by Jane Goodger
Rebecca touched his hand as if to remind him he should not be too frightening, especially to the younger servants, who still did look a bit wary.
“Would you all introduce yourselves?” she asked, and walked to Mr. Starke, who, as butler, was the highest ranking servant. Oliver joined her, intensely aware that the servants were likely dreading having to step forward. Next to Mr. Starke was the housekeeper, a sour expression on her face, but she stepped forward, curtsied, and introduced herself.
Down the line they went, the braver among them, including his wife’s maid, daring to look him directly in the eye, though letting out a surreptitious sigh of relief when they were not immediately struck down. Even the maid with a tear-stained face managed to dart a quick look at him.
“Well done,” Rebecca said, as if they’d each accomplished some monumental task. He supposed they had. She gave him a small un-duchess like shrug and, by God, he had to stop himself from kissing her until she got all melty in his arms. He did like that.
Later, as Rebecca was readying herself for dinner—her first in the company of her husband—Darlene chatted about below stairs and how the staff was reacting to the excitement of the afternoon. “They think you’ve bewitched him,” she said.
“No,” Rebecca said with disbelief. “You must be jesting.”
Darlene laughed. “Not a true bewitchment, Your Grace. Just the normal kind that a woman can do with a man who’s in love.”
Rebecca let that sentence pass. She was quite certain the duke did not love her, but rather was grateful to her for her assistance.
“We’re so pleased, Your Grace,” Darlene said as she took up a brush and began dragging it through Rebecca’s thick auburn hair. “It’s almost as if a dark cloud has been lifted from the old place. It’s the strangest thing, it is. Walking down these dark halls, all of us feared that the duke would jump out at any minute and catch us unawares. And now, it’s all changed. We all feel a bit bad about the duke. All these years of treating him so. Even the gallery ghost seemed happy today.”
Rebecca raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Missy, that’s the one what started crying after Pamela’s waterworks, swears she heard her laughing.”
“I wouldn’t think that a ghost had very much to laugh about,” Rebecca said.
“Not in this old place, I wouldn’t think.” She paused in her brushing. “You never were afraid of him, were you?”
“Not like you mean, no. Coming here, not knowing a soul, not having met my husband… It was all a bit frightening. But as soon as I met His Grace, or rather soon after, I concluded he was nothing to fear.”
Darlene placed the brush on her table and gave her a pensive look. “Sally told me what happened with Mr. Winters. You thought she’d gone, but she stayed around the corner. We all think you’re an angel, Your Grace, come to save us. Including His Grace, poor soul.”
“His Grace is not a poor soul, but I thank you for your compliment.”
Darlene pressed her lips together and it was obvious to Rebecca that she wanted to say something more. “Out with it, then.”
“I got to thinking, he is a bit…unusual, isn’t he? Not an ordinary man at all. That white hair and his eyes are so striking, aren’t they? I was trying to imagine what it would be like, to have people stare, to be so different.”
“I imagine it is rather difficult and it would take a good amount of bravery to do the simplest things. Like going down to dinner tonight. From what I understand, he hasn’t done so in years.”
Darlene braided Rebecca’s hair, then swept it up and began putting hairpins in until she’d created a pretty effect.
“You make a fine lady’s maid,” Rebecca said, turning her head this way and that to admire the work.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Darlene said, giving a small curtsy.
It was still strange to have servants bowing and curtsying and Your Gracing her. In another life, she might have been friends with Darlene, and that thought brought a pang of sadness for the friends she’d left behind in St. Ives. It was too soon to expect a letter from anyone—her letters likely hadn’t reached her friends yet—but Rebecca couldn’t help but wish she could speak to them. Alice’s baby was probably crawling around, and Harriet might already be carrying the heir to an earldom. Would Eliza find a gentleman and fall in love before she even met the man? Perhaps after their trip to London, she could invite her to visit.
“Darlene, are there other members of the peerage living nearby? I confess, I am not at all familiar with this part of England.”
