“Don’t misconstrue me, your Grace. I believe you. I just don’t believe she would indulge in such a drastic and quite selfish act. There’s too much spirit in her, too much light, to easily extinguish such a life.” He did not add that her promise to Monseigneur to present Frederick with the ducal emerald ring on his twenty-first birthday was, he believed, a promise she would honor with her last breath.
Jonathon’s conviction surprised Roxton. The merchant had known his mother for a day and yet spoke as if he had known her all his life, and had a right to do so. It made the Duke inexplicably uncomfortable and yet he had to begrudgingly concede the merchant had a point. He wished with all his being he was in the right.
“I trust you to keep this confidence to yourself.”
“You needn’t have asked that, your Grace.”
The Duke nodded, pocketed his snuffbox and signaled to the footmen to open the French doors. “And you will stay away from the Dowager Duchess?”
“And Hanover Square?”
“A peppercorn lease in the first instance. Take it for what it is: a goodwill gesture of future intent. The legalities will take time to sort through and the rest of this sennight must be devoted to other, more pressing, matters of state. Another perquisite I could do without.” When Jonathon stuck out his hand he took it and an understanding was reached. “And the Dowager Duchess. You will keep your distance?”
Jonathon stepped into the Gallery before the Duke, saying over his shoulder, “As to that, your Grace, as I said last night, your mother can tell me that herself.”
The day of the annual Treat Regatta was unseasonably warm for the middle of April with the sun shining in a cloudless watery blue sky. A moderate breeze stirred the glassy surface of the lake, willows swayed lazily and dipped spidery fingers into the icy water, while bright new leaves opened to the sun on the mature oaks and beeches strewn across acres of manicured parkland.
People had begun to swarm across the wide expanse of rolling lawn that terraced down to the lake in front of the massive colonnaded frontage of the palace. Tenant farmers with their families and laborers had started their journey hours earlier, arriving in carts usually reserved for hay and bringing with them the locals from two villages unable to make the journey on foot. The Duke’s army of household servants, stable hands, gardeners and their families, those not absolutely required to be on duty, wore their Sunday best and mingled amongst the crowds, free to join in the festivities.
Small children holding tightly to the hands of their older brothers or sisters ran to giggle at the Punch and Judy show, gape in awe at the fabulous French marionettes resembling old King Louis of France and his French courtiers, try their hand at juggling or walking on stilts with the assistance of gap-toothed circus performers, but most of all they queued to take a ride around the parklands in the French Oudry carriage pulled by four white ponies, its gilded outer panels decorated with fanciful pastoral scenes by the French artist Jean-Baptiste Oudry, its interior dark blue velvet and gold leaf with plush tasseled cushions and glass push up windows. The carriage was said to be a replica of Mme la Duchesse’s carriage across the water in Paris.
And when stomachs big and small grumbled with hunger there was an over-abundance of foodstuffs to eat and enjoy, all at the Duke’s largesse, from stalls that supplied all manner of meats, from roast beef to venison, to platters of cheese, fruit and breads, candied fruits, sweetmeats, cake and pastries, with flavored cordials and fresh milk for the children and cider and punch for the adults.
Everyone, from the titled to the chimney sweep were expected to feast from the stalls shoulder to shoulder and most did with the greatest of ease and goodwill, yet there were those amongst the Duke’s noble guests who simply refused to entertain the idea of sharing food with the common folk. These few remained on the top terrace, seated under an arrangement of colorful marquees that provided shelter from the sun and were at a vantage point to watch over the fete activities and the boat race from afar. Scattered with plush rugs to avoid the damp grass, ribbon back chairs and padded velvet footstools provided comfort for these languishing dowagers and portly gentlemen suffering the gout, while liveried footmen attended to their every need and watched on enviously as their fellows, who had not drawn the short straw in the butler’s ballot, enjoyed a day free of the whims of others.
