Monday for Tea

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Tea with a love letter

The Duchess of Haverford took tea in her rooms this quiet Monday afternoon. She was alone for once; even the maid who brought the tray sent off back to the servants’ hall. Her life was such a bustle, and for the most part, that was how she liked it, but just for once, it was nice to have an afternoon to herself. No meetings. No entertainments to attend or offer. Not even any family members–her current companion had gone to visit her mother for her afternoon off, Aldridge was about his own business, Frances was at lessons, and Jessica and Matilda had been invited on an outing with Felicity Belvoir.

As to Haverford, who knew where he was? But he would not disturb her here. He had not come to her rooms since Jonathan had brought Frances to join her nursery–the little girl a greater gift than her son could ever know. The scandal of the child’s existence was a secret Haverford needed to keep from his royal cousins, and she had been able to use her knowledge of that secret to secure her wards’ future under Haverford’s reluctant and anonymous protection, and her own freedom from his intimate attentions.

It had been an unpleasant negotiation, determined on her part and rancorous on his–not that he much wanted his aging wife, but he resented having his will forced. In return for his agreement, she had promised to continue as his political hostess, and to maintain the myth of a perfect Society marriage.

Why was she spoiling a perfectly good afternoon thinking about His Grace? She came up here to explore quite different memories.

Putting down her tea, she fetched the little box of keepsakes from the back of a cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old. A pair of Jonathan’s bootees. She had knitted them with her own hands, and there had been a cap to match. A rose, faded and dry, that she had pulled from a bouquet James had sent her, to wear in her hair. It still bore a faint scent of the perfume he had delighted in as they danced that night.

And the letter. It was one of several she had kept; most of them brief notes about nothing in particular. ‘I saw these and thought of you’, on a card with a bouquet of sweet spring flowers. ‘Save me a dance at the Mitford’s tonight?’ ‘I saw you in the Park. You rode like a goddess.’ They did not have to be signed. They were all from James, and short because they had to be passed to her in secret. “I’m not throwing you away on a third son, Eleanor Creydon. Winderfield is a fribble; a useless pup. Haverford wants you, and I’ve accepted him.”

James was back in England, a widower, father of six sons, heir to a dying duke. “Take that, Father,” Eleanor thought. “The third son will be duke, and his sons after him.”

He had attended the ball she was at the night before last. Eleanor had looked up when the room fell silent, and there he stood on the stairs, surrounded by members of his family, whom she barely noticed. James looked wonderful. More than thirty years had passed, and no person on earth would call him a fribble or useless now. He had been a king somewhere in Central Asia, and wore his authority like an invisible garment. And he was still as handsome as he had been in his twenties.

She caught herself sighing over the man like a silly gosling. She was a married woman, and he was a virtuous man who had, by all accounts, deeply loved his wife. Besides, women did not age as well as men, as the whole world knew. She no longer had the slender waist of a maiden, her hair was beginning to grey, and her face showed the lines her mother swore she would avoid if she never smiled, laughed, frowned, or showed any other emotion. Of course, she had not followed her mother’s instruction, but those who had were no less lined than Eleanor, as far as she could see.

Gads! She was prevaricating. She had come here to reread James’s last letter; the one that had broken her heart; the one she had ignored, leaving her to a lifetime of regret.

Stealing herself, she opened it.

My dearest, dearest love

My father is in it, too. He says that Haverford is to have you, as soon as he has recovered from his wounds.

I wish I had never challenged the duke, or that I had shot to kill. I meant only to defend your honour; to show he could not speak of you as if you were his possession. Even a husband should hesitate to show such disrepect to the woman he has promised to cherish above all others, and so I told him. ‘You are not even her betrothed,’ I told him, ‘and the last man on earth to deserve her’. I am very sorry, Eleanor. I lost my temper, when I should have been thinking of the best way to press my case with your father.

Now, the devil is in it, my father insists that I must flee the country. He says Haverford will have me arrested for shooting him, and Father won’t lift a finger to stop him.

Come with me, Eleanor. I promise I can look after you. The ship my father has organised leaves in two days, but I have a friend who can get me away tomorrow night. I promise I can look after you. I’ve sold the little estate my mother left me, so I have funds. We will go to the Continent. I can find work, I know I can, and we will be together. I know it won’t be what you are used to or what you deserve, but I love you, and you love me. Is that not worth fleeing for?

Meet me by the oak near the back gate of your garden as soon as the house is quiet tomorrow evening. I will be there from 8 of the evening and will wait until 2 hours after midnight. We have to be on the ship in time to sail with the dawn, and by the time your household wakes, we shall be gone down the river, and out to sea.

Come with me, my love.

Yours forever

James

 

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Tea with Sally

The Duchess of Winshire’s beloved James had added a conservatory onto his townhouse as a wedding present for his new wife. Even a decade later, Eleanor felt warm at the thought. No. A decade did not decrease her appreciation of her husband. Rather, it made it richer and deeper. The conservatory was just one of many ways he showed his deep love for the companion of his old age. Her lips curved in amusement. Not as old as all that! Bed sports with a generous man she adored, and who adored her in return had been a revelation to the former Duchess of Haverford. Neither her children nor his appreciated the passion between the couple, and they tried to be considerate, but really! They were married, after all.

Today, the conservatory was a play house for two of her favourite people. The little Marquess of Abersham, not quite four years old, was a godson–almost an honorary grandson, since his father had been a close friend of Eleanor’s own son for most of his life. Lady Sarah Grenford, that son’s daughter, was almost a year younger, but imperiously certain of her right to rule of the child-sized tea table where the two children entertained an assortment of dolls, stuffed toys, wooden animal and tin soldiers to afternoon tea.

