by Kate Pearce
With a martyred sigh, Clarkson handed it over. “What you gonna do with it, now? Throw it on the fire? It’ll make an awful stink, and his lordship won’t be pleased.”
Margaret met his gaze. “Come with me.” She marched toward the door. She had no idea where her husband was currently and half hoped he was far enough away from the main house to have no sense of what was occurring within it.
“Where the hell are you going with that shirt?” Clarkson asked.
“Firstly, mind your language, and secondly, I told you to accompany me. Are you deaf?”
Still muttering, Clarkson followed her down the flight of stairs and toward the kitchen wing. Margaret pushed open the door into the kitchen, causing consternation among the staff.
“Your grace!” The old butler, who was sitting at the table drinking tea and reading Alistair’s newspaper, rose to his feet. “May I assist you with something?”
Margaret ignored him and settled her gaze on the so-called housekeeper who was keeping the butler company at the table.
“Where is the flat iron kept?”
“Doesn’t your maid know where things are yet, your grace?” The housekeeper shook her head and winked at the butler. “You haven’t trained her very well, have you?”
“That is hardly your concern, Mrs. Walton. I thought you were supposed to be in charge of the household and should know such simple things?”
The housekeeper gave a long-suffering sigh and stood up. “I suppose you expect me to go and find it for you, don’t you?”
“No, just tell me where it is located.” Margaret attempted to keep her voice steady but it was becoming harder and harder by the second.
“I don’t want you ferreting around in my kitchen, ma’am, and making things all awry, and what you want with a flat iron is beyond me.”
Margaret heard the ripple of amusement from the assembled servants around her and raised her chin. If the iron had been currently in her possession, she might not be responsible for where it ended up.
“You will address me as your grace, and it is none of your business what I need the flat iron for. It is merely your duty to provide it for me.”
“There’s no need to lose your temper, lass, now is there?” Mrs. Walton responded.
After almost a month of such insubordination, Margaret was in no mood to be pleasant. “You may pack your bags and leave, Mrs. Walton.” She turned her gaze toward the openmouthed kitchen maid. “The flat iron is for his grace’s shirts. Where is it stored?”
The kitchen maid pointed to a room off to the side. “In there, your grace. We iron in there.”
She nodded at the girl. “What is your name?”
“Beryl.”
“Thank you, Beryl. Perhaps you could assist Mrs. Walton with her packing?’
“You can’t—” Mrs. Walton tried to block her path.
“Yes, I can, and if you insist on arguing the matter with me, I will have one of the footmen throw you out, and you will be deprived of your belongings, too. You have been nothing but insolent and unhelpful toward me since the day I arrived and asked for your help.”
Mrs. Walton stepped out of the way and stuttered a reply. “I’ll tell his grace! You can’t just come in here and get rid of loyal family retainers!”
Margaret held her gaze. “I expect loyalty to me, Mrs. Walton, and you have offered me nothing but contempt and condescension.”
“Because you aren’t fit for this job!” Mrs. Walton shrieked. “He should have married our Miss Lilly.”
“But he chose not to, and I am the current duchess, and you are now without an occupation.” Margaret turned away. “Please be gone before nightfall. Will you arrange for a gig to take Mrs. Walton wherever she wishes to go, please Sams?”
“Yes, your grace.” The butler looked warily from her to the seething housekeeper.
“Then, come along, Mr. Clarkson. We have work to do.” Margaret walked through the crowd of now-silent servants toward the room Beryl had mentioned.
“Bloody hell, you’re a ballsy one, aren’t you?” Clarkson whistled as Margaret added more coal to the fire and studied the three flat irons on the metal plate that sat over the fire. “You’ve set the cat among the pigeons now.”
“Good.” Margaret dusted off her hands. “I am tired of being treated as if I don’t exist in my own house.” She glared at Clarkson. “And, please, watch your language!”
She spread Alistair’s shirt out on the wooden table and forced herself to take several deep breaths. She was still shaking, but she didn’t regret what she had said in the slightest. Weeks of appalling meals, sneering indifference, and a refusal to even accomplish the most basic of her requests had brought her to a point of no return.
“Get some water and a sponge,” Margaret directed Clarkson, who was grinning at her unrepentantly. “I will show you how to iron a shirt properly!”
“Like you would know how to do that.” Clarkson chuckled. “I’ll wager you’ve never been in a kitchen before in your life!”
“Then, please place your bet, because you would lose that wager,” Margaret invited him. She stalked over to the flat iron and selected the middle-sized one, holding it up against her cheek to gauge the heat. “Now, observe, and mayhap you will learn something!”
Alistair had barely sat down at his desk before his study door burst open and his butler came in followed by his housekeeper. He eyed them warily.
“What is it now?”
“The duchess just told Mrs. Walton to pack her bags and leave, your grace.”
“Ah.”
Mrs. Walton stepped forward. There were two spots of color on her cheeks, and her hands were clenched into fists. “She came into my kitchen and insulted me, right to my face!”
Alistair had a fleeting moment to wonder why his wife was picking fights with his staff, before his housekeeper continued speaking.
