They halted in front of a tall columned portico with cream-colored limestone steps and thick carved stone balustrades fanning outward from the steps like welcoming arms. There was a quick fluttering flash of someone in the beveled-glass sidelights that framed the enormous polished walnut doors. They opened, and a rush of green and gold liveried footmen came down the steps.
Met with all the pomp and circumstance awarded to a conquering monarch, she thought, watching as the footmen lined up like guardsmen on either side of the steps. Joy expected them to break out the trumpets at any second. Instead, the carriage door opened and her husband, the laird of the manor, descended, then turned to help her down. She placed her hand in his and paused. Just the touch of his hand could turn her heart over.
“This is our home, Belmore Park.” There was pride in his voice, the first emotion she sensed that he did not try to hide.
She looked up and her mouth fell open. Completely awestruck she craned her head back to take in all of the palatial glory of her new home.
It was three stories tall and completely made of pale stone with what appeared to be near a hundred huge pillastered leaded-glass windows. Duart Castle also had glass, but nothing like this, and the castle windows were small, little more than old arrow slits in the tower rooms where she had lived. The glass, as rustic and old as the castle itself, was thick and wavy and filmed with the salt of the sea. But here there was so much leaded crystalline glass that at first glance the windows looked like diamonds set in pale stone. She wondered how this house would look in spring with the sun shining on all that glass. It would be almost like a magic spell—a thousand stars sparkling in the light of day.
“This is … magical.” Her eager eyes scanned the facade and the four three-story angular bays that stood out, giving an impression of depth.
“It was built by Sir John Thynne, after the original house burned down. See the balustrade along the roof?”
Joy followed his hand to the roofline of the house where an ornamental railing bordered the flat roof.
“And those domed buildings and chimneys?”
Her eyes were drawn to the pepperpot domes, heraldic beasts, and exotic chimneys and strapwork that created the whimsical image of an ironwork ball dancing across the skyline. She counted fourteen elaborately designed chimneys with ornamental turrets with finial beasts prancing atop them. Fourteen of them visible from the front alone!
“The buildings with those domed roofs are small banqueting rooms that can be used for dinner parties.”
“Dinner parties? On the roof?”
“The view is quite pleasing.”
Dumbfounded, she just stared at him. After a second, she looked back up at the roof. Quite pleasing? She would have wagered she could see clear to Scotland from that roof.
He led her up the steps, past the stiff footmen who lined it, and into the entry. Her stomach knotted at the sight that greeted her. Her astonished gaze followed the chessboard-marble floor to the staircase, then up and up to a gallery with an intricately worked brass banister. Decorative plastered columns rose . . . and rose and rose . . . upward to a painted ceiling surrounded by more plasterwork and tall glass windows.
“It’s painted.”
“Hmm?”
“The dome in the ceiling. It looks like an oil painting.”
The duke followed her look. “Oh, that? It’s a fresco. Louis Laguerre did them. They are scenes from the life of Julius Caesar.”
“Oh, that?” he had said. As in, “Oh, that old thing?”
“The staff is waiting.”
She turned and looked behind her toward the center of the great hall, where a large number of servants—close to a hundred of them, she surmised—waited to pay homage to the laird, her new husband. Panicked, she looked at him. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was leading her over to meet a hundred people.
She, who couldn’t even remember an incantation, was expected to remember their names? Such folly she had gotten herself into this time—and without even using her magic. She whispered, “Oh, my goodness.”
He paused and looked at her, his expression puzzled. “Is something wrong?”
“How will I remember their names?”
“Their names?” He gave the eternal line a cursory glance. “They are servants. They are employed by me.You needn’t know their names.”
“Of course, I do.”
“Why?”
“They are people.”
“Of course, they’re people, but they’re servants first and foremost.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, even though she didn’t see at all. It seemed heartless to think of them as servants instead of people. She changed tack, hoping he’d see her point. “Were they born into their positions here?”