Eleanor had refused a seat on the tiny chairs in favour of an adult-sized chair pulled close to one side of the table, but she accepted the tiny porcelain cup Sally handed her, filled with coloured lemonade.

“Now you must hand Grandmama the custard squares, David,” Sally commanded, and Abersham obeyed, carefully carrying the plate around the table balanced on both palms. He bowed as he offered it, and it tilted, the contents threatening to slip off before he slapped a hand over the top of them.

“I saved them, Aunt Eleanor,” he told her proudly, lifting a sticky hand to allow her to select from the offerings, the custard slightly squashed under cracked icing.

“You crushed them, silly,” his sternest auditor pronounced.

“I’m not silly,” the young lord protested. Then, clearly feeling that honour must be restored, he stalked towards Sally waving his custard-covered palm in threat.

“Abersham, your manners, please,” Eleanor reminded him. “And Sally, ladies never call other people ‘silly’. You have hurt your friend’s feelings.”

Sally’s eyes widened and she turned to Abersham, all contrition. “I did not mean to, David. Here!” She picked up a linen napkin. “Let me wipe your hand clean.”

Abersham grinned, and licked his palm. “All clean,” he said, “and it tastes good.”

Eleanor thought about reprimanding the child again, but he had nurses and parents for that and, after all, he would not still be licking his palm at dinner parties when he was twenty. Let him learn kindness now and manners later.

Both were the eldest children of dukes, which meant they were more indulged than was good for them, but they both had sweet natures, and were dearly loved. And they had one another as the best of friends. What would the future bring them, she wondered, as she used a spoon to select the undamaged edges of her custard square.

 

 

 

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Tea with Jonathan

 

Her Grace of Haverford answered a question about her plans for the evening, while watching her younger son prowling her private parlour, picking up ornaments and putting them down, smoothing out a crinkle in a linen mat, twitching a flower out of a vase to smell it and put it back in the wrong place. He clearly had something to say, and was barely pretending to listen as he tried to decide whether to come out with it.

“What is on your mind, my dear?” she asked, after he had tossed out two more conversational sallies, neither of which related to the other.

He flopped into a chair opposite to her. “I need something to do, Mama. His Grace stops everything I try, and Aldridge thinks I am complaining about nothing.”

So that was it. The duchess knew that His Grace refused to allow his back-up heir to take up any worthwhile activity, but she had not realised that her older son had also proved unsympathetic.

“You know what happened when I tried to join the army,” Jonathan complained. “His Grace refused his permission. So I joined under a false name. His Grace had me hunted down, bought me out, and confined me until I gave my word not to do it again.”

“I am rather glad about that,” Eleanor confessed. “It is cowardly of me, but I hate the thought of you risking your life in the struggle against Napoleon.”

“I am not afraid,” Jonathan insisted, completely missing his mother’s point. “At least I would have a purpose.” He continued his litany of things he’d done. “I went to work for an architect. His Grace had the man beaten. I changed my name again, and found work as a factory clerk. He threatened to ruin the man if I wasn’t fired. He told me that if I tried it again, he’d throw my old nanny out of the cottage she has retired to.”

Eleanor had purchased the cottage, and Jonathan’s nanny now owned it outright, but the duke would find another stick with which to threaten his son into compliance.

“Don’t tell me to speak to Aldridge. He doesn’t understand. I can’t live this life—this meaningless, idiotic life. He has work. I am allowed none. He has purpose. Mine is to simply exist until he marries and has children. After that, I’m redundant. Aldridge thinks I should be happy to drink and gamble and swive — I beg your pardon, Mama. And indulge myself until I’m silly, then get up the next day and do it again. He can’t believe I’m not. But he wouldn’t like having nothing useful to do nearly as much as he thinks. Can you talk to him, Mama?”

“Of course I will.” It would not help. The duchess knew His Grace had forbidden Aldridge to involve Jonathan in the many duties of the duchy that burdened the eldest son. Still, she would speak to Aldridge, and suggest he explain that to Jonathan, so at least the young man’s ire would be directed at the proper target. Meanwhile, she would try to give his mind another direction. “Perhaps, my dear, you might consider being of use to me?”

He looked up from the fist he had been punching into his other palm. “With what, Mama?”

“I understand you are friends with Miss Lilly Diamond,” the duchess said. Jonathan blushed. So those particular rumours were true, then. Eleanor discounted much of what she heard about her sons, but clearly Jonathan was at least acquainted with the famous demi-mondaine. “My friend Lady Sutton is concerned. Apparently Lady Georgiana is a frequent visitor at Miss Diamond’s house.”

The young lord sat up straight, his face grave, “I do not think it the part of honour to be your spy, Mama.”

Eleanor hid a smile at the indignant rebuke. “Nor do I ask you, dear. But Grace thinks, and I agree, that something odd is going on in the circles where your friend Miss Diamond presides. It may be nothing to do with her, of course. But will you keep your eyes out, Jonathan? And will you watch out for Lady Georgiana, if you can? I would hate to see her hurt.”

“I can do that,” Jonathan agreed. His eyes lit, and he shot her a devilish grin. “I see what you are doing, Mama. You are making it my job to drink and gamble and– other things. Well, a man has to do what a man has to do.”

