The Duchess gave a little grunt at last and woke up. “It’s cold,” she said. “Colder still tonight. Remind me to buy some blankets when we next stop.”
“You really mean to travel right through the night?”
“Said so, didn’t I? Afraid I’ll collapse on your hands, eh? Don’t worry; I’m as tough as I look—and a good bit younger. Think I’m in my dotage, don’t you? Well, I’m not. Aged ten years overnight when James was killed. Or so they said. We’d only been married six months. Oh well; it’s a long time ago now.” Surprisingly, she laughed. “I can see the questions boiling inside you. And time I talked about it, I suppose. Besides, if you’re going to live with the Mad Duchess, you’d better know something about me.”
“Is that what they call you?”
“So I’m told. I’ve never been back, you know. Couldn’t face it at first, couldn’t be bothered later. Don’t look so anxious: I find I’m looking forward to it now. Think of the changes! Regent Street and all poor Prinney’s other building. Gas lighting. Sir Robert Peel’s policemen. And how about you? Know anything about London?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Where do you remember?” The question was intentionally sharp, as if to startle an answer out of her.
“Country,” Marianne answered at once. “Cliffs, the sea: I can swim and sail a boat, I’m sure.”
“Odd in a young lady. Nothing else? It would be—convenient if you were to begin remembering.”
“I know—but it’s no use. I’ve tried and tried.”
“Then don’t.” The Duchess had heard the quiver in her voice. “Ask me some more of your questions instead.”
“Well, where are we going, ma’am?”
“Why to London, of course.”
“I know, but where will we stay? We are hardly dressed for a hotel.” Marianne looked down at her drab dress, a gift from Mrs. Thorne’s oldest daughter.
“No, we’d hardly be welcome at Mivart’s.” The Duchess stretched out a booted foot and looked at it reflectively. “How I am going to hate dressing. But as to where we’re going: Lundy House, of course. Never heard of it? Oh well—it’s not as big as Apsley House, nor so splendid as Lord Hertford’s, but it’s on Park Lane, and quite comfortable, so far as I can remember. I expect my nephew will find house room for us easily enough.”
“Your nephew?”
“The Duke, God bless him. He’s bound to be home, on account of the carryings on in Parliament. Very conscientious, poor John is; always has been from a child. Didn’t like to take the house at first, but I was in no mood for Dowager-Duchessing it in Park Lane. Don’t suppose I’ll enjoy it much now, but never mind.” She took pity on Marianne’s perplexity. “James left the house to me, you see. And everything else he could, too, poor darling. Not much comfort at the time, I can tell you, but, you know, there’s a lot to be said for money. I can afford my pleasures—such as they are. You’re to be one of them, and no argument. Boring for me to dress like a Duchess, but I’ll enjoy dressing you as my ward.”
“Your ward? But, my dear ma’am—”
“Why not. Can’t go round calling yourself Miss Amnesia— don’t want to call yourself Mrs. Rossand; I can quite see that. Besides, I’m not convinced of that yet, and nor, I think, are you. No, my ward, Miss Lamb, if you like; anything else, if you’d rather. No history, no questions answered, no trouble at all. There are advantages, I find, about being the Mad Duchess. I took James’s horsewhip once to someone who asked impertinent questions. Richly deserved—made quite an impression in town—all the gossip columns—I didn’t care, why should I? John was a bit bothered, poor boy. That’s when he gave in and agreed to take over the house so I could come down here and have some peace. But wouldn’t have it as a gift, still in my name, said he was my steward; nonsense of course, but it comes in handy now.”
“You mean we are going to stay, without any warning, at Lundy House with your nephew. But, surely, his wife ...”
“No wife, worse luck. Can’t think why not. Certainly not for lack of trying—on their part. Very eligible Duke, James is; not quite in the same category as Devonshire, perhaps—no Chatsworth, for one thing—but marriageable, you know. Must drive the London Mammas wild to have two of them still uncaught. One on each side of the fence, you might say. Should warn you, I suppose, that John is an arrant Tory. Wait till you hear him on the Reform Bill. I hope they haven’t broken all his windows, but I expect they have. Still, couldn’t be colder than this.” And she ended the conversation by wrapping her cloak more closely around her and falling asleep again.