“There’s a high number of toffs here and about,” she said. “I could get the old duchess’s address book for you. Before His Grace was born, I hear Horncliffe was always filled with the aristocracy for one ball or party or another. That was before my time, though.”
Rebecca smiled. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Eliza met someone here and fell in love? Then she’d at least have one friend nearby. Harriet’s sister, Clara, had married Baron Alford, and when they were at his country estate, she wouldn’t be too far to visit. A day’s travel or so, she supposed.
With those happy thoughts in her head, Rebecca headed for the dining hall, only to have her mood dashed when she reached the room and found her husband sitting with Mr. Winters. The two immediately stood when they saw her. The gas sconces were lit, but the flames were low, light and shadow giving the room an almost cozy air. A large fire warmed the room, periodically snapping and showering the hearth screen with sparks. If not for the oppressive presence of Mr. Winters, Rebecca would have looked forward to the meal.
“Did His Grace tell you about our plans to go to London, Mr. Winters?”
By the surprised expression on his face, it was apparent Oliver had not mentioned the trip.
“His Grace is unable to travel,” he said.
“His Grace is looking forward to the trip,” Oliver said, letting out a laugh. “Rebecca and I both need a new wardrobe, and we plan to visit a jeweler to see if I can get special spectacles fitted.”
“Ones with tinted lenses so His Grace can go outside without too much discomfort,” Rebecca said, then took a spoonful of her potato soup and frowned.
“You don’t care for it?” Oliver asked, amusement in his eyes.
“Perhaps more salt. And pepper,” she said, taking the small salt cellar in front of her and adding some to her soup. “Dill would likely help as well. I do like to put a bit of bacon fat in, as well. Gives it such a nice flavor.”
“You cook?” Winters asked, the way one would say, “You run about barefoot in the snow?”
“We had a cook, but yes, I do like creating recipes and I would often take over when she was off with her family. Of course, my father was horrified until he tasted my apple pie.”
“I do like apple pie,” Oliver said, hinting that she should make him some, and Rebecca gave him a grateful smile. It would be rare fun to bake again.
“I should think it would be unheard of for Her Grace to set foot into the kitchen, never mind cook,” Winters said, the ‘k’ echoing throughout the room. The older man turned toward Oliver. “Surely, you cannot condone such behavior, Your Grace.”
“I only said I like apple pie, Winters. I hardly directed her to run down to the kitchen and begin preparing it.”
Another simple conversation turned into a confrontation. Rebecca was unused to such tension at the dinner table, and felt a rush of longing for the friendly chaos of meals with her sisters.
“Perhaps for our first ball, I shall make enough pies for all our guests,” Rebecca said, only to vex Winters. Oliver, who seemed to suspect what she was up to, gave her a smile but subtly shook his head.
“Ball?”
“Our first ball. I should think we would want to introduce the Duke and Duchess of Kendal to the ton, though it might be better to wait until after the winter but before the seas
on. Or do you have a townhouse in London? That might—”
“Rebecca,” Oliver said, laughter in his voice. “May we discuss the plans for the ball in private?”
“Very well.” He was being so charming, Rebecca felt a small surge of warmth in the region of her heart. She simply could not stop herself from looking at him, and she realized he was becoming quite dear to her. More than that, perhaps.
“You cannot seriously be considering a ball.”
The couple, who had been staring at one another rather like lovesick youths, turned their eyes to Winters.
“Only for three hundred or so guests. Can the ballroom accommodate that number?” Rebecca, who had no experience at all planning a ball, grabbed a number from thin air in hopes it would be large enough to give Mr. Winters apoplexy.
Winters’ eyes grew arctic and he slowly placed his fork down so carefully, it didn’t make a sound when it touched his plate. The air grew thick with tension.
“I believe Her Grace is teasing you, Winters,” Oliver said, and Rebecca could tell he was trying not to smile.
“I was indeed,” Rachel said. “I think a ball would be too ambitious, but I do believe a small dinner party would be acceptable. Would it not, Your Grace?”
