Duchess of Winshire

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Music and supper with the ton

An excerpt post, but not for tea. The excerpt is from Hold Me Fast.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, and I shall buy you a drink before dinner,” Bran said.

Jowan would prefer the drink without the dinner. He was doing his best to remain positive, but the word “No” kept echoing in his mind and, somehow, in his gut, too.

Still, Bran wasn’t about to let him stew in his own misery. Besides, Jowan could not turn up drunk to the musicale. He owed it to his people to make a good impression on these Londoners, especially those who were going to decide whether or not the new mine went ahead.

They had brought evening wear with them—Jowan had Bran to thank for that, too. He had insisted they should be prepared for all eventualities. They had both been outfitted by a Plymouth tailor and were—or so the man had assured them—elegant enough for London society.

Certainly, Bran looked good in his, and Jowan could have been his twin but for one inch more in height and hair that was a lighter shade of brown. They had both chosen black for breeches and coat. Jowan had a green waistcoat embroidered in copper and Bran’s was blue with silver embroidery. The clocking on their stockings matched the embroidery, as did the buckles on their black shoes. A pin on their white cravats added another spot of colour—green for Jowan and blue for Bran.

From what he’d seen on his way around London, Jowan wondered if many of the gentlemen would fill their garments to as much advantage. He and Bran both lived active lives, turning their hands to anything needed on the estate’s farms, in the mines or in the fishing fleet.

Perhaps London ladies preferred the weedy creatures he’d passed on Oxford Street. What did Tamsyn prefer now? And there he was again, thinking of her.

“Shall we take a hackney, Bran?”

“Will we get dirtier catching one of those flea and stink traps, or walking?” Bran wondered.

They walked.

The Winshire mansion was in one of the older squares of Mayfair. The largest building of any in the vicinity, it was lit from basement to attics, and so many carriages were attempting to access the front steps that the traffic was queued as far as the eye could see down streets in every direction.

They bypassed the carriages and joined a second instance of traffic congestion on the footpath, as guests waited to ascend the steps of the house. This queue was short and swiftly moving. They soon reached the front door, where they showed their invitations to a footman. The entry hall was large enough to swallow the drawing room at Inneford House. The stairs rose up through the house, lit by a great chandelier, but Jowan could just make out a ceiling lantern high above. The house was twice as high as Inneford House, too.

They ascended the stairs step by step in the queue to the reception line on what in any less elegant house would have been the landing. If one could call a space as large as four tenant cottages a landing.

At last, it was their turn to be greeted by their hostess. The butler took their invitations and announced them to the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The ducal couple were perhaps in their sixties but still vigorous. Jowan could see traces of Drew in the duke—or the other way around, he supposed. The duchess greeted them both with a smile. “You are Drew’s guests,” she said. “Go on into the drawing room, Sir Jowan, Mr. Hughes. Drew is waiting for you there.”

The drawing room carried on the theme of the house. Jowan had seen assembly halls that were smaller, though to think of assembly halls in the same context as this richly appointed and elegant room seemed like a form of blasphemy.

“I’m feeling like a country mouse,” whispered Bran.

“You are,” Jowan pointed out, keeping his own voice low, “and so am I.”

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Tea with a proud Grandpapa

One of Eleanor’s favourite times of day, when they were in London, was after the afternoon callers had left, and before she had to prepare for whatever entertainment the evening would bring.

When they were in residents at one of her husband’s country estates, the pace of life was quite different, with earlier mornings, far fewer evening engagements, and callers only a few times a week. Or not at all, if the weather was inclement.

But in London, the late afternoon was one of the few spaces of time in any day that she and James could be alone. Alone or, as now, with a very special visitor. Only their grandchildren were allowed to intrude on their special time together. Twice a week, they would invite one, or at the most, two, of the growing tribe of offspring, from both her family and his.

Today’s guests were the two daughters Ruth had accepted as her own when she married Val, the Earl of Ashbury. The shy demure little misses Eleanor and James had first met during Val’s tempestuous courtship of James’s daughter were much more confident now, and they adored their Grandpapa. And their Grandmama, but especially their Grandpapa. And no wonder, Eleanor thought, as she watched James gallop the girls around the room, first Mirrie and then Ginny. He adores them. He adores all our little ones, and I adore him all the more for it.

Should she point out that the girls were growing a little large for pig-a-back? No, for James, excellent though he was, was only a man, and would ring the room three more times each, just to prove how strong he was. “When you are done, my loves,” she said, instead, “I have tea and cake, and after, a new book to read to you all.”

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Tea with a doting mother

Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire always greeted the Duchess of Kingston with warmth and courtesy. More so than if she had actually liked the woman, for Eleanor held that courtesy and kindness was a duty that one owed to oneself, however unworthy the recipient. 

Today, she was struggling to maintain her facade. “And so you see, duchess,” said the other lady, “that scoundrel has kept my poor daughter-in-law’s baby from her out of sheer spite. My son’s baby, too, as the world knows, though she was born during my daughter-in-law’s unfortunate first marriage. Heaven alone knows how he treats the dear little girl.”

“Very well, or so I understand from Cordelia Deerhaven,” Eleanor replied. “Cordelia says that John Forsythe is besotted with his daughter.”

“But duchess,” Kingston’s duchess complained, “of course, Lady Deerhaven would make that claim. But the little girl is not Forsythe’s so why should he treat her well? And how do we know that he does?”

“I am sure you do not intend to imply that Cordelia lies, duchess,” Eleanor said. Mendacious of her, for she was certain that her guest meant to imply that very thing. “She is, after all, a lady of excellent reputation.” Unlike the other duchess’s daughter-in-law, who had abandoned little Jane years ago to run off with the married lover who had got her with child before she trapped poor John Forsythe into marriage.  whom she had since married. Neither of them had shown any interest in the child until the last few weeks.

“Cordelia and her husband visit Cumbria frequently, and she has mentioned many times over the years how much Captain Forsythe loves Jane. I do not know, duchess, how often you have visited…?” That was even more of a lie. Eleanor knew perfectly well that the Kingstons had never visited; had never even written to enquire about the good health and wellbeing of the little girl who was John Forsythe’s in every way except blood.

The Duchess of Kingston stood, her mouth puckered as if she had sucked on the lemon, and her nose in the air. “I can see you have made up your mind to support that reprobate Forsythe. I see no point in prolonging this conversation. Rest assured that my husband and I will do everything we can to support our son and his wife in his efforts to bring our granddaughter back where she belongs.”

Eleanor stood, as well. “I can assure you, your grace, that even if I was not an intimate friend of the family, I and my family would still be doing everything we can to ensure that a happy little girl is not ripped away from the place where she belongs by people who have not shown any interest in her for her entire life to date. My butler will show you out.”

***

The ton refused to support Lord and Lady Tenby and Tenby’s ducal parents in their demands to have Jane Forsythe handed over. Their legal challenge failed in the courts, for part of the settlement of the divorce Lady Tenby had demanded had been  absolution from any responsibility for or interest in her daughter. The Tenby’s therefore kidnapped the child, inadvertently taking with them Pauline Turner, who loved both the child and John Forsythe.

This story and what happened next is told in Perchance to Dream, out on September 7th.