“As a matter of fact, some of them were. It is an honor to be employed by the Duke of Belmore. They are paid well and have the prestige of saying they work at Belmore.”
“What am I supposed to say if I need to speak to one of them? Hallo, you? Servant?” Then she couldn’t help muttering, “Slave?”
“Do not be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Just ask their names and tell them what to do.”
She took a deep breath and bit her lip. Now she’d gone and angered him. She sighed and followed her stiff-backed husband to the head of the line. While still out of hearing distance, she grabbed his arm. “Alec?”
“What?”
“Is part of my duty as a duchess . . . is it, I mean, do I have to run this whole house?”
“There is a housekeeper, Mrs. Watley. She and Townsend, the butler, run the household.”
Joy’s sigh of relief was so loud it could have echoed in the frescoed scenes of Julius Caesar.
“Come along, you shall meet Watley and Townsend first. They are at their places of honor at the front of the line.”
Her relief was short-lived. There was a rigid protocol attached to this meeting, and Joy was certain it was a ritual performed generation after generation.
“May I present my wife, Her Grace the Duchess of Belmore. This is Mrs. Watley.” Mrs. Watley looked as if she needed some prunes. Her shoulders went military straight. Her lips grew thinner, a feat Joy would have wagered was impossible, and she looked down at the new duchess—she was at least six feet tall—as if she found her severely lacking.
“And Townsend.”
The butler resembled a peer—an earl or a marquess, perhaps. He had distinguished- looking white hair and patrician features and wore dark clothing and a white shirt as crisp as if he had dressed with the help of an expert valet. He nodded once, his brown eyes meeting hers only briefly before he turned his stare back to somewhere over her right shoulder.
Slowly, they made their way along the lines, with either the butler or the housekeeper introducing each servant to Belmore’s new duchess. Joy tried to find some distinguishing feature in each one to help her remember who the servant was. The only one she knew she would remember was a short, dark-haired young girl whose name was Polly and who had the most delightful and friendly smile of anyone. She and the cook were the only ones who had ventured anything resembling a smile.
“Mrs. Watley will take you to your rooms, where you can rest until dinner.” With his order given, Alec turned and started to walk away.
“Alec?”
He stopped and turned.
“Where are you going?”
From his face one would have thought she had asked for his blood, every last drop. After a thoughtful moment he deigned to explain. “I need to meet with my steward. I’ve been in London for two months, and my business here has been too long neglected.”
“Oh.” Feeling unsure of herself and out of place, she watched her new husband turn and leave, abandoning her into the clutches of dour Mrs. Watley.
“If Your Grace will follow me, I will show you to your rooms.” The woman’s order was given with the same curt expectation of obedience used by Alec, a tone that indicated one should not dare to do anything but co
mply.
With one wee shrug, she followed the woman up the stairs, watching the way Mrs. Watley’s torso stayed as straight as a caber. She was dressed in crisp black bombazine, tightly belted, with a smidgen of a white lace handkerchief peeking out from the side of the wide black belt. A housekeeper’s badge—silver rings of keys at her waist—jangled and jingled with each precise step in the hallowed stairwells of Joy’s opulent new home.
Reminded of sleigh bells and chimes and fairy tunes, Joy picked up her skirts and her step and bobbed her head in time to those musical keys, mentally humming a merry ballad while her eager eyes absorbed every luxurious detail surrounding her. On the left an arched coffer served as a special place for an ancient Oriental vase. On the right stood a green and gold porcelain urn as big as Lady Eugenia was small.
They crossed a seemingly endless gallery filled with priceless oil portraits of what must have been every Castlemaine born to this earth. Three more turns, two more corridors, and five or so twists, and they finally reached a long double-width hallway with several lavishly gilded doors. Continuing down the hall, she looked up at the high molded-plaster ceiling half expecting to see another fresco.
There was none. The design in the plasterwork, however, did match that of the carpet, exactly. Every so often, she caught a glimpse of the ducal crest worked into the pattern—a Belmore ceiling and a Belmore carpet.
