Miss Darby's Duenna

by Sheri Cobb South

  "Of course,” Olivia continued, “you will wish to have your things brought over from your hotel. You are staying at Grillon's, I believe? I shall send a footman over at once.” And she prepared to suit the word to the deed, raising a hand in summons as a strapping lad descended the stairs with Mrs. Darby's trunk braced against his shoulder.

  "No, no, that is not at all necessary,” protested Sir Harry in real alarm. “Only let me pen a note to my grandson, and I—that is, I am sure dear Harry will see to everything."

  Seeing nothing amiss in this request (save an overly optimistic opinion of Harry's capabilities which could, in Miss Darby's judgment, be ascribed to a doting grandmother's fondness for the grandson so clearly stamped with her own likeness), Olivia yielded to the dowager's request, leading Lady Hawthorne to the sitting room, where she produced paper and a quill from a delicate Sheraton writing table.

  Sir Harry, taking pen in hand, was seized by a sudden fear that Olivia would discover him by his handwriting. The subsequent recollection that his letters to her had been sporadic and, as a rule, brief filled him with a curious mixture of relief and guilt. His irregular correspondence made it unlikely that Olivia would recognize his undeniably masculine hand, although he could not deny that, had he been less neglectful during the early stages of his courtship, he might have had no need for subterfuge now.

  Shaking these self-recriminations aside, he scribbled a brief but explicit message, underscoring certain words for emphasis. Then, pronouncing this model of the epistolary art complete, he shook sand over his handiwork, folded it so as to conceal its contents, and sealed it with red wax.

  "See that it is given to Higgins, my—my grandson's valet,” he instructed Charles, the footman.

  Some two hours later, after the ladies had long since repaired to their beds, a knock fell upon the door at the rear of the house which was designated the servants’ entrance. Coombes, having been instructed to await the arrival of this nocturnal visitor, flung open the door. As the newcomer stepped into the light, the butler's eyes bulged. A lifetime spent in domestic service had brought him in contact with many ladies’ maids, but never had he beheld a specimen like the one who now stood before him. The creature's lanky form was swathed in ill-fitting skirts which barely reached the ankles. Furthermore, the servant had apparently made free with the dowager's cosmetics, for the lean cheeks were liberally stained with rouge. A cheap straw bonnet covered curls of an improbable yellow hue, from under which peeped strands of salt-and-pepper gray.

  "Well,” pronounced this vision, glaring at his mesmerized host, “are you going to stand there staring all night, man, or are you going to conduct me to her ladyship's chamber?"

  "Of course, sir—ma'am,” Coombes replied hastily, recalled to the responsibilities of his position. If the old lady wanted to smuggle her paramour into the house by putting him in petticoats, well, that was no business of his. Besides, he had always known the Quality were a strange lot. “Right this way."

  The abigail followed Coombes up the back stairs to the first floor, then down a luxuriously carpeted corridor which could not disguise the fact that the lady's maid was possessed of a decidedly masculine tread. At last they paused before a paneled door at the end of the hall.

  "Her ladyship's chamber,” announced Coombes before beating a hasty retreat back to the servants’ quarters to regale the housekeeper with a description of the dowager's peculiar servant.

  Casting a furtive glance up and down the corridor and finding it empty, the abigail rapped sharply on the door. Upon being bade enter, she opened it, darted quickly inside, and shut it firmly behind her.

  "Higgins, you look positively breath-taking,” remarked Sir Harry, surveying his servant appreciatively. He had divested himself of his wig and his evening gown (albeit not without difficulty), and now sat at the foot of the bed wearing nothing but his breeches and a wide grin.

  "You may well say so, sir,” responded Higgins with an affronted sniff. “Ladies’ maid, indeed! Just how long do you think you can keep up this charade, if I might ask?"

  "As long as necessary,” said Sir Harry with steel in his voice. “Until the day of my nuptials, if need be—upon which occasion I shall double your wages."

  "And if the lady discovers the rig you're running and cries off?” Sir Harry's grin faded, to be replaced by a worried frown.

  "Ah, Higgins, that don't bear thinking of!"

