An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  It wasn’t in Emma to fight so nastily, and she’d not gain anything by continuing to argue in front of Carmichael. A small part of her whispered, Isn’t the dowager duchess the expert? She’s right that you don’t want to embarrass Beranger. Best to back off and regroup. But she vowed that she would find out where Hyacinth had gone and try and entice her back. The poor girl must be heartbroken.

  Emma allowed her gaze to slide over to Carmichael, who must have been around thirty or thirty-five years old. Her hands were clasped together at her waist as she gazed out the large diamond-paned library window. Her dark brown hair was neatly done, and she wore no cap. Emma didn’t notice much about her face or color of eyes, except she had a small freckle, much like a beauty mark, on the tip of her right eyebrow. Her starched navy-blue dress fit her figure, and she was neither thin nor plump. She appeared strong.

  Emma dipped her head and said, “Welcome to Ashbury, Carmichael. From this day forward, you’ll report to me, not the dowager duchess. Is that understood?”

  The dowager smiled like a cat who’d just lapped up a bowl of sweet cream.

  Carmichael nodded. “It is, Your Grace.”

  “Wonderful,” the dowager duchess said, undaunted by Emma’s outburst. “Oh, did I mention the duke is waiting for you in the stables? I suggest you run off and see what he wants.”

  “Waiting? For how long?” Emma’s anger shot up several degrees—his wicked stepmother had purposely delayed her. “Shall I change? Does he intend to ride?”

  “I have no idea, my dear. You had best go find out. I’ll settle everything with Carmichael and show her to your rooms. I’m sure she’ll want to put your wardrobe in order and see what you’re lacking.”

  “I’ll handle that.”

  The dowager put a hand to Emma’s arm. “The duke, Your Grace.”

  Carmichael stood silent.

  Emma flushed. Why did the dowager always make her feel like a recalcitrant child?

  “Very well,” Emma agreed. She was anxious to see Beranger. He’d gone out after breakfast, leaving her and Justin discussing the weather in Colorado. The extremes, the snowfall as well as the droughts. His cousin never seemed to tire of hearing about life in the American West. Perhaps that explained her homesickness today, why she felt so out of sorts.

  The dowager waved a hand at her, encouraging her to scoot. “Go find the duke. You know how men can be if left to their own desires. His eye might begin to wander . . .”

  The lance sliced deep, even though nothing could be further from the truth with Beranger. Was the evil woman determined not just to tear down Emma but to undermine their marriage? All Emma wanted was to be away from her.

  “I’ll bid you good day,” she said to Carmichael. Walking slowly, she left the room, holding her chin high. Today the dowager duchess had gone too far. She had crossed the line—and Emma would see to it that there would be repercussions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Finished with his morning inspection of the forest, Tristen waited for the duke to join him in the stables, at the end of the lengthy wing at the north end of the castle. He strode down the long corridor of stalls, glancing at the fine horseflesh contained within. This was one of his favorite places to pass the time.

  Stable hands moved quietly through the area, going about their business, while laborers cleaned the stalls and swept the aisle to a shine.

  Along with being an outdoorsman, Tristen was an equestrian through and through. There was little he liked better than to ride, groom, or even just watch a well-put-together animal grazing in a field. Where he’d acquired his love of the animals, he wasn’t sure. But the sentiment had sustained him all those years in confinement.

  “Llewellyn,” the duke’s deep voice rang out.

  Tristen turned, and they clasped hands. “Your Grace.”

  “Dammit, I can’t get used to being called that day in and day out. And not even being called Brightshire or Brig. Please, call me Northcott, or North, if you will.”

  Tristen’s admiration of the man grew even more. “I couldn’t, Your Grace. Doing so wouldn’t be right.”

  The duke’s smile was understanding. “All right, but at least when we’re alone. Can you do that for me?”

  “Aye. I’ll try, but it won’t be easy. But only if you’re sure.”

  The duke placed a hand on one of the stall doors and looked inside. “I am. Today I feel like changing a rule that’s been passed down for thousands of years.” He smiled, and they walked on.