Down at the water’s edge, the most important event of the day was getting underway. The six skiffs taking part in the race bobbed up and down on their moorings, painted oars drawn up and in and resting on the thwart, colored silk burgees tied half-way up each oar declaring the political proclivities of the skiff’s rower and occupant—Hanoverian for the present Monarchy, Stuart for the previous, American Colonial because England was at war with the rebels, French because the Roxton dukedom had its origins and half its blood from the Bourbon Kings, Spanish as a Catholic kingdom the English had beaten in the past, and the Italian State of Florence because Mme la Duchesse spoke Italian almost as well as she did her native French.
The Florentine Ambassador not only sponsored a skiff each year in her honor, he supplied a Florentine from the Embassy to row in the regatta. The Spanish Ambassador hearing of this was not to be outdone by a small Italian state, so he too offered one of his staff from his embassy to row the Spanish skiff and went one better than his Florentine counterpart by offering a purse of Spanish gold to complement the Roxton Silver cup awarded each year to the race winner.
Servants scurried along the wooden planks of the jetty and onto boats making last minute checks of their respective master’s skiff, while the gentlemen rowers themselves milled about on the lawn, attentive valets helping them to strip down to their billowing shirtsleeves then shrugging them into sleeveless, colored waistcoats that matched the color of their silk burgees and thus made them recognizable at a distance once out on the open waters of the lake.
The competitors discussed the route the race would take: under the bridge, once around Swan Nest Island—the largest island on the lake, across to the causeway and then returning to the jetty via the bend in the lake that passed between the Elizabethan dower house Crecy Hall and Bacchus Island with its hidden waterfall—a distance of some five miles. Lookouts had been posted along the route, in small boats, and on the islands to ensure the correct route was followed and in case any of the rowers happened to get into difficulty. The latter set off a spate of good natured one-upmanship, disparaging remarks on the manly attributes and abilities of their fellow rowers while widely inflating their athleticism in the hopes of oversetting the confidence of their rivals, and impressing the clutch of beauties who had come to wish the gentlemen luck.
Dressed in their best striped silk Anglaise à la Polonaise petticoats, plumed and beribboned straw bonnets over their teased and curled hair and carrying dainty parasols to shade their milky skin from the sun’s rays, the beauties joined the gentlemen in their good natured rivalry, the men careful to keep their comments above the ribald with ladies now present. Those ladies honored with an oarsman as champion, Sarah-Jane Strang and Martha Aubrey amongst the select few, wore matching ribands in their hair and around a plump wrist.
Tommy Cavendish, as Keeper of the Regatta Ledger, flittered amongst rowers, ladies and spectators alike, taking last-minute wagers, behind him a servant carrying the all-important ledger while another followed his fellow with quill and ink. The Duke was the odds-on favorite to win the race for a second year in a row; the strappingly handsome Dair Fitzstuart was at three to one, and the bronzed merchant Jonathon Strang a credible five to one to win.
The Duke’s five-year-old twin sons ran up and down the jetty with a group of equally boisterous village children making a general nuisance because there was no one to stop them. This was one of the only days in the year when tutors were also given the day free of their noble charges and were able to mingle freely amongst the crowd and, if they so desired, be as far away as possible from the young minds in their charge. This suited the boys and girls but disconcerted some of
the noble guests unused to the presence of children whom, if they were seen at all, were definitely never heard. Lords Augustus and Louis made certain everyone saw and heard them!
And yet Lord Alston, the Duke’s heir stood quietly between his father and Jonathon Strang in his green silk waistcoat and naval hat with green riband cockade, chin tilted up to the big men, listening intently to the gentlemen rowers’ repartee. His grave and adult-like demeanor won him the approval of nobles, tenants and villagers alike but was considered by his mother, who had been watching him carefully for some minutes, as not the behavior usually associated with boys not quite seven years old. He should have been with his over-excited brothers and the village children getting up to mischief; indeed, as the eldest it was usually considered his right to be leader of the merry band of rabble.