  * * * *

  On the day following the Covent Garden outing, Lord Mannerly paid a call on his maternal aunt, the dowager duchess of Ramsey. Upon reaching her residence in Grosvenor Square, he was met by a butler who was starchier than his uncle, the late Duke, ever had been. This awe-inspiring personage conducted him to the Chinese Saloon, where her Grace was receiving.

  His mother's elder sister, although on the shady side of sixty, still retained her slender figure, and although her fair complexion was marred by the faintest of lines about her eyes and mouth, her exquisite bone structure guaranteed the sort of beauty that age cannot destroy. Her present surroundings complemented her personal attractions, for the red satin wall coverings and black lacquer chinoiserie furnishings called attention to her delicate beauty.

  "Forgive me, Aunt Augusta,” said the marquess, kissing her cheek. “I see it has been far too long since I called. The last time I was here, this room was Egyptian."

  "I know you did not come to admire the furniture, Selwyn,” remarked the duchess, as her nephew weighed a fat Buddha in his hand.

  Lord Mannerly replaced the Buddha figure with a shudder. “Quite right. I cannot share our Prince's fondness for the Oriental style."

  "Unhandsome! If you persist in insulting my taste, nephew, I shall be forced to ring for tea."

  "That would indeed be adding insult to injury. As if it were not punishment enough that you expect me to sit on these unnatural chairs—my dear aunt, what do you call them?"

  "That is a klismos chair, Selwyn, as if you did not already know,” replied the duchess with asperity.

  "Indeed? And I thought the klismos was Greek. I must call on you more often, Aunt. These visits are so educational, are they not?"

  Ruthlessly, her Grace of Ramsey tugged the bell pull and ordered the butler to bring in the tea tray. Thus chastised, her recalcitrant nephew lapsed into silence.

  "Now, Selwyn, to what do I owe the honor of this visit? And do not give me any nonsense about education, for I know very well that you think you know everything already."

  "Oh, but I do not,” protested the marquess. “And that is why I seek the benefit of your vast storehouses of information. What can you tell me about the dowager Lady Hawthorne, relict of a Leicestershire baronet?"

  "Lady Hawthorne,” echoed the duchess pensively, casting her mind back over the decades past. “What do you wish to know?"

  "I have no idea. I only hope I will recognize it when I hear it."

  "Well, if memory serves, she was several years older than I—"

  "Everyone is older than you, dearest, including your own daughter,” put in Mannerly.

  "Flatterer! As I recall, she was the daughter of a viscount, Langford, I believe—yes, I'm sure of it. She had very much the look of the family, poor dear, and although the Langford men were generally accounted a handsome lot, their features did not sit well on a feminine countenance. If she produced any female descendants, I pity them."

  "You may reserve your pity for those who need it,” her nephew informed her. “Lady Hawthorne's granddaughter is a diamond of the first water."

  Her Grace's eyebrows rose, her interest piqued. “Indeed? Sits the wind in that quarter?"

  Lord Mannerly gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Acquit me, I beg you, of having designs on a chit barely out of the schoolroom! Actually, I find Miss Darby, the fiancée of the current baronet, of far greater interest."

  The duchess bent a frown of disapproval on her errant nephew.

  "Selwyn, you would not make advances to a woman who is already spoken for!"
/>
  "Do you know me so little, Aunt? Of course I would!"

  Her Grace gave a musical laugh. “I have always had a weakness for a rake, Selwyn. I suppose that is why I tolerate you.” Her smiles turned to frowns as a new thought struck her. “She is not a Long Meg, is she, this granddaughter? Lady Hawthorne was taller than is pleasing in a female, although where she got her height remains a mystery, for the Langfords are not much above the average."

  "No, no Long Meg. Now, what else can you tell me about Lady Hawthorne?"

  The duchess shrugged her frail shoulders. “Not much, I'm afraid, except that she has resided in Bath for the last twenty years or more."

  "'Resided’ being the operative word,” put in her nephew. “She has recently taken up residence in London—Curzon Street, to be exact."

  "Indeed? Well! Now I am the one being educated! Shall I call on her, do you think?"

  Lord Mannerly hesitated. If there were anything havey-cavey about Lady Hawthorne, his aunt would be the one to spot it. “I should be eternally grateful if you would do so."

