Monday for Tea

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Tea with Rilla

The scandalous Miss Fernhill was a delightful young lady. Initially, when the duchess’s daughter-in-law and her sister had brought Miss Fernhill into Eleanor’s pleasant parlour, she had been clearly nervous and very formal. But she quickly relaxed as her future sisters-in-law chatted cheerfully with Eleanor, being careful to include her in the conversation.

Last time Sophie and Felicity had been here together, they had been very worried about their brother, the Earl of Hythe. He had a list of what he required in a wife, and his sisters worried that he had not made any allowance for love. “Besides, Aunt Eleanor,” Felicity had said, “a woman who matches every item on the list will never loosen dear Hythe up. He needs someone to make him laugh, someone to tease him a little, someone fun.”

Amaryllis Fernhill might not have checked off every item on Hythe’s list, but his sisters clearly thought she was just perfect. Even if she had jilted her previous groom at the altar and disappeared for three years. Hythe had ignored these facts; definite evidence he was making a love match. And Miss Fernhill, or Rilla, as Hythe’s sisters called her, was totally besotted with Hythe, as was evident in the way her eyes shone whenever she mentioned him, which was often.

Eleanor smiled to herself. A love match. If one wanted to guide Society’s opinion in favour of a couple, a love match was a very good place to start.

The Abduction of Amaryllis Fernhill is one of the stories in Chasing the Tale: Volume II, to be published next month. Hythe and Rilla meet and fall in love over a chessboard in The Husband Gamble, in The Wedding Wager, now on KU.

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Tea with Nia and Tony

The Duchess of Haverford adored all her grandchildren, acknowledged and secret, official and unofficial, those descended from her and those born to her wards, her step-children and others she regarded as her own, though not by blood.

Nia and Tony Wakefield were special, and she was thrilled to have them to herself for the afternoon. With one year between them in age, they had become close since Tony was added to the Wakefield family. Between them, they took care of all the younger ones, sometimes leading them into mischief but always protecting them from danger.

They bickered like brother and sister, too. They were currently arguing about who should have the last strawberry tart, each topping the other with claims about their worthiness for the privilege.

“I read five stories to the littlies last night at bedtime,” Nia said.

Tony scoffed. “Which you thoroughly enjoyed. I took William to the chamber pot ten times this morning.”

Of course, every single child was special in his or her own way. But Antonia Wakefield, who had been born Antonia Virtue, was the first child of her elder son, her darling Anthony. Or at least the first she knew about. Long after Eleanor’s wild boy had lost sight of the lover who refused to be his mistress, Eleanor kept an eye on her and her daughter, offering the mother work to help her keep her pride and independence while making ends meet.

Then Nia’s mother Prue married David Wakefield, base-born half brother to Eleanor’s two sons, and one of her favourite protégés. At long last, Eleanor could claim a grandmother’s role in the dear child’s life.

Tony was the first child of her younger son, whose marriage had taken him to the other side of Europe, where he was raising a large family in a tiny grand duchy that his wife ruled. Tony was not only special in his own right. He was the sole representative in England of the offspring of her beloved Jonathan.

“There is a solution, my dears,” she told the pair. “I could send for more strawberry tarts.”

They looked at one another and laughed. “An efficient suggestion, Aunt Eleanor,” Tony agreed. He winked. “If slightly less fun.”

He had a thread of the wicked, had Tony. He had been raised in a country village until his mother died, but he had come to London to find his father with little information to identify the man, and had spent several years on the street until Anthony’s wife found him in a maths class she was teaching in a ragged school.

Recognising that he was the image of his uncle in a portrait of Anthony at the same age, she had made sure to introduce them, and before long Tony had his choice of families: Anthony, his Uncle Haverford; Jonathan, his father; David Wakefield and his wife Prue, mother to Mia.

Tony chose the Wakefields, explaining that he knew nothing about being a prince’s son or a duke’s, but David and Prue were enquiry agents, and he figured that was something he could grow up to do.

