The Duke's Mysterious Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  “My word!” He overcorrected on a tight bend and was busy with the reins. Once the corner had been negotiated and the road straightened out again, he shook his head. “Latin. Ovid, I believe. Wait a minute. ‘When the lightning strikes but one…not one only does it alarm.’ It appears you’ve been educated in the classics. What a mystery you prove to be.”

  One she was eager to solve. She smiled politely, wishing her head would stop spinning.

  “You’ll like Nanny Bryant.” He turned to smile at her. “I’d prefer her to move into the big house, but she refuses. Says she’s quite snug out here and likes her independence.” He shook his head. “Apart from her maid, Nanny refuses to have a bevy of servants waiting on her, not brought up to it. She was raised in a vicarage and is a very good cook.”

  They rounded another bend and the duke pulled his horses to a standstill outside a modest cottage. With whitewashed walls and attic windows in the thatched roof, the cottage nestled in a riotous garden. A rambling pink rose spilled over the picket fence.

  When the duke lifted her down, she was conscious of how tall and strong he was. Slightly breathless, she gained her footing and straightened her bonnet.

  The door opened and a small lady rushed out, untying the strings of her apron. “Come in. Quickly, dear, the heat seems to have affected you. You appear quite flushed. Just call me Nanny, everyone does.”

  Nanny Bryant was obviously used to ordering her charges about. In fact, she looked just as a nanny should, plump with twinkling, periwinkle blue eyes. A motherly sort, she greeted her former charge as if he were still in short trousers. He smiled not seeming to mind.

  They were ushered into a parlor. “Sit down, you look all in.” She bustled about with cups and teapot, bidding the maid to bring a jug of milk.

  Directed to an upholstered chair, she surveyed the room wallpapered in lavender and white stripes. Who else might live here? The room was crammed with furniture. Apart from a small sofa and two upholstered chairs, there was a dining table, a small oak desk, one would employ for writing letters, a pianoforte near the staircase and a rosewood needlework table by the window with a mending basket on its polished surface. Was she to meet more of Nanny’s family?

  She dreaded the prospect.

  “Drink your tea, dear,” Nanny said, “and do try one of my muffins.”

  Leaning back in his chair, the duke crossed his long legs and munched on a muffin. “We can’t call you ‘dear’, can we?” the duke said. “You require a name. Does anything come to you, something we could adopt for the time being?”

  She couldn’t think. If only her headache would ease. She placed a shaky hand to her brow.

  He looked at her with a concerned frown. “Nanny, this young lady is still far from well.”

  Nanny came and laid a hand on her forehead. “You are done in I can see. I will make a tincture for your headache, and after drinking it you shall go straight to bed with a hot brick wrapped in flannel at your feet.”

  She smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t wish to be any trouble.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Nanny was obviously one who would brook no opposition, and at this moment, the girl felt beyond giving any. She sank back in the chair.

  “May I suggest a name?” the duke asked, as Nanny refilled his cup.

  “I should be grateful, Your Grace.”

  “Viola?”

  “That is pretty. Why did you choose that name? Oh!” She laughed ruefully. “Viola from Shakespeare’s play, Twelfth Night.”

  His eyes lit up. “Aha, I thought you would know of it!”

  “Most appropriate, as Viola dressed in a man’s clothing,” she said her cheeks burning. How awkward! These people were so kind, she wanted to pinch herself, surely she was dreaming–had been dreaming since she woke. “I thank you for suggesting it, although I expect it will not be necessary for long.”

  “It is on loan to you for the short time it is needed.” His dark brows drew together as he rose to his feet. “I must go. I hope you feel better soon.”

  Through the window, she watched him walk down the path.

  A busy, powerful man, how surprising that he should concern himself with her. She didn’t expect to see him again. When she was better, she would gladly go on her way. To…where? She placed a hand to her temples. Anguished, she sighed.

  “Come, my dear,” Nanny said.

  “I hate putting you to this bother,” she said again, rising to follow the lady upstairs.

  “I am pleased to have someone to fuss over again.” Nanny opened the door to a snug attic room.

