A Duke for Christmas

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “I can only assume that you interrupted this burglar before he could carry out whatever plans he had.” Maris patted Sophie’s hand. “I’m very grateful to you and Dominic. Did he really chase after him into the dark? And on such a bitter night?”

  “He did indeed. Without an instant’s hesitation.”

  At the time, she had not thought very much about his courage in running out into the dark. Anything might have been waiting for him, from a shot to a club on the head. Yet he hadn’t hesitated. She could still feel the touch of his hand as he went past her.

  “Are you all right?” Maris asked.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “You shivered.”

  “Did I? There must be a draft.”

  Maris looked around the entryway. “I suppose so.” Distracted by the arrival of the carriage, she took her sister’s arm. “Where’s Mother? Go see if you can find her. Kenton doesn’t like it when we keep the horses standing in the cold.”

  “Certainly.” Throwing open her pelisse, Sophie went in search of her mother.

  She found her talking to Kenton and Dominic in the library. “Mother? The carriage is here.”

  “Is it? Excellent, we’ll go at once. I can’t wait until you are dressed as you should be. Don’t you think so, gentlemen?”

  What could they do but agree? Sophie looked at them with an understanding smile. Kenton agreed instantly, siding with his mother-in-law—no fool he.

  Dominic cleared his throat. “I see no fault in Mrs. Banner’s appearance as she stands.”

  Sophie didn’t mind that he said it; it was good to hear that she didn’t offend everybody’s eyes. However, she could have wished he hadn’t declared his admiration quite so publicly. Her mother was already wearing the same speculative expression Sophie had seen on Maris’s face.

  “Is it true ... Maris told me that nothing was stolen last night.”

  “Nothing we’ve been able to discover. Tremlow and the others have been taking a painstaking inventory. Tremlow knows every piece of plate, every picture, every objet d’art better than I do myself, and I own them. If our thief had made off with so much as a thimble, Tremlow would know.”

  “Then did I simply interrupt before he could do whatever he came for? Maris thinks that is what happened.”

  “I think so, too.”

  Dominic reached out to touch her lightly on the wrist. “Don’t do that again.”

  “I didn’t mean to do it the first time.” She turned to her mother. “We mustn’t keep the horses standing. And Miss Bowles will be waiting.”

  The snow muffled the sound of the horses’ hooves and the wheels so that it seemed as if the carriage was flying silently through the air. Everything she saw was black, gray, or white. The dark trees drooped with the weight of the snowfall like old men carrying too many heavy sacks. A few ravens flapped into the steel-colored sky with halfhearted calls.

  The view was no brighter in the village, except where the red clay soil was exposed at the edge of the road. The half-timbered front of the inn and the gray bulk of the church, at opposite ends of the spectrum socially, made a pleasing, if somber, composition. Miss Bowles’s little house, clinging to the far end of the village, came as a bit of a shock to an eye grown accustomed to the monochromatic landscape. While no more than a house of dirty white brick, some unskilled hand had painted the shutters and front door a lively shade of crimson. A streak, fading now, even decorated the doorstep.

  Sophie glanced with raised eyebrows at her family. Maris eased her position in the corner. “I can’t remember if you have ever met Miss Bowles.”

  “No, she moved here after Sophie went to Rome. She’s daughter of Miss Menthrip’s cousin. She came to look after Miss Menthrip.”

  “Then why does she live here? Miss Menthrip lives down at the other end.”

  Mrs. Lindel’s smile, had it been less good-natured, would have qualified as a smirk. “I’m afraid Miss Menthrip didn’t appreciate Miss Bowles as much as she might have done.”

  “Miss Menthrip isn’t exactly simplicity itself to live with, either,” Maris said tartly. She had lived with Miss Menthrip for some weeks before Kenton had proposed and was one of the few people of whom Miss Menthrip spoke with favor. “Miss Bowles had a difficult time adjusting to her sharp tongue. I could never persuade her that Miss Menthrip did not mean all that she said.”