“If it is not too much trouble, Your Grace, more strawberry tarts would be delightful,” said Nia, who was sometimes rather too proper for a girl of fourteen. Prue said that Tony was good for her, teasing her into mischief or temper, depending on the occasion.

“For you, my darlings,” Eleanor said, “nothing is too much trouble.”

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Tea with the real Lord Snowden

After their meeting, her husband James escorted Lord Snowden to the Duchess of Winshire’s private sitting room. She already had a pot of coffee sitting on the table before her, having discovered at his last visit that he preferred the beverage. She had also arranged The Teatime Tattler right where he would see it, open to the page that mentioned the excitement at a ball last night. The one where Lord Hungerford-Fox made nasty allegations about Lady Charmain, and Lord Snowden proposed. Although Rosemary, who had been present, said that it was not quite a proposal.

It would need to be, and Eleanor Winshire planned to tell the young man that, if he did not already know it.

“Black, was it not?” she asked him, as he took the seat she offered him, and fixed his gaze on the gossip rag.

“You have seen the article, then.” He took the cup from her hands.

“And, I surmise, so have you, Lord Snowden.” She would give him the opportunity to make up his own mind, having promised her son not to organise other people’s lives for them unless they sought her help. Though it was hard to resist. “My step-daughter tells me that the Tattler exaggerates. You spoke of possibilities. It was not a proposal.”

“That is true, Your Grace, but will not, I think, make difference to Society. May I speak frankly?”

Eleanor inclined her head. “I wish you would.”

“I can think of no greater felicity than to have Marg– Lady Charmain as my wife, but until my cousin is in custody, I fear wedding her will make her a target for his murderous intentions.”

“I see your difficulty,” the duchess said, “but you can surely make certain that Lady Charmain is well guarded from a physical attack.”

Lord Snowden nodded. “I take your meaning. The attacks on her reputation and her character will be far harder to counter if we do not, in fact, become betrothed.”

“Married, I think,” Eleanor said, forgetting her resolution not to interfere. “If you do not marry soon, people will say that you have no intention of doing so; that you are just pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes.”

The young man nodded. “Yes, I think so, too. But I wondered if I was just letting my own wishes guide my thinking. It will be over to Margaret, of course. I will tell her that I want to be married in truth, but she may refuse me.”

The duchess smiled. He really was an estimable young man, even if he was raised in a brothel. That rumour was out in Society, too, but people couldn’t quite believe it, since his manners and dress were just as they should be, and James had made it know that he was a friend and protege of the Duke and Duchess of Winshire and their family. Eleanor, too, had laughed at the rumour when it was repeated to her. “A brothel, my dear? Does he look it?” she had said, and the conversation had moved on to something else.

Lord Snowden had another question. “Should I get a special license, Your Grace? And do you know how one goes about that?”

“An ordinary license will be enough,” Eleanor told him. “You apply to the bishop of your diocese. You will be able to marry without posting the banns. Once you apply, you must wait for seven days, but that is to the good. You are not in desperate haste. But you also do not intend to share your private affairs with the public, by posting the banns. Indeed, most people who can afford it use an ordinary license. It is unexceptional.” She smiled at the young man. “In this case, unexceptional is a good thing.”

***

This is a scene that doesn’t appear in Snowy and the Seven Doves, the third book in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. I finished the meeting with the duke saying that Eleanor wants a word, then go straight to Margaret, who receives a message from Snowy asking if he can come around. Snowy and the Seven Doves went to the publisher today.

 

 

 

 

 

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Tea with an apologetic duchess

The following excerpt is from a Christmas special I wrote about the mend in the breach between Haverford and his mother. It was a made-for-newsletter-subscribers story called Christmas at Hollystone Hall (password is in two-monthly newsletter). Another version of the same scene is told from Eleanor’s perspective in Paradise Triptych.

