by Jane Ashford
A tall man moved aside, and Cecelia saw Prince Karl striding into the room, actually pushing people out of his way if they did not move fast enough for him, furiously scowling. He had, of course, not been invited. But he ignored the rising tide of comments and disapproving glances. He was aimed at someone, and when Cecelia met his eyes, she understood that she was his target.
He shouldered past Harriet Finch, nearly knocking her down, and came to stop a few feet from Cecelia. “You!” he said.
Cecelia wondered if he’d lurked at the door until he saw James leave her. She suspected it. The prince was tall enough to see over the heads of most of the crowd.
“I have come to confront you, you see,” he said.
Though her heart beat fast, she was not afraid.
“To make you take back your scurrilous lies in the hearing of all.” His hazel eyes burned with anger. “Tell the truth!” he snarled.
Cecelia took a breath to steady her voice and then let it ring out. He was practically shouting, and she wished to be as easily heard. “Are you suggesting that I have spread a false story about you, as you had done about me?” she asked.
“Natürlich!” snapped the prince. “What else?”
“So you admit that the things you said about me were untrue,” Cecelia answered.
“Is this your cowardly plot? To force me to admit it?”
“Do you?”
He made a savage gesture. “I have no time for trivialities.”
“Do you?” Cecelia repeated in a tone he could not ignore.
“Yes, yes. They were not true. And now you will say the same. This falsehood has sullied my honor!”
“As your lies did mine?”
“Women have no honor,” Prince Karl said. “Not in the same way.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are made for dalliance and pleasure. The rest is all nonsense.” He came a step closer. He looked as if he longed to shake her. “Now you will tell the truth!”
Cecelia was so angry that she was trembling, but she managed to speak clearly. “I had nothing to do with the rumors about you. I have been out of town and only heard them when I returned. I know nothing about your background and would never presume to comment upon it.”
“You cunning jade,” he growled. “You planned this.”
“Planned for you to intrude where you were not invited and make more false accusations. How could I?”
He clenched his fists.
“I do sympathize,” Cecelia added. “I know how difficult it is to correct false stories. People aren’t easily convinced, are they?”
Prince Karl raised a hand as if to strike her. Cecelia moved back. At the same time, in the corner of her eye, she saw James shove a glass of lemonade at a surprised young gentleman and rush toward her.
He would see this as a contest between two men. And it was not. She could defend herself. “I give you my word that I did not malign you,” she said to the prince before James could reach them. “I do not know who did. I don’t believe it was any of my friends.”
“The word of a woman,” sneered Prince Karl.
He really was a loathsome creature. “Do we not take oaths and sign legal documents?” Cecelia asked. “You can trust me to tell the truth.” If her tone implied that the same could not be said for him, she couldn’t help it.
James came to stand beside her. He looked thunderous. Whether because of this ally or some other factor, Prince Karl seemed to become conscious of the hostile murmur of the crowd around him. He looked, saw no sympathetic faces, and appeared suddenly bewildered.
A young man came through the crowd and went to touch Prince Karl’s arm. Cecelia recognized him as one of the prince’s entourage. Searching her memory, she came up with a name—Stephan Kandler.
The newcomer bent close to murmur to the prince. Prince Karl turned to him, seeming about to argue. There was a brief muttered colloquy. Then Kandler pulled at the prince’s sleeve to urge him out. After another scan of the room, the prince yielded, and they went.
“Like a dog herding a willful ram,” said James.
Cecelia choked back a laugh. She would not gloat. “If he had horns, he would have butted me,” she said quietly.
“Undoubtedly.”
“There was a moment when I thought he would hit me.”
“And you evaded him.”
James sounded irritated, and Cecelia didn’t understand why. She thought she’d done rather well.
“I would have appreciated an excuse to strike him,” he added.
Now she saw. “I could not provide it.”
“Of course not. You had no need for protection. Clearly you don’t need my help for anything at all. You are supremely competent.” He turned away from her and addressed the guests. “A small contretemps, which should not stop our dancing.” He signaled the musicians to resume and went to ask another woman to dance.
Cecelia stood alone as others slowly joined in, and couples began to form up around her. She felt reprimanded and did not see why she should have been. At last she was saved by Henry Deeping, who solicited her hand for the set. “That was very well done,” he said when they were dancing.
“I thought so.”
He nodded. “You were composed and reasonable. You routed your opponent. I wouldn’t be surprised if Prince Karl decided to continue his tour elsewhere.”
“James seemed annoyed though.” The words slipped out, because she was perplexed and a bit disappointed.
“He prefers to flatten his problems with his fists. Those that can’t be tipped a leveler are a challenge for him.”
“What problems can you punch?”
Mr. Deeping smiled down at her. “That is a difficulty. Beyond the boxing ring, not too many at all.”
She knew that James turned most things into a contest. He saw life as a series of battles to be waged, opponents to be vanquished. But that would not do for a marriage! “You’ve known him even longer than I have,” she said to Mr. Deeping.