“Perhaps someday.”
“Did you hold many formal dinners at your home?” Winters asked with feigned interest. In fact, the Caines had held no formal dinners and, if Rebecca were honest, were a bit unruly at the table, something she suspected Winters fully knew. He’d eaten with the family, after all, and even then Rebecca could sense his disgust of the family. They’d barely had the funds to feed their large brood, never mind to invite the local gentry. The only reason Rachel could be reasonably confident she was equal to dining with the aristocracy was thanks to her friends Alice and Eliza. Finishing school, lessons in deportment, seasons in London were things Rebecca had never been a part of.
“No, but it is my understanding that the aristocracy eat in a similar fashion to the gentry.” Lord, she loathed the man.
He smiled tightly. “You forget, I have seen your table manners, Your Grace.”
“Enough!”
Winters did not react overtly to the command shouted out by Oliver, but the look he gave Rebecca had her suppressing a shiver.
For the rest of the dinner Rebecca sat quietly, her entire body heated with humiliation and rage, as her husband chatted amiably with Mr. Winters about a new artist Oliver had an interest in. Rebecca knew nothing about art or artists, so she sat and forced herself to eat the tasteless meal. When the conversation slid into philosophy and the great debate over what is truth—an absolute or what someone believes is the truth—and throwing out quotes from long-dead people Rebecca had never heard of, she felt herself growing exceedingly bored. Two things bothered her. One, she was convinced Mr. Winters had begun the conversations about art and philosophy simply to illustrate how uneducated she was. And two, Oliver seemed completely oblivious to what Winters was doing. The two of them seemed entirely too engaged by the debate. It wasn’t until dinner was over that she realized how very angry Oliver was. His answers were short, his tone clipped, his movements measured and precise. She hardly knew him, and had never seen him angry, but for some reason she sensed an underlying tension, a tautness, as if he were a snake coiled for attack. Mr. Winters, if he recognized Oliver’s rage, either did not care or was pretending not to.
“If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I have something to discuss with Mr. Winters.”
She saw a tension in Oliver’s face that she hadn’t recognized before, his sharp jaw tense, his eyes cold. “Of course,” she said, looking uncertainly between the two men before turning and leaving them alone.
Oliver pushed his plate away and Winters motioned for the footman to remove it. Even that small gesture added to his anger, as if he were incapable of gesturing to the footman himself. These things that he hadn’t noted before suddenly grated. “You are dismissed,” he told the footman, then turned to the other servants in the room and asked that they also leave. Winters looked at him with that awful bemusement, one eyebrow raised.
“I would like you to leave Horncliffe, Mr. Winters. Tomorrow, if possible.”
His thin lips separated briefly, the only indication that Oliver had perhaps shocked him.
“Ah.” That one syllable seemed to hold so much. Censorship for siding with his wife, mockery for being so weak, a warning that he could not survive without Winters’ counsel. So what he said next surprised Oliver. “I do not blame you for your anger, Your Grace. I was completely out of line, crass, and I apologize. I shall apologize to Her Grace as well when I see her next.”
Oliver stared at the man he’d known nearly all his life, searching for mendacity and finding none. His anger deflated immediately. He was not at all unaware of how Winters had sacrificed his own life to stay with him. “Why do you find it necessary to insult her, not only to her face, but to me? I will not tolerate it. I am fond of Her Grace and no matter how our marriage came to be, I am glad for it.”
Winters let out a sigh and nodded. “I cannot help how I feel, but I shall do a better job of hiding it.” He hesitated for a moment, looking at Oliver with his dark brown eyes as if measuring how much he should say. “It is only that I think of you as a son. Or perhaps a younger brother, but if either were the case, I would be duke.” He chuckled. “If you are indeed going to enter society, have a care, Your Grace. You must know I only think of your best interests. If I have been unable to hide my disapproval—”
“Hide it? You’ve been quite flagrant about it. It must stop. I do not make this threat idly, Mr. Winters. I will not have you insult my wife again. Is that clear? If you force me to choose, I choose her.”