  The crimson door opened and a woman peered out. She wore her dark hair very high, almost high enough for a formal ball. The face under the creation, however, was meek and unassuming, with slightly protuberant eyes and a bumpy chin inexpertly covered with powder. But her smile, when she realized her customers had arrived, was truly beautiful, for she had better teeth and a more generous mouth than either Maris or Sophie.

  Despite the cold, she stepped into the street. Sophie emerged from the carriage. “Good morning,” she said, holding out her hand to greet little Miss Bowles. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you.”

  “Oh, it’s my honor, ma’am. If you knew how I’ve longed to see Italy ... you must forgive me if I pester you with questions.”

  “Ask what you like,” Sophie said, unable to remember when she’d ever taken a greater liking to someone at first sight. “If I can answer, I will.”

  “Oh, thank you. Here’s her ladyship! I never thought she’d come, in her condition,” she added, dropping her voice. “I shall run in and put another cushion in her chair.” Good as her word, she whisked inside as the footman assisted Lady Danesby to descend.

  The plume on her hat tossed and bounced as she awkwardly sought with her foot for the step she could not see. The young man looked terrified of dropping his mistress. His arms shook with strain as he reached up for her hand and elbow.

  Sophie wanted to put her hand up to cover her eyes, her mind’s eye putting up a detailed image of Maris tumbling to the ground. Then Maris had successfully negotiated the step and stood beside her sister. “There,” she said.

  “Maris, my love, please don’t do that again,” Sophie said.

  “What?”

  “Come out. If Kenton saw you, he’d collapse or forbid you to leave the house. It’s wrong to risk everything like this.”

  Sophie wouldn’t have blamed Maris if she’d been angry. Though their mother had asked her to intervene, Sophie knew it wasn’t her place to criticize or comment on Maris’s choices. After all, most of Maris’s decisions had been successful. She had a husband who adored her, a baby on the way, and a position in society that would never diminish.

  Maris drew Sophie aside. “Mother suggested you tell me that, didn’t she?”

  “I was going to say it even if she hadn’t. I don’t have any idea about what it is like to be in your condition, but don’t you think it would be wise to rest more?”

  “I can’t. I’m so restless now. If I had to stay cooped up at home, I think I should run mad. With nothing to do but brood on what may so easily go amiss ... no. Better to shock the neighbors than to let my thoughts swirl around this one idea.”

  “What idea?”

  She rolled her tear-filled eyes toward the sky, wiping away the moisture that threatened to roll down her face. “The notion that everything will go disastrously wrong. That I, or worse still, my child, will die.”

  “No,” Sophie declared immediately.

  “It may happen. It happened to Princess Charlotte and it happens to countless others every day. I cannot believe myself so blessed that I can escape this doom.”

  “But if you don’t rest, you may be ensuring such a result. Listen, I will do whatever you want. Shall I read to you by the hour or regale you with stories of life in Rome? I saw the Pope once. I could spend several hours describing every detail if you would find it entertaining.”

  Maris gave a laugh that was almost a sob. “I suppose I might stay home under those circumstances.”

  “And I can’t speak for His Grace, but can you doubt that Kenton would devote himself to your entertainment?”

&nbs
p; “Devoting himself thus is how I wound up in this condition,” Maris said ruefully. She swiftly pressed her fingers to her lips, her eyes laughing over the nails. “I must guard my tongue. Miss Bowles would be shocked beyond all bounds.”

  “As I myself,” Sophie said with mock severity. “Remember my widowed state.”

  Maris caught her by the sleeve. “Mother’s waiting. But tell me—do you miss that part of marriage? I do.”

  “I miss the way I felt in the beginning. That racing in the blood, that carelessness ... I don’t believe it lasts.”

  Maris smiled at her. “It lasts. Believe me.”

  “Girls,” their mother called, much as she used to when they were young and heedless. “Girls, let’s go inside.”

  The carriage drove off, turning around so that man and beast alike could find refreshment and shelter at the King’s Oak. The women went into Miss Bowles’s house, the front room of which served as her studio and workroom.