Lord Jonathan Grenford is carrying out his mother’s commission when the courtesan, Lilly Diamond, is poisoned. Gren (as his friends call him) finds himself helping his half-brother David Wakefield to investigate the murder, in Revealed in Mist.

 

 

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Tea with the charitable Society

My excerpt post today is from a story tentatively entitled The Granite Earl and the Ice Princess, which I’m writing for the Bluestocking Belles’ anthology Fire and Frost.

Jessie rose to her feet. “We had best change for the meeting, Tilda. The Society for Brats is coming.”

Oh, yes. One of the duchess’s charities was meeting here today, rather than in the Oxford Street bookshop and tearooms that was their usual meeting place. The Ladies’ Society for the Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans intended to hold a fundraising event in a few weeks, when most of the ton had arrived in London. Even the dreadful fog could not be allowed to interfere with deciding what that event was to be.

The maid they shared brought them warm water to wash, and they helped one another into afternoon gowns suitable for receiving company.

“This is my third change today,” Jessica commented. “Yours too, I take it.”

Matilda knew what was coming. She and Jess had been deputed to the duchess’s causes since they were old enough to help, but for some reason this one had got right under Jess’s skin, and just last week, she had all but accused their benefactor of hypocrisy.

Jess ignored her silence, repeating the essence of what she had said to the duchess. “The cost of the gowns we have already worn today alone would have provided a year’s care for one of the indigent families for whom we were fundraising.”

Matilda gave her the answer that Her Grace had given last week. “If we both dressed in sackcloth, Jess, it would still be not enough. Aunt Eleanor says that we need to draw money out of those who would not otherwise give. To do that, we need to be seen as part of the ton, and that means we need to dress the part.”

Jess was not convinced. “If Aldridge would give me my dress allowance, instead of paying my bills, I could get by with half the clothes I have. I know I could.”

They dropped the conversation as they entered one of the less formal parlours, where the duchess waited for them, her current companion at her side, and Cedrica Fournier, her previous companion, already seated before a table, pen and paper ready to take notes.

Madame Fournier no longer served as Her Grace’s secretary, but she had volunteered to be secretary for this committee. Jess and Matilda took turns in greeting her with a kiss in the vicinity of her cheek, and as they did, the other ladies began to arrive.

The first part of the meeting was given over to reports. The work of the Society was organized by small groups, sometimes as few or two or three ladies. Lady Felicity Belvoir, through her connections to half the families of the ton, kept them aware of social events at which they could canvas for votes in Parliament. Lady Georgiana Hayden was in charge of writing pamphlets to sway opinion, and Lady Constance Whittles marshalled a miniature army of letter writers for the same purpose.

Many of the Society’s members also volunteered at hospitals where injured veterans were nursed and orphanages that cared for veterans’ children.  They visited widows where they lived, some in very insalubrious areas. The duchess agreed with the necessity: how else were they to meet real needs if they did not first talk to those who were suffering? She insisted on the volunteers and visitors travelling in groups and being escorted by stout footmen.

Once all the groups had reported back, they discussed their next fundraising event. The ladies offered one idea after another. The duchess would hold a charity ball, of course, as she did every year, but none of them felt that would be enough to really draw attention to the cause. Something special was called for. Something unusual.

Matilda was not sure who suggested a Venetian Breakfast, but the star suggestion of the day came from a shy girl who was new to the Society. Lady Clermont rose to her feet and waited for Mrs Berrisford, the meeting’s chair, to notice her.

“I wondered if we might hold a picnic basket auction,” she said, flushing pink at being the center of attention. We have done them at home as fundraisers for the church, and they are very popular.”

Two of the ladies objected that midwinter was hardly time for a picnic, but Mrs Berrisford called for silence. “Go on, Lady Clermont,” she encouraged. “How does it work?”

“The ladies provide a basket of food,” Lady Clermont explained, “and the gentlemen bid for the right to share the basket with the provider. It is usually the single ladies, of course.” Her voice faded almost to nothing as her blush deepened to scarlet.

Mrs Berrisford called for order again, as the Society’s members all tried to express an opinion at once.

The duchess rose, and those who had not already stopped talking fell silent to see what she thought. “If we can ensure propriety, ladies, such an auction would be just the thing to bring in donations from the younger gentlemen, who are far more likely to spend their funds on less helpful activities.”

That settled it, of course. Discussion turned to ways and means, and before the meeting was over, several more groups had been established, to cover the various aspects of three events: Venetian Breakfast, auction, and ball, all on the same day.

“We will need to enlist the ladies of the ton,” Mrs Berrisford said. “I suggest each of us talks to as many as possible; older ladies to the mothers, younger to the girls. The men, too, of course; but ladies first.”

“We can start at Lady Parkinson’s in two days’ time,” one of the other ladies proposed.

That seemed to be the end of the decision making, though many of the members lingered for another cup of tea and one of the delicious little cakes Monsieur Fornier supplied to the duchess for her meetings.

Matilda and Jessica, in their role as daughters of the house, moved from group to excited group, knowing Her Grace would wish to know what was being said in these more casual conversations.

Everyone was excited by the plans, and more than one person was hoping that the fog would lift so that Lady Parkinson’s soiree would proceed and they could begin their campaign.

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Tea with Lady Overton and Mrs Wakefield

 

The Duchess of Haverford was entertaining two younger women to afternoon tea, and so far, the afternoon was going as she planned. The children, who were having their own tea party at a small table further along the terrace, were getting on well. Frances and Antonia, both thirteen,  fussed happily over little Belle, treating her as an animated version of the dolls they had outgrown.