  The duchess raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That, Selwyn, I should like to see!"

  * * * *

  The morning sun rose high over the city of Bath, casting a golden hue over the local limestone which comprised its stately Georgian architecture. Although no longer the fashionable resort it had once been, the city still had a distinguished, if somewhat dated, air, not unlike the many elderly aristocrats who lingered there in fond recollection of their younger days. Numbered among these venerable denizens was the dowager Lady Hawthorne. From her lodgings in Laura Place, this worthy gentlewoman frowned at the view which had greeted her virtually every morning for the past twenty years.

  "Draw the curtains, Mildred,” she ordered her companion, a thin, colorless woman of indeterminate age. “The sunlight will fade the carpet."

  "Yes, my lady."

  Miss Mildred Hunnicutt scurried to do her employer's bidding, grateful for the quirk of fate which had made her second cousin to a widow of wealth and position, and thus provided her with genteel employment and a roof over her head. Alas, fate was not often kind to spinster ladies, and Miss Hunnicutt had abandoned all matrimonial hopes many years earlier, when her sweetheart had married a young woman chosen by his family while the bridal couple were still in their respective cradles.

  Having carried out Lady Hawthorne's command, Miss Hunnicutt returned to the table where the dowager sat scanning the newspaper as she sipped her morning chocolate. Knowing that her ladyship detested interruptions, Miss Hunnicutt held her tongue as she buttered a slice of toast. As the silence lengthened, the companion thought longingly of the Gothic romance she had recently borrowed from the lending library and wished she might return to her room to fetch it. But alas, Lady Hawthorne was no more fond of novels than she was of interruptions. In fact, as Miss Hunnicutt recalled, the last time she had seen her employee thus indulging, she had insisted on presenting her with an uplifting volume of sermons to read in its stead. Recalling this incident, the companion suppressed a sigh and contented herself with perusing the back of Lady Hawthorne's newspaper.

  While it made a poor substitute for the thrilling works of Mrs. Radcliffe, the page presenting itself to Miss Hunnicutt contained the society news from London, and so she passed the time in learning the latest doings of the beau monde, their identities thinly veiled by the lavish use of initials and abbreviations. She had spent several minutes thus agreeably occupied when one tidbit surprised a startled squeak from her lips.

  "Well, Mildred?” demanded Lady Hawthorne impatiently, lowering her newspaper to frown at her errant employee. “I trust you will explain why you saw fit to interrupt this fascinating account of Lord Mablethorpe's sojourn to America? I had just reached the part where his party was set upon by savages."

  "I beg your pardon, my lady,” Miss Hunnicutt twittered, “but I found this item most interesting. Tell me, is Sir Harry not betrothed to a Miss Darby?"

  "Miss Darby, Miss Derwood, something like that. Although why any woman of sense would choose to marry my ramshackle grandson quite escapes me. Impudent young popinjay! Although I must confess, the lad is as handsome as he can stare,” she added with a glance toward the mantle, where a yellowed miniature revealed a curly-haired boy cradling a redheaded infant on his lap. “Indeed, I have often detected in his countenance a pronounced resemblance to myself."

  "I have often remarked upon it also, my lady,” replied Miss Hunnicutt dutifully, thankful to be spared a scolding.

  "But that is neither here nor there,” continued Lady Hawthorne brusquely. “Why do you bring up my grandson now, when I was so enjoying reading of Lord Mablethorpe's travels?"

  "I beg your pardon, my lady, but I thought you might find this item of interest.” She reached for the dowager's newspaper, then hesitated. “With your permission, of course."

  "Oh, very well,” agreed Lady Hawthorne with obvious reluctance.

  Miss Hunnicutt turned the paper over and began to read aloud. ‘"The dowager Lady H. has recently returned to the Metropolis after a prolonged residence in Bath. Lady H., grandmother of Sir H. H., was seen at Covent Garden with her granddaughter Miss H., Lord M., and Miss D., who is rumored to be betrothed to Sir H. Can it be wedding bells which have lured Lady H. out of seclusion?'” Lowering the newspaper, Miss Hunnicutt regarded her employer expectantly.

  "What of it, Mildred?” asked Lady Hawthorne, unimpressed.