It was the day before Christmas, and the incessant rain had let up long enough for an expedition to bring in the greenery for decorating, and the windfallen log that had been marked as a Yule log for the massive fireplace in the great hall.

Four wagons set out for the woods, each driven by one of the party’s gentlemen, with the littlest children riding in the tray watched by various of the older sisters and mothers, and everyone else tramping along beside.

Haverford drove one of those conveyances known as a break, inviting anyone who did not want to walk or sit on the floor of the wagons to take their place in one of the long benches behind him, but found himself travelling alone.  No matter. The wagons would be full on the return trip, and the break would come in handy for the little ones.

Groundsmen, grooms, and footmen trailed the party, ready to lend a hand with the heavier hauling, but—for the most part—the family planned to collect their own raw materials for the garlands and other decorations they planned.

The woods were beyond the water gardens and up a small rise. Each wagon took a different turn from the main track, and Haverford carried on to the central clearing, where servants had started a fire and set up blankets and cushions for those who needed a rest from their excursions. Maids were already unpacking refreshments, and footmen hurried to the back of the break to offload the steaming kettles of hot chocolate, coffee and two different kinds of punch, with and without alcohol.

Haverford left them setting the kettles near the fire to stay warm and followed the sound of voices to join in the fun. Before he reached the main crowd, however, he encountered his mother, lifting Nate’s sister, little Lavinia, up into a tree to reach for a pine cone, while one of Lechton’s daughters, Millicent, held onto Mama’s gown and watched.

“Do you need help, Lavie?” Haverford asked.

Mama started. “Haverford! I didn’t see you there. The little girls wanted to help, and I remembered that last year some of the trees along here had pine cones under them, but the only ones I can see are still on the branches.”

“There are some further along, the way I came,” Haverford told her. He reached up and took Lavie’s hand, guiding her to push the cone up so that it detached from the branch. It evaded her snatch at it and plummeted into the undergrowth, and Millicent let go of Mama and dived in after it, emerging triumphant with it in her hand.

Mama lowered Lavie to the ground, saying, “The two of you make a good team.” She darted a glance at Haverford. “Perhaps I should take them back to the others.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Cherry was right. He had to fix this, or at least try.

“They know the little girls are safe with you,” he said. “Bring them this way, Mama, and they will be able to fill their basket with cones to paint.”

Lavie sealed Mama’s fate by slipping her hand into Haverford’s. He would have taken Millicent’s hand, too, except she was shy of him. Besides, that would leave Mama carrying the basket, which was hardly gentlemanly. He picked it up and led the way to a small cluster of fir trees of different kinds, with cones scattered on the nearly clear ground beneath.

Mama would have helped the little girls who were scurrying to and fro, picking up all the cones they could find, but Haverford said, “Mama. A word, if I may.”

She stopped, and the anxiety in her eyes had him hiding a wince as he added, “Would you meet with me in private when we get back to the house? I think we need to talk.”

She inclined her head, her social mask firmly in place and her eyes opaque. He had learned the skill from her—to hide his feelings behind a bland and unreadable exterior, but neither of them treated family to that distancing. Given the situation between them, he had no right to feel bereaved at her shutting him out.

Cherry would remind him that his armour was most impenetrable when he felt most threatened. Doubtless, Mama was the same. “Nothing too terrible, Mama. Even if I had stopped loving you, which I haven’t, I wouldn’t want to upset Cherry.”

She gave him the ghost of a smile. “The pair of you are good together,” she acknowledged, then turned her attention to Lavie, who had dropped her side of the basket so that all the cones the little girls had picked spilled onto the ground.

Haverford crouched to help pick them up, while Mama soothed the wailing child.

The afternoon had been set aside to create and put up the decorations. The foliage and other items they had collected was spread out on tables in the ballroom, where it would be formed into garlands, wreaths, and kissing balls decorated with ribbons and paper chains and flowers that the ladies had unearthed from previous Christmases or made from their own supplies.

