When her grandson continued to look glum, Antonia touched his cheek, saying softly, “Emerald Duchess is a very good name for your boat. You see my eyes they are the color of emeralds. Monseigneur always said so.”
“But if she is called the Emerald Duchess, then I must fly a green burgee, and you don’t wear colors so I don’t want to fly green, I want to fly black. I tried to tell Papa that if my boat was the Black Duchess then I could fly a black burgee because you always dress in black. But he said it’s not my choice to make, it’s yours.”
“Frederick, you must excuse me but I am feeling a little stupid today. I do not understand at all why it is your Papa says it is my choice.”
Frederick hung his head of black curls and quickly dashed a hand across his moist eyes. “You can wear black. It doesn’t bother me. It shouldn’t bother Papa. It isn’t fair!” he added in a heated rush. “Papa isn’t playing fair. He’s being horridly bad-tempered and—”
“Frederick! That is enough, petite,” Antonia insisted quietly but firmly. “You are not to speak of your Papa in such a fashion. He is only doing what he believes is the right—”
“But it’s not right,” Frederick persisted. “You always wear black. I like you dressed in black. Papa shouldn’t make you choose.”
Antonia privately agreed and she was angry beyond words with her son. But her opinion of the Duke’s under-handed methods of persuasion, in ill-using his six-year-old son in this way, in forbidding his children from visiting her in order to get her to bend to his will she would keep to herself until she could confront him. She had decided not to attend the dinner and recital that evening at the big house, but her grandson’s distress, and the fact her son had barred his children from visiting the dower house, changed her mind.
“There is no need for anyone to choose, mon chou,” Antonia managed to say brightly. “As you have done me the honor of naming your boat after me, the least I can do is wear the color of your burgee. Of course I will dress in whatever color you decide, be it emerald-green, sapphire blue or ruby red. But I am very pleased you chose emerald-green because it is Monseigneur’s favorite precious stone. The emerald ring he wore always it belonged to his grandfather and one day—one day it will belong to you because... because...”
“Because, Mema?” Frederick asked after a long awkward silence that saw Charles drop his gaze, because the Duchess was on the verge of tears, and place a packet of letters tide up with ribbon beside his empty teacup; Jonathon gave the little boy an encouraging smile.
“Mema. Because? Because why?”
Antonia mentally shook herself out of her abstraction and smiled at her grandson, quickly blinking her wet eyes dry. She had been remembering when M’sieur le Duc had given her his emerald ring for safekeeping. They had been alone in their cavernous bedchamber, a rare circumstance in the last weeks of his life. He propped up on pillows to assist him to breathe without effort, she sitting amongst the bedcovers facing him, a silk banyan thrown over her nightgown. It was early morning and mist hung low in the treetops outside the bedchamber windows with their sweeping views of the Ornamental Gardens. The physicians, their attendants and the retinue of servants required to provide the Duke every comfort in his last days had all been dismissed with a languid wave of the thin white ducal hand; the one with the emerald ring upon it.
They did not speak and were content to hold hands and look at each other. The inevitable was left unspoken. It did not need to be said out loud.
He slipped the large square cut emerald ring from his finger, placed it in the palm of her hand, closed her fingers over the family heirloom and gently kissed her wrist. He had worn the Roxton emerald everyday since becoming the fifth Duke of Roxton, when his grandfather had presented it to him at the age of nineteen, just hours before his own death. And now he had removed the ducal ring and given it into her safekeeping. He held her hand and made her repeat the promise out loud. She heard herself speaking the words clearly and reassuringly; inside she was crumbling away for it meant it was only a matter of hours before they would be forever parted on earth. She had almost fainted with the grief.
“Because? Oh, because Monseigneur he made me promise that his emerald ring I will give to you on your twenty-first birthday,” she said gently with forced brightness. “Until then I am to keep it safe. But it is yours, mon chou. So if you wish to see it before then, because it is such a very long time before that day arrives, you need only ask me. So, please, you are not to worry anymore, yes? For you, I will put off my black for the regatta.” When Frederick scrambled off his cushions and threw his arms about her neck, she added with a kiss to his cheek, “And your Papa you must not be angry with. He does what he considers is best for you because he loves you very much. He has a great many worries and we do not want to add to them, do we?”
