Lady Pamela

by Amy Lake

  Why are you behaving like this? Her social poise, honed by years among the haut ton, disciplined by the thousand minor vexations inherent in knowing a single other human being, had never failed her. And yet now, after only minutes in the company of the Duke of Grentham, her heart raced and her breath came as ragged as if she was participating in a ... a boxing match.

  This is ridiculous, Lady Pamela told herself. He is an acquaintance, only, like a hundred other of London's gentlemen. We are not brawling. We are dancing.

  "Pamela,” the duke whispered.

  Silence, for a long moment.

  "Pamela. I never meant to hurt you."

  She would not answer him.

  "Talk to me.” He was still whispering, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. Pam trembled against him; he felt it, and his hands tightened against her back, gripped her hand.

  "Please."

  I never meant to hurt you. But you did, you did. And such an injury, as deep as it is, does not heal, your grace. If you had come to London earlier, I could have told you so. I would have told you so. And now—

  Pamela remembered words, suddenly, that the Earl of Ketrick had spoken, years past.

  There are some pains, you know, that forgiveness cannot touch. That time worsens and does not cure. Only anger.

  True. True. The anger came, and ‘twas a relief, such a relief that Lady Pamela felt her thoughts clear, saw everything as it was and as it must be. She lifted her head and spoke calmly, pleasantly, as if they were continuing the previous discussion of his move to town.

  "Now that you are in town, your grace, perhaps I can be of some service."

  "Service...?"

  "A duke is expected to provide for an heir as soon as can be. I suppose that you will be in search of a wife."

  "Pam, for pity's sake, don't—"

  "I understand your requirements, you see,” said Pamela. Her nonchalance was forced, brittle. “The standards that a woman is held to by a man of your fine ... scruples."

  If it was possible for a gentleman to go utterly still, and yet dance, the duke did so now.

  His eyes fastened on hers, and she held their stare. Lord Torrance and Lady Pamela continued waltzing, neither aware of the steps.

  "You speak nonsense.” The duke spoke quietly, without emotion. Perhaps he attempted to calm her, but Lady Pamela remembered their last waltz, that last conversation, and the anger combined with fierce humiliation. She could not stop the words.

  "There are any number of ladies of the ton whom you would not find acceptable,” she continued. “Besides myself, of course."

  "Pamela.” The tone now held clear warning. She ignored it.

  "Think of the time you might waste on unsuitable females. But I can guide you to the select few."

  "That is unjust,” he said, so softly that she barely heard.

  "To the ladies, perhaps,” retorted Lady Pamela.

  The duke was silent, but his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes burned into hers with ... with accusation. Righteous accusation-Pam felt it so.

  What has come over me? she thought, miserably. I sound like a fishwife.

  "I have no unreasonable expectations of any person,” he said. “I do not consider myself above anyone. And I asked you to marry me, did I not?"

  Perhaps, at the last moment, as he uttered these words, the duke realized their infelicity. He must have felt the shudder which traveled through her body, and seen her eyes cloud over with renewed pain.

  "Pamela, I didn't mean—"

  Now that battle was truly engaged, Lady Pam felt serene, almost happy. It hardly matters, she thought. What he thinks of me hardly matters anymore.

  "What I meant to say—” the duke began.

  "'Tis not necessary to explain,” replied Pamela. “You've said enough."

  "You deliberately misunderstand me."

  Her eyes flashed. “I understand you perfectly, I'm quite sure."

  "No—"

  "I find myself tired of the waltz,” said Lady Pamela, suddenly. “I see Lady Pemberlake has retired to the sofas. Please return me to her at once."

  * * * *

  Amanda caught glimpses of the duke and Lady Pamela as she and Lord Burgess continued their waltz.

  At least Lady Detweiler was making an attempt at the dance. What Lord Burgess was doing was less clear, although—

  Good heavens. Her partner swung them into an exuberant turn, and Amanda's feet left the ground. The gentleman seemed to have little idea of his own strength, and she hung on bravely, hoping not to be thrown half way across the ballroom. At least he had not yet attacked her toes.

