by Candice Hern
"It means I cannot leave Chissingworth. I must supervise the work if it is to be done exactly to my specifications."
"Then stay."
"I would prefer not to," the duke said. "You know I cannot abide these things."
He shuddered as he thought of the wretched hordes descending upon his beloved Chissingworth, posing and preening and prattling, affecting boredom and fashionable ennui while running his poor staff ragged. Worst of all, though, the thing he dreaded more than anything, was playing the role of His Grace before a pack of fawning toadies and sycophants. He would as soon be thrown into a pit of starving rodents.
"You will not stay. But you cannot go." She rolled her eyes heavenward and clicked her tongue. "What would you have me do?" The duchess glared up at her son with eyes almost the same shade of green as his own. "The invitations have been sent, Stephen. I will not cancel the party because of your infernal glass conservatory. You must do as you wish, my dear, but the party goes on."
Stephen ripped off his wide-brimmed straw hat and slammed it against his thigh with a muttered curse.
The duchess wrinkled her nose at the cloud of dirt that rose from his breeches. "I trust," she said in a reproachful tone, "that you will behave yourself when my guests arrive. And at least try to look presentable." She glared down the length of her nose as she surveyed him from head to foot.
For a brief moment he felt like a schoolboy undergoing inspection, and could not help but look down at himself. Sturdy laborers' boots that laced up almost to the knee, dirt-covered chamois breeches, a coarse green smock over a comfortable lawn shirt and Belcher tie. It all seemed presentable enough—the perfect work clothes for a serious gardener. What did a little dirt signify?
"I will do no such thing," he said at last. "If your friends choose to invade my home, to be fed and housed at my expense, then they can bloody well take me as I am. Dirt and all."
His mother's face broke into a dazzling smile. "Splendid!" she said. "Then you will join us after all. I am so pleased, my dear. It has been too long since you have been about in Society. And I have invited a few new faces this year."
"Then I trust, madam, that you will enjoy gazing upon them, for I shall not see them."
"Oh, Stephen!"
"I cannot leave with the new conservatory under construction. But that does not mean that I have any intention of participating in your little gathering. Make no mistake, I shall remain least in sight."
"But, Stephen, I had hoped—"
"And I will not countenance any intrusion upon my privacy," he said, falling once again into his most authoritative ducal voice. "Let me make myself clear upon that point, Mother. As far as your guests are concerned, His Grace is not in residence. And as for you," he added, smiling at the sharp note of challenge in her eye, "well, you need not fear that your eccentric son will be on hand to embarrass you. You see, my dear, it is best for everyone."
"Oh, but, Stephen—"
"I will have your agreement on this matter, Mother."
"But—"
"The duke is not in residence."
The duchess heaved a dramatic sigh. Her shoulders sagged dejectedly and her parasol drooped to the side. Stephen's mouth twitched at the corners as he tried to suppress a grin. He watched as his mother raised a fluttery hand to her breast and cast her eyes to the ground, dark lashes silhouetted against her cheeks. It was no wonder she had been able to talk his late father into doing anything she wanted. The woman was a shameless manipulator. But Stephen was immune to his mother's wiles and would not be coerced in this matter.
He only hoped she would not resort to tears.
"All right, my dear," she said in a thin voice. "If that is what you wish."
Stephen kicked at the gravel with the toe of his boot, annoyed with his mother's tactics. He did not believe her resigned acquiescence for one moment. Nor did he completely trust her. He sincerely hoped she did not have some scheme up her sleeve. "What I wish is that I could leave Chissingworth," he said. "But since that is not possible, this plan will have to do."
How he was to stay out of the way of fifty house-guests he was not quite sure. But somehow, he would contrive to do so. Stephen had avoided polite Society most of his adult life, and so there would likely be many guests who would not recognize him for the duke if they passed him on the street. But for those guests who knew him . . . well, it would only take one sighting to set off the whole lot of them.