“Your other children would have been very welcome,” she said to the two mothers.

Becky Overton smiled. “The older girls are looking forward to having Overton to themselves, Aunt Eleanor. They love Belle, but she does rather demand the entire family’s adoring attention. Besides, I thought you might enjoy having her …” she trailed off, darting a glance at Prue Wakefield and then another at Antonia, Mrs Wakefield’s daughter.

Ah. She had noticed the girl’s eyes and her colouring. Eleanor had assumed that she would. No such biological markers identified Belle, though — under the circumstances — it was as well she favoured her mother. In this situation, though, it made things difficult. Eleanor wanted to accomplish her purpose for bringing the mothers and daughters together without breaching the confidence of either of them, but she could not immediately see how to do it.

“I have left the rest of my brood with my husband, too, Lady Overton.” Prue addressed her remark to Becky, “and I suspect my reasons were similar to your own.”

Becky’s slight flush indicated that she’d heard the last part of the sentence, but she addressed the first. “How many children do you have, Mrs Wakefield?”

For a few minutes, they traded the names and ages of children. Becky had three older daughters, and Prue a son and two daughters all younger than Antonia. Their eyes kept drifting to the tea party, and eventually, Becky asked, “Did you invite us both here for the same reason, Aunt Eleanor?”

The duchess hinted at the truth. “I think it important for Belle and Antonia to know one another, my dears.” She thought for a moment and added, “More than that, I cannot say.”

With two such intelligent women, it was enough.

Prue went first. She had always been a woman of great courage. “Antonia is my David’s daughter, Lady Overton, but she and I met him for the first time some seven years ago.”

Becky nodded acknowledgement. “Belle was born after my marriage and is my Hugh’s little treasure, Mrs Wakefield.” She took a deep breath and continued. She had never lacked for courage, either. “Her Grace is one of the few people who know that Hugh was not present for her conception.”

They turned to Eleanor, and Prue put their question into words. “They are half-sisters?” She read the answer in the duchess’s eyes. “Yes. You are correct. They should know one another.”

“May I ask, Your Grace,” Becky ventured, “is Frances also a sister?”

Eleanor shook her head. “An aunt, rather, as are my older wards.”

The relationships would not be mentioned again. Eleanor knew she did not have to discuss the necessity or even the decision; these ladies had been keeping secrets for many years, and would not risk any harm to their families. But as she watched them talk, joining in from time to time; as she enjoyed the chatter of the children at play; she gave thanks that, even if she could never recognise her granddaughters, she was at least blessed to know them and to love them.

 

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Tea with Cedrica and Sophia

Today’s post is an excerpt from To Wed a Proper Lady, the novel I’m creating from The Bluestocking and the Barbarian.

Several days after her arrival in London, Sophia followed the liveried footman through the ornate splendour of Haverford House paying little attention to the treasures around her. What could Her Grace mean by the cryptic comment in her note of invitation?

I have someone for you to meet and a job that I think you will enjoy.

The thought crossed her mind that her godmother might be match-making, but she dismissed it. Aunt Eleanor would never be so obvious. Still, when she was ushered into the duchess’s private sitting room, she was relieved to see that the room held only Aunt Eleanor and a younger woman – a soberly-dressed girl perhaps a year or two older than Felicity.

Something about the face, particularly the hazel eyes behind the heavy-framed spectacles, identified her as a Haverford connection. Another of the duke’s poor relations, then. Aunt Eleanor had made a calling of finding them, employing them, discovering their yearnings and talents, and settling them in a more fulfilling life.

“Sophia, my dear,” the duchess said, holding out both hands in welcome. Sophia curtseyed and then clasped her godmother’s hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

Her Grace immediately introduced the poor relation. “Sophia, allow me to make known to you my cousin Cedrica Grenford. Cedrica is staying with me for a while, and has been kind enough to help me with my correspondence and note taking.” The undoubtedly very distant cousin was the duchess’s secretary, in other words.

Cedrica served the tea, enquiring timidly about her preferences. She seemed overwhelmed by her surroundings. She addressed Sophia as ‘my lady’ in every other sentence, and had clearly been instructed to call the duchess Aunt Eleanor, for she tripped over every attempt to address her directly and ended up calling her nothing at all.

“Please,” Sophia told her, “call me Sophia as my friends do. Aunt Eleanor’s note suggests we shall be working together on whatever project she has in mind, and we will both be more comfortable if we are on first name terms.”

The duchess leaned forward and touched Cedrica’s hand. “May I tell Sophia some of your circumstances, my dear? It is pertinent to the idea I have.”

Cedrica nodded, and Her Grace explained, “Cedrica is the daughter of a country parson who has had little opportunity to set money aside for his old age. When he fell into infirmity, Cedrica wrote to ask for her cousin’s help, as was right and proper, and I was only too happy to have her here to be my companion, and to arrange for her dear father to be comfortably homed on one of our estates.”

Very much the short version of the story, Sophia suspected. Cedrica was blinking back tears.

The duchess continued, “As it turned out, Cedrica has a positive gift for organisation, and is extremely well read. She is proving to be an absolute genius at my secretarial work; so much so that Aldridge has threated to hire her from under my nose to assist with the work of the duchy.”

Cedrica protested, “He was only joking, Your Gr… Aunt… um. Who has heard of such a thing!”

