by Jane Goodger
Unless her friends were simply being kind. It was true she’d received a spotty education thanks to her father’s gambling.
“Who did you have in mind? Or should I rather ask, who did Winters have in mind?” She said this darkly and was gratified when Oliver’s eyes darted away. “Ha! I knew he was behind this.”
“The tutor was my idea,” he said, surprising her. Hurting her, actually.
“Oh.” She shifted so she was looking at the bump her feet made beneath the blanket. He laid a warm hand on her back but she continued to stare stubbornly forward.
“If we’re to go out into society, we must be prepared. I had a long string of tutors growing up, who taught me all manner of things. I haven’t had the chance to put many of them into practice, but it is all here,” he said, tapping his head.
“Such as?”
“Such as a man keeps his gloves on at all times out of doors.”
“Even I knew that,” she said, unimpressed.
“And I shall need you, you know. I cannot see past my outstretched hand with any clarity.” He held out his hand to demonstrate. “It’s foggy and unclear. So I shall depend on you to tell me if someone has waved or said hello.”
“You can hear,” Rebecca said on a laugh. “Quite a bit better than I.”
“Yes, but I won’t be able to tell they are saying hello to me.”
Rebecca sat up, then straddled him, leaning back. “Tell me when you can see my face.” She began moving forward, slowly, watching as his eyes, darting slightly, stared intently at her. When she was perhaps six inches away, he said, “There.”
“Truly?” she whispered. She hadn’t understood the extent of his vision impairment, how even the simplest of things would be difficult for him.
“Truly.”
“I do pray spectacles will help.” She leaned forward even more and kissed him. “However can you fence?”
“Not easily,” he said, laughing. “I listen, I can see general movement. I know when an opponent is going for a point by looking at the white blob in front of me.”
“White blob?”
Oliver chuckled. “That’s all I can see. But close up, I see quite well. It is tiring though.”
“You never seem too tired to me,” she said saucily, for she could feel him growing hard beneath her bum.
“My eyes grow tired. The rest of me is quite…energetic.”
Mrs. Habershaw arrived within a fortnight, frowning heavily as she looked around the grand hall. “Where is my nephew?” she called out as she handed off her muff, cloak, hat, and gloves without looking at who was taking them. Rebecca swore she could feel the coolness of her sharp gaze when the older woman spied her. She looked down her nose through a pair of spectacles that perched, rather miraculously, near the very tip. “You there. Fetch His Grace.”
Rebecca hid a smile and dipped a quick curtsy, realizing too late that she greatly outranked the woman before her. “I am the duchess.” Even to her own ears she sounded unsure.
Mrs. Habershaw seemed to freeze on the spot—or rather turn to stone. “You?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, dear.” The woman’s face sharpened imperceptibly. Her expression told Rebecca more than her words ever could. It said: Now I understand why my nephew sent for me. This girl is an impossible case but I shall forge ahead and do my best out of duty.
Oliver appeared then, walking into the hall, his eyes searching out Rebecca. “Your aunt has arrived, Your Grace.”
Oliver came immediately to her side, then stepped forward to greet his aunt. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Aunt.”
“You have not outgrown your affliction I see,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Indeed, I have not.”
“A pity,” she said, and Rebecca felt herself bristle. She swallowed a retort, not wanting to be combative when she needed this woman to remain. “I last saw you when you were still in the cradle, shortly before my sister brought shame upon the family.” She glanced at Rebecca. “I do hope we can avoid a repeat of such scandal.”
“From what I understand, scandal is the only thing to brighten the ton’s day,” Rebecca said. “I do believe we shall cause quite a stir when we travel to London.”
Mrs. Habershaw looked aghast. “Surely not for the Season.”
“In two weeks. I would like to go and return before the holidays and before the weather becomes too harsh.”
Mrs. Habershaw nearly staggered, but she did hold one hand over her heart, as if it were paining her. Stepping forward, the lady peered at her more closely. “Two weeks? I could not possibly get her ready to be presented in two weeks. You do realize she will have to be presented to Her Highness.”
Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face. Presented to the queen? Oliver looked at Rebecca uncertainly, and she could almost hear his mind whirring—perhaps thinking he had miscalculated terribly in his choice of a wife. One might think she was standing there dressed like a… She looked down at herself and realized she was dressed more like a governess or a housekeeper than the lady of the house.
“We only wish to purchase a more suitable wardrobe and to obtain spectacles for His Grace on this trip. Then we will return and the lessons can begin in earnest.” Twisting her hands together, Rebecca said, “Do I truly have to be presented to the queen?”
Mrs. Habershaw, wearing a look of rapt disbelief, said, “You are the Duchess of Kendal. It is one of the oldest and most respected titles in all of England. Of course you must be presented. And you must be presented in a manner that will not humiliate His Grace.”
“I would never—”
A sharp hand motion from Mrs. Habershaw stopped her. “You are woefully unprepared, Your Grace. I could tell that immediately. You curtsied to me like some country miss. Girls who are presented to the queen have been trained in deportment all their lives. What they say, how they say it, their diction, their every movement is second nature. They are not—” She indicated Rebecca’s entire person with a swirl of her hand.