And he had no wish to be subject to the fawning and fussing that inevitably followed a presentation to His Grace. He would not be left alone for a single moment if he made an appearance at his mother's party. He would be smothered with attention, pushed and pulled in every direction until he was ready to run screaming from the house. He would be sought out for his opinion on such far-flung subjects as the latest fashions or the war on the Peninsula; for his endorsement of some new bill before the Lords; for thinly veiled pleas for funding of Lord So-and-So's pet project; for help in securing some shirttail relation a position. And, most egregious of all, he would be sought after by every hopeful mother with an unmarried daughter in tow.
For, besides the Duke of Devonshire—who was deaf as a post and showed no interest in women— Stephen was the only bachelor duke in the kingdom.
No, he would stay away once again from his mother's annual summer gathering. Every year they had the same argument. And every year, until now, he had left Chissingworth for one of his other estates. Just because he could not leave this time made no difference. No amount of his mother's wheedling would compel him to participate. Not at this house party or the one next year or the year after that. No, ma'am.
He bowed slightly to his mother, ran his fingers through his tousled brown hair, and plopped the straw hat back upon his head. "Until further notice, then," he said, "the Duke of Carlisle is not in residence."
He turned on his heel and headed down the gravel path. A niggling twinge of doubt pursued him through the rose garden, buzzing in his ear like a pesky gnat. He began to wonder if he was making a huge mistake.
Perhaps he ought to abandon his precious glass conservatory after all and run for his life.
Chapter 2
Susannah and Aunt Hetty easily fell in with Catherine's plan to use the Chissingworth party to their advantage. However, each of them became so caught up in the excitement of their prospects that it was left to Catherine to maintain a cool head in facing the endless problems involved in a month's stay at an elegant country estate. What to wear and how to get there were the most pressing issues at hand.
"We must have clothes!" she announced soon after they had made the decision to attend the party. "The right clothes. It will not be worth going at all if we are to appear as shabby genteel outsiders. The sort of gentlemen most likely to be at Chissingworth would be scornful of our poverty."
"We cannot help it if we are poor," Susannah replied.
"No, of course we cannot," Catherine said. "But there is no reason to be announcing it to all the world. We must disguise our situation as best we can. We must give every appearance of at least comfortable circumstances. Else we will surely be seen as encroaching fortune hunters."
Aunt Hetty arched a brow and Catherine felt a blush color her cheeks. "There is no need to give me that look, Aunt," she said. "I know what you are thinking. I know.
We are encroaching fortune hunters. But only because Papa left us in such a mess. It is not as if we were cits, or anything like that," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "It is not our fault he got caught up in yet another of those wretched investment bubbles. We cannot be blamed for his irresponsibility. Or his cowardice," she added in an undertone.
She plopped into a chair in a most unladylike manner, threw her head against the rail back, and heaved a sigh. "I am so tired of living like church mice, scraping just to get by. But the only way out I can foresee is for one of us to secure an advantageous marriage. You must see how important this party is, Aunt Hetty."
"Of course I do, my dear. Of course I do."
"And Susannah is so lovely she is bound to attract admirers at such a party." She turned toward her sister, whose bright blue eyes looked wide with wonder and artless innocence. Catherine knew, however, that the look was born of nearsightedness, not wonder. But it gave Susannah an air of ingenuousness, an almost angelic quality that only served to enhance her beauty. She was sure to draw the attention of every gentleman at Chissingworth. But he must be the right sort of gentleman.
"You must always remember, Sukey, what we are about," Catherine said. "Your beauty will lure gentlemen to your side, but you must be sure to avoid the wrong sorts."
"What sorts?" Susannah asked.
Catherine sighed. All God's energy had been spent providing her elder sister with such stunning looks that He had neglected to provide her with any intellect to speak of. She would have to keep a very close watch on Susannah if this plan was to work at all.
"Penniless younger sons, clerics, half-pay officers, that sort," she replied. "Try to remember, Sukey, that it is not just any husband, but a rich husband that we seek. I am counting on you, my dear. You may be our only hope."