“That brings me to my point, dear,” Aunt Eleanor said. “Cedrica is entirely self-educated, except for a few lessons at her mother’s knee before that dear lady passed beyond. Why, I ask you? Are women less capable of great learning than men? Cedrica is by no means an exception. You and I, Sophia, know a hundred women of our class, more, who study the arts and the sciences in private.”

Sophia nodded. She quite agreed. Part of Felicity’s restless discontent came from having little acceptable outlet for her considerable intelligence.

“I have done what I can in a small way to help my relatives,” the duchess went on. “Now, I want to do more. Sophia, Cedrica, I have in mind a fund to support schemes for the education of girls. Not just girls of our class, but any who have talents and interests beyond those assigned to them because of their sex and their place in life. Will you help me?”

In the discussion that followed, Cedrica forgot her awe at her exalted relation and that lady’s guest, and gave Sophia the opportunity to see the very gifts Aunt Eleanor spoke of. In a remarkably short time, the young woman had pages of lists — ideas for the types of project that might be sponsored; money raising ideas; names of people of who might support the fund; next steps.

“We are agreed, then,” the secretary said, at last, losing all self-consciousness in her enthusiasm. “The duchess will launch the fund at a Christmas house party and New Year Charity Ball to be held at one of her estates.” She glanced back at her notes. “Our first step will be to hold a meeting at a place to be decided, and invite the ladies whose names I’ve marked with a tick. The purpose of the meeting will be to form a committee to organise the event.”

She sat back with a beaming smile, clutching her papers to her chest.

“An excellent summation,” the duchess agreed. “My dears, we have work to do, but we have made a start; a very good start.”

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Tea with a gallant teenage rescuer

The Duchess of Haverford examined her two sons as they waited for her to pour them a cup of tea each. To an outsider, they would seem totally at ease — Aldridge relaxed on the sofa, an amused twist to his lips and his cynical eyes fond as he teased his brother about the horse the boy had bought on a jaunt into Somerset; Jon laughing as he defended his purchase, suggesting warmly that the marquis’s eye for a filly blinded him to the virtues of a colt.

To their fond Mama, they appeared worried. Eleanor saw strain around the younger man’s eyes, and quick darting glances at her and then at his brother when Jon thought she wasn’t watching. Aldridge had that almost imperceptible air of being ready to leap to Jon’s defence in an instant; a watchfulness, a vague tension.

Aldridge’s cup was prepared as he liked it, and he came to fetch it from her hands, thanking her with a smile.

She would let them raise the subject, if that was their plan, but she did not intend to let them leave this room without knowing about the new addition to her nursery: a nervous withdraw little girl of three or four years old. “If she was a bumptious little lordling and not a poor trembling mouse,” Nanny said, “she could be one of my lads come again. Same shaped face and eyes. Same colour hair with the curls that won’t brush out. Their lordships have your eyes, Your Grace, and this wee sprite doesn’t, but I’ll tell you who has eyes just that colour: so close to green as never so.” Not that Nanny did tell the duchess. She did not need to. Those eyes were more familiar to Eleanor than her own.

She handed a cup to the younger son of the man with those eyes.

The child came from Somerset. Jon had brought her home in his curricle, leaving his groom to ride Jon’s horse and manage the colt. On finding out about the little girl, and learning that Jon had deposited her in the nursery and then gone straight out to search town for his older brother, Eleanor had been tempted to question the groom.

However, she wanted Jon to tell her the story.  Or Aldridge, perhaps. It was more likely to be his story than Jon’s, given the age of the child. Jon was only 19. Furthermore, it was in Somerset that a certain outrageous scandal blew up five years ago, resulting in the exile of the sons of two dukes: Aldridge to a remote Haverford estate in northern Scotland, and his accomplice overseas.

Nanny didn’t think the little girl was old enough to be a souvenir of Aldridge’s visit to the Somerset town, but her size might be a result of neglect. She had been half-starved, poor little mite. The bruises might be from falls or other childhood accidents. Nanny suspected beatings, which made Eleanor feel ill to think about.

She sat back with her own cup, and took a sip. As if it were a signal, Jon gave Aldridge another of those darting glances and spoke.

“Mama, I expect you’ve heard about Frances.”

Ah. Good. She was to be told the story. “Is that her name, Jon? Nanny didn’t know it, and little Frances isn’t talking.”

Jon nodded, and smiled. There was a sweetness to the boy that the elder never had, perhaps because he was a ducal heir from the moment of his birth. “She is a little shy, Mama.” His smile vanished and he frowned. “She has been hardly used, and for no fault of her own. I could not leave her there, Mama. You must see that.”

Eleanor arched one brow, amusement colouring her voice as she answered. “If you tell me her story, my son, we will find out.”

It was much as Eleanor already suspected, though the villain in the piece was neither of her sons. Lord Jonathan Grenford, arriving in Fickleton Wells to inspect and pay for the offspring of a horse pairing that he coveted, found that the whole town, except for the owner of the horse, gave him a cold shoulder, and no one would tell him or his groom why.

Only on the last night of his stay did he hear the story. He came back to his hotel room to find a woman waiting for him. “A gentlewoman, Mama, but with a ring on her finger, and quite old — maybe 30. I thought… well, never mind that.”

Aldridge gave a snort of laughter, either at Jon’s perspective on the woman’s age or at his assumption about her purpose.

Jon ignored him. “Anyway, I soon realised I was wrong, for there on the bed was a little girl, fast asleep. The woman said she belonged to Haverford, and I could take her. I argued, Mama, but I could see for myself she was one of us, and that was the problem. The woman’s husband had accepted Frances when she was born, but as she grew she looked more and more like her father.”