Mama was seated with a flock of girls, watching them dip pine cones into paint and set them to dry. Haverford beckoned to her, and she murmured a word or two to Jessica, who was helping her and the girls.

He took her to the library, to a chair near the desk he’d taken over for the work that followed him everywhere. He was neglecting it today, but it wasn’t going to go away. He’d get back to it after Christmas.

As he settled in his own chair, and before he could pour her tea from the waiting tray and start his prepared speech, Mama spoke. “Haverford, I have apologised for interfering between you and Cherry, but I would like to do so again. I have known all along that I was wrong to go privately to Cherry as I did. You are adults, and I should have said what I thought to both of you and trusted you to make your own decision. I am truly sorry for the distress I caused you.”

Haverford opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Mama put up a hand to stop him. “I have a second apology to make, Haverford. Watching you and Cherry together in the past week shows me that I was wrong again—wrong to believe that your love for Cherry was less deep than hers for you. Wrong to think that you would fall out of love once you had achieved your prize. All I ever wanted was for both of you to be happy. You are perfect for one another, and I shudder to think how close I came to preventing that happiness.”

Mama had rendered him speechless, taking all the best lines from what he had been about to say to her. All he had left to say was, “Thank you, Mama.”

“I will never interfere again,” Mama promised, then, with a slight frown, “or, at least, I will try my very best.”

Haverford smiled at the thought of his managing mother keeping her fingers out of any situation she thought she could improve. “I shall not ask such a sacrifice, Mama. Both Cherry and her mother have pointed out what a marvellous gift you have for interfering, as you call it. All I ask is that you consult us first on any plans you have that involve us and don’t proceed without our agreement.”

Mama had tears in her eyes. “I can promise that,” she agreed.

Cherry had been right to push him to reconcile. All his irritation had melted away. “Tea, Mama?” he asked.

They enjoyed a peaceful cup of tea, and the kind of conversation he had so enjoyed in the past, ranging far and wide on topics as diverse as family, the corn tax, and the Luddites.

“Come on, Mama,” he said, when her cup was empty, “We have a house to decorate.”

He offered her his hand to help her rise, and his elbow to escort her back to the ballroom, just in time to see a footman moving a ladder away from the arched doorway. A kissing ball hung in the middle of the arch. Cherry stood looking up at it, and she glanced their way and smiled to see them together.

Haverford put his arm around his mother, reached up for a mistletoe berry, and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I love you, Mama,” he told her. “Merry Christmas.”

She patted the side of his face, the tears welling again. “It will be,” she agreed. “I love you, Haver… I wonder, would it be a great impertinence of me to call you Anthony, as Cherry does?”

“I would like that, very much,” Haverford assured her, blinking back a little moisture of his own. The candles must be smoking.

She patted his cheek again, then reached out to Cherry, who was beaming at them. “Here, Anthony. You would be better off kissing your wife than your old mother.”

Haverford thought both was better still, but he was certainly glad to follow up his peace-making kiss to his mother with one of gratitude and jubilation shared with Cherry. He drew her into his arms, and sank into one of their soul-moving kisses, while around them the family stopped what they were doing to applaud, laugh, cheer or jest, according to their natures.

It was, indeed, going to be a very Merry Christmas.

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Tea with Lady Ransome

The young Lady Ransome would do very well indeed, Eleanor thought. She had taken a social liability–the terrible burn scars from the fire that had nearly taken her life when she was a child–and turned it into an intriguing asset.

The half mask that covered one side of her face from the mouth up could have been merely a reminder that, under it, she was disfigured. Indeed, if Eleanor’s information was correct, she had until recently worn plain white masks that had precisely that effect.

However, she had taken to matching her masks to her gowns, with startling effect. Painted in matching or complementary colours and trimmed with ribbons, jewels, and lace, her masked no longer looked like one side of a skull. Instead, they were glamorous accessories that drew attention, not so much to the mask, as to the lady herself. The side of her face that showed was not traditionally pretty, but it was beautiful. Full of character and charm. Her figure was more lush than currently fashionable, but fashion was foolish at best. Her generous curves, audaciously enhanced the gowns she wore, suited her and clearly pleased her husband, if one could judge from his stern eye on the gentlemen who now flocked to compliment her.