  Sophie paid no attention to the greetings between the others, drawn as though by unearthly power to the fabrics in the corner of the room, where what dim sun there was could fall upon them. The colors glowed as if with their own light. Here were the shades her mother and sister had described to her, pale gray, a color insubstantial as smoke, and yet another with the mixing shades of a gray pearl laid over with tones of lavender. Lilac and rich purple shone like flowers in spring, with the crisp contrast of white lace foaming over the edge of the bolt. There was also linen, white and fresh, to make new tuckers, caps, and nightgear. The ribbons were in keeping with the discreet colors of half mourning, that neither-flesh-nor-fowl stage a widow entered upon after six months. Still and all, the luxuriousness of these fabrics more than compensated for any lack of brilliance. She’d never been one to dress outlandishly; even her bride clothes had been chosen more for practicality than beauty.

  She turned to her mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek and a hug about the waist. “I’m in your hands, entirely and without reservation. Choose what you think is best for me and I shan’t say a word against it.”

  Naturally, once they began pulling out the books and planning what appearance each creation was to take, Sophie could not keep silent Mrs. Lindel merely smiled and left it to Maris, adding her own suggestions from an easy chair, to remind Sophie of her promise.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Lindel said at the end of an exhaustive discussion. “Which shall we have first?”

  Miss Bowles considered. “The gray poplin could be made up in four days, if I could hire the Granger girls from the King’s Oak to help.”

  The gray poplin was as close to blue as might be seemly. The sleeves were to be long and full, with a fascinating frill at the wrist to show off her hands. Three lines of narrow tucking around the hem would draw attention to her small feet. Sophie found herself wondering what appearance she would present in such a confection. If someone thought her handsome in her present attire, what light of admiration might be kindled in a pair of blue eyes when she wore such a gown?

  She could, not fool herself. She knew she was thinking of Dominic. Though she had determined never to marry again, she still retained enough girlishness to wish to see flattering approval in the eyes of a man. Sophie vowed to exterminate this wish in herself lest she turn into an arrant flirt.

  Maris spoke up from her corner, where she held a magazine open upon her lap. “I am of the opinion that the first gown to be sewn should be this ball dress made from the heavy pearl gray satin.”

  “Ball dress?” Sophie exclaimed. “I don’t need one, do I?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Mrs. Lindel said. “Miss Bowles, you can hire whom you please. My daughter must have a suitable gown by the twenty-fourth.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the spinster said, tapping her fingers against her cheek. “Very wise of you, your ladyship. I shall start at once. I have only to finish the hem of Mrs. Ward’s dress, but one of the Granger girls can easily do that. Let me just confirm these measurements.”

  While Miss Bowles scurried around Sophie with her

  measure, Maris gave her reasons. “Have you forgotten about Reginald Lively’s Christmas fete?”

  “He stopped giving it when his wife passed away.”

  “He started up again last year,” Mrs. Lindel said. “It’s quieter than it used to be, not quite such a bacchanalia, if you can use such a term for a country Christmas. All the same, there will be dancing, amateur theatricals, and a feast. Maris is right; you must have a proper gown.”

  “I only wish I could go with Kenton. You would not credit how beautifully he dances,” Maris said. “But I have every confidence that Dominic will most willingly be your seigneur for the ball.” She paused, then added slyly, “If you agree, Mother.”

  “Who could ask for a more gallant cavalier?” Mrs. Lindel said rhetorically, while Miss Bowles giggled and Sophie looked askance at them all.

  After visiting Mrs. Ward and her husband at the rectory, they had planned to visit Miss Menthrip in company. But Maris proclaimed that she was tired and wished to go home to put her feet up. Sophie, who liked Miss Menthrip very much, ran across the street, but found the acid-tongued spinster from home. She slipped one of Mrs. Lindel’s visiting cards under the door and hurried back. The carriage was already waiting at the vicarage door.

  * * * *

  Dominic heard the ladies return, their chatter and laughter at the door bringing life back into the house. He’d stayed here often during Kenton’s bachelor days. Though the decor and efficiency of the household had not changed, there was a new spirit here, directly attributable to the Lindel women. He felt it more strongly yet now that Sophie had come to stay. He knew he’d realize the lack of it all the more when he had to leave.

