A Most Suitable Duchess

by Patricia Bray

  Precisely at eight, Penelope joined Marcus in his chamber for dinner. In honor of her ducal guests the cook had produced five lavish courses, but her efforts were for naught. To Penelope, each dish might as well have been sawdust, for all she could taste. Instead, as each course was cleared away, Penelope grew more and more nervous, anticipating what would occur once they were alone.

  The burgundy wine was surprisingly fine, but she resisted the temptation to overindulge. It would serve neither of them if she became tipsy.

  Her distraction was obvious, for Marcus noticed it and inquired as to its cause. She told him it was simple fatigue from the journey, and he seemed to accept that explanation.

  And then, before she knew it, the last of the plates was cleared away, and they were left alone with each other. Her heart began to pound and her palms to sweat.

  Marcus rose from his seat, and crossed to her side of the table, pulling out her chair so she could rise as well. She glanced at his face, and then swiftly looked away. His expression was impossible to read, but she was afraid her own emotions showed all too plainly.

  He took her right hand in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. A reassuring touch. And then he leaned forward. She closed her eyes, and felt his lips brush her cheek.

  “I thank you for your company,” he said. “And now, it has been a long day, and so I bid you good night and a pleasant rest.”

  He released her hand, and his gaze moved toward her room.

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. He had bid her good night. There was no reason for him to do so, if he had planned on joining her.

  “And a good night to you as well,” she said, scarcely able to contain her astonishment.

  As she crossed into her own bedchamber, she heard the sound of the connecting door being firmly closed.

  “Good night, indeed,” she muttered, unaccountably furious.

  Clearly he did not intend to consummate their marriage tonight. Perhaps it was because they were both fatigued from traveling. Perhaps he was simply being a gentleman, giving her a chance to get to know him before he claimed his rights.

  Or a more lowering thought occurred to her. Maybe Marcus had no interest in making love with her. This was a marriage of convenience, after all. There was no passion between them, and there was no great hurry to produce an heir.

  After all her earlier fears she knew she should be grateful for his forbearance, whatever his reasons. Instead she was angry. Surely he could have told her his intention beforehand, rather than leaving her to needlessly worry and fret. She might have been able to enjoy her dinner, if she had known that this was not to be her wedding night. But instead, in his high-handed way, he had made his decision, and taken it for granted that she would be pleased.

  She might have been pleased, if she knew Marcus’s mind. But instead she was left to guess his intentions. She had no idea if this was a single night’s reprieve or a pattern that would exist for the length of their marriage. It was no wonder she was angry, she thought as she donned her nightgown and slipped into her chaste bed.

  Not even to herself did she acknowledge that mixed in with her anger was a thread of disappointment. Instead she focused on her grievances.

  This was hardly an auspicious start. Was this how Marcus envisioned their marriage? His role to decide and hers to comply with his wishes? In the days before the marriage, he had treated her as a rational creature, one who would be an equal partner in this match. Each had much to gain from the marriage, and a civil partnership would benefit them both. Or so he had allowed her to believe.

  But now that they were wed, he was reverting to his true colors. Perhaps Selvay Firth was not as poor a choice as she had first thought. In choosing Marcus Heywood, she may have chosen a far more bitter form of punishment.

  Seven

  The first day’s journey had passed without incident. Indeed, Marcus had found Penelope to be an agreeable traveling companion, not one of those silly women who felt the need to fill every moment with idle chatter. When she had fallen asleep, he had watched her thoughtfully, surprised by the surge of tenderness that he felt. She was his, he realized. His responsibility. His to care for.

  The next day’s journey was not nearly so pleasant. Even as they broke their fast, he could tell that his new bride was not pleased. Charitably, he attributed her mood to the earliness of the hour.

  But as the day passed, her ill temper persisted. Not that she was openly petulant, or angry. She did not even complain. But her silence was icy, and the easiness that had existed between them on that first day was gone.

  It did not take a scientist to realize that she was vexed with him. But when asked, she denied any such sentiment. She turned each inquiry away with polite dismissal. She was fine, she kept repeating, until he grew to hate the word.

  It would take five days to reach Torringford Abbey, traveling by easy stages. He had deliberately planned the slow journey, out of consideration for his new bride. Now he found himself wishing that it was over. Anything would be better than this awkwardness.

  It was impossible for two people to ignore each other while traveling in the confines of a coach, no matter how elegant or well sprung the vehicle. And yet she contrived to do just that. Yesterday Penelope had spent most of the day seemingly absorbed in a novel, or pretending to sleep. When they reached the inn, she had complained of fatigue, and used the excuse to dine alone.

  Today, she had a new distraction, a guidebook that she had managed to acquire from somewhere.

  “I trust you slept well?” Marcus asked.

  Penelope made a noncommittal noise.

  “It looks like it may rain today,” he said.

  There was no response. From his seat he had a very good view of the top of her bonnet, but he could see nothing of her expression. He was not used to being so thoroughly ignored. He wondered how she would react if he simply snatched the book from her hands and demanded that she look at him.