“Her Grace is intelligent and far lovelier than any woman I have ever seen. I am certain she will make us all proud,” Oliver said, his tone icy. Rebecca smiled inwardly, for she had never heard Oliver sound like the duke he was. And given his poor eyesight and hermit-like existence, his statement was likely true.
“I am humbled by your optimism,” Mrs. Habershaw said. “Now, I am weary from my travels. If I could be shown to my room?”
“Oh, yes, Aunt, forgive me.” Oliver nodded to the footmen to begin bringing her luggage to her rooms. It was rather a lot of luggage, judging by the large pile just inside the door, an indication that Mrs. Habershaw planned to stay for quite a while.
Rebecca had thought, at the very least, that her table manners were acceptable. It turned out, however, they were woefully inadequate.
“Why must you eat like a sailor on shore leave? You must cut a small amount of meat, lay down your knife, turn your fork thus”—Mrs. Habershaw turned her fork so that the tines curved downward—“and eat. Place your fork back onto your plate so that it crosses over your knife, then chew twenty times. No more. No less.”
“But what if someone asks me a question on chew number six? Or sixteen?” She was only half-jesting.
“You must acknowledge that you have heard his or her question and continue to chew. I hardly think you’ll encounter such rudeness at any rate.”
Rebecca thought back to Caine family dinners, loud and boisterous affairs with much chatting. She could not imagine what dinners would have been like for her family had her sisters and she been required to chew twenty times before answering a question. It seemed silly to her.
“Your back, Your Grace.”
She had begun to slouch imperceptibly and so straightened.
“And do not stare at your food so. Your chin should be parallel to the table
. Parallel,” she said, taking her hand and lifting Rebecca’s chin.
For days it had gone on like this, with Mrs. Habershaw drilling her over and over again. She smiled too much and too broadly; she walked too quickly; her diction nearly made Mrs. Habershaw weep; her clothes were too common. Each time Rebecca entered a room where the older woman presided, she would look at Rebecca’s outfit with a mixture of horror and deep sadness. More than once, Mrs. Habershaw said beneath her breath, “I cannot create miracles.”
The list of things a duchess could do and could never do was lengthy and none of it appealed overmuch to Rebecca. When she’d told Mrs. Habershaw she’d never been on a horse, she thought the woman would faint.
“But it is imperative that a woman of your station not only ride but ride well. What about the hunt?”
“The hunt?”
Mrs. Habershaw had looked to Mr. Winters for commiseration, and the miserable man had simply shaken his head in disgust.
“You do know how to dance.”
Rebecca had a feeling the type of dancing she and her sisters had done in their parlor would not count. “Not properly, no.” She had danced a waltz more than once.
“And pianoforte? Violin? Do you sing?” This last was said with a tinge of desperation.
“We did not have a governess growing up.”
She woman had actually gasped. “How were you schooled, then?”
“By my mother. I can read,” Rebecca said, quite defensively. Indeed, her mother had come from a fine family that did have a governess. She’d had a Season in London and had the great misfortune (according to her grandparents) of falling in love with a vicar’s son.
Mrs. Habershaw visibly paled and she looked to Mr. Winters. “You were not forthcoming, sir,” she said sternly.
Winters’ mouth tightened. “His Grace fancied the girl and it is always my duty to ensure he is content. The old duke made me promise to care for him and that is what I have done.”
“But the consequences. If there are children, they will have her blood. Oh, it is unconscionable.”
“I beg pardon, but I am not a street hoyden. I am a duchess, whether the two of you wish it or not. My father is a squire and my mother is the grandniece of a baronette.”
“You cannot be so naïve as to think a well-born, normal man would have you,” Mrs. Habershaw said cruelly. Perhaps worse, she had not meant to be cruel, she was simply stating what she believed to be a fact.
“It matters not. I am His Grace’s wife and a duchess, which means, I believe, that I far outrank either of you.” Even though she said the words coldly, her cheeks blushed. She did not honestly believe the words she spoke and almost felt silly saying them. Rank and position meant little to her—at least up until this point in her life. The Caines may not have been top-tier in St. Ives, but they were well-liked and well-respected. People loved her mother; they were less charitable to her father, given his penchant for the gaming table. Still, Rebecca had never felt ashamed of her family and had been secretly proud that her mother had come from such a grand lineage.
“She is correct, Mr. Winters. The deed is done and undoing it would create even more scandal.”
“Scandal is not always a bad thing,” Winters said enigmatically. “And a duke can withstand quite a lot.”
Rebecca frowned, wishing she could tell him just what she thought about his opinions, but she was trying to be more pleasant to the onerous man for Oliver’s sake.
“It matters not what I do, I fear,” Mrs. Habershaw said. “If we cannot cleanse you of your low born accent, this will have been an exercise in futility. I have heard no improvement at all.”
Was her diction so awful? She had not realized her Cornish accent was so noticeable.
“Every syllable, each letter, should be enunciated with care and precision,” Mrs. Habershaw said, then brought out a book—the complete works of William Shakespeare—to have Rebecca read for her.
“Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene—”
The older woman held up her hand. “Dignitee. Not dignitay. Each syllable, each letter, crisp and precise. Again.”
“Two households, both alike in dignitee, In fair—”
“Stop. Fair. Not fayre. Repeat, please.”
Rebecca swallowed. “Fair.”
Mrs. Habershaw frowned. “Continue.”
“In fair Verona, where we lay our—”
Mrs. Habershaw threw up her hands and gave Mr. Winters a look of desperation. “Impossible, Mr. Winters. The minute she opens her mouth everyone will know she is of the lower classes. If your mother was indeed the grandniece of a baronette, then she has failed you miserably.”
Rebecca felt herself bristling but bit her tongue. It would do no good to argue with the woman, and Rebecca couldn’t help thinking that her words held some truth. Her parents had done nothing to ensure she was educated, that she marry well. They both would have been completely content to have her marry a local shopkeeper, and there was a time when Rebecca would have been happy living in St. Ives with her shopkeeper husband. But thanks to her father’s actions, she had been thrust into a world she was entirely unprepared for. Mrs. Habershaw was correct; her speech would give her common origins away even if she mastered all the other aspects of being a lady.
“What do you suggest I do?” she asked. “I am a duchess but I would not want to bring shame or embarrassment to His Grace.”
Mrs. Habershaw gave her a thoughtful look that was very nearly tinged with admiration. “I suggest you say as little as possible.”
“It will not work,” Mr. Winters said. “People will be curious. They’ll ask her questions. She will not be able to stand there like a mute. This entire trip is ill-conceived. Certainly she cannot attend a ball or any other public event. The family will be humiliated. If I had known things would carry this far this quickly, I never would have—”
“But you did,” Rebecca interrupted. “And His Grace and I are happy.”
Oliver, taking pity on her, had asked that Mrs. Habershaw relent for the evening meal so that everyone at the table could enjoy one another’s company, but the old lady would not. “You have given me an impossible task, but I shall succeed despite it.”
Rebecca had glanced over at Oliver and could see he was trying not to show his anger. They had agreed that while Mrs. Habershaw was a strict and unrelenting teacher, in the end it would all be worth it. Rebecca refused to embarrass her husband. Since Mrs. Habershaw’s visit, they had seen little of each other except in the evenings.
“It’s useless,” Rebecca said two weeks after Mrs. Habershaw had arrived. She lay in bed beside Oliver, aching and sore and miserable. Her life had become a nightmare of criticism and endless drills; no matter how hard she tried, she failed again and again. Rebecca had thought herself, if not upper crust, at least presentable. It wasn’t as if she’d never attended a ball; she had. One ball, but it was a ball and as far as she could recall, she had not embarrassed herself. Then again, other than the Earl of Berkley, the attendees were all from St. Ives, so no one was there who would have noted their provincial ways.
Even when Rebecca did well, she earned no praise. Rebecca hated to be suspicious of anyone, but she had a terrible feeling that Mr. Winters had poisoned Mrs. Habershaw’s mind against her. At dinner, the two would talk quietly together, sharing smiles and looks that Rebecca couldn’t interpret. And Rebecca could not miss the looks of satisfaction Mr. Winters gave when Mrs. Habershaw corrected her.
“Mrs. Habershaw seems unreasonably strict in my opinion,” Oliver said. “If she were a man, I daresay I would have called her out a dozen times.”
Rebecca chose not to harp on Mr. Winters, though she longed to confide in Oliver. She was exhausted and grumpy and for the first time since she’d begun sharing a bed with her husband, she resisted his advances. She lay quiet, one arm flu
ng over her forehead, and stared at the canopy above Oliver’s bed, softly pink from the fire crackling in the grate. She hadn’t slept in her own bed for days now, not since discovering Oliver’s bed was far less lumpy. They’d become comfortable with one another, sharing stories of childhood in between mad and frenzied lovemaking. But this night, Rebecca wanted only to be held. “I’m a country girl and that’s all I shall ever be.” She turned to her side to look at Oliver. “Truthfully, I was glad that you were a bit of a hermit. All these rules, all those mannerisms. It seems so foreign and a little bit silly.”
Oliver kissed the tip of her nose. “Perhaps we can concentrate on what’s needed for the presentation. Surely you can muddle through it if you practice only that. I believe Mrs. Habershaw is attempting to do too much at once. All these lessons won’t be needed when we go to London this time around. You’ll have months to practice before the Season. Besides, I’ve no mad desire to enter society. I enjoy my quiet life.”
“Must I be presented to the queen? I think I may be ill at her feet. Just the thought of it.” She shook her head. “All the girls in England who wish to be a lady ought to go through what I’ve gone through and then they’d be happy to marry the butcher.”
He scowled at her, his striking white brows snapping together. “Did you wish to marry a butcher?”
“No, silly,” Rebecca said on a laugh. “But it would have been far easier.” He growled and pulled her against him, making her laugh all the more.
“Do you think I am not terrified by the prospect of going to London? Of attending social events? I loathe the whispers. I may not be able to see well, but I can feel people’s stares. People are either frightened by me or treat me as if I am an imbecile.”
