

  “No!” Mary Alice wished she could rise from the bed and hold him. “You saved her. You have years to teach her to trust and love you.”

  “I don’t know how. Nothing I do penetrates this protective wall she’s built. And can you blame her?”

  “Give her time and love.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “I wish I had your faith. Every day is frustrating. I shouldn’t say that. I—”

  “I understand.” She held his gaze, silently acknowledging his fears and trials that she knew too well. “Love is hard,” she said. “Inside its wonder are many failings, moments you could have lived better, pain, and regret. Yet… it’s all worth it.”

  He gripped the bedpost, still looking at her, his eyes vulnerable. She was struck by his handsomeness. But it wasn’t his lovely face that caused her dizzying rush, but his lovely heart she was just coming to know.

  Her entire face flushed. She fingered her letter and diverted the conversation. “Those poor children in that hospital.”

  He returned to the window and stared out. “The Sowell Hospital has since been taken over by a charity, and significant improvements have been made.”

  She studied his back. Stratton was gifted with broad shoulders. She remembered how handsome he’d appeared in his clothes before he left for the war—a trim, athletic Adonis. Now his shoulders were even more powerful, but slightly drooped and rounded, seeming to strain under an invisible weight.