The Duchess worried about Frederick. She did not worry about Gus and Louis who were energetic five-year-olds who got themselves into all sorts of scrapes, bruised their knees, broke their toys and often ruined breeches and stockings with grass stains and mud within five minutes of being let out of doors. Having had the rearing of her nephew Jack since he was five years old and who was now a youth almost sixteen years of age, Deborah was used to the unruly and rowdy ways of boys. But Frederick had never been rowdy. He was grave and precise to a pin in his appearance and advanced beyond his years in intelligence, so his tutors had told her and the Duke. While she was pleased he was no dunce, for he would require a good brain to use wisely the vast inheritance that would solely be his when he inherited the dukedom from his father, superior intelligence carried with it at least one disadvantage for the very young, such as her son: that of being interested in the conversation of adults before being truly ready to comprehend the subtle meanings behind much of what was said. Even if he did not grasp the nuances in adult dialogue, Frederick attuned to the topic and was bright enough to understand all too well the difference between derision and respect.
And there was one person dear to Frederick’s heart who was the subject of constant speculation and gossip amongst family, servants and Polite Society that Deborah knew made her son fret. He was fretting now. She saw the anxiousness in his small face under his smart naval hat, black curls just like his father’s falling across his brow; large brown eyes, just like hers, occasionally fixing on the upper lawn, searching the row of marquees. His preoccupation went unnoticed by his father who was bantering back and forth with his fellow rowers as to who would make it round Swan Nest island without overturning their skiff, but not by her.
The Duchess, her lady-in-waiting with the Lady Juliana in her arms following up behind, joined the gentlemen rowers to wish them the best of luck, and to see her sons put safely in their respective skiffs before taking up her position in the middle of the third arch of the stone bridge that spanned the lake to signal the start of the race by waving and then letting drop into the water below a weight tied up in a bright red silk handkerchief.
“There is still plenty of time, my darling,” Deborah Roxton whispered near Frederick’s ear, pretending to straighten the sit of his hat so as not to draw attention to her remark. She smiled into his brown eyes. “The race is not due to start for a little while yet. Mema will come.”
Frederick looked into his mother’s kind eyes and her understanding smile did much to alleviate his anxiety. He nodded and smiled. “She is wearing green today, Maman. For me.”
“Of course she is. How lovely,” the Duchess replied evenly, keeping the astonishment from her voice. She gently brushed the dark curls from Frederick’s face, hoping with all her heart he was right. She smiled and straightened, but not before kissing his cheek. “For luck. But perhaps you will not need luck, Frederick,” she said in a clear voice, so the gentlemen could hear, “as I am told by your daughter, Mr. Strang, that you are a very good rower and will soundly beat the Duke.” She turned with a raise of her arched eyebrows to look at Sarah-Jane, who was standing close by in the group of ladies come to watch the gentlemen prepare for the race. “They are the words you used, are they not, Sarah-Jane? Soundly beat?” But before the blushing Sarah-Jane could reply, she turned with a swish of her silk and gauze petticoats and a cheeky smile to the Duke, placing a hand on his bare forearm. “So, Roxton, you have competition this year and will need to row like the devil. Apologies to Dair and Charles, who are excellent rowers, but as Roxton soundly beat them last year, I have their measure. But you, Mr. Strang, remain an unknown quantity... Still, I took the gamble, and now you must prove your mettle.” She kissed her husband’s cheek swiftly. “I apologize, your Grace, but I have a confession to make. I have wagered on Mr. Strang to win.”
A hue and cry went up amongst the rowers, who burst into loud laughter at the Duke’s expense, several going so far as to give the Duke’s wide back an affectionate thump in sympathy for his wife’s disloyalty. Jonathon joined in the good-natured banter, making the Duchess a sweeping bow of thanks before kissing her hand and turning to the group of ladies for support, who to a one applauded him with much hand clapping and impromptu curtsies.
The Duke pretended to be offended, casting a solemn glance at his laughing opposition then raising a disapproving eyebrow at the ladies for daring to prefer another, but such was the mirth in his green eyes that he couldn’t suppress a grin and everyone enjoyed a good laugh at his expense. He pulled his wife to him. “The devil take you, you disloyal wretch!” he murmured and stole a kiss. “I shall just have to make more of an effort to row harder and faster to win back your devotion.”