“He resented being cuckolded, I suppose,” Eleanor said, “Men do, my sons, and I trust you will remember it.”

Both boys flushed, the younger one nodding, the older inclining his head in acknowledgement, the glitter in his eyes hinting he did not at all appreciate the gentle rebuke.

“He took his frustrations out on Mrs Meecham, which she surely didn’t deserve after all this time when I daresay he has sins of his own, and on little Frances too, which was entirely unfair. Mrs Meecham said that if Frances remained as a reminder, the Meechams could never repair their marriage, and that she feared one day he would go too far and seriously hurt or even kill the baby. So I brought her home. Can we keep her, Mama?”

Eleanor looked at Aldridge, considering.

“She is not mine, if that is what you are thinking, Mama,” her eldest son told her. “She might have been, I must admit, but she was born fifteen months after I was last in Fickleton Wells. I’d been in Scotland for six months when Mrs Meecham strayed outside of her pastures again.”

Six months after the scandal, His Grace the duke had travelled back to Somerset, to pay damages to the gentlemen of Fickleton Wells who claimed that their females had been debauched. He had greatly resented being made a message-boy, and had been angry with his son and the females he had shamed for their indiscretions and beyond furious at the cuckolded gentlemen of the town for imposing on his ducal magnificence with their indignation. The mystery of Frances’s patrimony was solved.

“She is so sweet, Mama, and has been through so much. She needs tenderness and love. Don’t tell me I must give her to foster parents or an orphan asylum. I know His Grace will not be pleased, but…”

Eleanor smiled. “The problem with Fickleton Wells, Jon, as I’m sure Aldridge is aware, is that it is a Royal estate. Wales was mightily annoyed at what he saw as an offence against his dignity. He insisted on Haverford making all right.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He clearly thought this presaged a refusal.

Aldridge was seven years more sophisticated and had been more devious from his cradle. His eyes lit again with that wicked glint of amusement. Eleanor nodded to him. “Yes, Aldridge, precisely.”

Aldridge put down his cup. “Wales is not best pleased with His Grace at the moment. A matter of a loss at cards.”

Eleanor and her elder son grinned at one another, and her younger son perked up, looking from one to the other.

“Should one be grieved by the loss of a fostering,” Eleanor mused, “and take one’s sorrows to, let us say, a Royal princess who might be depended on to scold her brother for the behaviour of one of his favourites…” Eleanor stopped at that. Jonathan did not need the entire picture painted for him. He gazed at her, his eyes wide with awe.

“His Grace will not dare make a fuss. If His Royal Highness finds out that the very man he sent to save him from the offended citizens left a cuckoo in the nest of an esteemed leader of the community…”

“Precisely,” Aldridge agreed. “Mama, you are brilliant, as always.”

The duchess stood, leaving her cup on the table, and both boys . “Let us, then, go up to the nursery, and make sure all is well with your new baby sister.”

***

The foster-daughters of the Duchess of Haverford appear as secondary characters in the Children of the Mountain King series. The eldest, Matilda, is also to be the heroine of an associated (as yet unnamed) novella that is coming out early next year. The Fickleton Wells story was co-written with Mariana Gabrielle, and Aldridge’s co-rogue is her hero Nick Northope, later the Duke of Wellbridge and the hero of Royal Regard.

Aldridge, once he is Duke of Haverford, and Wellbridge continue to be friends and appear in Never Kiss a Toad, a co-written novel starring Sally Grenford and David Northope. We’re publishing it on Wattpad, and will be finished soon. Then back to the drafting board to lose more than half the words.

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Tea with a bereaved aunt

When Mrs Watterson had asked for this meeting, she had seemed so nervous that the Duchess of Haverford had offered to meet her in the housekeeper’s sitting room, thinking the woman might be more at ease on her own ground. It had made no appreciable difference. The housekeeper sat bolt upright, not sipping from her cup, her knuckles white with tension, her voice strained as she tried to make conversation.

Mrs Watterson praised the baby, little Miss Matilda, reminding Eleanor that she would far rather be upstairs in the nursery than down here in the cluttered little room, where the furniture was overstuffed and the fire too hot.

Eleanor was discovering the joys of mothering a baby, and would have spent the whole day in the nursery with her little ward, had her duties allowed. The duchess was a mother twice over, but both the ducal heir and the spare had been taken from her at birth, handed over to a retinue of servants, and thereafter presented for a ceremonious inspection for a few minutes a day whenever she and they happened to be in the same residence.

When Aldridge was born, she had been so oppressed by her marriage and the expectations that crushed her, she had accepted the duke’s dictate: that aristocratic women had little to do with the children they produced for the well being of the title. By the time Jonathan arrived, she had recovered some of her confidence, but the pregnancy and birth, coming after years of miscarriages, left her frail both emotionally and physically, and her little boy had been nine months old when she wrested control of the nursery from the despot who had ruled there since Haverford appointed her in the early days of their marriage.

The woman had been gone for more than five years, and sweet little Matilda was in the care of her replacement: a woman chosen by Eleanor, with testimonials from people Eleanor trusted, and completely devoid of the physical attributes that were the only qualifications of interest to the duke when he interviewed a female for any position.

An apology dragged Eleanor’s attention back to the conversation. Mrs Watterson had finally begun to approach the matter that had her so anxious. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace,” she said, “but is it true that Miss Matilda… that her mother…?”

