The Perfect Duchess

by Erica Taylor

  As the sun began to wane in the afternoon sky, the front drive of Foley Cottage came into view.

  “Foley Cottage,” Clara asked, not looking at him. “Is it truly a cottage?”

  “Well, no,” Andrew admitted. “But it is more modest than Bradstone Park.”

  “That sounds rather wonderful,” Clara said, watching as her new home came into view.

  Much smaller than Bradstone Park, Foley Cottage was three stories tall, stone with ivy crawling up the sides, the windows framed with white edgings. The carriage pulled into a circle in the front of the house, a streaming fountain in the middle of the loop.

  Clara was introduced to the housekeeper and butler, Mr. and Mrs. Singer, as the members of their house party traipsed inside and disappeared to their bedchambers, weary from a long day of traveling.

  Foley Cottage truly was a modest country home. It sported six bedrooms, two family suites, a dining room, one sitting room, a music room, an extensive library with a study alcove, a long gallery, and a massive and modernized kitchen featuring what Andrew informed Clara was the newest Rumford model of stovetop oven. He escorted Clara through the house as he explained the improvements and modifications he had made to the structure, the décor, and the furniture.

  He hoped his eagerness to share this place with her was not as evident as he felt, this solitary world where even his siblings rarely infiltrated. He explained how he had all the portraits removed and replaced with landscapes because he did not want his ancestors staring down at him every moment of every day. The previous year he had commissioned the rebuilding of the church that lies to the west, adding a family pew containing a firebox and a walled garden with a fish pond.

  “It feels like a home, Andrew,” Clara said, placing her hand on his chest and kissing him softly on the cheek. “It is perfect.”

  Brushing an errant curl back from her face, he said softly, “I am glad you approve.”

  They gazed at each other for a long moment before Clara’s eyes slid away and the moment was broken.

  “I think I would like to speak with Mrs. Singer before dinner,” Clara said, stepping away.

  “Of course,” Andrew replied. “Feel free to make whatever changes you feel necessary and to your liking. It is to be your home as well.” He hoped.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I will see you for dinner?”

  “Yes,” he nodded and bowed, somewhat formally, and he wanted to smack himself on the head for his cold behavior. With an odd glint to her eyes, she dipped into a curtsy before leaving him alone in the long galley.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The following morning, Clara crept into Andrew’s room, silent in the early morning darkness. The grounds were lit with an eerie glow as the first rays of light began to hit the countryside. Sitting on the edge of his grand four poster bed, Clara brushed the dark lock of curls from his brow, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

  “Andrew,” she said, giving his shoulder a light shake. “Wake up.”

  He mumbled something in his sleep as his arm snaked out and wrapped around Clara’s waist, pulling her down onto the bed beside him. His face turned to nestle in her hair and he breathed deeply.

  “Andrew, you are awake, do not deny it,” Clara said with a laugh.

  “I do not deny anything,” he murmured. “Especially whatever seductive nymph has entered my bed.”

  “Andrew, get up,” she said, pushing on his arm. He tightened his hold and pulled her closer.

  “I am up,” he muttered.

  “Goodness, Andrew, I cannot breathe!” Clara laughed. “Will you wake up and dress?”

  “Whatever for?” he asked, blinking at her slowly. His face was so wonderfully handsome, red from sleep with stubble growth along his jaw and cheeks. Clara traced a finger from his brow down his nose. Andrew’s eyes drooped in contentment.

  “If you get up and get dressed, I promise to make it worth the effort,” she told him.

  Andrew sighed but released her. “I will hold you to that,” he said as she rolled off the bed.

  “Walton will be in momentarily,” Clara said, righting her skirts. “He was gracious enough to allow me a moment to wake you myself.”

  “You are friendly with my valet?” Andrew asked, sitting up, the sheet and duvet falling down his broad chest. Clara did her best not to stare, ignoring the level of impropriety they had just ventured into.

  Turning towards the door, Clara replied, “I am to be your wife, Andrew. Of course I know your valet. Now, dress and meet me in the front hall.”

  “Clara, the sun isn’t even up yet,” he complained, his hair tousled from sleep. Clara was very tempted to return to his side, run her hands through his soft curls, and refuse to leave the room, or the bed, all day.

  “So it is,” she said with a glance to the window. “Best hurry then. We wouldn’t want to miss the sunrise. Oh, and dress for riding.”

  “Why are we riding before the sunrise?” Andrew asked. “We aren’t set to leave for Petersfield until well after breakfast.”

  Clara’s brown eyes glinted with mischief. “We can go to the parsonage tomorrow,” she replied. “Today, I am taking you hostage.”

  “Well, if that is the case,” Andrew replied, flipping the blankets from his lap. Clara turned and fled the room before she was reminded what lay beneath those blankets.

  Twenty minutes later Andrew appeared in the front foyer, dressed smartly in brown trousers tucked into black boots, a cream waistcoat and a jacket of—

  “I say, your grace, but you are wearing blue,” Clara realized in amazement marveling at the sapphire blue of his coat, highlighting the blue of his eyes.

  He glanced down at his coat. “Is that all right?” he asked.