“Yes, of course,” Winters said, looking chastised. He was acquiescing so easily, Oliver grew suspicious. Winters never acquiesced easily. “It is only that I fear for her, Your Grace.”
“Thus far, the only thing she has had to fear is your censor,” Oliver snapped.
“Yes, precisely. And I have apologized, Your Grace.” The slightest bit of impatience entered his tone. “But do you think the ton will be kinder than I? It will be immediately evident to anyone who meets Her Grace that she is not of our class and certainly not worthy to be a duchess.” He held up a staying hand when Oliver stiffened, his anger back in force. “I fear not only for you but for her as well. You have not been in society, and I admit I have not either in years, but it is an unforgiving place, a place that would take great delight in ripping Her Grace to shreds. Have you not considered this? That you will be mocked not because of your condition but because of your wife’s low birth? Do you wish to be the subject of ridicule?”
Oliver’s immediate reaction was to deny the truth of what Mr. Winters was saying, but he was not a fool. He knew little of society, or its cruelties, firsthand, but he was not so naïve to believe they would not be mocked. He would not allow that to happen to Rebecca. Everything was so new, he’d hardly given thought to anything but getting his delightful wife back into bed. All the tutors in the world could not have prepared him for society and he was woefully inadequate to train her.
“Do we have a relative, an aunt or cousin or such, who could train my wife in the social graces? I confess, I haven’t noticed any egregious errors in her behavior or manners, but I am hardly a judge, having been so isolated from society.”
A small glint appeared in Winter’s eyes, as if he’d won some sort of victory. “Mrs. Habershaw would be ideal,” Winters said after some thought.
“Habershaw,” Oliver repeated, the name sounding familiar, though he was unable to recall ever meeting the woman. When he was young, his father would sometimes invite members of the ton to Horncliffe, but given his age, he’d not often been introduced.
“Your mother’s sister, Your Grace. She has long been widowed. A more upstanding and uncorrupted woman you shall never meet.” He
chuckled. “She’s a bit hard of hearing, but that might go in Her Grace’s favor; more difficult for Mrs. Habershaw to hear Her Grace’s atrocious speech.”
Oliver frowned. “I hadn’t noticed anything defective in her speech. And given my mother abandoned me as an infant, I hardly think someone from my mother’s side of the family would be appropriate.”
“Your mother came from impeccable lines,” Winters said with a tight smile.
“My mother was not a race horse,” Oliver countered dryly.
Oliver sensed his comment annoyed Winters, but the older man did not respond. “With your permission, I shall write Mrs. Habershaw immediately. In a matter of weeks, Her Grace will be up to snuff, intelligent girl that she is.”
“Did you just compliment my wife?”
Winters opened his mouth, no doubt about to say something insulting, but remained silent. He stood and gave a quick bow. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have a letter to write.”
Oliver let him go, allowed him to write the letter that he himself should have written. He had been about to inform Winters that he would write the letter but stopped. The man was obviously attempting to make amends. Besides, Oliver’s penmanship was atrocious. More importantly, he had a warm and willing wife waiting for him.
Chapter 8
“A tutor?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Rebecca’s stomach knotted, knowing this idea must have come from Winters. Yes, she was a bit provincial, but she was hardly a scullery maid or a street beggar like Pygmalion. Did Oliver truly think so little of her?
She sat on her bed with her knees drawn up tightly against her body, her arms wrapped around her legs, and her head facing her husband, who lay there satisfied after their lovemaking, his hands tucked beneath his head. “I may not have attended finishing school, but I am hardly uneducated. We did have a governess.” For six months. When she was twelve. But that hardly mattered. She’d been around highly educated friends all her life and had learned to emulate them. Alice was the granddaughter of a duke and Harriet and her sister had attended a finishing school, as had Eliza. No one had ever found fault with her manners or speech.