“She said I had to leave by nightfall, and that if I didn’t do as she ordered, she would set one of the footmen on me and throw me out without a penny to my name!” She sniffed. “Begging your pardon, your grace, we all know why you had to marry her, but I knew she had no class when she turned up here, and this just proves my point.”
“Does it.” Alistair regarded her until she dropped her gaze.
He glanced over at Sams. “Will you find my wife and ask her to join me here when it is convenient?”
“Yes, your grace.” Sams bowed, and considering his age, withdrew with some speed.
Mrs. Walton sniffed. “I’ll go back to my kitchen, then, your grace. I’m sure you’ll explain how things are to your wife, and she’ll come around to our way of doing things.”
Somehow, Alistair doubted that, but he told Mrs. Walton to leave, and sat down to await the arrival of his wife. He had just begun to wonder whether she had left him when the door opened and she came in, her cheeks flushed, and her hair in some disarray.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I had to teach your valet to iron a shirt properly, and I didn’t want to leave it half done.”
Alistair, who had risen to his feet at her entrance, blinked at her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Clarkson doubted my ability to wield a flat iron and I showed him the error of his ways.” She gave a satisfied smirk. “He now owes me sixpence, and don’t think I won’t make sure he pays up.”
He gazed at her for a long moment before she frowned.
“What?”
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about your excursion into the kitchen?”
“Such as?” Her smile disappeared.
“That you ordered my housekeeper to leave forthwith?”
“Your housekeeper?”
“You know what I mean.” He paused. “You are probably unaware that the Walton family have provided housekeepers for the dukedom for three generations.”
“I don’t understand your point.” Margaret said slowly.
“You can’t just…” He snapped his fing
ers. “Tell a Walton to leave. Her uncle is the head groom here, and he helped teach me to ride. Her cousin is one of the gamekeepers.”
“Why not?” To her credit, she looked genuinely interested and not as angry as he had expected. “If she was a worker in my brother’s mill, and she spoke to him with such disrespect, he would dismiss her instantly.”
“But things are different here.” He tried to explain. “Families like ours have a responsibility to those who have served us for generations.”
She went still. “Are you are suggesting that Mrs. Walton may say whatever she likes, treat me like an interloper, and I can do nothing about it?”
“No, of course not. She should certainly treat you with respect.” He tried again. “I will speak to her and make sure of it.”
“She disregards my orders, she sneers at me, and refers everything to your cousin Lilly.” Margaret drew herself up to her full height. “If you let her stay, you will undermine my authority with the whole staff.”
“I hardly think—”
“You will.” She raised her chin, and he caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “If you expect me to apologize to her you will wait a long time.”
“I don’t—”
She nodded abruptly. “Then do whatever you wish. If you will excuse me, I have letters to write.”
“Margaret.” He spoke to himself, as she had turned on her heel and walked out.
He let out a harried breath and went upstairs to change his coat before dinner. His steps slowed as he mounted the stairs, and he remembered her stricken expression. Was she right? Would such a ridiculous domestic dispute really undermine her authority, or was she merely exaggerating?
The smell of a hot iron and heated linen reached him as he pushed open the door to his bedchamber and found Clarkson ironing his cravats. His valet looked up as he entered and held up the iron.
“Your missus is an unusual woman, my lord.” He chuckled. “She reminds me a bit of my mum. Look at how well she ironed your favorite shirt!”
Alistair walked over to where his shirt was draped over the back of a chair. “My wife did this?”
“She bloody well did, sir. Not sure where she learned the trick, but she certainly surprised me.”
Alistair imagined her lovingly and efficiently ironing her brother’s shirts in the millhouse kitchen where she’d grown up and felt like a fool.
“Is Mrs. Walton rude to her?” he asked abruptly.
“The whole lot of them are.” Clarkson finished one cravat and started on the next. “Bloody rude and condescending. I’m not surprised she finally lost her temper with that housekeeper today. She deserved it.”
“I haven’t noticed any issues.”
Clarkson gave him a pitying stare. “That’s because they are all too busy licking your arse and groveling to you, sir. Two-faced bastards, the lot of them.” He chuckled. “You should’ve seen that woman’s face when your lady told her to pack her bags. She got a shock, she did, thought she’d never be held responsible for anything she said.”
Alistair took off his heavy coat. “Her family has been housekeepers here for generations.”
“So what?” His valet frowned. “You don’t owe them any loyalty. If they can’t accept your wife, then they should all leave.”
It was Alistair’s turn to glare at Clarkson. “I thought you didn’t like my duchess?”
“I don’t, but I already know that she’s loyal to you, and that’s what counts for me.”
“So you think I should tell all the staff to depart and leave us with no servants?” Alistair inquired sarcastically.
“If they act like that toward the duchess, then yes.” Clarkson paused. “She might seem a bit starchy, but she’s not really, and she needs someone to stand up for her.”
Alistair let off a string of curses as Clarkson continued to iron and whistle like a man without a care in the world.
How dared he? Margaret walked out into the badly neglected gardens and away from the house at some speed. If Alistair let Mrs. Walton stay, Margaret would be relegated to a nonentity in her own house with no power or influence. Lilly would remain mistress, and she would end up having to humiliate herself by asking Alistair’s cousin to get anything done.