“Please don’t,” she asked quietly looking into his eyes with a tremulous smile before glancing pointedly at their son who was now holding her hand but whose attention was still very much focused on the row of marquees. “He is wearing green—for her. She made him a promise.”
The Duke followed her downward glance and his smile faded. “Damn.” He let her go and made a fuss of unrolling and rolling up his sleeve, saying under his breath, “Best to keep him occupied. He’ll have too much to think about once the race is underway,” and looking about for Tommy Cavendish announced loudly, “Shall we, gentlemen? It must be time.” As the competitors made last minute farewells to their gaggle of female admirers and shook hands with each other, he went down on his haunches to speak to his son. “Frederick? It’s time to get your naughty brothers into my boat and for you to get into yours. Will you do me the favor of rounding them up? Gus and Louis will listen to you. I need a last word with Maman and then I will come directly. Take Mr. Strang with you.”
When Frederick nodded his father smiled and lovingly flicked his cheek.
He straightened and watched his son go up to Jonathon Strang and in a gesture that almost brought tears to his eyes take hold of the man’s large sun-bronzed hand and smile up at him. The merchant, who had been having a last word with Charles Fitzstuart, looked down, saw who it was and instantly made a fuss of the little boy. Within a few seconds, oarsman and occupant were walking hand in hand down the jetty with Charles Fitzstuart, Frederick in non-stop conversation with his oarsman.
“You must admit he has a way with children,” the Duchess commented at her husband’s shoulder. “Frederick in particular, and for that alone I like him, and put ten pounds on him to win against you.”
The Duke turned, smiled and took his little daughter from a grateful lady-in-waiting who was struggling with the little girl. He lifted Juliana high into the air and settled her, squealing with delight, on his shoulders and the ducal couple walked the length of the jetty to Roxton’s skiff which now had two very excited occupants doing their best to behave, although Gus would not sit down and stood, legs akimbo in the middle of the boat pretending to be a cut-throat pirate, the red silk burgee which had been tied carefully around his arm by an attentive nanny now scrunched up and fixed about his red curls and pulled down over his left eye.
“Papa! Papa! Gus is a pirate! Look, Papa!” Louis shouted in support of his twin. “He lost his eye fighting off the filthy frogs!”
&n
bsp; “He’ll be mincemeat for pies if he doesn’t take his seat,” his father admonished with a laugh that only encouraged Gus to stick out his chest with pride and wave at his sister who was flapping her arms excitedly at him from the great height of her father’s shoulders.
The other skiffs were beginning to be paddled out from the jetty to take up their position. Only the Duke’s skiff remained moored.
Roxton offloaded Juliana with a big kiss, the long-suffering lady-in-waiting scurrying away with her precious bundle because her little ladyship’s giggles had been replaced with tears of outrage that she was not to join her brothers in the skiff, and she dressed up for the occasion.
“Good luck, darling.” Deborah went on tiptoe to whisper teasingly in her husband’s ear, “I will still reward you tonight even if the ruggedly handsome merchant wins.”
He pulled her to him. “Handsome? He’s handsome?”
Deborah laughed at his disgruntled frown and kissed his mouth. She moved within his hold and he let her go, aware that she was wanted on the bridge to start the race. “Swooningly so, is the general opinion of the ladies.”
“I don’t give a damn about them; what do you think?”
The Duchess smiled impishly, brown eyes alight with mischief. She waved to her twin sons who were calling for their father, blew a kiss to Frederick who was also waving from his skiff which was being expertly maneuvered by his oarsman to come along side his fellow competitors, and turned back to her husband who was still staring at her, although she had seen his head snap round in direction of her airy kiss.
“Well?” he demanded.
She came back to him and looked up into his frowning countenance, a hand on his broad chest. “A wife does like to know she can still illicit a jealous response from her husband; that she is still desirable, particularly one in her fifth pregnancy.”
Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) Page 14