  “What did you want to talk about? I was surprised to receive your note.”

  Beranger strode to the next. “I’d like to speak about the health of your uncle. I need to know everything you do so I can help Arson to my best ability. How old is he now? I’ve lost track.”

  “I believe he’s forty-six. He hasn’t been too specific with me about his health. Sometime back, about nine or ten months ago, his legs began to weaken, and the plight seems to be spreading to the rest of his body. The doctors he’s seen can’t tell him anything. That’s all I know.”

  They arrived at the stall of the large black gelding the duke had brought with him from America. The animal thrust his muzzle forcefully over the half door and pushed Beranger’s chest as if demanding his owner take him out for a ride.

  “You’ve had him a long time, then?” Tristen asked. “Where’d he get his scars?”

  The duke rubbed the gelding’s thick neck. “No, actually, I haven’t had him long. He was pulling a Wells Fargo stagecoach I was traveling in.”

  “Ah, a stagecoach,” Tristen said wistfully. “I can’t imagine a stagecoach without picturing a swarm of angry Cheyenne warriors, adorned in war paint and eagle feathers, giving chase. Have you seen some Indians, Duke?”

  “I have.” His smile ebbed away. “But they’re not quite the way you envision them anymore. It’s a shame the way they’ve been treated. Lied to. Such a proud people reduced to dependency on small reservations.” He shook his head. “Anyway, the Wells Fargo crew ran Charger farther than they should because they didn’t like his aggressive temperament. I overheard their plans to kill him, so I bought him with the intention of setting him free. Problem was, he didn’t run off, but rather followed the stage to Eden. I’ve been working with him, and he’s gentled down considerably.”

  Tristen saw a kindred spirit in this animal. He tried to be worthy, but serving a ten-year sentence in prison had blighted his reputation. Perhaps here, with the duke’s trust in him, he might be able to gain a little of his worth back. “I thought he looked clever. The smart ones know how to adapt. He was lucky to find you.”

  “I’m the lucky one. I met the duchess around the same time—in a ladies’ shop, of all places—and—”

  “Beranger?” a female voice called out.

  They turned to find the duchess hurrying forward.

  “I’m so happy to find you,” she said. “Your stepmother didn’t tell me you were waiting for me until a moment ago.” She frowned. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.” She looked at Tristen and nodded. “Mr. Llewellyn. How are you today?”

  She wore a gown made of mint-green fabric. The hue suited her coloring and made the vivid green of her eyes even more pronounced. “Very well, Your Grace,” he responded.

  “I’m delighted to hear that. You look well and happy. And drier since the last time we met.” She glanced at her husband. “I feel so lost without Lord Harry around. I almost went looking for him a little while ago before I remembered he’d gone home to Newchurch. Ashbury feels empty without him.”

  Beranger lifted his wife’s hand and kissed the back. “I agree. But he needed to check on his holdings. We have to remember he’s spent months in America searching for me. He deserves time to get his own life back in order.” He leaned back, looking mysterious. “Besides that, he’s doing some business for me, so I don’t have to go away again.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Business? What about?”

  “Our money problems here at A
shbury may be over. I’m planning to announce something tonight at dinner, if all goes well.” He exchanged a satisfied look with Tristen. “Now, is there a specific reason you were searching for Lord Harry? Perhaps something your devoted husband can help with?”

  “Not really. I just found myself alone in the library when we usually have a nice morning talk. And it’s just that the dowager . . .” She glanced away.

  Tristen wondered if he should discreetly absent himself to give them a few moments alone. The duchess seemed melancholy. Perhaps she was simply missing home. He remembered how he’d felt his first few weeks in prison, aching for the familiar.

  But before the duke could ask her what was wrong, the duchess shook her head and said, “Oh, never mind.” She gave them both a wide smile, then glanced around, taking in the high arched ceilings, the brick walls, the gorgeous woodwork. There wasn’t a shaving or stalk of straw or hay in the walkway. She moved toward one of the stalls. “My little quarter horse looks like a pony among these thoroughbreds and warmbloods.” She laughed when Dusty nibbled at the lace on her sleeve. “What is that I hear?” she asked, tipping her head. “Birds? In the stables? I don’t see many in the rafters.”

