Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

  “You,” she whispered. “You are that charity.” Her eyes watered, and she gazed heavenward.

  God, save me from this man.

  Eleanor appeared at the door. She clasped Helandria and two other dolls.

  “This is Karianna.” Eleanor came to Mary Alice’s bedside and held up an auburn-haired doll in an indigo ball gown. “Do you like her? Or… or should I get another?” Eleanor studied the floor, not looking up for Mary Alice’s reply.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  Mary Alice let her fingers linger reassuringly on Eleanor’s arm as she accepted the doll. The girl lifted her head, and Mary Alice gave her an encouraging smile. Kindness had a paralyzing effect on Eleanor.

  “Is that handsome gentleman doll for your father?” Mary Alice asked. “He will make a wonderful King Foradora.”

  “It’s a prince doll,” Eleanora said. “But I… I thought we could pretend.”

  “Excellent!” Stratton said. Mary Alice was happy to see him take his doll without hesitation or a patronizing smirk.

  “Wise kings are much handier than mere princes at stamping out evil in the land and protecting the people,” he assured his daughter. “And King Foradora adores Helandria and Karianna and will fight to the death to save them.”

  “Ah, but how will he find Helandria and Karianna?” Mary Alice asked. “For they are imprisoned in a dank, wet prison formed of impenetrable roots and guarded by a retinue of vicious trolls.” She plumped a pillow and rested it on the edge of the mattress. “Let’s pretend this is King Foradora’s palace. It’s a—”

  “It’s a cloud!” Eleanor burst out.

  Stratton and Mary Alice exchanged surprised glances.

  “It’s a ship disguised as a cloud that sails the skies.” Eleanor’s gaze turned hazy, seeing inward to her imagination. “His soldiers view Bogland with telescopes, but… but they can’t see what’s underground. We need to free a bird… or… or a butterfly. Because the king doesn’t know that the evil bog lord has built a secret army of enormous dragonflies, bees, and wasps to defeat him. Helandria and Karianna must get to him and tell him.”

  Mary Alice flashed Stratton a furtive smile, but he didn’t see it. The man stared at his daughter, his lips parted in amazement.

  Eleanor leaned Helandria toward Mary Alice’s doll and feigned a whisper. “Don’t cry, Karianna. I know a way out.”

  Karianna’s doll hugged Helandria. “Oh, you are so smart and clever. You are my dearest friend.”

  Meanwhile, King Foradora hopped about on his cloud ship. “I love no others above Karianna and Helandria. I cannot rest until they are safe. I’m out of my wits with worry.”

  In the realm of fantasy, a different child emerged—the real Eleanor. She was intelligent, sensitive, and imaginative. And Stratton encouraged her in this safe, pretend world, showering Helandria with praise. The king promised to never lose his precious Helandria again, but keep her safe and love her. Mary Alice hoped that in some small way Eleanor understood that he was talking about her and not a fictional character.

  Never in a hundred years would Mary Alice have expected Stratton to be an excellent father. But his eyes and manners were all tenderness around Eleanor as he played by her side.

  Mary Alice’s husband had loved his children fiercely, but had kept them at a distance, as he had been brought up. Mary Alice grew up in a smaller home with four siblings, two grandparents, and an aunt. No one had had any privacy, and they had constantly tripped over each other. But they hadn’t imagined another way to live. Whenever she and her brothers and sisters had played, their mother or another loving relative had always been nearby, intervening in arguments or telling wondrous stories to calm overly excited children.

  Mary Alice’s mothering style had flummoxed Jonas. As a boy, he had been presented to his mother in the mornings and before dinner for inspection. His mother had rarely visited the nursery. Mary Alice, however, spent most of her time on the nursery floor, playing blocks or reading stories.

  Stratton didn’t fiddle with his watch or sigh with boredom at the childish play but kept his gaze trained on his daughter, invested in her world, as a small smile curved his lips. Once Eleanor shrieked with laughter, and Mary Alice detected unshed tears in Stratton’s eyes. She knew those tears. They were the same she’d cried when Anna said her first word at age four: mama.