Seeing Eleanor’s raised brows, she rushed on. “I don’t ask out of idle curiosity, ma’am. It is just that…”

All suddenly became clear. Eleanor sighed. “One of the  maids? Or a villager’s child?”

Much of the tension rushed out of Mrs Watterson, expelled in a huff of air. “My niece, Your Grace. I would not have said anything, but…” Tears began to roll down the pale cheeks.

Eleanor patted her hand. “I shall help, of course. A pension. A place to live in a village where she isn’t known.”

Mrs Watterson shook her head, the tears increasing in volume. Eleanor suppressed a sigh for her lost afternoon with Matilda, and devoted her energies to soothing the housekeeper and eliciting the rest of the story.

It was a sad one, but one she had heard before during nearly fifteen years of marriage to the Duke of Haverford. Jessie, the orphaned daughter of Mrs Waterson’s only sister, worked for a neighbouring household. “I would not have her in this house, Your Grace, saving your pardon,” the housekeeper said. It did not save the girl. She was returning from an errand to the village when a gentleman (Mrs Watterson began ‘His Gr…’ then changed the word) overtook her on the road. He saw that she was young and pretty, and led her off into the woods on the side of the road. Having exercised what he regarded as his rights, he rode on his way.

Jessie told no one until six months later, when one of the maids with whom she shared a room noticed the swelling she had managed, until then, to conceal. Of course, she was dismissed, but her aunt found her lodgings in the village, and paid for her keep and the services of the midwife. “It was a hard birth, Your Grace,” Mrs Watterson explained. “Little Jessica survived, but my niece did not. I’m the only kin she has, poor little baby, and what is to become of her?”

Haverford had only just noticed Matilda, and had not been pleased. Eleanor had managed to threaten him in a way that did not cause his unstable temper to explode. Another of his by-blows in his nursery might be a straw too far, and when Haverford was angry, he cared nothing for consequences.

On the other hand, Matilda would benefit from growing up with another little girl of much the same age. The seven year age gap between Aldridge and Jonathan meant they both lacked companionship, except for that of their servants.

Eleanor temporised. “Where is the baby now, Mrs Watterson?”

“The midwife knew a woman who could feed her, Your Grace, having recently lost her own youngest. Mrs Fuller. It was the best I could do, ma’am, but I don’t want to leave her there.”

Eleanor didn’t blame her. Cold, neglect, and disease carried off Mrs Fuller’s children with alarming frequency. She was one of those woman that every village seems to produce — almost certainly not entitled to the honourable honorific, making a living for herself and her surviving offspring by serving drinks and food in the local tavern, and other more intimate services wherever a man with a coin might care to take her. Eleanor had tried to help the female into an honourable job, but whether she was too beaten down by life or just preferred earning her living on her back, the experiment had not worked out.

Eleanor stood. “Very well, Mrs Watterson. We shall visit Mrs Fuller and meet little Jessica. Then we shall see.”

She had, of course, already made up her mind. No need to tell His Grace this was another of his unwanted children. This time, she would not even wait until he noticed. She would simply announce that she had taken in another orphan to keep Matilda company. She would not discuss the child’s origins. As long as he did not feel she was censuring his behaviour, he probably wouldn’t care.

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Tea with Angel Kelly

Tolly advised against the meeting. He would deal with Miss Kelly’s problem. He quite agreed with Her Grace that Haverford ought to do something to assist the opera dancer, given he was the immediate cause of the  young female losing her job and needing to spend all her savings. Haverford would not, so it was for Tolly and Her Grace to intervene, as they had before. Her Grace should not speak to such persons herself, however. Tolly was quite firm on the subject, which Eleanor found sad, since his mother had been another such person.

Eleanor had insisted, so here was Miss Kelly, sitting in one of the smaller parlours at Haverford House, a delicate tea cup cradled in both hands.

She was exceptionally pretty; slender, with a heart-shaped face framed by dark curly hair, and blue eyes that were currently wide with wonder as she looked around the parlour.

The duchess allowed her a few minutes, until she overcame her curiosity and remembered her manners. “I beg yer pardon, Your Grace. It’s rude, it is, to be staring at yer things like this. I can’t be telling ye how grateful I am that ye agreed to see me.”

“I must also admit to curiosity, Miss Kelly,” Eleanor replied. “The gentleman who brought you here advised against my seeing you, but I ignored him.”

The question, ‘and why was that?’ sparked in Miss Kelly’s expressive eyes, but she simply repeated, “I am grateful.”

Eleanor leaned forward to examine the unfortunate consequence of Miss Kelly’s association with the Duke of Haverford, currently asleep in a basket at Miss Kelly’s feet. The little girl was well wrapped against the cold, but the tiny face was adorable. Dark wisps of curl had escaped from the knitted bonnet, and a tiny hand clutched the blanket, pink dimples at the base of each chubby finger.

“My friend tells me that you seek a home for the baby,” Eleanor commented.

Miss Kelly heard the question. “I cannot be taking her home, you see. I have a chance… There’s a man. He wanted to wed me when my Ma and Pa died, but I had my head full o’ dreams. He went home without me, but he’ll take me yet. He knows how it is for girls like me. He’ll not blame me for not being a maid, but — Patrick is a proud man, Your Grace. He’ll not raise another man’s babe. Or if he does, he’ll make it no life for her, and we’d finish up hating one another and the poor wee girleen.”

Eleanor could see the point. “So you will leave her behind.”