XIII
It was early in the morning, and bitterly cold, when the coach rattled, at last, onto the first paving stones that proved they were really in London. The Duchess opened one eye sleepily at the change in the motion of the vehicle, then closed it again: “Wake me when we get there.”
Marianne had no watch, but the emptiness of the streets, and the glum gray of the sky combined to convince her that their driver had earned his extra money. “But, ma’am,” she ventured, “hardly anyone is stirring. Surely you will not arrive, unannounced, at this hour?”
“What else?” The Duchess roused herself to look out of the carriage window. “I’ve no mind to go on freezing any longer than is necessary, I can tell you. Besides, I propose to be a great trouble to poor John, and ‘begin as you mean to go on,’ is my motto: always has been. Anyway, I bet you we find he’s been up all night at the House; very likely to catch him just before he retires. Waste of time to try and consider other people; always get it wrong; just more trouble for everyone. Now you’ve waked me up.” She sat up straight in her corner and ran ruthless fingers through her straggling white hair. “Still don’t quite believe I’m not in my dotage, do you?” What an uncomfortable gift she had for reading one’s thoughts. “I went white when James died. How they talked. God, how tedious it was. All over now. Poor James; the forgetting was the worst, in a way. I used to cry because I couldn’t cry. Understand?”
“I think so.” Impossible, in fact, to imagine forgetting Mauleverer.
“No you don’t.” As usual the Duchess read her thoughts. “But you’ll find out—if it comes to that, which I hope it won’t. Good God, how town has changed. This was all open country when I was a girl. I can remember primrosing here. Ah well, march of progress, I suppose. Never could understand why it was assumed we did progress, but never mind; it sounds better. Nervous?”
“A little.”
“No need to be. John’s almost too mild. Terrified of me, too, poor boy. Well, not a boy exactly; in his forties I suppose by now; an old man to you, eh? But a good nephew to me, I’ll say that for him. You’ll be all right in his house. Don t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. Bring things to a head, see? Someone, surely, will recognize you. No need to look so frightened; I’ve confidence in you, if you haven t in yourself. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, and the sooner we prove it, the better. Besides, I’ve a score to settle with your Mr. Rossand. I liked that house.”
“If it really was he,” put in Marianne.
“Of course it was he: tried to persuade the villagers; failed; did it himself. Stands to reason. The only thing I want to know is where he went next. Is he hiding in the country somewhere? Does he know we escaped? Lots of questions. Anyway, bound to learn you are alive sooner or later, and bound, I take it, to do something about you. I wonder why you’re such a threat to him. By rights, John should have some more information about that marriage license by now—it’s taken him long enough, but I suppose he’s been busy over this Bill like everyone else.”
Marianne was appalled. “You mean it is the Duke who has been making enquiries on my behalf?”
“Who else? He’s always handled my affairs—and very capably too. Hardly a commission one would entrust to a stranger. No, no; no need to look so distressed. What a girl you are for blushing. But John doesn’t mind; not enough to do, half the time, but be a Duke. Good for him to have an interest. Good Go
d, look at the Duke’s house! Did you ever see anything so pitiful as all those boarded windows. I’d see them damned before I made such a concession to the mob, and so I’ll tell him—and John, too, if he’s done it to my house. But of course it stands farther back. That was Apsley House,” she explained belatedly, “this is Park Lane—the Green Park over there, though it hardly looks it now, and—Ah, here we are at last. Hmmm—the railings aren’t a bad idea, and I suppose the gates lock.” The carriage had turned through the gates in a high ornamental railed fence as she was speaking, and now came to a halt in front of what seemed to Marianne a perfectly enormous gray stone house.
More than ever aware of their tatterdemalion appearance, Marianne wished she had the courage to point out that the Duchess’s borrowed bonnet was askew over wildly straggling white hair. Surreptitiously patting her own ringlets into some kind of order, she felt the Duchess’s sardonic eye upon her: “Past praying for, if you ask me. I wouldn’t worry.” Their driver had opened the carriage door and let down the steps by now, and with these far from encouraging words, the Duchess climbed lightly out, instructing the man, as she did so, to, “Knock me a good peal on that door.”