  Clara wanted to laugh but she simply smiled. “It looks rather nice on you, in fact.”

  He nodded towards the basket in her hands. “What have you there?”

  “Fresh milk, a fresh loaf of bread, and some cheese,” Clara replied, watching as a wide grin split across his face. It was the same basket his cook used to prepare for him as a lad.

  They set off on horseback for the sunrise Mrs. Singer had told her about, one that rose gently from the direction of the house, but dipped down on the other side, stretching out across the valley below. The summer morning brought a low foggy mist that shifted across the grounds like a gentle caress. The air was damp as the morning dew settled onto the landscape, cool and crisp as they made their way briskly towards their destination.

  Clara pulled a thick quilt from her saddle bag and spread it out on the grass.

  “The basket please,” Clara said, settling in the middle of the quilt. Andrew handed over the basket of milk, bread, and cheese before sitting stiffly beside her.

  Clara leaned against his shoulder as they sat on the hill, watching the sun rise over the horizon, an early morning breeze pulling a few strands of hair free from her coiffure. She was going to give it one day, she decided. One day to be in love and to have Andrew love her; one day to prove to him, and hopefully herself, this was real and could be trusted.

  “What else have you planned for the day?” Andrew asked.

  “Well, I thought we could redo our race from Rotten Row,” Clara replied. “Though I will best you again. I suspect there is a bit of exploring we could do on horseback.” She leaned away to regard him. “Have you a pond or lake we could swim in?”

  Andrew laughed. “No, unfortunately, there is no bit of water suitable for swimming. But we can race again, if you would be prepared to admit defeat.”

  “You should be the one ready to eat your words, your grace,” Clara chided, rising to her feet. “I am on an unfamiliar mount on unfamiliar land. You have a distinct advantage over me.”

  “I am willing to give you a head start,” he replied, rising. He helped her fold the blanket and return it to her saddle
bag.

  “Oh, no,” Clara said. “I am not riding with extra weight. We can leave the blanket and basket here and return for them later.”

  “Leave them here?”

  Clara glanced around. “Is there any one around to pinch it? Or shall we leave a note saying, By order of the Duke of Bradstone, do not touch my basket!”

  The lopsided grin appeared across his face, the one she had come to cherish.

  “Fine, we leave the extra weight here,” he agreed. “But then I am not racing in his hat.” He swept the beaver skinned top hat from his head.

  “It was a bit ridiculous you wore it to begin with,” Clara admitted. “But my bonnet will stay as well. And my spencer jacket,” she added, slipping her fingers beneath the buttons and releasing them from their loops. Her blouse beneath was a soft cream and much more comfortable to ride in.

  “Can’t have you be the only one carousing about the countryside half nude,” Andrew said, pulling off his own jacket, but he needed Clara’s assistance to be rid of the tight-fitting garment. She happily complied, but not without giggling at his expense.

  Both without jackets or hats, Clara and Andrew mounted their respective horses and moved down the hill towards a more even patch of ground. The valley below was lush and green, speckled with white and blue flower buds lasting through the end of springtime. Andrew pointed out the eastern property line, the long stretch of woods at the very far end of the valley.

  “What is that?” Clara asked, shielding her eyes from the sun as it rose higher in the sky, bringing bright rays of light. She was pointing towards the southern end of the valley, where upon a small rise in the elevation sat a ruin of sorts.

  “That is a turret ruin,” Andrew explained. “I have no idea what it was before that, and no one in the area knew anything about it. It has simply been there as long as anyone can remember. It was used as a hunting hide from time to time.”

  “It looks part of a medieval castle that once sat upon that hill,” Clara said.

  “Except there is no record of there ever being a castle there,” Andrew replied. “Nor a fort or lookout tower or anything of the sort. It is simply a single turret in the middle of the countryside.”

  “We shall have to investigate,” Clara said with a nod.

  Andrew laughed. “Are you trying to weasel a way out of this rematch?”

  Clara’s brow rose. “Nothing of the sort. Merely finding an activity to occupy us while you lick your wounded pride.”

  “Would you like the five second lead count?” he asked.

  “I would not,” she replied. “I will not have you give any reason for my success other than my superior riding skills.”

  “Then you cannot be put out when I trounce you thoroughly,” he replied.

  “Deal,” she said. They set out the race perimeters and moved their horses to a starting point.

  “When that crow lands on that tree, we go,” Andrew said and Clara nodded in agreement, not taking her eyes from the crow as it flew towards the lone tree in the middle of the valley, the end point for their race. The second the bird landed, they both leapt into motion.

  Clara beat him, again, though it truly was no contest. She laughed at the incredulous look of astonishment as he came up firmly behind her. For a moment, she thought she’d pushed too far, that the Stone Duke was about to make an appearance, but he laughed with her, proclaiming her the better rider.

  They rode across the countryside, jumping over low fences and bits of thicket, laughing as Clara’s horse nearly dumped her into a stream. They quizzed each other about their favorite sweets, seasons, colors, and Shakespearean sonnets. They discussed the two wars England was fighting, the farming reform Andrew was working through Parliament, and the idea of investing in the steam engine. Clara learned that despite growing up on an apple orchard, Andrew still adored apple tarts. Andrew learned Clara preferred dogs to cats.