  Lord Torrance and Pam swept by, and Amanda sent her friend a quick, rueful smile. But Lady Pamela's attention was on her partner, her eyes locked with his in some communion of thoughts.

  Unhappy communion.

  They are at odds with each other, Amanda realized, feeling a stab of dismay. The two danced without stumble, blond heads in complement, the duke tall and broad shouldered, his partner an incomparable beauty, dressed in the finest of gowns.

  But they were, both of them, furiously angry.

  Angry with each other, Lady Detweiler was forced to assume. But why?

  She followed their course through the ballroom for another few moments, the duke being tall enough to stand out even in the present mob. Lady Pamela's gown sparkled in the candlelight as they circuited the dance floor, gliding, turning—

  Angry.

  And the couple moved from her view, Amanda considered the details she knew of a certainty.

  First-the Duke of Grentham and Lady Pamela were presently engaged in some argument.

  And secondly, the gentleman had asked the lady to marry him, some seventh months past, and been refused.

  "You refused ... you refused his offer of marriage?” Lady Detweiler repeated the words slowly. She was still adjusting to the news that her friend had never given the smallest hint of the duke's proposal, all those months ago at Luton.

  And Lady Pamela had turned him down?

  "I did. You know I have no desire to marry."

  Amanda knew no such thing.

  "But—” Lady Detweiler bit back the rest of her reply. It was not her habit to question the decisions of her friends, once they were truly made. Until then all was open to attack, of course, and Amanda was accustomed to cajoling, browbeating, and generally raising a stew when her good advice was refused. But Lady Pamela had never asked for it in this matter, was not asking now.

  "I ... suppose I am a bit surprised,” she ventured. “I had thought you partial to the duke. And I'm sure that he—"

  "Amanda. Please, don't go on about it,” said Pam. “Lord Torrance offered marriage. I refused him, and that is all. Ladies have refused offers before, have they not?"

  * * * *

  As Lady Pamela had said, the circumstances were not unknown. Dukes had been refused before, perhaps even wealthy and handsome dukes. But the two principals of such an unhappy episode usually avoided each other for some time following, and they certainly, thought Amanda, did not engage in a waltz.

  "Jeremy, for heaven's sake."

  Lady Detweiler held her breath as Lord Burgess finished another turn, her thoughts then shifting to what she could only surmise.

  That the duke was in love with Lady Pamela was, on present evidence, more than a guess. And Amanda was now tempted to believe that her friend was equally in love with him.

  Two people head-over-heels in love, the gentleman offering marriage and the lady refusing...

  "They are aggrieved with one another, I see,” said Lord Burgess, breaking into Amanda's thoughts. He sent a quick nod in the direction of the duke and Lady Pam.

  His thoughts had paralleled her own. Startled by his perception, Amanda almost laughed. Jeremy Burgess was leaden-footed and ham-fisted, and the poorest dancer in memory. He was also, it seemed, as acute an observer of the human condition as Lady Detweiler herself.

  That was why she continued
to dance with him, Lady Detweiler decided. So few people had the capacity to surprise her anymore.

  She nodded at her partner. “I believe you are correct. But I'm at a loss to understand it."

  "The gentleman has been rejected, I think."

  "Perhaps—"

  "And the lady, also."

  Amanda frowned, about to demur, but Lord Burgess's words had struck a chord, and the chord reverberated within her, shook her until she saw the possibility of what he had said. The lady, also. Was it not rejection, indeed, that she had seen on Lady Pamela's face for the past half year? And perhaps that was why she, Lady Detweiler, had been unable to put a name to it.

  Pamela Sinclair, rejected? ‘Twas unheard of, unthinkable.

  Amanda clung to the arms of Lord Burgess as the waltz continued, her thoughts flying.

  What possible combination of events could produce two people, each feeling rejected by the other? And why would Pam feel in any way scorned by a man who loved her, and who had asked for her hand?

  'Twas a puzzle, and highly frustrating for Lady Detweiler, who was accustomed to knowing more about her friends’ affairs than they did themselves. Lady Pamela could have explained the situation-but Lady Pamela chose not to. Amanda would respect her refusal.