“Since we were grubby schoolboys.”
“And he was always that way?”
“I think he was born combative. I’ve often imagined James as a pugnacious baby, flailing at his nursemaid.” He smiled in fond amusement.
Cecelia did not find the picture comforting. She hoped for fewer disputes, not more.
When the dance ended Mr. Deeping took her to his sister, and they were soon joined by Sarah and Harriet. Her friends were full of admiration and told Cecelia that she’d been magnificent against Prince Karl. Cecelia appreciated the praise, but she noticed that James did not dance with her for the rest of the evening. And in the carriage going home, he merely said the event had been tiring and leaned back against the seat with his eyes closed.
“Is something wrong?” she asked him.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“But you seem…”
“Merely tired.” His tone was flat, and he did not open his eyes.
She sat back, chilled. She knew how to argue with James. She’d won, and lost, any number of disputes with him. But this coolness was not familiar. It seemed designed to repel and silence her, and she didn’t understand why he would wish to do that. “Are you angry?” she finally asked, just before they reached the hotel.
“I am tired, Cecelia,” he replied in a voice that indeed sounded weary. “It is time for sleep. May we do that?”
She wasn’t certain whether he took his own advice. But it was a long time, lying beside him, before she found rest.
***
The next morning James rose early and took himself off to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon, where he spent a satisfying half hour pummeling the bag and then another in a sparring session with an acquaintance who was also looking for an opportunity to hit something. James was aware, as he perhaps hadn’t been in the past
, that these sessions made no difference to his current perplexities. But the hard physical exertion was a relief, even taking some blows that rattled his bones. It was like the steam that jetted from a boiling kettle, reducing the pressure. He welcomed the fatigue that came after as well and, more sheepishly, the fact that he’d clearly bested his opponent in the ring.
This was far better than the muddle in his mind, a hash of all the disputes he’d had with Cecelia over the last thirteen years. He’d been accused of laziness, extravagance, selfishness, excessive complaining, being too combative, and probably of other things that he couldn’t recall at the moment. He didn’t think these criticisms were true—at least, not lately. He’d felt like a changed man in the last several weeks. But how was he to convince anyone? Rather, how was he to show Cecelia, the only one who mattered? He remembered her struggles to counter false accusations. He could say he was different, but he wondered resentfully, who would believe?
And did she care? She’d faced Prince Karl without a glance at him. There hadn’t been the vestige of an appeal. She was shouldering responsibilities right and left. She was taking over everything. Exactly as he’d asked her to do in his original proposal, suggested a dry inner voice.
James grimaced in the mirror as he made a final adjustment to his neckcloth. The James who had first offered for her had been such an arrogant, paltry creature! Puffed up with his own imagined consequence. He couldn’t bear the fellow.
Nor could he blame Cecelia for doing as he’d asked. Or for being better than he was at nearly every task. Hadn’t he admitted it? Didn’t he want her to manage the ducal affairs? He put on his hat and left Gentleman Jackson’s.
Generally he wanted that, James acknowledged. Mostly. Except for the important, interesting bits, suggested a sneaking inner voice. He wanted to decide those. And he’d rather thought that she would consult him more often. James struck a lamppost with his cane as he walked along the pavement.
A picture filled James’s brain—Cecelia soliciting his opinion, praising his ideas, begging for his approval. Part of him found it disturbingly attractive.
No, that was not what he’d expected! He’d meant them to… He didn’t know what. The man who’d requested her skills and the man who was married to her today were not in agreement. And so it was easier to hit things.
He turned a corner and walked toward Tereford House. They had an appointment to meet a representative from an auction house about the mass of items there. He’d snapped at Cecelia when she said she could receive him on her own. She hadn’t sorted a single pile so far! Was his work to be dismissed?
He found her in the kitchen with the Gardener family, including Ned who’d come along to see his family and a stranger. Their vociferous welcome salved his feelings a bit. He was also glad to see that they all looked much less anxious and better fed. “This is my brother, Will Ferris, milord,” said Mrs. Gardener.
The thin man with a wooden left leg below the knee gave him a half bow. “Milord,” he said. “I thank you for the chance to work.”
“Trooper, were you?” James asked him.
“Ninety-Fifth Foot, sir. Until Salamanca.” He gestured at the artificial leg.
“A rifleman!”
He stood straighter. “Yessir.”
Knowing the man had been a member of a crack regiment, chosen for special training, made James glad he’d moved him in. He nodded acknowledgment and vowed to make Will Ferris’s employment more formal in the near future. He noticed Cecelia’s inquiring look. Here was something she knew nothing about.
“Ned’s been telling us about his valeting,” said Mrs. Gardener.
“He looks so grand,” declared little Effie.
“Puffed up like a croaky bullfrog,” said their sister Jen.
“You’re just jealous.” Ned fingered the lapel of his new coat.