Frederick shook his head. “Mama says you’re Papa’s greatest worry.”
“Pour quoi?”
“Mama said it to Cousin Charlotte. Didn’t she, Charles?”
“A throw away comment of no significance, Mme la duchesse.”
“It is unlike you to pull the wool with me, Charles. My daughter-in-law is not given to throw away comments.”
“Of course not, Mme la duchesse. Forgive me. I was only—”
“Why does Papa worry about you, Mema?” Frederick persisted. “Shouldn’t you be worrying about him because you are his mama?”
“Out of the mouth of babes,” Antonia murmured. “You are not to worry about your Mema,” she added with forced cheerfulness. “Your Papa he does enough worrying for everyone.” And she put out a hand for the packet of letters by her cousin’s teacup, which he readily gave her. “They are for me to send to the Hôtel Roxton with my next post, yes?” she enquired, making an effort to change the subject and put to the back of her mind her daughter-in-law’s observation, which cut her to the quick; if she was fair-minded, because there was some truth in it. But that did not make it any less hurtful. She chanced to glance across the table then and found Jonathon regarding her with an expression that told her he saw through her performance, that he knew very well she was wearing her public face for her cousin Charles and her grandson. And that too bothered her. Why, she had no idea. She looked away, and was about to suggest they take a walk to the jetty to feed the swans with the cake crumbs from their plates when Charles said in his quiet way,
“As we are not pulling the wool, Mme la duchesse, I should tell you that His Grace is in expectation of Sir Titus Foley’s arrival on the morrow.”
“But when Papa sees Mema is not in black he’ll send Sir Titus away again, won’t he, Charles?”
“I do not think he will, Frederick,” Charles said soberly, and Jonathon could have kicked him for not pulling the wool, as the Duchess so quaintly termed being deceitful, as anyone with an ear could hear Frederick’s anxiousness.
“Who is this Titus fellow, Frederick?” Jonathon asked in a rallying tone, and shot a glance at Antonia, but she would not meet his gaze. “Not the sawbones who patched up poor Lawrence’s arm, is he?”
Frederick shook his head with a pout.
“Sir Titus Foley is a dandified physician who attends on members of the nobility,” Charles said with barely disguised derision. “He made a name for himself curing the young Baroness Hartfield and the newly married Lady Fife of melancholia.”
“Melancholia?” Jonathon huffed his disbelief. “The man sounds like a dandified quack!”
Frederick could barely contain himself and burst out, “He’s a—he’s a-a big fat ferret-face.”
Antonia giggled in spite of herself. “That is very true, mon chou, but impolite to say so out loud.”
“That’s what Porter calls him, Mema. Porter is my tutor,” Frederick announced to Jonathon. “And he’s in-infactuated with—”
“Infatuated,” Antonia corrected him gently.
“Infatuated with Mema. Whatever that means.”
“Frederick!” Antonia gasped. “You cannot say such a thing abou
t Porter! He is not here to defend himself and if he were, he would agree that it is quite false to think he—”
“But, Mema, it’s not a falsehood. I don’t even know what infactuated—um—infatuated means.”
This made Jonathon laugh out loud; even Charles could not suppress a grin.
“Porter goes red in the face when you speak to him, Mema,” Frederick argued and pulled a face of disgust. “He looks queasy and sick and can’t speak—”
“Yes, Frederick, that will do. Thank you.”
“Poor Porter!” Jonathon said without sympathy and a sad shake of his head as he followed his hostess’s lead and rose from the table. “Queasiness and a ready flush to the face and a stammer. With those symptoms, I’d say the poor fellow has it bad. Wouldn’t you, Charles?”
“Yes, sir, I would,” Charles agreed and smiled sheepishly when the Duchess glared at him. “Excusez moi, Mme la duchesse, but it is you who asked that I not pull the wool.”
“Good man!” Jonathon declared with a slap to his back.