  Returning to where they’d watched the sunrise, they found the basket refilled, as Clara knew it would be. They dined on strawberries from the hothouse, wine from his private stores, and bits of cold ham fresh from the farm down the road.

  “Tell me about your mother,” Clara said. “If I am to be the Duchess of Bradstone I should know what I have to live up to.”

  “She would have liked you, I think,” Andrew said, taking a bite of a strawberry. “She had a strength and an impishness that was quite unbecoming of a duchess, but she turned it into a power. She was a force to be reckoned with, but she was still lovely and kind.”

  “She sounds like an amazing woman,” Clara said softly. “I wish I could have known her. What was her name?”

  “Mary,” he answered. “She died about six months after Father and Sam, in childbirth. It seems she was with child when they died.” Andrew smiled at the chuckle that escaped from Clara.

  “Seriously?” Clara asked, choking down a burst of laughter. “I mean, it is horrible that she died at all, but birthing another Macalister? Were there not enough of you?” Clara covered her mouth. “Goodness, forgive me. That was quite rude.”

  Laughing, Andrew shrugged. “I am not offended. I’d often thought the same thing.” He paused and took a sip of his wine. “There is a peculiar thing with all of our birth dates, you know. We were all born in May, and Mother lost all the children not to be born in May. Mara almost died when she was born, and the doctor said she was born too close to April.”

  “That is silly,” Clara replied. “What month a child is born has nothing to do with its survival rate. How many did she lose?”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten!” Clara exclaimed incredulously.

  He smiled again and nodded. “Mother spent most of her time pregnant.”

  “I’ll say,” she said softly.

  “Perhaps there is something to it. Nevertheless, only the May babies survived. Which is another reason Mother started the tradition of the Macalister Birthday Ball. She wanted to celebrate the children she had in this world and remember the ones she had lost.”

  “When was your father born?”

  “May,” Andrew answered. “He has five siblings too, all born in May.”

  “So what if we have a child who is not to be born in May?” Clara asked.

  Andrew stared at her, and Clara felt a blush rush up her neck, coloring her cheeks. Their children. She hoped it would happen, in fact, he needed it to happen. Andrew would need a son eventually, and hopefully more than one. He was the spare, and while she hoped his spare would never be needed, they knew from firsthand experience there was no controlling the matter.

  “I don’t believe in it, Clara,” Andrew said with a shrug. “I’m just saying it is a weird set of coincidences. If we have a child that is not born in May then it will be loved just as if it were born in May. But please let’s not have ten. Ten is a bit much.”

  “I agree,” Clara said, popping a bit of ham into her mouth. “Four or five, but not ten. I don’t want to spend my entire life pregnant.”

  “What about your mother?” he asked. “You never mention her.”

  “There isn’t much worth mentioning, I am afraid,” Clara said with a sigh. “She was silly and vain; it’s no wonder where Christina got it from. Mother taught us all sorts of useful things, like how to bat our eyelashes to make a man do our bidding.” Clara turned her gaze to him, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, batting them slowly at first, then quickly, then slowly again.

  “Yes, I can see how that would be useful,” Andrew said, looking way, his voice tight.

  Clara laughed. “She always told us to put our bosoms first when we entered a room. And that our reticule should always match our shoes. And to never wear plumes if they were not necessary. Useful things like that.”

  “She does sound delightful.”

  “I suppose she felt she was helping us, in her own way,” Clara replied. “She
and my father did not get on very well after Patrick was born, and she never really recovered from his birth. She would have fits of supreme sadness followed by giddy happiness. It was difficult to know which mood she would be in on any particular day. Then one day she fell ill during a winter chill, and never really recovered. She died before we made our debut.”

  Clara stood and brushed the crumbs and grass from her skirts.

  “Enough talk of our mothers,” she proclaimed, offering him her hand. He accepted, but rose without putting any weight on her. “I want to see that turret ruin. And I think I’d like to walk, as we’ve been in the saddle nearly all day.”

  “Then we shall walk,” he said, offering his arm, and they set off across the meadow.

  They strolled down the hill and across the valley as though they were walking along Bond Street, shopping for wares. Andrew entertained her with anecdotes from his elaborate childhood. With ten siblings, the levels of mischief they had accomplished impressed even Clara, who had only snuck out of her brother’s house to attend a ball.

  As they neared the end of the valley, a crack of thunder rang through the sky, startling both Andrew and Clara.

  Turning, Andrew realized as they walked towards blue skies scattered with harmless clouds, behind them had blown in a dark threatening storm.

  “We’re too far to make it to the horses,” he said.

  Clara agreed. “We will have to make a run for this turret then. Has it a roof?”

  “If memory serves correct, I believe it does,” he answered. “We run?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  They made it to the bottom of the hill before the skies opened above them and within moments they were soaked through. The dampened grass made climbing the hill difficult and more than once they both slipped down, pulling the other along for the ride, giggling in the rain. Finally they reached the top of the rise.