She also had excellent manners, neither too forward nor too reserved. During their half hour visit, their conversation had been wide ranging, and she had shown herself well able to hold her own in the group of young ladies Eleanor had gathered to meet her.

“Another cup, Lady Ransome?” Eleanor asked.

“No thank you, your grace,” the younger woman replied. “It has been very pleasant, but it is time for me to take my leave. Thank you so much for inviting me here today.” She cast a smile around the group, who chorused their farewells.

“I am leaving, too, Aunt Eleanor,” said Sarah, Lady Lechton, one of Eleanor’s goddaughters and niece to Eleanor’s husband. “I shall walk you out, Lady Ransome, and ask you a million questions about this salve you mentioned. I am certain my husband shall be interested.”

Eleanor was delighted. Lady Ransome needed friends in Society, and Sarah had the contacts to make sure she found them.

***

In Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, which will be out early next year, I have a scene in which Eleanor, now the Duchess of Winshire, throws her social weight behind my heroine, Arial, Viscountess Ransome. I imagine the following scene from that story came before the afternoon tea I envisage above.

Then the Duchess of Winshire, one of society’s most influential matrons, cast the weight of her reputation on their side. She had one of her stepsons escort her to the Ransomes’ theatre box, where she reminded Peter that she had known his mother. She further claimed to have kissed Arial when she was a baby. She took a seat next to Arial, in full view of the rest of the theatre, chatting for several minutes. When she stood to leave, she said, “You are doing the right thing, my dear Lady Ransome. Facing down these ridiculous calumnies is your best option. It is unpleasant, I know, and takes courage, but I and my friends have seen that you have plenty of courage and are of good character, besides.”

She held out her hand to Peter. “You have found yourself a treasure, Lord Ransome. Young ladies who are beautiful on the outside are common enough in Society. Young ladies who are brave, wise, and honorable are much rarer—and my friend Cordelia Deerhaven assures me your wife is all three.”

Peter bowed and mimed a kiss above the back of the duchess’s hand. “I am fully sensible of how fortunate I am, Your Grace. My wife is a delight to my eyes as well as a true friend and partner.”

“Good answer,” the duchess replied. “Come along, Drew. Your father will wonder what is keeping us.”

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Tea with an assassin (retired)

Mrs Moriarty, Prue Wakefield’s guest, was not Irish, as her name suggested. Mediterranean, if Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire,  had to make a guess. Perhaps Greek, with that classical nose and heavy eyebrows.

They had enjoyed a cup of tea each and some of Fournier’s lovely little cakes, but Eleanor still did not know why Prudence had asked for the meeting, though the conversation had been pleasant. Mrs Moriarty was not only a beautiful woman, but a very intelligent one, able to hold her own in a wide-ranging conversation.

She also had the same alert way of moving through her surroundings that Eleanor had seen before, in those who worked in the shadows. It came as no surprise when Prue said, “Mrs Moriarty’s husband was one of Lord Ruthford’s exploratory officers, and Mrs Moriarty also worked with him from time to time.”

“I was an assassin,” Mrs Moriarty said, the words all the more startling in her soft voice. Perfect English diction. She had learned the language well, and probably as a child. “Was. I do not like taking life, your grace,” she added.

Eleanor was seldom lost for words, but what did one say to such a statement? I am so glad? That is nice, dear?

“Lord Ruthford and the Moriartys have set up a new agency. Mrs Moriarty will head it, as the gentlemen are both occupied, Ruthford as an earl and Moriarty as a Senior Supervisor with the Thames River Police.”

This, Eleanor assumed, was the business end of the meeting. “Does the agency need something from me?” she asked. “I will need to know its purpose.”