  He waited a few moments, and tried again.

  “I can not help notice that you seem…distracted,” he said, for lack of a better word. “Is there something amiss? Something we should discuss?”

  “Did you know the present Abbey is the third structure on that site?” Penelope asked.

  “No, I know little of its history,” he said. In fact he had never visited Torringford Abbey. Over the years there had been only a handful of occasions when the duke had felt the need to offer his hospitality to his country cousins. And the old feud had ensured that Marcus’s father had refused all such invitations, scorning the branch of the family that had cast out his own father.

  “According to the guidebook, when Elizabeth awarded the estate to the Earl of Knox, he tore down the original abbey and erected a mansion designed in the shape of the letter E in her honor. Apparently your ancestor was quite a favorite at court, and Elizabeth is known to have visited the new mansion on at least two occasions.”

  Marcus cared little for gossip, and even less for gossip about someone who had been dead for centuries.

  “In seventeen hundred and thirty, during the time of James, the first Duke of Torringford, the mansion was heavily damaged by fire. Rather than attempt repairs, the duke commissioned a new structure, a stately home built in the classical revival style. It took seven years to build, and no expense was spared. Capability Brown himself designed the landscaping, including a small artificial lake and Temple Folly. The guidebook goes on at length to describe the grounds; shall I read that to you?”

  “I would rather you not.”

  “It is said to be quite picturesque, although the author admits the descriptions are from the last century. Apparently the last duke was somewhat of a recluse, and it has been years since public visitors were allowed. Even Joseph Turner was denied permission to visit the grounds for the purposes of painting the lake.”

  So the old duke’s incivility had extended to strangers as well as to his own kin. It was in keeping with what little Marcus knew of his character.r />
  “We will have the opportunity to form our own opinions soon enough,” Marcus said, hoping to put an end to this dry recitation of facts.

  “True,” Penelope said.

  An uncomfortable silence descended once again, as Penelope appeared completely absorbed by the guidebook. She continued to read selected tidbits aloud, describing the towns they were passing through and other homes of note in the area. At last Marcus was reduced to feigning sleep to avoid listening to any more inanities.

  That evening Marcus purchased the sporting papers, and the next day he buried himself within their pages, while Penelope continued her own reading. They spoke little, beyond a few stilted exchanges.

  It was with a genuine sense of relief that they arrived at the Abbey on the afternoon of the fifth day.

  As the carriage advanced along the drive, it climbed a slight rise, and then the trees gave way, offering a view of the Abbey. The prospect was magnificent, as the landscaper had no doubt intended. The gleaming white stone building had its reflection in the shimmering waters of the lake. Everything about the house and its surrounds spoke of careful design and calculation. It was impressive, and yet the overall feeling was one of coldness.

  The servants must have been on watch for their arrival, for as the coach drew up to the portico, the servants began assembling on either side of the stairs. Swallowing nervously, he realized there must be fifty or more, each waiting to pass judgment on their new master and mistress. Used to Greenfields, with its handful of indoor servants, he wondered if he would ever become accustomed to such grandeur.

  If Penelope found the presence of the massed servants daunting, she showed no signs. Instead she allowed a footman to help her out of the carriage, and then placed her left hand on Marcus’s right arm as he escorted her.

  A thin ruddy-faced man wearing a powdered white wig advanced to meet them. He was accompanied by a woman of storklike thinness, who wore a black dress and a white lace cap perched upon her severely swept-back hair.

  “Your Grace, I am Mr. Gormley, butler here for these last dozen years. And this is my sister, Mrs. Gormley, who has the honor to serve as housekeeper.”

  The family resemblance was unmistakable, both brother and sister being cursed with watery blue eyes and long thin noses. No doubt the “Mrs.” was a courtesy title, in view of the sister’s position.

  “This is my wife, the Duchess of Torringford,” Marcus said.

  “An honor to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Gormley said.

  His sister repeated the sentiment, bobbing a brief curtsy.

  “I thought you would like to meet the household staff,” Mr. Gormley said. “This is not all of them, of course, but rather those who could be spared from their duties.”

  His words were addressed to the duke, but it was Penelope who answered.

  “That was most thoughtful of you,” she said.

  Marcus accompanied her as Mr. Gormley led them over to the left, where the menservants had lined up. Before they were halfway through the introduction his head was swimming, bemused by the names and descriptions of their duties. What on earth did a knife boy do, he wondered, and promptly missed the next introduction.

  Penelope, however, showed no signs of confusion. She acknowledged each introduction with studied politeness.

  Not all the servants appeared pleased to see them, but then that was to be expected. He and Penelope were unknown quantities, as it were, and the servants were naturally nervous. No doubt things would settle down once they realized that neither he nor Penelope had any intention of disrupting their routine.

  After the introductions, Penelope dismissed the servants, and allowed Mrs. Gormley to show them to their rooms. The duke and duchess’s apartments occupied the southern end of the second storey. Each had their own bedchamber and dressing room, which opened into a shared sitting area.