  They played for an hour, and Mary Alice desperately wanted to continue, because Stratton and Eleanor were happy, but drowsiness rested like a heavy blanket on her mind. She struggled to keep her eyes open. At last, she had to recline against King Foradora’s pillow.

  “Helandria, I think Karianna must rest,” Stratton said.

  “But the butterfly hasn’t come back!” Eleanor protested.

  “I mean, Mrs. Mary Alice is tired,” he clarified.

  The animation drained from Eleanor’s face as she emerged from her fantasy world. “Are you going to… Are you going to die?” she solemnly asked Mary Alice.

  “No, love,” Stratton assured her.

  “It’s just when you hit your head very, very hard, you may be tired for a few days,” Mary Alice explained. “Do you mind terribly if I keep Karianna tonight, in case I get lonely? Can we play again in the morning? Please, oh, please.”

  Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “You really want to play with me again?”

  “Very much,” Mary Alice assured her, but Eleanor appeared unconvinced.

  “Come, love.” Stratton whispered to his daughter. He scooped up Mary Alice’s letter. “I’ll send this to your children by an express.” He walked to the door beside his daughter, carrying King Foradora and the missive.

  Eleanor suddenly wheeled around. “Are your children… Are they very nice? They’re not cruel to each other or… or hit?”

  “They are wonderful, gentle children, like you,” Mary Alice replied. “They would love to meet you. You must visit us. Perhaps spend a fortnight if your papa would kindly allow it. Would you like that?”

  Eleanor bit the edge of her lip and drew Helandria closer. Then she surprised Mary Alice by taking a bold step forward and loudly saying, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then we shall plan on it.” Stratton’s smile lit his face.

  As he guided his daughter away, he glanced over his shoulder and mouthed, “Thank you,” to Mary Alice.

  “You are very welcome,” she whispered after he was gone. Now that her bed was empty, all the joy that had rung in the room evaporated. She laid back and rested her hand on the empty side of the bed and suddenly felt overwhelmingly lonely.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Stratton watched as Eleanor returned King Foradora to his home on the shelf. His daughter had a designated space for every doll, except Helandria, after she finished playing with it. Stratton had been unkempt and indolent as a child, relying on the staff to keep his young life in order. In contrast, Eleanor maintained strict routines that the servants had learned not to correct else Eleanor would become fearful and withdraw even further. She woke up when light broke, washed her face, brushed her hair and teeth, made up her bed, and then sat quietly, whispering to Helandria as she waited for the nurse to arrive. Stratton loathed to think of the harsh discipline that had exacted such militaristic behavior.

  His daughter set Helandria in her prized place on the bed. Eleanor’s brows were furrowed in worried concentration as she straightened the doll’s dress.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked gently, kneeling beside her. “You know you can tell your papa anything. Please look at me.”

  She obediently lifted her somber eyes to his face.

  “You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he said. “Do you understand? This”—he gestured around him—“is King Foradora’s cloud ship. You’ll always be safe here.”

  “Do… do you think…” she began, clearly struggling with some internal battle. “Do you think Mrs. Mary Alice’s children will like me?”

  Her plaintive voice hurt his heart. “I assure yo
u that they will adore you as I do.”

  “But… but how?” she cried.

  He gently touched her cheek. She surprised him by not flinching, but she remained rigid. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because I’m naughty, dull-witted, and forget what I’m supposed to do.” She said the words quickly, as if repeating something often said to her.

  His immediate reaction was rage. Who had told her this? He wanted to beat them witless. But didn’t he have himself to blame as well? After all, she had been left at the miserable Sowell Hospital all those years because he had never inquired about her welfare—until he received a bill for her keep. He would never forgive himself for that. “You are a brilliant, imaginative, sensitive, and kind-hearted girl,” he said. “I don’t care what anyone told you before. It was all lies. I’m a thousand-fold wiser and more powerful than they were. I love you and will never hurt you. Ever.”