  Which wasn't the same as giving up pursuit of an explanation, and if the lady was not forthcoming, answers must be sought from the gentleman. Lord Torrance was new in town, without family or associations, but Lady Detweiler could think of one individual who might know more of how matters stood from his grace's point of view. Contacting this individual, on the other hand, might prove difficult for a lady of the ton.

  Although not for a gentleman.

  "Lord Burgess,” she began. “I wonder if I might trouble you for your assistance in a small matter..."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Amanda had not insisted they stay late at the ball, to Lady Pamela's relief, and she awoke the next morning at her usual hour. The smell of rain lingered fresh in the air, and she told herself it would be a fine day to trim the rosebushes in the back garden.

  She gathered the necessary tools and tromped outside. Lady Pamela did much of her own gardening, a peculiarity not widely imitated in the ton. The rose bushes, especially, she would let no-one else touch, and Maggie had often despaired of the scratches that sometimes appeared on her mistress's face and hands.

  Amanda only shrugged at the frequent evidence of Lady Pamela's pastoral eccentricities.

  "There is dirt in gardens, is there not?” she would say, as if that was reason enough to avoid them. But Lady Pamela found the work relaxing, and she would not wish to spend her days without the perfume of roses that filled the spring air, or without seeing the fresh green of bracken tucked into an odd corner, the brilliant gleam of blue aster against a low rock wall. Gardens asked so little of one, responded so abundantly to the smallest amounts of care.

  Gardens were nothing like people.

  Sécateur in hand, Lady Pamela began pruning a fine China rose.

  Snip.

  She was not thinking of the evening before. She was not thinking of the Marthwaite's ball or her waltz with Lord Torrance.

  Snip.

  She was not remembering his face, how his expression had changed when she had spoken of requirements, and standards, and acceptable ladies. The Duke of Grentham had no fine opinion of her, it was clear, but she was not thinking of that at all.

  Lady Pamela's boudoir had been filled with flowers on that morning, offerings from gentlemen with whom she had danced, or spoken, or those who had only admired her from afar. ‘Twas as it always was, after such an occasion.

  Snip.

  But not from the duke. No card, even, to express his pleasure at the occasion of renewing their acquaintance. He had chosen not to make the smallest gesture of goodwill.

  "Oh—” Lady Pamela's hand slipped, and the sécateur's cut went astray. A perfect, wine-red rosebud fell to the ground.

  "Oh.” One bloom was no disaster, among the plentiful flowers of Lady Pamela's garden. One bloom was nothing.

  Lady Pamela sank to the ground in the middle of the gravel path, head in hands, and cried.

  * * * *

  Mrs. Throckmorton surveyed the newly-polished marble floor of the entrance hall and nodded with satisfaction. Bess and Mary would do nicely, it seemed. Silly chits, of course-they all were at that age-but hard workers, nevertheless. The housekeeper stood in front of the stone hearth and ran a gloved finger over the mantlepiece. ‘Twas dusted, at least. But the stone wanted cleaning, as well, and before it could be cleaned there was need of repair, and before it could be repaired...

  And then, there was that painting. Filthy it were, but his grace had said to leave it, at least for now. Some lady of the family, Mrs. Throckmorton supposed, and passed away, by the look of it. The silk mourning streamers were tattered, and faded to grey, but the housekeeper could see no way to remove them short of dragging in a ladder. Perhaps if she found a long pole, one of the footmen could assist her.

  Mrs. Throckmorton heard the tread of footsteps on the staircase behind her and turned to see the duke's valet hauling a large piece of furniture, on his back, from the floor above. She recognized the armoire from the duchess's suite.

  What was the man doing?

  "Eh, Missus Throck'n, how y’ be?” said Josiah cheerfully, setting the armoire down heavily onto the marble floor, to the accompaniment of a cloud of dust.

  Missus Throck'n. The housekeeper bit back her protest. Josiah Cleghorn was the duke's man, and not her business to reprimand. It was her business to get along with him, and that she did, out of respect for his lordship if nothing else. But Mrs. Throckmorton could not help feeling that the duke deserved a manservant with a bit more polish. Just last evening she had heard the valet address Lord Torrance as ‘his dukeness,’ provoking snickers from a nearby footman, and Mrs. Throckmorton had been forced to chastise the boy severely. ‘Twould not do for the other servants to get ideas about what was proper and due in a ducal household.