  “Pigeons. Come. I’ll show you.” Tristen started down a narrow cutoff. The duchess followed and then the duke. Turning sharply to the left and into the shadows, Tristen led them up a short stairway and emerged onto a wooden landing. “It’s left over from long ago. The birds used to carry messages before the telegraph was invented. Well, I should say, their ancestors did. I don’t think much of anything is done with them now.”

  Emma cut a look at Beranger. “There’re so many. Why do they keep them if they’re of no use now? Can’t you let them go?”

  Tristen understood her feelings and had the same himself. “Since they’re domesticated, they’d just return and try to get back into their cage. It’s all they know. Best to let them be.”

  “And keep multiplying?”

  “It’s difficult to tell their sexes.”

  Her expression became thoughtful. “Beranger, can a pigeon be trained to fly into Brightshire, to Smith’s Bakeshop? I’d love to be able to message with Charlotte, since her aunt couldn’t bear to let her return. She’s my one true friend, and I miss her at Ashbury.”

  Tristen raised a brow. Charlotte had a way of collecting hearts, it seemed. He had to admit there was something charming about her, even when she was debating superstitions. He couldn’t stop a little smile at the memory of her warm hand in his own.

  “What do you say, Tristen? Is that possible?” Beranger asked.

  “I don’t see why not. Pick out two.”

  “Two?”

  “I thought Miss Aldridge could keep one as well, and be able to message you, if you’d like.”

  There was no doubt how the duchess felt about that. Delight shone in her eyes. “How long will the training take?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never worked with pigeons, but I’m sure my uncle will have a thing or two to suggest. He’s a well-learned man. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Birds fluttered here and there in their large cage, excited to see people. Some flew about wildly, while others sat placidly on the perch, watching. They tipped their heads this way and that, their beady eyes curious. The loud cooing was almost annoying.

  “And I’ll work on finding new homes for all of these beauties,” she said. “I don’t want to leave them like this. I’ve always loved birds. I can’t wait until at least two of these can fly into the sky. It’s a shame for the poor creatures to be penned their entire lives. They need to get out now and then, into the sunlight, spread their wings on the wind.” After the birds settled, she pointed to two of the smaller ones, cuddled side by side on the far end of the perch. “How about those two, over there? Do they look too young to be trained?”

  “I’m no expert, but I’d think the younger the better for what you have in mind,” Tristen replied. He took one of the dusty bird carriers off a shelf behind them and unlatched the gate. “You best step back.” He motioned to his already dusty garment. “This will become dirtier when I step inside.”

  She and the duke backed up to the wall.

  Amid a cacophony of noise, Tristen went to work. Several minutes later, he had the two the duchess had pointed out safely in the small cage. Stepping out of the fluttering madhouse, he brushed off the dust and feathers, thinking tonight would be a good night for a bath.

  The duchess rushed forward, concern in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn. They aren’t hurt, are they? I didn’t realize they’d be so wild. The commotion reminded me of the yearly roundup at the ranch. At branding time, cattle and cowboys are everywhere, whooping and hollering. It’s quite a sight.”

  That’s something I’d like to see. Cowboys, the West, America. Tristen lifted the cage so she could more easily see inside. “Don’t be afraid to talk to them. They’ll learn your voice and recognize your face. As with most birds, they have very good eyesight and sense of hearing. Keeps them alive in the wild.”

  The duchess beamed with happiness as she gazed at the birds crowded to the back of the cage. “Something all my own. Like Dusty.”

  The duke cut his gaze to his wife. “Everything here is yours, Emma,” he responded sincerely.

  Her smile was real as she lifted her head and they locked gazes. “Not really, Beranger. Except for you, my horse, and now these birds. Everything else is yours, and your family’s. But I’m not complaining. If given the chance, I’d do everything over exactly as I have. And I’m feeling more and more at home each day. Don’t look so sad.” She reached up and gently smoothed his brow.