Mrs. Watley stopped abruptly, her bombazine skirts rustling like leaves in the summer wind. She unhooked one of the five large key rings, found the right key with little thought, and unlocked the door.
“Your rooms, Your Grace.”
Joy stepped inside a massive room lined with carved and inlaid paneling edged in gold leaf. Trying not to gape, she untied her bonnet and let it dangle from her fingers. It was all she could do not to ask Mrs. Watley to pinch her awake. This couldn’t be real.
A beautiful rosewood desk with a matching chair stood behind the wing chairs by the fireplace. Decorated with Roman gods carved into rose marble, the fireplace took up half a wall. Everything in the room was rose and gold, even the bed, with its tall canopy draped in matching rose and gold silk brocade and tied back with heavy silken tassels. Her warm gaze followed the lines of the high bed, upward, past its canopy to the ceiling.
It was painted.
“This is the dressing room.” Mrs. Watley pressed a panel in the wall, and the door swung open to reveal a room filled with beveled mirrors. “Beyond that is the bath.”
Joy tossed her hat onto a small tapestry chair and followed her, removing her gloves as she walked across the marble floor of the dressing room and peeked around a mirrored corner. Her gloves fell to the floor unnoticed. The entire room was made of a soft rose-colored marble—the floors, the walls, the sinks, and the tub, which was sunken like a Roman pool into the floor, and one mirrored wall was framed by rose silk draperies with hand-painted gold roses.
Mrs. Watley’s heels clicked across the marble floor and, with a gesture akin to holding a dead rat, opened another door. Her thin face was as hard as that marble. “This is the water closet. It’s a Bramah.” The door whipped shut before Joy could get even one wee glimpse of the room.
She marched back into the bedchamber. Joy assumed she was to follow. The housekeeper turned and looked down at her. “I’ll send someone up with your things, Your Grace, and a maid will be here shortly to help you bathe.” She flicked a watch pin up from her chest. “Dinner is served at nine, always. You have several hours until then. Your Grace might wish to rest.”
Joy blinked once in surprise, then realized she was twenty-one, a duchess who was being Your Graced to death, and she had just been told to take a nap.
“Does Your Grace need anything else?”
Joy shook her head.
“Very well.” The housekeeper opened the door and paused. “His Grace likes dinner on time. Precisely at nine o’clock. A Belmore tradition.” And with that command— or warning, Joy wasn’t sure which—she closed the door.
Joy exhaled and spun around and around in the center of the room, her eager eyes taking in every impressive detail. Dizzy with excitement, she collapsed on the bed in a puff of plump down and smoothed her hands over the lovely brocade coverlet, feeling every silken stitch. Very carefully she sat up on the edge of the bed, letting her feet dangle near the velvet footstool, and then she bounced a couple of times to test the bed’s deep softness.
“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered, followed by a giggle.
She ran one hand over the gilded headboard and touched its rose velvet padding, and her other hand sank into a down pillow so soft and plump that it was like touching a cloud.
A knock sounded, and she shot off the bed as if stuck with a brooch, brushing her skirts down before she stood stiffly, small shoulders back, chin raised and slightly cocked—it was her duchess pose—and said in a deep voice, “Come in.” Unfortunately, her voice cracked, completely ruining her attempt to sound regal.
In walked Henson, with Beezle attached to his back again. “Your pet, Your Grace.”
She rushed over to the doorway and plucked her familiar off the poor man. Henson’s queue was once again in disarray, only this time the gold ribbon had been chewed until it was completely frayed. She glanced down at Beezle, lying in her arms and happily chomping away, a trail of golden thread hanging like wet whiskers from his mouth.
“Thank you, Henson.” She grabbed the threads and tried to pull them from Beezle’s mouth. They kept coming and coming, and she wrapped them around her hand over and over until finally she yanked so hard that he bared his teeth, showing the wad of ribbon in his mouth. After a brief tug-of-war, she gave up and set him down on the thick rug. He waddled over to a rose velvet chaise longue, climbed up, and chewed and chewed and chewed before he swallowed the wad of ribbon with a gulp. He plopped his pointed snout on his black-tipped paws. His tiny ears twitched and he raised his head and belched twice. Then, his brown eyes grew lazy and drifted closed. The next thing Joy knew, he was wheezing.