Antonia opened her mouth to tell them both what she thought when her personal maid chose that moment to burst into the pavilion, a pair of red Moroccan leather mules in her hand and mouthing apologies for her tardiness as she bobbed a low curtsey and brushed down her petticoats.
“Michelle! Me I do not care in the least to hear your excuses about smoking chimneys and ruined carpets. They are too tiresome,” Antonia interrupted imperiously, and stuck out a small stockinged foot for the girl to drop to her knees and slip on her mules. “Now you will return to the house and ready my bath. I have decided to attend Roxton’s dinner after all. Yes. I have indeed changed my mind. That is not for you to wonder at. The open robe of black silk with the silver tissue under petticoats will suffice.”
“Yes, Mme la duchesse,” Michelle replied obediently, up on her feet to again drop a curtsey. She didn’t dare take a second glance at the three figures standing by the low table that had upon it the remnants of an afternoon tea. But she did glance at Matthews, the stony-faced butler. Later he would tell her everything. Where she was concerned he could not help himself; were they not secretly engaged? “Should I send a message to Mesdames Willis and Spencer to ready themselves, Mme la duchesse?”
“Naturally. I want them looking their best tonight.” When Jonathon cocked an eyebrow at her, Antonia couldn’t help throwing him a conspiratorial smile. “They are not to wear grey, tonight, but black.”
“Black. Yes, Mme la duchesse.”
Antonia thrust the packet of letters at her. “And take M’sieur Fitzstuart’s letters. I will write up the direction later and then you can put them on the hall table with the letters I left there yesterday. Not the ones for London, but for Paris, for the Comtesse du Charmond.”
“At the Hôtel Roxton, Mme la duchesse?”
“Where else do I have a house in Paris, Michelle? No, do not answer me!”
Michelle was relieved a response was not required of her because she had never been to the Hôtel Roxton, and her mistress had not been there in the five years Michelle had been her personal maid, not since the old Duke had been too ill to travel. But one thing she did know was that the Comtesse du Charmond had not resided at the Hôtel Roxton for at least six months. What letters the Duchess wrote to the Comtesse Matthews was instructed to pass on to the Duke’s steward. The Comtesse remained a regular correspondent, and Michelle wondered how the Duchess remained none the wiser that her aging cousin no longer kept an apartment in her sprawling Parisian mansion.
“And while I am at dinner, you will find for me the gown of green silk with the vine embroidery and gold-tissue under-petticoats. I think also there is a matching bodice and shoes, and a fan. I will be wearing these tomorrow to the regatta. Do not look at me as if I am drunk! You heard me the first time. Oh, and the emerald choker and matching bracelets. And the green ribbons I will not need for my hair put these in a reticule so I may give them to my grandson tonight.” She smiled at Frederick. “They are for his boating waistcoat.”
“Merci, Mema.”
Antonia held out her hand to Charles in farewell, expecting her maid to obey without comment, but when the girl stood there mouth agape, Antonia raised her eyebrows.
“You do remember where my clothes and jewelry are kept, do you not?”
“Yes, Mme la duchesse. Of course. It’s just that you—”
“Good. You will now go away. And, Michelle, you will pretend as one blind, yes? Lord Alston and M’sieurs Fitzstuart and Strang were never at my pavilion. Willis and Spencer are not to find out.” She glared at her expressionless butler and footman and then at her maid. “You understand me, hein?”
Michelle bobbed another curtsey. The butler inclined his head and the footman did not dare to blink. The trespass of the Duke’s son and heir, her mistress’s freckled faced red-haired cousin and a tall, handsome, brown skinned stranger were as nothing when compared to the revelation the Dowager Duchess of Roxton was finally putting off her black. Here was news she couldn’t wait to throw in the faces of those two stiff-necked matrons, Spencer and Willis. Without another word she bustled away, the butler and footman following up behind with the tea things, also eager to get to the kitchens to spread the news amongst the Duchess’s contingent of servants.