  On the other hand, the housekeeper reflected, she had known a fair number of valets, and every last one of ‘em would have turned up their noses at hauling furniture down that flight of stairs. Josiah Cleghorn seemed to have no sense of the dignity of his station and, under present circumstances, that was as useful an idiosyncrasy as any she could imagine.

  And at least Mrs. Throckmorton was no longer finding dried smears of tobacco juice in odd corners of the house.

  "The armoire...” she said to Josiah, smiling pleasantly, careful to keep any question from her voice. The piece showed no outward damage, and she could not imagine why it was being removed.

  "Worm,” said the valet, wrinkling his nose. “Worm and worm agin. A wonder the house don’ fall in on us, seems like."

  Mrs. Throckmorton nodded, making a mental note to add this to the day's list of worries, predicaments, and repairs. Each morning, the housekeeeper sat down in the smaller morning room with his grace-a fine gentleman, he were, always offered her a spot of tea-and discussed the state of affairs at Marchers House. Every morning, she catalogued the previous day's accomplishments, and followed this with a list of the items still requiring attention.

  The accomplishments were many, Mrs. Throckmorton knowing her job, but the second list never seemed to diminish. With every room the housekeeper entered, some new catastrophe presented itself. Cracked glass in the windows that weren't broken outright, worm in the boards of the back staircase, dry rot in the ceiling beams of the duchess's bedchamber—

  'Twas lucky there were no duchess as yet, seeing as no lady would be willing to take her lie-down in that room.

  And the kitchen was an entire, unpleasant subject unto itself. Mrs. Throckmorton had hired a cook straightaway, but the first pair of ratcatchers had been incompetent hacks, and Cook had threatened to leave if something were not done, forthwith, about the vermin.

  Not to say that matters weren't vastly improved from the day she had arrived. T
he new gardener had already pruned away the worst of the honeysuckle and was soon to brave the yews. Three additional maids had been hired and set to scrubbing, polishing, and dusting any room that the duke might chance to frequent, in good repair or not. As for the footmen-four of them, now, the brawniest she could find-Mrs. Throckmorton had assigned them the heavier tasks, including the washing of whatever windows remained intact. Cabinetmakers had been employed to build new cabinetry, glaziers employed for the windows, and plasterers for the walls. In short, Marchers was filled morning to eve with an expanding troop of servants and hirelings, all marching quick-step to the housekeeper's tune.

  Mrs. Throckmorton would have sacked anyone who grumbled, sure enough. But the duke's wages were more than fair-a generous employer, he were-and she'd only to say that his grace wished this, or his grace wished that, and ‘twas done. All in all, considering the difficulties of the situation-a grand house let run to the rats and mould-matters were progressing as well as could be expected.

  Josiah Cleghorn, now rested, began hauling the armoire toward the back hallway, leaving a trail of dust. Mrs. Throckmorton sighed. Moments later she heard the sounds of a ladder scraping against the outside of the house, and saw the head and shoulders of a footman appear in one of the entrance hall windows. He doffed his cap at the housekeeper and set carefully to work with an iron claw, removing lengths of the frame for repair.

  Or for the dustbin, more like. Looked to be more rot—

  "William,” she said sharply. “Mind the broken glass."

  But her warning was too late. Another piece of the window, loosened from its sash, fell inwards and shattered on the marble underfoot.

  The housekeeper sighed again. ‘Twould have been better, perhaps, to have waited to polish the floor until renovations were complete. But his grace would be having visitors soon, she had thought, and the entrance hall to Marchers House would be the first thing they saw. Mrs. Throckmorton was particular about her floors.

  * * * *

  "Damn."

  The previous night had seen rain, and Lord Benjamin Torrance stepped from bed unawares and into a puddle of water. The odor of mildew was stronger this morning as well, with the damp in the air, and the duke thought with longing of the immaculate chambers at Corsham Manor.