  She came in, smoothing her hair upward where it had been disarranged by her bonnet. Her smile, when she saw him, held so much friendly warmth that he involuntarily looked behind him to see whom she might be smiling at.

  “Did you have good hunting?” he asked.

  “Very good indeed. This time next week, you won’t know me.”

  “Then I shall have the pleasure of meeting you all over again.”

  “Oh, have you been reading them?” she asked, nodding toward the lion’s-mask box, open before where he’d been sitting.

  “The poems? Yes, I began a little while ago. He was remarkably inventive, this poet of yours.” Saying that was rather like testing a sore tooth with one’s tongue. The twinge was exquisitely painful, yet not enough to make one stop doing it as would be the sensible thing to do.

  “Yes, he was very clever. Yet there is feeling there as well, don’t you find?”

  “You’ve read them all, I suppose,” he asked, evading the question.

  “Most of them. I’m afraid I rather avoided reading some of the ones addressed to Catherine Margrave.”

  “His—I beg your pardon, Sophie. I mean, Mrs. Banner.”

  “You might as well call me by my name. I’ve been thinking of you as Dominic ever since Dover.”

  “Have you?”

  She nodded blithely. “I saw you from the ship and I thought, ‘Oh, look. There’s Dominic. What’s he doing here?’ and I haven’t been able to think of you as ‘Your Grace’ since.”

  “You’ve called me that, though. I didn’t like it. You should call me Dominic. Always.”

  She turned to the poems again, and he realized he’d gone too far, too fast. When would he learn not to be greedy? He learned as a child not to ask for the impossible, but had forgotten his lesson some time after gaining all those things which the world deemed important. He foresaw that Sophie would teach him many lessons.

  “Yes,” she said in answer to his unasked question. “Catherine Margrave was his mistress. Where she’s gone to, I don’t know. I’d heard a rumor that as soon as Broderick died, she went to Austria. There was a Viennese count, I think it was, who’d tried to lure her away from Broderick. I will say this much for her, she was loyal. Broderick had no money, no position, no
thing but genius. I believe she would have stayed with him forever, if he hadn’t died.”

  Dominic couldn’t understand it. That runty, vainglorious poet with the calculating eye had persuaded two women to fall desperately in love with him, and he couldn’t even manage one. It was enough to make a man become a poet, one of the bitterly vituperative variety.

  “Was he living with you at the time of his death or with this other woman?” Dominic asked. “I don’t mean to give you pain. If it’s none of my business, just say so.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, sitting down at the writing desk. She looked at the open box of papers warily, as if it contained some animal that might bite. “He left me to live with La Margrave six months or so before he died. Actually, though, he perished while on a walking tour of Sicily with Mr. Knox, whom you met.”

  “How did he come to die? He seemed in good health.”

  “Any man might fall, and he did. Mr. Knox found his body and had him buried there in Sicily. He wasn’t Catholic, but there’s a cemetery in Palermo for foreigners.”

  He offered her no condolences, which relieved her mind. She was tired of explaining the whys and wherefores of her unhappy marriage. Broderick had abandoned her. He died. Now there was only this last duty, the one thing she felt she must finish before looking ahead to any kind of new life.

  Reaching out, she pulled a poem from the box. It wasn’t one she recognized, and she knew all the ones he’d written while they were together. It seemed to be about prayer, though knowing Broderick, it was probably about his mistress or a particularly good dinner he’d eaten as an undergraduate. One was just as likely as another at first glance. It was only after study and analyzation that one came to understand the subtle play of his language and the depth of his gifts.

  She laid down “Dawn in the Piazza San Pietro” and looked across at Dominic. He had leaned his head on his hand, his fingers moving idly through his thick hair. She didn’t need to see his face to know that he was frowning intently. She waited for him to understand what he read.

  The moment was not long in corning. He looked up, as startled as someone who is suddenly called. “This is you,” he said. “You are here in every line. When did he write this?”