  “Then, no one else lives here with you?” she asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

  “Oh, no dear, just myself and my maid. We don’t have much society these days, although His Grace does visit when he can. I suspect he misses having a family about him. His married sister lives in Bath.”

  She gave in to Nanny’s ministrations, even though she retired to bed well before the chickens had gone to roost, snuggling into the soft mattress.

  “Viola,” she said aloud. She liked the name, but she’d be so very grateful to discover her real one. How kind Nanny was. Did she have a mother somewhere? Might she be anxious about her? A dreadful sadness filled her and she gulped and pushed it away.

  Whatever Nanny had given her made her drowsy. She closed her eyes with a sigh.

  ****

  Viola opened her eyes and wriggled her toes, luxuriating in the comfort and warmth of the feather bed. Dawn light filtered through the lace curtain at the attic window. For a brief moment, she felt cocooned, safe from the world, but then the worry of her lost memory niggled at her. It was as if a veil had been draped over her mind, hiding the past from view, and she was helpless to do anything but wait for it to lift. She tensed, was something portentous hiding beneath the veil? When it did lift what would she discover?

  She saw no sense in lying in bed tense with worry. The cock crowed in the home farm. The faint voices of the farm hands reached her, herding the cows in for milking.

  Curious to see more of her temporary home, she climbed from the bed and poured icy water into a bowl from the pitcher on the washstand. She splashed her face and shuddered. Wide-awake, she quickly dressed. Opening her door, she hesitated. Was it wise to walk about the grounds alone? She pushed common sense aside, eager to see more of Vale Park. With a casual shrug at the inadequacy of her house slippers and the thin gown, she wrapped the shawl Nanny had given her around her shoulders, crept down the stairs, and out into the brisk air.

  She followed a meandering path around the cottage and down through a meadow of bright yellow buttercups to a river.

  The wide stretch of water flowed swiftly away through the meadows, its far side rimmed by forest.

  A flock of swallows swooped overhead. The peace and beauty of her surroundings revived her. She bent to pick a wild rose. The pink flower had a delicate perfume, a surprise in such a hardy, prickly plant. She stood, pressing its petals to her nose, the scent a wistful hint from her past. Out of nowhere, a rush of fear made her tremble. She had seen these flowers before. Smelled that scent before. Her struggle to remember brought such anguish, she moaned.

  At the sound of hoof beats, she swung round. A horse emerged from a copse of trees. The rider saw her and pulled on the reins cursing, as the horse reared. Viola jumped off the path and lost her footing, falling hard on her derriere in a patch of dew-laden grass. Two hounds bolted out of the bushes. One was upon her in an instant, nuzzling and licking her face.

  “Oh, stop,” she cried with a laugh, attempting to push it away.

  “Down, Henry!” His Grace growled from atop the tall chestnut, and the dog returned to his master’s side.

  “What the devil are you doing out so early?” The duke leapt down. “Are you hurt?”

  “Only my dignity, I’m afraid.”

  He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet as if she weighed no more than the fluffy head of a dandelion. His hands
lingered on her back as if to steady her, but it seemed to have the reverse affect. She moved away her face hot and probably as pink as the rose she held. She dropped the flower and brushed down her skirt.

  The duke’s gaze roamed over her sodden slippers and shabby dress with the new damp patch. He brought with him the bitter truth of her predicament, leaving her feeling grubby and foolish, and her brief delight in the morning ruined.

  “I apologize for startling you. I never meet a soul on this path. What are you doing wandering around so early?”

  “I thought it lovely, with the sleeping world awaking to a new day.” How flighty her words sounded. Did he think her a fool?

  “Have you remembered something of your past?”

  “No, nothing.” Perhaps he hoped this madwoman would disappear back to where she came from. Viola wrapped the shawl around herself more closely.

  “Come, I’ll walk back with you.” He led his horse along the lane, his dogs following. The cottage appeared through the trees.

  “I assume you’re feeling better?”

  “I am thank you. Nanny’s been wonderful. She is well versed in herbs. She gave me something that made me sleep like a baby!”