Mrs Moriarty gave a pleased nod. “Prue told me that your grace is an unusual woman. You are correct. Moriarty Protection would like your endorsement. We seek to offer, as the name implies, discreet guard services for those in need of protection. Our guards will be experts in all kinds of weapons and in unarmed combat, and will have the highest level of screening to ensure they cannot be bought. Our women guards, as well as the men. They will be well enough spoken and educated to join a household in any guise, as servants, guests, friends, even family members.”

“Women guards?” Eleanor asked, intrigued by that one fact. She could see the benefit! “Unexpected, and able to follow a woman they are protecting into places a man cannot go,” she said.

That fetched another approving nod from Mrs Moriarty. “Precisely,” she said.

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Tea with Kitty

“It is always lovely to see you, Kitty dear,” said the Duchess of Haverford as she sipped her tea, “but I did not realise that you had come to town with Chirbury and your sister.” It was more of an opening than a statement. Kitty’s sister Anne, another of her goddaughters and wife to her nephew, the Earl of Chirbury, had visited just two days ago, to see whether Kitty had come to the duchess for help. “She has taken flight with our gamekeeper and his son, Aunt Eleanor, after hearing two people plot to kill him. We hoped she might come to you.”

Well, here she was. It remained to be seen what for.

“I did not, Aunt Eleanor. Indeed, I came to London hoping to find them, but they have already left for Longford Court.”

Eleanor inclined her head.

“I need your help, Aunt Eleanor. Or, rather, Lucas Mogg needs your help. You remember him? He  helped to save Dan last year from the man who wanted to take him.”

Yes, Eleanor well remembered the attempt on the son of young Jules’ Redepenning, and Mr Mogg’s role in it. “A good man,” she agreed. “A pity he is not of your class, my dear, for I know you have a tendre for him.” Although Eleanor supposed it was too late for such considerations, if they had been travelling together. She hoped they had not been travelling together.

“We have been travelling together,” said Kitty.

***

In The Flavour of Our Deeds, which I am currently writing, Kitty and Luke, with Luke’s son Paul, are on their way to London, having failed to find Kitty’s sister Anne and her husband at their Essex estate. Once in London, they will seek help from the Duchess of Haverford and her son Aldridge.

 

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Tea with a worried mother

This excerpt is from Revealed in Mist.

Prue hesitated in the street outside her next destination. Callers needed to present their card at the gate, be escorted to the front door and delivered to the butler, then wait to be announced. On most days of the week, uninvited guests below a certain rank in society would have difficulty making it past the first obstacle, but on Thursday afternoons, the Duchess of Haverford was ‘at home’ to petitioners.

Past encounters had always been initiated by Her Grace. A scented note would arrive by footman, and Prue would obey the summons and receive the duchess’s commission. Though she was always gracious, never, by word or deed, had Her Grace indicated that she and Prue had any closer relationship than employer and agent.

The entrance and public rooms of Haverford House were designed to impress lesser mortals with the greatness of the family—and their own lesser status. Prue was ushered to a room just off the lofty entrance hall. Small by Haverford standards, this waiting area nonetheless dwarfed the people waiting to see the duchess.

Two women, one middle-aged and the other a copy some twenty years younger, nervously perched on two of the ladder-backed chairs lining one wall. Next to them, but several chairs along, a lean young man with an anxious frown pretended to read some papers, shuffling them frequently, peering over the tops of his spectacles at the door to the next room. Two men strolled slowly along the wall, examining the large paintings and conversing in low whispers. A lone woman walked back and forth before the small window, hushing the baby fretting on her shoulder.

Prue took a seat and prepared for a wait. She would not tremble. She had nothing to fear. Both Tolliver and David said so, and Aldridge, too. But how she wished the waiting was over.

It seemed a long time but was only a few minutes, before a servant hurried in and approached her.

“Miss Virtue? Her Grace will see you now.”

Prue gave the other occupants an apologetic nod and followed the servant.