  A bit embarrassed by the intimate scene playing out before him, Tristen turned back to the large cage of birds.

  “We best be off,” the duke said.

  Tristen turned back and followed. As they were about to cross the threshold, the duke listed sharply to his right, bumping his shoulder against the jamb. He weaved and almost went down on one knee.

  The duchess grasped his arm. “Beranger! What’s wrong?”

  The duke had both hands out, fingers splayed, as if trying to keep his balance. “Nothing, Emma, I’m all right,” he replied with a garbled tone. “The floor tilted sharply, but it’s passed.”

  His pallor had gone white, and when he tried to smile, his lips pulled down in a grimace. The episode hadn’t passed, Tristen was sure. The duke was only putting on a brave face for his young wife, so she wouldn’t be frightened.

  “Most likely the greasy pork I ate this morning or the poached cod in the kedgeree. It did taste a little fishy. Just give me a moment.” His stride was unsteady as he approached the stairs they’d have to descend.

  “Mr. Llewellyn, please take my husband’s arm as he descends. I don’t want him to fall.”

  “Emma, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not, or weren’t. I’ve never seen that happen before. I’m worried.”

  Before Tristen could get to the duke’s side, he took the steps and then, at the bottom, reached up to assist his wife. The next moment they were back in the aisle of the barn, and several horses looked their way.

  Tristen hoped nothing was seriously wrong. He liked this duke very much. He didn’t want to see him go the way of the other, not now, not for a good sixty years.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Four hours later, Tristen found himself in front of Smith’s Bakeshop, holding a small cage containing one of the duchess’s pigeons. He stopped and glanced about before grasping the knob and entering through the door. A small cluster of bells rang out his presence as wonderful yeasty smells enveloped him. The display case was full. A murmur of voices from the kitchen reached his ears. Nervously, he glanced down at his attire. Before making the trip, he’d bathed and shaved, not understanding why he felt the need to look his best.

  Footsteps sounded, and Charlotte’s cousin Verity hurried into the front. Her eyes widened.

  “Mr. Llewellyn,” she said, sounding pleased.
She glanced back at the door she’d come through. “Is there something I can get for you?”

  The pigeon cooed softly, and Verity took a step back, surprised.

  Charlotte appeared in the doorway, a streak of flour across her cheek and her forehead moist with perspiration. She smiled broadly, making him feel like the sun had just peeped out from behind clouds. The girl worked hard. He’d never seen her enjoying a moment of pleasure—walking through a field of flowers, soaking her feet in a cool spring, or sitting in a soft chair reading a book. Always working, helping, or doing for others.

  Behind her, Mrs. Smith appeared. Even she looked pleased to see him. Mrs. Smith pushed past her niece and came to his side. When she saw the cage, her brow fell.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “A gift from the duchess.”

  One of Mrs. Smith’s brows twitched. “Oh?” She looked into the cage. “One pigeon? Won’t make but half a pie.”

  Tristen laughed, undecided if the woman meant to be funny. “Not to eat, ma’am. To train to be a carrier. So the duchess can be in contact with Charlotte.” He searched out Charlotte’s gaze, relishing the pleasure that crossed her face. “She told me to tell you she misses you at Ashbury and wishes to be in contact. This way she can easily invite you to tea. If that’s all right with your aunt, of course,” he said, now studying the older woman’s expression. She was not a soft woman. Although he guessed she’d have to be strict to be responsible for feeding four mouths besides her own. “If yes, I’m here to build a small coop to keep the bird and begin his training.”

  “I won’t have a flying rat in my shop,” Mrs. Smith grumbled, settling her hands on her hips and lifting her chin. “I don’t care who’s asking. They carry mites. And I don’t see why she needs to be messaging Charlotte. She has Amelia in the kitchen, if she wants ta be friendly with someone. The whole affair is strange to me.”

  Mrs. Smith gave Charlotte a sidelong gaze that spelled trouble. Tristen hoped his arrival wouldn’t cause more heartache for her. He’d witnessed her disappointment when her aunt refused to allow her to return to the castle.