  “Ah, yes. I well remember her potions. I’ll never forget some of the foul brews I was made to swallow as a child.” A devilish look came into his brown eyes, and a smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m sorry you had to endure them.”

  Viola couldn’t help smiling back. “I suspect you aren’t sorry at all, Your Grace.”

  His smile widened in approval. “One must not discourage Nanny, and I’m sure they are beneficial.” He continued walking. “We must make you well and quickly, Miss Viola. There may be a family somewhere worried about you.”

  His words tumbled her back into reality. She trembled with frustration. If only she could remember. How long would it be before she outlived her welcome?

  They arrived at the cottage gate.

  Mounting his horse, he raised his hat. “Do take care of yourself. You don’t want to be laid up too long with Nanny in attendance.”

  Viola certainly did not. He rode off with his dogs running behind him, and she turned to walk along the garden path where roses, delphiniums, and hollyhocks waved tall heads above the rhubarb and the cabbages. Her feet were so cold that she could hardly feel her toes.

  A burly young lad ran up the path behind her carrying a pitcher of fresh milk and a basket laden with eggs and cream from the dairy.

  “I’ll take them.” Viola entered the kitchen and laid them on the scrubbed table where Nanny bustled about, firing up the kitchen range. “You were up and about very early. Was that Hugh I heard riding away?”

  So, his given name was Hugh. “I met His Grace on the path near the river. We didn’t see each other until we almost collided.” She watched Nanny removing food from the larder.

  “He kindly stopped to help me up and escorted me back to the cottage.”

  “Did he, indeed? He rides by the river every morning.”

  Nanny came over to peer into her face. “Ah, that’s better,” she said. “Those shadows under your eyes are fading. Up you go and wash. You need a nourishing breakfast.”

  “You’ll have me fattened up in no time, Nanny.” Viola gathered in the loose folds of the gown. She went to her room to wash her face and tidy her hair. She could do little about the rest of her appearance.

  She heard the door close as she came down the stairs. In the kitchen, Nanny read a note written on expensive gold embossed vellum.

  Nanny put the missive aside as Viola held her damp shoes up to the fire.

  “We shall have to do something about your clothes, or you’ll catch your death. Give those to me. I’ll dry them for you.”

  As the maid came into the room, Nanny said, “Fetch a pair of house slippers from my room. Hurry, Becky!”

  Her feet cold on the flagstones, Viola shivered and drew closer to the fire.

  “There’s a modiste in the village, more than competent.”

  Nanny arranged the damp slippers closer to the heat. “And we will have to purchase some suitable footwear.”

  Viola swung around to face her. “Nanny, we can’t! How will I pay for such things?”

  Nanny pointed to the letter. “Hugh has sent instructions. He will meet expenses.”

  “I am already so much in his debt.” Overwhelmed, Viola clasped her hands tightly together. “How will I repay him?”

  “Don’t worry too much about that now. If you fret, you will slow your recovery. Come, you know you have no choice in the matter. As if a small expenditure would worry a wealthy duke! Hugh would see it as his obligation to help someone less fortunate, as he has helped many villagers over the years.”

  “But I’m not….” She paused at Nanny’s shake of the head.

  He had shown no interest in gaining her favors. Why would a powerful man such as he, waste his time and money on her? She bit her lip and gazed down at the damp dress, reminded of what lay beneath, the horrid, ill-fitting undergarments. She had little choice. It was a practical suggestion, and for all she knew she would be able to repay him soon.

  “I will pay him back somehow, Nanny,” she said. “When my memory returns—”

  “Yes, yes, my girl. Now here is Becky with the slippers.

  They are sure to fit. Put them on and sit down at the table. My pancakes are said to be the best in the district, and the preserves are made from strawberries picked fresh from my garden.” She placed a bowl of thick, fresh cream on the table.

  Viola realized she was ravenous. Needs of the flesh. She had no choice but to do the sensible things Nanny suggested.