Cecelia took a step nearer the center of the group. “We have been thinking of introducing Ned to a tailor who wants an apprentice.”
Was this the royal we? James was unaware of these thoughts. Well, they had mentioned such a plan, but that was long ago. Days ago?
“I have talked to Ned about it…”
“You have?” James interrupted.
“Yes, and he is quite interested. We would pay the fees, of course.”
Shouldn’t he have been consulted about this? “Ned wishes to leave my service?”
Cecelia looked at the lad. When he said nothing, she replied, “He thought tailoring would give him…scope for his ideas.”
James turned to Ned. “I gave you no scope?”
With an anxious frown, Ned said, “Yes, milord. I mean, no. You did. But you need a regular trained valet, which I know I ain…am not.”
It was true. James had been wondering how to break it to the lad that he couldn’t keep on. But that didn’t mean he should be left out of this entire process. “I thought we were rubbing along well enough.” His voice sounded sulky to his own ears.
Ned winced. “You said—about the shine on your boots. And the shirt.”
A moment’s impatience was not important. Everyone knew that. Then James noticed that the entire Gardener family looked worried. Even the former rifleman. He’d forgotten their lingering fears of retribution. Cecelia was frowning at him, too, probably adding to his faults on the list she kept. “Splendid,” James said, taking care to speak heartily. “Apprentice tailor it is then. I’m sure you’ll be all the rage in a few years, Ned. Probably refuse to make my coats because you’re so fashionable.”
“I would never do that!” Ned declared. “I’ll make ’em for free.”
“No, no, you must charge all the market will bear,” replied James. “That is what cements your reputation as a top-of-the-trees tailor.”
The sound of the front door knocker came down the hallway. “I’ll go, milord,” said Will Ferris.
“Never mind,” said Cecelia. “We’re expecting someone. We will let him in.”
“I can do it, milady” was the gruff reply.
“Please do,” said James. He observed Cecelia’s raised eyebrows and questioning gaze as Ferris stumped out. Later he would explain to her about a man’s pride. Another thing he might know more about!
They followed and thus got to see the visitor’s surprise when a somewhat battered ex-soldier opened the door.
“Name?” asked Ferris, in the crisp tone of a sentry on duty.
“Reginald Nordling,” replied the newcomer, handing over his card even though his eyes were on James and Cecelia at the back of the entryway.
Ferris turned, holding it. “Mr. Reginald Nordling of Drellinger’s Auction House,” he read out at parade-ground volume.
Perhaps he would appoint Ferris butler, James thought.
They moved forward to meet the visitor, who bowed low and said, “Your Graces.” He seemed inordinately pleased to be in the presence of a duke and duchess.
James stepped over to the right-hand parlor doorway and pushed it open as far as the mass of furnishings inside would allow. When he turned, he saw that Cecelia had done the same with the left-hand parlor door.
Mr. Nordling dithered for a moment before hurrying over to peer in. Left, then right, James noticed. “Merciful heavens,” the man said.
“The whole house is like this,” replied Cecelia.
Mr. Nordling grew more and more wide-eyed as they conducted him about the place. “I had heard whispers of this,” he murmured. “But seeing it is…”
“Melancholy,” said James.
“Overwhelming,” said Cecelia at the same moment.
“No, Your Graces, it is fascinating. Who knows what treasures we might find in this?”
“Well, I have some idea,” said James. “I sorted out two rooms. Nearly.”
“With what result?”
“I found broken-down furniture, mostly, which I chu
cked out a window.”
Mr. Nordling looked distressed. “It will be far better to have everything evaluated by an expert eye, Your Grace. Valuable things might be salvaged. But we can look outdoors as well.”
“Much of it has since been stolen,” said Cecelia.
Were they blaming him? Was he now to add incompetent to his catalog of faults? Cecelia had urged him to work, and now his methods were to be criticized.
“It is just that… With a few repairs, a piece can often be made quite saleable.”
“Even when it has been thoroughly chewed by rats?” asked James.
“Rats?” Mr. Nordling looked around uneasily.
“Oh yes, we have quite a colony.”
“The cats have taken care of them,” said Cecelia. “Mrs. Gardener said they have not seen a single one in three days.”
It was obvious that Mr. Nordling had never dealt with a property such as this. He goggled, and his mouth opened and closed twice, making him resemble a goldfish, James thought.
“So as to your methods…” Cecelia began.
James had to make a push to deal with this fellow, show her he wasn’t useless. “I assume you will separate everything into categories,” he said.
“Indeed, Your Grace. We will discard the, er, chewed-over and worthless items, and then you may decide what to keep and what to sell from the remainder.”
“What about sentimental value?” James actually could not imagine feeling tender about any of his great-uncle’s leavings, but it seemed a responsible thing to say. “I suppose some family relics might appear worthless,” he added, as much to himself as the others.
“We will take care to set such things aside,” replied Mr. Nordling.
“I came across some odd bits in the sorting.”