The man looked frightened, but obeyed, while Marianne joined the Duchess in the arched portico.
“I shall be glad of some breakfast. Ah, at last,” the Duchess broke off as the big door swung slowly open to reveal a sleepy-looking footman half in, half out of his livery jacket. “My good man,” she went on, “that is no way to receive guests. Is the Duke at home?”
“His Grace? At home to company at eight o’clock in the morning? And to a couple of gypsies too, by the look of it.” The man yawned insolently. “Best be off with you, before I send for the Peelers.”
“You mistake the matter a trifle.” The Duchess was entirely unruffled. “And I have no wish to lose you your position. I have no doubt that those of your fellow servants who are somewhat older—and wiser—than you have told you of the Mad Duchess. Well, here I am. If my nephew is not at home, you will bring me the housekeeper. She will make arrangements for my reception, and that of my ward.”
There was something in her tone that did not encourage discussion. Reluctantly, the man stood aside to let her and Marianne enter the spacious entrance hall. “No need to look so alarmed,” the Duchess told him kindly. “I really am the Dowager Duchess. Now, fetch Melton, if you please.”
The man seemed to find his wits and his tongue at once. “But the Duke is here,” he said. “He is but now returned from the House. He is eating his breakfast—supper—what you will. I do not like to disturb him.”
“I am glad to hear he is so formidable a master. In the study, no doubt? Come, Marianne.” And the Duchess tramped down the tessellated hall in her cavalry boots, threw open a door at the far end, and said, with obvious pleasure, “Ah, John, the very thing we need: breakfast. Oh, and tell your man I really am the Mad Duchess; he is in perfect fits for fear of having done the wrong thing.”
The tall man who had been sitting with a cup of coffee beside a blazing fire now came forward, hands outstretched. “My dear aunt, this is a most unexpected pleasure.” And then: “Breakfast? Of course. James, two more breakfasts. Quick.”
He was not at all what Marianne expected. His aunt’s affectionate but faintly disparaging remarks about him had made her imagine a frail, elderly, cipher of a man, but this was a fair-haired giant who was now taking her hand in acknowledgment of his aunt’s introduction of “My ward, Miss Lamb.” Taller than Mauleverer—her inevitable standard of comparison—he was also much broader in the shoulder and gave an impression of rugged outdoors health, even in his present costume of a fur-lined banyan, or dressing gown. His smile, as he greeted her, was reassuringly warm and frank. “My aunt has written me about you, Miss Lamb. You are most welcome to Lundy House.”
Stammering her thanks, Marianne thought him the most perfect gentleman she had ever met. Nothing in his behavior gave the slightest hint at their unexpected arrival and bizarre appearance. He was urging the Duchess, now, to the chair by the fire that he had vacated and bringing up another for Marianne. “You must be quite perished with the cold.” He seated her. “And are come direct from Devon?” The question was for his aunt.
“Non-stop.” She smiled up at him with evident affection. “We found ourselves in need of a protector, and are come, of course, to you.”
“I am delighted to hear it.” He smiled back at her. “Not that I believe it for a moment. When you need a protector, aunt, chaos is come again.”
“Thank you.” She stretched out her booted feet to the fire. “But just the same, we have a great many problems, Miss Lamb and I. We need clothes, to begin with. My house burned down, night before last.” She threw it in quite casually.
“Your house! The rioters? Impossible!”
“Yes, quite impossible. Not rioters. Miss Lamb’s husband, we think, if he is her husband.”
“I notice you call her Miss Lamb—excuse me.” He turned to Marianne. “This must be a painful topic to you.”
There was something warming about his smile. “Please don’t apologize,” she said, “I am used to it. And, Your Grace, I must thank you—”
“Oh, come,” the Duchess interrupted her. “Are you my ward, Marianne, or aren’t you? If you start calling poor John ‘Your Grace,’ we’ll all be exchanging formalities here till Doomsday. And as for thanking him, why not thank me. I made him do it.”
