The Emerald Duchess

by Barbara Hazard

  The days sped by, for Lady Quentin never seemed to be still. If she were not shopping or meeting friends, she was riding or attending a party. Emily wondered at this feverish activity, but she supposed it was preferable to sitting at home waiting for the captain to return. It certainly kept Emily busy, for sometimes Lady Quentin changed her clothes five or six times a day, and as Emily was seldom in bed before two in the morning, she was often weary. Lady Quentin might be a sweet-natured lady, but she was no more aware of her maid’s long hours than any other lady of fashion. Emily knew she would stare if it were brought to her attention. After all, she would reason, that was why she was paying her maid twenty-five guineas a year, was it not?

  On her first full day off, Emily slept very late, luxuriating in her brief day of freedom. It was a beautiful late-fall day, and in high spirits she bathed and dressed in one of her best dark-green gowns and matching pelisse, deciding to go for a stroll in the park and enjoy the sunshine, the brisk air, and the throngs of people.

  She was about to return to Charles Street late in the afternoon when she was accosted by a young Corinthian on the strut. Since she was unaccompanied, he assumed she was one of the muslin set, and he took her arm and began to murmur of the delights they could share.

  Emily insisted he release her and tried to pull away, but before she succeeded, a gentleman on horseback reined in and intervened. Emily looked up from her struggles into a pair of cold black eyes that seemed somehow familiar. But perhaps it was the eyelids drooping with boredom, or the sardonic twist to that well-shaped mouth that reminded her of someone she had once known, she thought. He was a stranger, for she knew she would never forget such aristocratic good looks, such a well-tailored, powerful frame.

  “I am sure I am correct in assuming that you do not care for the gentleman’s attention, miss,” he drawled in a deep, harsh voice. “Why it is not as obvious to him, I cannot say. You there, release the lady at once or be off with you before I lay about your worthless back with my whip.”

  The beau complied immediately, backing away and apologizing, for there had been a quality to the order that told him the gentleman was used to command and expected instant obedience to his wishes. Emily was about to thank him, but before she could speak, he touched his hat and said, “Next time, bring your maid. It does not do for ladies of your quality to walk alone.”

  He was gone on that statement, digging in his heels and cantering away, and Emily was left to smile a little ruefully at his instructions. Her maid, indeed!

  2

  In December, the Quentins began to make plans to go out of town. They had been invited to a Christmas house party by the captain’s cousin, the Countess of Gault. This lady and her elderly husband, the earl, had an estate in Lincolnshire, and it was their custom to ask several of the ton, as well as various relatives, to stay for a few weeks. From what Emily could gather from Lady Quentin’s disclosures, the countess was a dashing figure, adored by her husband, whom she had firmly under the cat’s foot. She went her own way most of the year, but each Christmas returned with him to the ancestral acres, well attended by the most amusing people she could assemble to make the visit bearable. The countess hated the country and she could not stand to be bored. Lady Quentin could hardly wait to join the fun, for at Hartley Hall there was always something going on: an impromptu ball, a riding expedition, or a masquerade.

  Emily herself was dreading the experience. She hated to leave her comfortable room for a strange household, full to bursting with guests and their numerous servants. She knew she would have to share a room with another lady’s maid, or perhaps even more than one, and once again she would be pitchforked into the company of strange valets, footmen, and grooms. And then there was the journey itself; the different inns and the other travelers and their servants to be encountered in the halls and on the stairs. She would be fondled and pinched, and there was nothing she could do about it but try to remain as aloof as possible. Pretty servants were fair game to every male in sight, from noble lords to common coachmen. As she fastened her hair in its customary tight bun one morning, Emily sighed. The only good thing about the trip was that Miss Arabella Quentin had not been included. Emily wondered whether she or her mistress was the more pleased to escape her constant attention and criticism.

  The Quentins, with Emily and Perry, the youngest footman, who would serve as the captain’s valet in the absence of his batman, left London the morning of December 16. It was several days’ journey to Hartley Hall, for it was located a few miles from Leadenham. Lady Quentin beguiled the trip with breathless chatter. She was so pleased to have her husband’s undivided attention, she did not even seem to notice the tedious journey. Emily and Perry, sitting facing back and holding various parcels and dressing cases, could not agree.