The duchess received her in a pretty parlour, somehow cosy despite its grand scale. Prue curtseyed to her and the woman with her. Were all petitioners waved to a seat on an elegant sofa facing Her Grace? Addressed as ‘my dear’? Asked if they should care for a cup of tea?

“Miss Virtue takes her tea black, with a slice of lemon,” the duchess told her companion. Or was the woman her secretary?

“Miss Virtue, my companion, Miss Grant. Miss Grant, Miss Virtue has been of great service to me and to those I love. I am always at home to her.”

Was Miss Grant one of the army of relatives for whom Her Grace had found employment, or perhaps one of the dozens of noble godchildren she sponsored? The young woman did not have the look of either Aldridge or his brother, nor of their parents. Prue murmured a greeting.

“I was not expecting you, Miss Virtue, was I? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Your Grace. I just… I have some questions, Ma’am.”

“You should have sent a note, my dear. I will always take time to see you. I was happy to give a good report of you to my friend Lady Georgiana, of course.” As she spoke, the duchess took the tea cup from Miss Grant and passed it to her.

“Your Grace, I would like to speak with you alone, if I may. I beg your pardon, Miss Grant. I do not mean to be discourteous.”

The duchess stopped her own cup partway to her lips and put it carefully back into the saucer, examining Prue’s face carefully.

When she spoke, it was to Miss Grant. “Celia, my dear, will you let those waiting know that I will be delayed by…” she consulted her lapel watch, “…thirty-five minutes, but I will see them all today? Perhaps you could arrange refreshments for them? Return on the half hour, please. That is all the time I can spare, Miss Virtue. If you need longer, I will ask you to wait or return another day.”

Prue shook her head. “The time will be ample, Ma’am. Thank you.”

As Miss Grant left the room, Prue was silent, collecting her thoughts. The duchess waited.

“You knew about Antonia. You have known all along.” Prue shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.

The duchess inclined her head, her face showing nothing but calm. “Since shortly after her birth.”

Prue did not know how to ask the questions that crowded her mind, but the duchess had exhausted her noble patience, which was, after all, on a schedule. “What is it you wish to know, Miss Virtue? Why I said nothing?” Her voice softened, and her eyes were compassionate. “I read your sister’s letter, and thought to write back and offer you and the child a place with me. I did not think a home filled with such… such judgement could be happy for either of you. But family is best, if it can be contrived. And there was Aldridge. I was unsure how things had been left between you. He seemed to feel a genuine fondness; I thought he might… He has more charm than is helpful in such situations, and I did not want my granddaughter raised… Well. That is not to the point now.”

She took a deep breath. So she was not as calm as she seemed, either. “I sent someone I trust to check whether you needed my intervention, and found you had left the letter writer to live with another sister. A more hospitable environment, my agent thought.”

Prue knew who the duchess’s trusted messenger was. “Tolliver.”

Her Grace nodded. “Yes. Thomas and I have an equal commitment to protecting and championing those to whom the Grenfords owe a duty.”

“You and I have met since, Your Grace.”

“Your secrets are yours to keep or share, Miss Virtue. I have often wished to ask after your daughter, but I did not wish to intrude. My son’s carelessness changed your life in ways for which I can never compensate. The Grenfords have responsibilities here, but no rights.”

Prue felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I knew about the three girls: the young ladies you are raising. I thought you might… I feared you would take Antonia. Aldridge told me you would not, and so did David and Tolliver.”

The duchess leaned forward to pat Prue’s hand. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry you were worried. Matilda, Jessica, and Frances had no one else, and at the time we found them I did not understand that a quieter life in a less prominent household would have served them better. Frances was the last I took into my own home, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now Thomas and I do better by those we find. But there, done is done, and the girls and I love one another dearly.”

She had kept Prue’s hand in hers, and she now gave it a comforting squeeze. “I can assure you, Miss Virtue, I have never taken a child from a mother, or from relatives who cared. The future those little girls faced,” she shuddered at the thought, “was unutterably grim.”