Miss Kelly must have assumed a criticism in that. “I’d keep her if I could, Your Grace, but here in London? How can a girl like me earn enough to support her and keep her with me? I want a good home for her; somewhere safe where she can grow up to better than her Ma. Then what happens to me don’t matter, so I might as well take Patrick as not. Better than another protector. Leastwise, if I get another baby in my belly, I’ll have a man to stand by me.”

As Haverford had not. He had turned his pregnant mistress out of the house in which he’d installed her, with a few pounds to ‘get rid of the brat’. Miss Kelly did not have to tell Eleanor that part of the story. She knew it well enough from past liaisons. Tolly proposed to find a childless couple who wanted a daughter to love.

At that moment, the baby opened her eyes, looked around with apparent interest, then fixed her gaze on Eleanor, or — more probably — on the diamonds sparkling in Eleanor’s ear bobs. The little treasure smiled, and reached up her arms, babbling an incomprehensible phrase.

Eleanor was on her knees beside the basket, reaching for the dear child before she thought to look up and ask permission. “May I?”

When she called for her secretary, thirty minutes later, little Matilda was still in Eleanor’s arms. “Ah. Clara. This is Miss Kelly. She will be staying in the nursery for the next few days. I need you to hire me a wet nurse and a nanny to look after Matilda after Miss Kelly leaves. I also want to purchase a smallholding in — Kinvara, was it not? It shall be your dowry, Miss Kelly.”

It was nearly five months before the Duke of Haverford discovered that the nursery, recently vacated by his younger son Jonathan, was once again occupied. He was moved to challenge his wife on her presumption, but her only response was tell him the child’s full name — Matilda Angelica Kelly Grenford — and to add that the scandal of her presence was long past, but the scandal of her removal would be ongoing. As his duchess and a leading figure in Society, the woman had the power to make the outrageous threat stick. He dealt with the impertinence in his usual fashion. He left, and never mentioned the little girl’s existence again.

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Tea with a black widow

The widow was not one of Her Grace’s usual circle. She was too young to be one of the grand ladies with whom the duchess had ruled Society for more than thirty years, and too old to be one of their daughters.

That was not the real reason Eleanor barely knew her, of course, as Eleanor admitted to herself. The real reason was that Eleanor liked cats only when they had whiskers and four paws. Lady Ashurst was a cat of the human kind; one for whom the less influential members of Society were mice to hunt and torment.

If an innocent action could be given a vicious interpretation, Lady Ashurst would find it and the sycophants who clustered around her would spread it. And woe betide the person, lady or gentleman, who made a misstep in negotiating the silly rules that governed the lives of the ton. It would be magnified a thousand fold if Eleanor and her own allies were not in time to mitigate the damage.

She sat in Eleanor’s formal drawing room, a striking beauty still, though she was in her mid-thirties. She should look colourless in her light blue walking dress and white spencer, with white-blonde hair drawn into fashionable ringlets that did not dare to do anything so indecorous as bounce, delicately darkened brows arching over ice-blue eyes. Instead, in the sumptuous splendour of the room, she drew the eye, like a diamond centre-piece of a barbaric collar of gold and gems.

“How kind of you to invite me, Your Grace,” she purred. “I have long wished to be better acquainted. I admire you so much, and feel for you in your current circumstances. My husband, too…”  She trailed off.

Eleanor smiled, a baring of teeth containing little amusement. If this upstart thought the Duchess of Haverford was going to be manipulated to play her game of insinuation and scandal, she could think again.

“You were invited for one reason only, Lady Ashurst. I understand you are taking some interest in Lady Ruth Winderfield, the daughter of the Duke of Winshire.”

Lady Ashurst dropped her lashes to veil her eyes. “You take an interest in the matter, of course. The feud between Winshire and Haverford is well known to me, Your Grace.”

Eleanor allowed none of her disgust to show. “Your interest, of course, is your brother-in-law, whose name you have chosen to couple with that of Lady Ruth.”

The woman looked up, a flash of spite in her eyes. “They connected their own names, Your Grace, when she stayed with him, unchaperoned.”

Eleanor could argue that Ruth had her companion with her, as well as a bevy of armed retainers, a maid, and six children; that she was taking refuge during a typhus epidemic; that she was providing medical care for several of her party. But Lady Ashurst was not interested in facts, but in fixing her claws into the weak. This time, she had chosen the wrong targets.

Eleanor showed her own claws. “I would take it amiss, Lady Ashurst, if these rumours continue to circulate. Very amiss.”

An expression at last. Alarm, quickly concealed. Lady Ashurst’s tinkling laugh was unamused. “You jest, duchess. Haverford hates the chit’s father.”

Eleanor raised a brow. “I have not invited you to address me as an intimate, young woman. Nor will I.”

Colour flooded Lady Ashurst’s face. “Your Grace. My apologies, Your Grace.”

“You have miscalculated, Lady Ashurst. His Grace of Haverford cannot abide scandal-mongering women. In addition, I am dearest friends with Lady Ruth’s aunt. I must thank you, however, for drawing my attention to the Earl of Ashurst. I had not noticed his absence from society since his brother’s death. I intend to amend that oversight. Your brother-in-law shall be presented to the Regent under my sponsorship and that of His Grace, the Duke of Haverford. I suggest you make yourself least in sight for the remainder of the little season. A sojourn in the country might be good for your health, Lady Ashurst.”

Lady Ashurst sat, as pale as her spencer, her mouth open.

Her Grace stood and pulled the bell chain. “My footman shall show you out,” she said.