  They spent the last night on the road in an inn in Stamford. The captain wished to make an early start, and so it was barely light when they ate a hurried breakfast the following morning. Emily stood in the posting yard, busy even at this hour with carriages and drays, horses and ostlers as the captain helped Lady Quentin to her seat in the coach. Emily could see her breath in the cold air and she envied her mistress her sable-lined cloak.

  Suddenly she was aware she was being stared at, and she looked up to see the gentleman who had rescued her in the park observing her with interest. He was standing beside a smart curricle attended by his tiger, but when he saw the company she was in, and the bags and parcels she was holding, he raised his eyebrows and strolled over to her side.

  Now that he was standing, Emily could see he was about, six feet in height and slimly built in spite of a pair of powerful shoulders. As he smiled at her, his air of boredom disappeared and she realized he was nowhere near as old as she had thought, perhaps only in his late twenties. It was obvious that he was an aristocrat from the top of his arrogantly tilted beaver set on shining black hair, to his well-polished boots. The devil that gleamed in his dark eyes and his slashing white grin all cried out, “Danger here, beware!” as clearly as if the little voice in her head had spoken aloud. He was obviously a man who got what he wanted, and without a moment’s delay. Emily was glad there was no possibility of his ever giving her a command.

  “I see I was in error that day in the park, m’dear,” he drawled, looking her up and down in open appraisal. “How strange that I mistook you for a lady. I am so seldom wrong.”

  Emily was angry at his insolent words and those probing eyes, which seemed to see right through her clothes; and she forgot her station to say in a cold voice, “I have never heard, sir, that being a lady is reserved only for the upper classes. Indeed, I have often found that there are several of the haut ton who are sadly lacking in common courtesy and good manners.”

  She raised her chin and gave him a sparkling look of scorn. At the expression of arrested surprise on his arrogant face, she remembered her situation and lowered her eyes in confusion.

  “Come, Nelly,” Lady Quentin called from the coach window, “we must be off. Have a care for my dressing case, mind!”

  Emily turned to do her bidding without another word, being careful not to look into those cold black eyes again. As she moved toward the coach, she heard the stranger muse, “I cannot recall being treated to such a severe setdown in my entire life—and from such an unexpected quarter as well. My congratulations, ma’am.”

  Somehow, for the remainder of the ride, Emily found her thoughts returning again and again to the arrogant stranger. He looked so familiar, and yet she was sure she had never known him, even though his type was familiar to her after her two years of servitude. He had all the insolence of the well-born and even more pronounced than most, and the sneering disregard for the feelings of inferior people she had grown accustomed to. She stared out at the bleak countryside they were passing through. It looked so cold and forbidding under its thin blanket of snow that it reminded her of the expression on his haughty face. Clasping Lady Quentin’s jewel case tightly, she could only hope that their paths woul
d not cross again.

  At last, some hours later, they drove up the long drive to Hartley Hall, a huge pile of ivy-covered gray stone with narrow windows, whose turrets and towers proclaimed its age. For the next several hours, Emily was too busy to think of the stranger again. She barely had time to glance at the small room up under the roof that she was to share with another maid, or even to unpack her bags, for she was summoned by Lady Quentin to help her change for tea. And then, of course, she had to unpack the lady’s trunks and portmanteaus. Several of her gowns had become sadly crushed; she set them aside to be ironed.

  At dinner in the servant’s hall, she made the acquaintance of the dresser who would share her room. Miss Hentershee was a middle-aged woman with sandy hair, very slim and neat, but somehow she seemed worn and fragile. They sat next to each other at the table, and Emily was amused at the rigid protocol that was followed; the upper servants at the head and foot of the table, and all the others in ranks down the sides, according to their jobs. Next to her on the other side was an older upstairs maid who stared at her dark-blue gown with envy, but spoke not a word.

  The butler said grace and the plates were served. There was no general conversation; grooms spoke to grooms while valets and dressers exchanged a few words. Emily discovered that there were some twenty guests expected, with more to attend a gala ball to be given shortly after Boxing Day. These additional guests would spend the night as well, and since each guest had at least two servants, and in some cases as many as four, the servant’s hall would be crowded.

  After the meat course, the butler gave the signal for the upper servants to retire to the housekeeper’s room for their pudding and cheese. Emily was glad that the food had been plentiful, if somewhat plainly cooked. She would need her strength, for this was not a compact, modern house. There were miles of passageways and stairs to travel, and she knew Lady Quentin would demand the same instant attention she had become used to in town.