  “Helandria said… She said…” Eleanor swayed nervously on her feet.

  “What did she say, love?”

  “She said that you were nice. She said I shouldn’t be afraid of you.”

  He gazed at the ragged, cracked doll—his daughter’s steadfast companion. At that moment, Helandria was as alive in his mind as in his daughter’s. “I think Helandria is very wise.”

  He slowly edged closer until his arms lightly enfolded Eleanor. Then she surprised him by flinging her arms around his neck—a fumbling, awkward hug, as if trying something new and not knowing how it was done. He carefully drew her closer, until his body formed a protective shell over her smaller one.

  “I will not leave you scared and alone in some bog land ever again,” he whispered. “I promise.”

  * * *

  Stratton desired to rush to Mary Alice and tell her the happy news of his breakthrough with Eleanor. Yet twice he passed her chamber to find the door closed, and he could hear no activity beyond the wood. Then he got waylaid by dinner. He had given up hope that he would speak to Mary Alice again that night when he passed her chamber on the way to his study and found her door was cracked, sending a shaft of gold light into the dark hall. He peeked through the opening and found her propped up on pillows. On the side table, rested Karianna, a plate of scones, a cup of tea, and a tallow candle that lit the volume of Pride and Prejudice open in her lap.

  “What a conceited, arrogant man…” she murmured, and rather violently turned the page.

  Stratton cleared his throat. “And you said I had improved today.”

  She glanced up with surprise. Then a welcoming smile curved her lips, which were powdered with crumbs from the scones. It set off an electric maelstrom inside him.

  “No, no, I heartily approve of you,” she said, “but certainly not this Darcy gent. What a haughty man. Nonetheless, I’m wildly intrigued by him. Surely he cannot remain so insufferable.”

  He crossed the room and drew up the chair beside the bed. “I thought you would enjoy the book.”

  She arched a playful brow and wiped the crumbs from her lips. “You know me so well?”

  “No, I just thought to myself, ‘What would a brilliant, amusing, witty, and beautiful lady enjoy reading?’”

  “Of course, you did.” She possessed a musical laugh. “And speaking of compliments—in this case, earnest and true ones—please give mine to your chef. Would you mind terribly if I stole him away from you?”

  “Not at all. Just allow me to fetch my dueling pistols.”

  Again, that laugh. It did more to mollify his soul than any fine brandy.

  He turned serious. “Thank you for playing with Eleanor this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Stratton.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “She’s a kind, sensitive child, and you are an excellent father for her—patient, gentle, and protective. You will break this sad fortress she had to erect around herself.”

  He slid closer, the happy news bursting forth. “She let me hug her.”

  “That dear child!” Mary Alice interlaced her fingers through his. “I’m so very happy for you. She realizes she can trust you.”

  He nodded, unable to talk for the emotion pouring in.

  Mary Alice read perfectly his silence. “I know how you feel. I’ve experienced it with my Anna.”

  He gazed down where her hand held his. In that moment, he could see them together with their children, forming a family. A perfect picture. This compassionate woman could sate his every desire as a wife, lover, and mother for their children. Without thinking, he drew her hand to his cheek and whispered, “Oh, Mary Alice.”

  She closed her eyes, releasing a low rush of breath. Slowly, he moved her fingers over his mouth, kissing them. She released a high whimper.

  “I’ve dreamed of you,” he whispered, feeling her soft skin against his lips. “I—”

  “I told my husband on his deathbed that I would never love another man!” Her words rushed out, harsh and blunt. She drew her hand away and bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

  He studied her. Her neck and cheeks were flushed, and she bit her bottom lip. Her breasts rose and fell with her shallow breaths. She was the picture of a woman whose defenses had been weakened. She wanted him too, maybe not with the deep longing that he harbored, but she wasn’t immune to desire and, he realized, it scared her.

  In earlier days, he might have taken it as a challenge to bed her. In fact, there were several old, shameful bets on White’s books that he would seduce certain unnamed beautiful matrons and widows. But he couldn’t stomach the idea of Mary Alice despising him again. She meant too much to him. And Eleanor clearly adored her. He couldn’t afford the risk.