“Your Grace’s maid.” Henson stepped aside, and in scurried a nervous Polly, who tried to curtsy with her arms full of clothing and bite back her bright smile at the same time. She didn’t quite accomplish either and dumped the clothing onto the floor, a wide smile creasing her rosy English cheeks. With a tsk-tsk, Henson shut the door after him.
“Mrs. Watley said I am to be Your Grace’s maid until Your Grace can hire someone more experienced and suited to Your Grace.” Polly bent to pick up a dressing gown and some other scanty garment, set them on a chaise longue and turned back to Joy. The maid’s hands, now clasped in front of her, quivered with nervousness.
Joy stared at the top of Polly’s bowed head. “Have you been a lady’s maid before?”
The girl straightened up, no longer smiling. She was apparently trying hard to look as serious and dismal as Mrs. Watley. “I’ve helped when there’s been guests at Belmore, and me aunt was lady’s maid to His Grace’s mum, Your Grace.”
“I’d like you to do something for me, Polly.”
“Yes, Your Grace?” Polly worried her lower lip.
“Will you stop Your Gracing me, please? At least, when we’re alone?”
That bright smile came back, bonfire bright. “Yes, ma’am.”
Joy grinned back. “Thank you. And I won’t be needing someone with more experience. You’ve more experience than I—I’ve never had a maid before.”
“Never?” Polly’s blue eyes grew as wide as butter scones. “But you’re a duchess!”
“I don’t know how to be a duchess, Polly. I’ve never even met one before.”
“Well, I can teach you some, ma’am.” Polly suddenly stood a bit taller. “A duchess always stands straight”—she patted her chin—“with her head raised very high, and then looks down the length of her noble nose.” The maid’s eyes crossed as she tried to demonstrate.
Joy laughed.
Polly uncrossed her eyes and gave Joy a wide grin. As suddenly as it appeared
, she tried to bite it back.
“Please don’t,” Joy said.
“What, ma’am?”
“Hide your smile.”
Polly breathed a relieved sigh. “Oh, ma’am, thank you. Mrs. Watley’s forever pinnin’ me ‘bout smilin’. She says I look like the village idiot, a-grinnin’ and laughin’ like my wits took to Bath for a holiday.”
Joy laughed again.
“She says for hundreds of years Belmore servants have been”—Polly raised her chin in a haughty manner, just like Mrs. Watley, and her voice became clipped and authoritative—“dignified. She said I should be like my aunt.”
“Is your aunt dignified?”
“No.”
“Then I take it your aunt doesn’t smile.”
“No, ma’am, she doesn’t, but not because she’s proper or anything. She lost her front teeth when she was twelve and hasn’t smiled since.” Polly grinned at her.
“I don’t blame her, do you?”
“No, ma’am,” Polly said on a giggle, then, as if she’d suddenly realized with whom she was laughing, she grew solemn. “Would you be wantin’ a bath? I can take your clothes and clean them. His Grace told Mrs. Watley that your things had been stolen. How awful, ma’am. Was it highwaymen?”
Joy could feel her blush rise. “No.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved, ma’am. Can you imagine being set upon by highwaymen? I read this book about some highwaymen who held up a poor lady and stole all her things and then kidnapped her for ransom. An’ the things they tried to do to her, ma’am, ohhhh, it was just horrible! That is until the leader of the highwaymen rode in on his big black stallion and took her under his protection. Then they fell in love and married ‘cause he was truly an earl who had been wrongly accused of killing his father. That part was so romantic.”
“What was this book?”
“Something Cook was reading.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It was.” Polly looked uneasy for a moment, her eyes shifting left, then right, and she leaned very close toJoy and whispered. “It was a romantic novel.”
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