Margaret wasn’t one to cry, but she couldn’t stop the tears from falling as she stomped over the uneven lawn. Her husband had looked at her with no understanding at all when she’d attempted to explain the harm he was doing to her reputation and standing in the house. How could she improve the place if no one was willing to listen to her?
For a stricken moment, Margaret stared out over the still unfamiliar green fields and wished she was back in Millcastle with people who understood her and would agree with her. She’d wanted a challenge and had been given one, but was she doomed to fall at the first fence? She’d never been the sort of woman who gave up easily, yet the thought of fighting the entire household, plus the duke, was exhausting.
Had she been too hasty offering Mrs. Walton an ultimatum without any negotiation? She couldn’t decide whether Adam would approve of her actions or not. Margaret sighed. She had a temper, and, after a disastrous first month when she had felt oppressed on all sides, it had perhaps gotten the better of her.
“Your grace!” She turned at the shout to see Clarkson waving at her. “His lordship wants to speak to you in his study!”
Margaret briefly considered pretending she couldn’t hear him, but she had never been a coward and had faced far worse than this. She reluctantly turned around and walked back to where Clarkson awaited her.
He held the door open. “You look like you’re ready to murder him.”
“Perhaps I am.” She frowned at him and went past, wiping her shoes on the mat and undoing the buttons of her coat.
“Good luck to you, then.” His laughter followed her down the corridor.
Margaret didn’t bother to knock on the door of the study and went right in, only to stop immediately when she saw Mrs. Walton standing in front of her husband’s desk.
“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Alistair gestured to the two chairs set in front of his desk. “I thought it might be a good idea for you and Mrs. Walton to clear the air, so to speak.”
Margaret offered him a murderous glare. “I’m not sure it will make much difference, your grace.”
Mrs. Walton tossed her head, refusing to even look at Margaret.
“Both of you will sit down and at least attempt to behave like the reasonable people I know you both are,” Alistair snapped, reminding Margaret that he had once commanded men in the military.
She sat, her hands folded together on her lap, and looked over at the housekeeper who had followed suit. Her husband came around to sit on the front of his desk between them.
“Mrs. Walton, my wife is the new duchess, not Miss Lilly. I expect you to take your orders from her and act on them.”
“She said I was to leave by tonight, and where exactly am I supposed to go when this has been my home since I was born?” Mrs. Walton said tremulously.
Margaret leaned slightly forward. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you made the last month one of the most miserable of my life. I asked you to help me.”
“Yes, well—” Mrs. Walton sniffed. “I thought—”
“—that Lilly should’ve been the new duchess.” Margaret finished her sentence. “But if his grace had married Lilly, you would all be in trouble because this place needs an investment of capital, and, whether you like it or not, I provide that.” She hesitated. “I want to make this place a home for the duke and a comfortable place for us all to live. If you don’t wish to be part of that, then perhaps you should leave.”
She glanced over at her husband. “I’m sure that his grace would offer you somewhere to live, and a pension to compensate you for your years of service if you wish to go.” She forced herself to continue speaking. “It was wrong of me to suggest that you should leave with nothing. I apologize.”
Mrs. Walton
slowly looked up at her. “Perhaps I’ve been too hasty as well. His grace is the only decent man in the family, and Miss Lilly was so upset. I was anxious about him marrying for money and not inclined to like you on sight.” She finally met Margaret’s gaze. “I should’ve given you a chance.”
Margaret nodded. She’d had similar feelings when her brother Adam had married Emily to gain control of her fortune and the mills. “I need someone to stand beside me and help me bring this place back to its former glory, not someone who fights me all the way.”
“I’d like to be part of that, your grace,” Mrs. Walton offered hesitantly. “This is my home, too.”
“Then shall we try again?” Margaret looked at her husband, who was listening intently. “We both want what is best for his grace, after all.”
“And his grace would be very happy if two of his favorite women managed to get along sufficiently to make his life even more comfortable than it already is. I believe I would like to be spoiled,” Alistair said as he set his booted feet on the floor and reached for both of their hands.
Mrs. Walton offered him and Margaret a hopeful smile. “Perhaps I should return to the kitchens to oversee dinner?”
“That would be most helpful,” Margaret replied. “And maybe tomorrow we could make a tour of the house together, starting in the kitchens, to decide what needs to be done?”
Mrs. Walton curtsied. “Yes, your grace, that would be most satisfactory.”
She left the study, her head held high, and Margaret gathered herself to follow.
“Thank you,” Alistair said.
Margaret made the mistake of looking back at him over her shoulder. “For what?”
“Bending.” He shrugged. “You… surprised me.”
She turned to face him. “Did you expect me to display the coarseness of my upbringing and demand that she left, or else?”
He stiffened. “Please don’t put words into my mouth.”
“Then what did you expect?” She advanced toward him, hands on her hips.
“You apologized to her very sweetly and offered her the opportunity to work with you on something she loves.”
“What else was I supposed to do when you had made it clear that you cared about her staying and refused to back me?”