The Duke laughed kindly down at Marianne from his great height. “You see,” he said, “she bullies us all. But, no thanks, Miss Lamb, I am only happy to think that I may have been of some service to you. And—I hope I have better news. Have you ever been to Romney Marsh?”
“Not that I know of—but of course that does not mean much.”
“‘Quite so. But did not this man, Rossand, who pretended to be your husband, talk of marrying you at a little church on a hill?”
“Yes?”
“Well, there you have it. Paul Rossand married Marianne Loudon at Dymchurch, in Kent. I cannot, offhand, think of a flatter bit of England. You could no more talk of walking down the hill from church—if it had been Rye or Winchelsea, it would have been something else again, but Dymchurch—I can only assume that his memory betrayed him when he was inventing corroborative detail for your benefit.”
“You mean—he’s not my husband?”
“It seems to me most unlikely. I think it far more probable that he searched the records until he found a marriage that fitted in with his story and contrived to obtain a copy of the certificate.”
“So his name is not Rossand, and mine has never been Loudon?”
“Precisely.” He looked pleased, as with an apt pupil. “So that in a way you are no further on than before—but at least you are not married.”
“At least!” Oh, what a gullible fool she had been to accept the soi-disant Rossand’s story so easily—and yet, he had known so much about her. She colored at the memory.
“I take it,” went on the Duke in his measured tones, “that he produced sufficient evidence to convince you—at the time—that you had been married to him.”
“Yes.” He seemed to share his aunt’s gift for reading one’s thoughts.
“The trouble is,” he said thoughtfully, “that you are in such an exposed position, undefended by memory. After all, he may have known you—but not as a husband. I think you were entirely right to come to London, aunt.”
She twinkled at him. “I am delighted to have your approval. Yes, I think Marianne’s public appearance, in our protection, should precipitate something. Clearly impossible to go on as she is. Ah, is that breakfast? Good to see you, Mrs. Melton. Come to make sure it’s really me?”
The black-garbed housekeeper rustled forward: “Yes, breakfast is ready in the small breakfast room, Your Grace. And may I say you’re a sight for sore eyes, ma’am. I never thought I’d live to see you back where you belonged.”
“No tears, now.” The Duchess rose to her feet
. “The time for them is past. Besides, I want my breakfast. You’ve worn well, Melton.” And then, with one of her swift changes of tone: “Shouldn’t you be in bed, John? Up all night in that stuffy chamber. Don’t wait on us; Melton will manage.”
“No, no.” He opened the door for her. “This is much too exciting an occasion for anything so tame as sleep. Besides, I want to hear your plan of campaign, aunt. I have no doubt you have it all mapped out—and still less that I am to play a part. Best break it to me now.”
She laughed and helped herself to scrambled eggs. “You’re right, of course. Nothing wrong with your wits, John, I’ll say that for you. I thought a ball—a welcome home for the Mad Duchess—appropriate, surely?”
He laughed. “The least I can do. When?”
“The sooner the better. I want Marianne to surprise the world when I launch her; no time for gossip first. Two weeks from today?”
“I don’t see why not. But do you mean to keep Miss Lamb mewed up here in the meantime?”
“Impossible. I wish I could, but she and I have clothes to buy. I’ll need my diamonds, John; all of them. As for Miss Lamb; no introductions; policy of mysterious silence; get them all agog; introduce her at the ball and see what happens.”
“But, ma’am.” Marianne could keep silent no longer. “You cannot mean to give a ball for me!”
“I don’t. Told you it was John’s ball—and my welcome home. But the ideal opportunity for you to make your debut.”
“But, consider! I may be nobody—worse.”
“I’ll chance it.” She shrugged and drank coffee. “Known as mad already; what’s the difference? Besides, I don’t believe it. What megrim have you in your head now? Decided you’re someone’s by-blow and least said soonest mended? Well, I’ve thought of it myself, but what’s the odds? We’ll ask the Duke of Munster and all the other FritzClarences to make you feel at home. Anyway, I don’t believe it. Wouldn’t explain Mr. Rossand—or whatever his name is, for one thing.” She turned back to her nephew. “Very well, two weeks from today. We’ll make the arrangements; I know you’re busy. Weippert’s music still the best?”
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