  Hopefully, for a very short time.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, the doctor kindly called to see how Viola fared. After he left, much pleased with her progress, a gig arrived to take Nanny and Viola to the nearest town. Nanny clutched her reticule while explaining Hugh’s instructions. Viola was to have everything she required.

  Viola’s mind was also clear—only the barest of necessities would do. A fierce debate ensued as they drove through the woods towards the town, until Nanny silenced her with a look that would have caused any of her former charges to shake in their boots.

  Emerging from the woods the carriage entered the town and stopped outside the haberdashery. There was also a general store, a boot maker, and a blacksmith. As soon as Viola and Nanny entered the haberdashery, Nanny immediately fell upon a bolt of white, self-embroidered silk. She began to discuss various ways of creating a ball gown. “I like the way the gowns today have all their fullness at the back.”

  “But I shan’t need a ball gown, Nanny,” Viola said. When she failed to distract her, she left Nanny and wandered about the shop.

  A man and woman waited at the counter as the shopkeeper wrapped gloves in brown paper. Viola listened to their conversation while examining a fringe. The plump woman spoke of their social engagement planned for the next full moon, while her companion, a thin man with a surly expression stood silently by. When he could get a word in, he stated with great authority that he expected the weather to turn nasty. Suddenly aware of her presence, they fell silent and stared at her with ill-concealed curiosity. She smiled and said good-morning, searching both faces for signs of recognition. It proved futile, for their blank looks told her they were strangers.

  They gathered up their parcels, their voices dropping to a whisper as they left the shop. She turned away flushing. With the realization that her sudden unexplained arrival in the area would incite gossip, any pleasure she might take in the outing was destroyed.

  Nanny chattered about the dressmaker as they entered the gig and drove the few miles to Vale Park Village. “Our village is blessed to have someone of Madame Sophie’s expertise. She can turn her hand to millinery of a surprisingly high standard too.”

  Nanny smiled. “The ladies here are very well dressed.”

  They drove past a prosperous-looking coaching inn, which Nanny said
saw a fair amount of trade from coaches traveling to and from London. A coach was just departing the inn yard, laden with weary passengers, and piled high with boxes. Chickens, ducks, and geese scattered, flapping their wings as it disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  The gig stopped outside the lady’s tiny cottage. It looked onto the green near the general store. Viola and Nanny walked up the path with the groom following, his arms filled with the bolts of fabric Nanny had selected.

  Madame Sophie was a petite, dark-haired, French émigré who had studied her craft in Paris. She told Nanny how delighted she was to have the backing of the Duke of Vale. It quite took her back to her days in Paris under her mother’s tutelage. “Ma Mère created gowns for French noblewomen. She dressed the Princess of Guéméné who was governess of the children of Louis XVI of France, comprenez-vous?”

  The choice of materials may have been limited, but Sophie’s creativity was not. She talked excitedly punctuating her sentences with French when her knowledge of English failed her. Viola followed these snippets of Sophie’s mother tongue, and before long, they conversed fluently in French, while Nanny watched, agape.

  “Votre français est excellente, Mademoiselle,” Sophie said. “You have the blood of France in your veins, Je suis sûr.”

  Viola smiled and shook her head, she would know if this were true, wouldn’t she?

  Nanny poked about a table of fabrics, beads, braid and feathers. “I have little cause to use these,” Sophie said with a moue of frustration. She related the story of her life as she pinned fabrics on Viola. She had married an English soldier she met after Waterloo. He had brought her to this village, but died not long afterwards. Although the war had ended with France four years ago, not everyone accepted her here. She yearned to return to her beloved Paris, or at least to London where she might set up her own establishment.

  Her eyes were filled with loneliness and pain, which Viola understood very well. They were both far from home.

  After much discussion, two morning dresses were decided upon; a dress of white muslin sprigged with green and piped at the hem, the pale apricot sarsnet embellished with braid. A cream Holland spencer belted and fringed at the back was planned along with a pelisse in merino russet decorated with frog fastenings, which would take Viola into autumn if required. The Ladies’ Monthly Museum, a forgotten periodical of some fashion conscious lady passing through the village, provided the inspiration.