  As he had instructed, all personal effects of the old duke had been cleared away. He wondered if they had been stored somewhere in the attics, or if the servants had taken advantage of his disinterest and earned extra pounds by selling them. Upon reflection he found he did not much care what they had done.

  They dined that night in the formal dining room. It was not a success. The soup was cold and the joint overdone. Penelope questioned the footman who served them, only to be informed that the cook sent his apologies for being caught so unprepared.

  “There is no reason for him to be unprepared. I sent word to expect our arrival today,” Marcus said.

  Penelope nodded. “I expect it was simply a difficulty in communication. Things are often set to sixes and sevens when a household changes masters. I will have a talk with the cook on the morrow, and set this right.”

  “If you like, I can speak to him,” Marcus offered in a fit of generosity. Though he had not the faintest idea of what one would say to a recalcitrant cook. What if this was one of the fashionable tyrants who insisted on being addressed in French?

  “No, this is my place,” Penelope answered, much to his relief. “The sooner the servants know what to expect, the happier we will all be.”

  Now that they had reached the Abbey, Penelope half expected that Marcus would choose to claim his rights. Instead they spent another night sleeping chastely apart. She wondered bleakly if this was to be the pattern of their marriage. Perhaps there would be no children, after all.

  She awoke with a headache, which was not eased when it took more than a quarter of an hour for a maid to respond to her summons. Finally the door was opened and the maid entered the room, bearing a pitcher of water.

  The young woman’s eyes went immediately to the bed, and Penelope blushed as she realized that the maid was looking for evidence of Marcus’s presence. Apparently finding nothing of interest, the maid gave Penelope a smile of mock sympathy before crossing to the washbasin and setting the pitcher down.

  “Nancy, is it not?” Penelope asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied. “Mrs. Gormley said I was to do for you, until you hired your own maid.”

  “Have you any experience at being a lady’s maid?”

  The maid shrugged. “I reckon I know what I need to know,” she said, her eyes sweeping dismissively over Penelope.

  Penelope wished she had thought to bring her own maid Jenna from Edinburgh. But Jenna was getting on in years, and it had seemed far kinder to let her remain behind, rather than dragging her on this journey.

  She poured the water into the basin, noticing without surprise that it was nearly cold. It was a challenge, of a sorts, to see how she would react.

  “You may lay out the yellow sprigged muslin,” Penelope said. Cupping the water in her hands, she washed her face and then dried it on a linen towel.

  After a moment the maid did her bidding, with the air of someone performing a favor. Idly Penelope wondered how Marcus was faring at the hands of the servants. Somehow she knew that he was not the kind of man to stand for insolence.

  “I noticed yesterday that there are fewer maids than I would have expected, for a household of this size,” Penelope said.

  “There were more, but some of the girls left in these last days. Can’t say I blame them, but it leaves me with twice as much work,” Nancy complained.

  “Your Grace,” Penelope corrected.

  “What?”

  “It leaves me with twice as much work, Your Grace,” Penelope said firmly. “I see no reason to forget courtesy, do you?”

  The maid’s eyes flashed with rebellion. “Your Grace,” she muttered.

  Penelope completed her toilette in silence. Nancy’s insolence was simply part of a larger problem, one that she had seen evidence of at last night’s dinner. She should have expected this. No doubt the scandalous advertisement and news of Marcus’s chosen bride would have been thoroughly discussed in the servants’ hall.

  A part of her sympathized with them. For all the servants knew, their new master was an eccentric fool, and their new mistress a brazen fortune hunter. No doubt the other maid
s had left because they were unwilling to work in such a scandalous household.

  She understood, but that did not mean that she would accept such treatment. Indeed, if she let the servants continue on in their ways, it would seem a confirmation of her unworthiness. This petty rebellion must be nipped in the bud, and for that she would start not with a mere maid, but rather with the housekeeper Mrs. Gormley.

  She breakfasted alone, having learned from a footman that Marcus had risen early and had ridden off with the bailiff to inspect the estate. After her meal she sent a maid to tell Mrs. Gormley that she wished to speak with her.

  In a typical household, even without such a summons, the housekeeper would have waited upon her immediately after breakfast to review the day’s menus and to receive any instructions. With a new mistress, Mrs. Gormley should have presented herself at once, offering to show Penelope her new home. But neither occurred, and after waiting impatiently in her sitting room for an hour, Penelope was tired of being played for a fool.

  Finding the servants denied all knowledge of Mrs. Gormley’s whereabouts, Penelope wandered through the great house. Twice she became lost as she worked her way through the public rooms, and finally down to the lower level, where she found Mrs. Gormley sitting at her ease in the kitchen, chatting cheerfully with the pastry cook, while a pair of kitchen maids scrubbed pans.

  “Mrs. Gormley, I need to speak with you,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Let us go to your office,” Penelope said, nodding to indicate the presence of the cook and kitchen maids. “You may enjoy discussing your affairs in public, but I do not.”

  For a moment she thought the housekeeper would refuse, but then Mrs. Gormley arose. “If you insist,” she said.