  "Is it not extraordinary, my lady? Why, it could have been describing you!"

  "Indeed it could have, were it not for one minor detail: it says Lady H. has recently returned to London, and I, you will observe, am still very much in Bath."

  "Still, it is unusual, you must own,” persisted the companion.

  "Nonsense! Why, there must be any number of dowagers in London with the same initials, and I'll wager most of them have grandsons. Now, unless you can find something worthwhile to say, kindly let me finish my article in peace."

  "Yes, my lady,” murmured Miss Hunnicutt, quite cowed.

  * * * *

  While in Bath Lady Hawthorne perused Lord Mablethorpe's account of his American travels, readers of the London newspapers were made privy to the information that Lady Clairmont had presented her husband with a son and heir, and that both mother and child were doing well. These happy tidings (which had been delivered to Curzon Street by messenger on the evening after Mrs. Darby's hasty departure) were gladly received by all who had known Mrs. Darby's eldest daughter before her marriage to the viscount. The predictable result was a steady stream of morning callers to Curzon Street. Upon their arrival, the visitors discovered that the new grandmother had gone to assist at her daughter's lying-in, and that Miss Hawthorne's grandmother, recently of Bath, had taken on the role of duenna.

  Happy as she was for her sister, the new aunt, Miss Darby, found her sudden celebrity something of a trial. She endured her visitors’ congratulations with a strained smile, but found it harder to answer with equanimity their coy suggestions that she would soon be the one marrying and setting up her nursery. For as plentiful as her callers were, the one she most wanted to see was conspicuously absent. Her heart leaped every time the door knocker sounded, only to plummet when the butler announced someone other than Sir Harry.

  But, Olivia told herself, she did not care. If Harry did not wish for her company, there was another who did. Indeed, had it not been for Lord Mannerly, she did not know how she would have managed. The marquess was as attentive as Harry was neglectful, and his obvious admiration was a balm to her wounded pride. He had called in Curzon Street on the morning following the birth announcement, accompanied by his aunt, the duchess of Ramsey.

  "I understand your sister has given birth to a boy,” said Lord Mannerly as he bowed over her hand. “Allow me to tell you that I have never seen a maiden aunt more lovely."

  "I'll wager you say that to all the young ladies,” scolded Miss Darby playfully, her cheeks nevertheless turning pink with pleasure
.

  "Tell me, Miss Darby, what has Sir Harry to say to your sister's happy news? I daresay he looks forward to the day when he can set up his own nursery."

  At the mention of her absentee bridegroom, Olivia lost her rosy glow. “I have seen little of Harry of late, my lord. He stays very busy, you see."

  "Perhaps his loss may be my gain. I realize I must be a poor substitute for the man you are promised to marry, but I should be honored to offer you my services as an escort. Do you like horses, Miss Darby? I have a fine pair of blacks which I exercise regularly in the park. I should be pleased if you would accompany me."

  "I should like that very much,” replied Olivia, her spirits lifting somewhat.

  "I shall call for you at four,” promised the marquess, then rose to join his aunt.

  The duchess of Ramsey, in the meantime, had been renewing her long-neglected acquaintance with Lady Hawthorne. Shortly after being reintroduced to the dowager, her Grace had been seized by the conviction that her nephew's suspicions were well-founded, although she could not have said precisely what had drawn her to such a conclusion. Certainly Lady Hawthorne's looks had altered greatly since the last time she had seen her, and yet the duchess was not so vain as to suppose the passing of twenty years had left her own visage untouched by Time.

  Nor did Lady Hawthorne's conversation provide any clues. The duchess asked several probing questions concerning the various members of Lady Hawthorne's family, and she had been given an equal number of innocuous replies. Still, she could not shake the conviction that something was not quite right.

  The subject of Lady Hawthorne's family led not unnaturally to a discussion of her home in Bath, and the numerous mutual acquaintances who had flocked to that once-fashionable spa to take the waters. Here the duchess found Lady Hawthorne less loquacious, and here she found the opening she sought.

  "Tell me, Lady Hawthorne,” she said, pausing to take a sip of tea from her delicate Sevres cup, “do you ever see Lady Thurston-Whyte? I understand her physician advised her to take the cure last year."