Susannah sat up straight and raised her chin a notch. "I will do my best," she said in as determined a tone as her breathy, girlish soprano allowed. "I am tired of being poor, too, you know. But I will do my best. If only I can marry well, then I can bring you and Aunt Hetty to live with me. Then it should be an easy enough thing to find a husband for you, too, Cath. And maybe even for you, too, Aunt Hetty!"
All three ladies laughed at such an absurd notion. But soon enough, Susannah's brow beetled up in a look of confusion. "But how will I know who is rich and who is not?" she asked.
"You must leave that to me and Aunt Hetty," Catherine said, not for a moment trusting that Susannah could be left to decide such matters for herself. "Remain aloof to any gentleman who gives you his attention until one of us can verify his circumstances. We will tell you who to avoid and who to encourage."
Susannah reached over and grabbed her sister's hand and squeezed it affectionately. "Dear Cath. I wish I were as clever as you. I will not do anything without consulting you first. I promise."
Catherine smiled, as she always did when those big blue eyes were turned on her with such sincerity. Susannah might not be the brightest star in the firmament, but she meant well. She was as sweet-natured as she was beautiful, and Catherine loved her dearly. "I am sure every unmarried gentleman at Chissingworth will fall in love with you, Sukey," she said. "How could they not?"
"Perhaps even the duke himself will fall in love with one of you," Aunt Hetty added with a twinkle in her eye as she looked up from her darning.
Catherine laughed. "Heavens, Aunt! We cannot expect such a sacrifice from poor Sukey. We want her to marry a rich man, but not if he's touched in the head."
"Touched in the head?" Aunt Hetty asked, her eyes widening in astonishment. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Don't be coy, Aunt Hetty. You know as well as the next person that the Duke of Carlisle is a notorious eccentric at best. He keeps so much to himself that he hasn't been seen for years—despite the fact that his mother is an important figure in Society and seen everywhere. There are even rumors that the poor man is unbalanced and kept locked away by his family."
"Oh, fustian!" Aunt Hetty said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. The Duke of Carlisle, unbalanced? Unlikely, my dear. Not if his mother had any say in the matter."
"Well, in any case," Catherine continued, "we must not expect him to be at his mother's house party. But it does not signify. There will surely be plenty of other eligible gentlemen in attendance. But just now," she said as she rose from her chair, "we must concern ourselves with our wardrobes. Come, Sukey, let us rummage through Mama's trunks to see what we can salvage."
In short order, the two sisters were on their knees in the tiny, dingy attic, sorting through stacks of old-fashioned gowns that had belonged to their late mother and even some that dated back to their grandmother. Many were from the last century with long, tight-fitting bodices and would be difficult to alter. Fortunately, however, Susannah's one great talent in life, besides looking beautiful, was as an expert seamstress. With the proper materials at hand and her spectacles perched on her nose, she could fashion a gown that exactly copied those in the ladies' magazines, a gown that looked as if it had come from the finest modiste.
And so, while Catherine sought out bits of ribbon, lace, or other trim that could be salvaged from the most worn pieces, Susannah examined the better pieces and determined which bodices could be raised, which skirts layered or lowered.
Catherine looked up from her work at the sound of a sudden racket coming from below. Heavy footsteps could be heard making their way up the narrow staircase, accompanied by regular grunts and groans and the occasional crash, as though something substantial had struck the wall. Catherine glanced at Susannah, thinking she might know what on earth was going on, but her sister just pushed aside a stray blond curl and shook her head. Catherine turned back toward the stairs in time to see MacDougal and an unknown young man navigating a huge trunk around the final landing and into the small attic room where she and Susannah sat. The men dropped the trunk with a loud crash.
"Och! Here ye be, ladies," MacDougal said in a winded voice as he wiped the back of his hand across his brow. "Thought ye might be able to make some use o' these few things."
"What have you there, MacDougal?" Catherine asked.
"This here, ye ken, is me cousin Dermott MacDougal," he said. The young man nodded self-consciously and stepped back into the shadows. His eyes darted every few seconds toward Susannah. "He works over to Lord Fairchild's, he does. Footman now, but butler one day, ye mark my words."