She sat back, and picked up her abandoned cup to take a sip. “You say Aldridge reassured you. He knows about his daughter, then?”

“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Prue found herself telling the duchess about the attack in Tidbury End. “I would like to talk to the Dowager Lady Selby, but she has not been at home,” she finished. “Surely she would be concerned at the plight of her grandchildren?”

Her Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, her lip curling. “Not from what I know of her, my dear. But have young Wakefield escort you to my ball on Thursday. I shall arrange for you to have a private interview with Lady Selby.”

A discreet knock at the door warned the duchess their time was nearly up. The Duchess of Haverford stood and walked Prue to the door, and Prue found herself enfolded in a tight embrace. “I shall continue to rely upon you for your professional services from time to time, my dear, and will be pleased to say a good word if ever it can help you. You will let me know if there is anything else I can do,” she commanded. “Should the opportunity arise, I would dearly love to meet your daughter, entirely at your discretion.” She turned her head away, but not before Prue had seen the glistening eyes.

Prue curtseyed. “My association with you has always been to my benefit, Your Grace; I am certain such acquaintance with the House of Haverford can only be to Antonia’s advantage.”

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Tea with the boys

Another excerpt post. This is one of the memories that Eleanor takes out of her memory box in Paradise Lost, which you’ll find in the collection Paradise Triptych.

Haverford Castle, East Kent July 1806

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 withdrawn 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 badly 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 His Grace.”

“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 by the Prince of Wales, 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 fosterling,” 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 chick 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.”

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Monday for Tea

Another excerpt post, this one from A Baron for Becky

When Aldridge sought her out the following afternoon, the Duchess of Haverford was resting from her exertions over the ball, by planning the next entertainment. She had her companion, her secretary, and three of the servants on the hop: writing guest lists, hunting out a fabric from the attic and a china pattern from the depths of the scullery that she was certain would go together in a Frost Fair theme; searching through her invitations to pick a date that would not clash with entertainments she wished to attend; leafing through the menus of previous parties to decide on food “that will not disgrace us, dear Aldridge, for one would not wish to do things in a harum-scarum fashion.”

“May I have a moment, Mama?” Aldridge asked. “It can wait if you wish.”

“Not at all, Aldridge. My dears, you all have jobs to do. I will be with my son. Aldridge, darling, shall we take a walk in the picture gallery? Very chilly, today, I am sure, but I will wrap up warm and the exercise will be good for us, do you not think? Ah, thank you, my dear.” She stepped back into the cloak Aldridge took from the waiting maid, and let him settle it on her shoulders.

“Now, my dear, tell me how Mama can help.”

Aldridge waited, though, until they were alone in the picture gallery, a great hall of a place thirty feet wide, twenty tall, and a hundred and twenty long. With the doors at each end shut, they could speak in private.

“Mama, Overton has asked me to look after his wife and daughters, if he dies before the girls are grown and married.”

Her Grace nodded. “And you have agreed, of course, dear? I will present the girls, in any case. Or your wife, if you have done your duty by then.”

Aldridge ignored his mother’s increasingly less subtle insistence. He would marry when he must and not before.

“Of course I have agreed, Mama. But I am wondering if something more might be done.”

The Duchess tapped her index finger against slightly pursed lips, her eyes distant.

“Something more might always be done. Have you an idea of what?”

Aldridge watched her closely. “It is not unknown for a daughter to inherit a barony.”

His mother blinked slowly as she considered the idea. Her answer was slow and contemplative.

“Only the old ones, dear, and if there is no son. But Overton is a relatively new peerage. The Restoration, I believe? And if his Letters Patent allowed female inheritance, he would have said.”

“Letters Patent can be changed, Mama. They did it for the first Marlborough.”

“Over a century ago, Aldridge, and I have never heard of it being done again.”

She fell silent, her eyes unfocused in thought. “But it does seem a pity our little Belle cannot be a baroness.”