  “I’ve come to care about you, but all I can offer is my friendship,” she declared.

  Friendship. The word thudded in his heart even as he knew this outcome was the best he could hope for. He tried to keep the disappointment from his face, but Mary Alice must have seen something there, because she added, “Special friends.”

  “That would please me very much.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  Her rejection was honorable and kind. And he should have expected it. Yet, it still stung. He fumbled to change the subject. “So, I wager you have read the infamous scene between Darcy and Elizabeth at the assembly.”

  She glanced at the book in her lap. “Please tell me that Elizabeth humbles Darcy. What an atrocious thing to say—not handsome enough to tempt him. Indeed!”

  He waved his hand. “You needn’t worry, for they all die in the end.”

  “What? Impossible.” The tension in the air began to dissipate. She had the power to captivate, destroy, and rebuild him in a matter of minutes. Being in love was akin to floating on a tumultuous sea, helpless to the buffeting waves.

  “A deadly typhoon strikes England and kills all the characters,” he said.

  “Not another typhoon. I’ve become so very bored with the typhoon ending. So many books must have one these days.” Her lips trembled, but otherwise her face was dead earnest.

  “Or maybe it was an erupting volcano. I forget, because I read the book so long ago. I just remember the end was very unsatisfying. I thought of jumping off a cliff or some such after closing the book.”

  “Hmm, let us see…” She picked up the final volume from the table and flipped to the last page.

  He tried to wrest the book from her, but she yanked it away.

  “That’s cheating,” he declared, his body tingling from accidentally brushing against her breasts.

  “I’m not wasting my holiday reading a story with a terrible ending that will sink my spirits.” However, even though the last page remained open before her, she didn’t glance at it. A mischievous light glittered in her eye.

  “Must I read the book for you to keep you from cheating?” He feigned a weary, put-upon voice.

  “Please, then I can just rest on my pillow, sip tea, and eat glorious scones while you do all the work.”

  With a smirking smile on his face, he took both volumes from
her. He returned the third volume to the table and flipped the first volume back to the infamous assembly scene where Darcy first meets and then insults Elizabeth.

  Mary Alice didn’t sip her tea or nibble the scones, but settled upon the mattress, turned her head on the pillow, and watched him read. The rain came again. Its ping mingled with the lulling hiss of the fire. He hardly knew what he read but continued on, scene after scene, just to keep her gazing at him with those eyes that glowed like dark amber. She finally drifted into sleep after Elizabeth and Jane returned from Netherfield. He remained by her bedside, the book resting on his leg, and watched her.

  When she was with Eleanor and him, his life felt whole, as if she gathered all the loose parts of him and put him back together. Mingled with this realization was the bittersweet knowledge that he could never keep her. She would never lie in his bed or wake in his arms. But he would take whatever she was willing to give him to keep her near. So, he resigned himself to being her devoted friend, if that was what pleased her.

  He kissed her gently on her cheek. A light brush. “Good night,” he whispered.

  She cuddled against the pillow and drowsily murmured, “I love you too.”

  The words sounded automatic, as though she had spoken them a thousand times. As much as he wanted her to love him, he knew she spoke to a dead husband who remained very much alive in her dreams.

  * * *

  The next day, Bogland extended over the entire mattress and included Mary Alice’s pillows, a jewelry box, and furniture that Eleanor had removed from her dollhouse. The sensitive, imaginative child re-emerged from her shell into the world of fantasy. Hearing her delighted laughter made Mary Alice’s motherly heart ache for the girl in a greedy way. Mary Alice had always assumed she would have more children, but when Jonas fell ill, the physician advised against “intimacies known between man and wife.”

  She could see that Stratton loved his daughter, but Mary Alice wondered if his love was enough. He was just one man. In Mary Alice’s way of thinking, Eleanor needed a mother and a huge family to adore her and soothe the horrors of her early childhood—a family like Mary Alice’s.