The young man hung his head and blushed.
"Anyhow," MacDougal continued, "his lordship had three daughters, ye ken. All married now, verra well placed, they be. But they left behind these few bits of gowns and such. Dermott here says they be packed away up there in that attic doin' nobody any good, just waitin' to be hauled off fer some charitable cause or other. Could be they're a bit out of fashion—I dinna know about them things meself, ye ken. But we figured as how they're wasted in his lordship's attic, and ye young ladies might be able to make some use of'em."
Susannah had risen while MacDougal spoke and walked to the trunk. Young Dermott MacDougal, his eyes wide with admiration, reached down to open it for her.
"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed when the lid had been thrown back.
Catherine rose, brushed off her skirts, and joined Susannah. She stifled a gasp at the sight before her. A beautiful green sarsnet gown lay folded neatly in tissue at the top of the trunk. Susannah carefully pulled it out, oohing and ahhing as she gently held up the elegant creation. Catherine's eyes strayed back to the trunk, where a dress of fine white India muslin sprigged with tiny embroidered white flowers sat for her inspection. More dresses followed. Silks and lutestrings, merinos and crepes, satins and muslins. It was a magnificent collection that quite took her breath away.
"Oh, but, MacDougal," she said at last, "we cannot take these things. They belong to the Fairchilds."
"No more daughters at home, miss," he replied. "And Lady Fairchild's too stout by half to fit into any o' them dresses. Too fine fer the housemaids. The Fairchilds have no use fer 'em, mark me words. Dinna they mean to have 'em carted off anyway? Trust me. They'll never be missed."
Catherine eyed him skeptically. She didn't quite trust him, but neither could she afford to reject such an unexpected bounty. "You are sure, MacDougal? You are sure it is all right?"
"Oh, Cath, just look at them!" Susannah exclaimed. "They may need a bit of alteration here and there, some updated trim, some new lace. But, oh, Cath, they're beautiful. Just beautiful. Can we keep them? Can we?"
"Of course ye can," MacDougal answered. "Nothing but the be
st fer you lassies. And besides," he said with a grin, "they'll never be missed."
Without another word, MacDougal and his young cousin turned and headed for the landing and then down the stairs.
They'll never be missed.
I certainly hope not, Catherine thought as she joined her sister in sorting the rest of the dresses from the trunk.
"Let us drink to my last day of peace." Stephen said as he raised his rummer of port. "The hordes descend on the morrow, and I shall not see the inside of my own dining room for the next month."
"To peace, then," said his friend Miles, the Earl of Strickland, raising his own glass to clank against Stephen's.
Stephen took a long swallow, dropped his glass heavily upon the polished mahogany table, and sank back comfortably in his chair. It was good to spend time with Miles again. The earl was Stephen's closest friend—almost his only friend, in fact. He had been invited by the duchess to join in the house party and had arrived a few days early.
"I don't suppose it is worth trying to change your mind?" the earl asked.
"About what?" Stephen replied. "Taking part in Mother's wretched gathering? Don't waste your breath, Miles. You should know me better than that."
Miles shrugged and chuckled softly. "It was worth a try," he said. "I know you loathe this sort of thing, but I had hoped . . . well, I had hoped." He took another swallow of port. "Now that I have seen the conservatory construction, I can understand why you could not bring yourself to leave. It is going to be magnificent."
"I think so," Stephen said. "I am in great need of a larger space for my experiments as well as the more tropical specimens."
"It will be a handsome building."
Stephen laughed. "Repton would not agree. He would have had me make it an extension of the house, an uninterrupted organic flow from interior to conservatory to garden. Can you imagine me slapping such a thoroughly modern structure onto Chissingworth? Ha! My ancestors would come back to haunt me for such an affront. Besides, it is not meant to be a picturesque decoration. It has a function, for God's sake. Repton would have me plop a handful of thatch on its roof and call it an ornamental dairy." He shuddered at the very notion.