Antonia hugged Frederick, kissed his cheek and gently smoothed the mop of black curls from his brow. “Now you must return to the house with Charles before your Papa he finds out and poor Porter he is dismissed for allowing you to come here to see me. I will be at supper and will give you the ribbons in the Gallery, yes? And no more worrying, promise me?”
Frederick beamed. “I promise, Mema.” He stepped back and made her a respectful bow then looked eagerly at Jonathon. “And thank you, sir, for agreeing to be my oarsman.” He asked his grandmother, “Do you have enough ribbons for M’sieur Strang too?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Antonia replied, as if the idea had not occurred to her.
They watched Frederick tear up the path towards the house ahead of Charles Fitzstuart, the whippets prancing at his boot heels. He turned at the first bend in the path and waited for Charles to catch up and waved to his grandmother.
Antonia and Jonathon waved back.
“He’s a very sharp little boy.”
“Yes.
“But methinks he thinks too much for one so young.”
“Yes. He is his father’s son.”
“He is very attached to you.”
“And I to him...”
Antonia turned away with a small sigh, her grandson and cousin no longer in view. That small sigh made Jonathon frown down at her with concern.
“You don’t have to put off your black just because Roxton wishes it.”
“I do not do this to please my son but for Frederick because he is a worried little boy,” Antonia replied, wondering why he was suddenly gruff. “He should not be worried. He should be enjoying life. There are plenty of years before he needs worry about any matter. Monseigneur he would agree with me. And he would want me to do what is best for Frederick and for all our grandchildren.”
“Does Roxton regularly keep his children from visiting to bend you to his will?”
Antonia shook her head. “No… This time it is the first…”
“And Sir Titus Foley? Has Roxton threatened to foist that quack physician’s attentions on you?”
“Threatened?” Disconcerted by the word, she looked away, suddenly feeling heavy of heart. “He—my son—he does what is for the best.”
Jonathon raised his eyebrows in angry skepticism. “Best? For who? Using his young son to manipulate you to do his will; forbidding his children from visiting; threatening you with quack doctors and their hocus-pocus nonsense; that is in your best interests?”
Antonia scowled. “He Julian would never intentionally cause his children distress.”
“Not intentionally, no.”
“He loves his wife and children very much, and is a good husband and father—�
�
“—but he could be a more understanding son.”
It was a statement Antonia wished she could refute. But she would not lie. Nor would she discuss her family with a gentleman she had met for the first time the night before. It did not matter that he was a willing and sympathetic ear and seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare, or that she was in desperate need of a confidant. To pour out her troubles to a stranger was not only unseemly it was disloyal to her family. She had already shown a marked lack of discretion by sharing Roxton’s note with this gentleman. She must not weaken again. As always, she must be strong and disregard her own wants and needs. Her son and his family, Frederick in particular, and what was in the best interests of the Roxton dukedom, they must always come first. She owed it to Monseigneur.
“Why are you here?” she demanded, lifting her chin, cloaking her sadness and deep sense of loneliness in a patronizing façade of noble superiority. “What do you want from me?”
Yesterday, before he had met her, Jonathon could have answered her with ease. He wanted the Strang-Leven inheritance acknowledged by the present Duke of Roxton as misappropriated by his ancestor and he wanted it returned to him, its rightful heir, and he needed Roxton’s widowed mother to sign it over to him. Today he had the added complication that the Dowager Duchess of Roxton was in truth the most beguiling woman he had ever met. Watching her with her grandson, he’d caught glimpses of the vibrant, sensual creature that simmered just below the surface of her grief for her beloved duke, and to his astonishment and annoyance he wanted to be the one to reawaken her to the joys of living. But how could he in good conscience take her in his arms, kiss her, and make her laugh when reclaiming his birthright would surely mean taking the house and land her Monseigneur had painstakingly restored for her?
He stared down into her upturned beautiful face, dazed and mute, angry with himself for being so easily ensnared, yet knowing he had walked into her net of his own accord; that she had not enticed him in any way. He wanted to make some flippant remark but found he could not under the steady gaze of her luminous green eyes. He had given his word not to lie to her, and so wondered how best to respond without sounding insincere and trite.
Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) Page 8