  In the days that followed, Emily was glad she was young, but even so she was often weary when she fell into bed late at night. Miss Hentershee grew even paler and more frail, and it was not long before Emily discovered that she was troubled by an arthritic complaint, a condition she hid carefully from her mistress.

  “She would discharge me in a moment, you know, if she even suspected,” the older dresser confided one morning as she struggled into her clothes. “She’s a hard one, is Lady Williams. And if I lose my place and my salary, I do not know how I shall live. In a few years I will have saved enough to retire, but it is difficult on fifteen guineas a year to put anything aside.”

  Emily was horrified, especially when she learned Miss Hentershee had been with Lady Williams for twelve years, and from then on she tried to help the older woman as much as she could by taking over some of her chores. This was difficult, for Lady Quentin, entering into all the amusements of the party, changed her clothes several times a day, and when she dropped so much as a handkerchief, never thought of picking it up herself. She might be having a wonderful time with all the dances and teas and card parties, but her maid worked harder than she ever had in town. She could hardly wait to return. Besides, the countess did not believe in indulging the servants. There was no heat in the attics where they slept, and when Emily asked a housemaid to make up the fire in her room, the girl jeered at her.

  “And ’oo do you think you are? A princess or summat? We ain’t allowed no fires.”

  Emily winced. She had been called “princess” once before in an earlier situation, and the servants there had made her life a misery.

  Now Emily could not help muttering, “Spoiled brat!” as she picked up a discarded stole from the floor after Lady Quentin had gone down to dinner on her husband’s arm, laughing gaily as she did so. The dressing table was covered with powder and hairpins and jewelry, and there were slops to carry away and fire to be made up again. Emily knew she could have no respite until she had the room in perfect order. She had been up since six, and her back ached and her feet were swollen. Besides, she did not care to linger on this floor alone. Lord Hunter, the Marquess of Benterfield, had rooms opposite the Quentins’, and Emily had seen him watching her as she went about her duties. She thought he was one of the most unattractive men she had ever seen. Of no more than medium height, with an undistinguished lined face and thinning gray hair, only his great air of consequence told you he was someone of importance. In repose, his face had a hint of cruelty in it; Emily could easily imagine him abusing a servant or beating his horses without a second thought.

  But all thoughts of the marquess faded from her mind the afternoon of the long-awaited ball. As she was leaving Lady Quentin’s room with some mending, she saw the arrogant stranger again. He was a little way down the corridor and in the process of entering the bedchamber next to Lord Hunter’s, and his eyebrows rose when he recognized her. Emily lowered her eyes and dropped a hasty curtsy before she hurried away, her heart pounding. She was almost sure she heard a deep chuckle, and she shivered. At least he will be here only overnight, she told herself as she went up the long flight of stone stairs to the sewing room. I wonder who he is?

  That evening, Emily hooked her mistress into a new gown of pale-pink silk and dressed her soft brown hair in shining curls on which she set the ruby tiara that had been the captain’s Christmas gift.

  She does look lovely, she thought as she knelt to arrange the lady’s skirts, a task made more difficult as Lady Quentin whirled before the pier glass to admire her gown. When she had gone, Emily straightened the room and went to join Miss Hentershee. As she gained the hall, she could hear the strains of a waltz from the ballroom on the floor below. For a moment she lingered, unable to stop herself from taking a few steps in time to the music, her skirts and apron swinging as gracefully as Lady Quentin’s expensive ball gown had done. Emily felt a longing in her breast and such a sudden misery that it was all she could do not to cry out in her pain.

  It wasn’t fair! Just one flight below the ladies and gentlemen who should have been her peers were dancing and amusing themselves with light flirtations and sparkling conversation, but she, Emily Wyndham, could not join them. She put a trembling hand to her mouth. I must remember that I am Margaret Nelson now, she told herself. There will be no balls, no parties for me. No, before me is only a life of constant toil, and someday I will be like Miss Hentershee, a middle-aged, worn spinster.

  Emily stifled a sob and ran to the stairs and her attic room. It would be hours before she would be summoned to put Lady Quentin to bed, but at least she did not have to remain here and torment herself listening to festivities that she would never know.

  It was very late indeed before her mistress retired and Emily was able to blow out the candles and take herself to bed. As she closed the door softly and started down the hall, she realized she was not alone. From a dimly lighted alcove nearby, the Marquess of Benterfield rose from a sofa where he had obviously been waiting for her, and came toward her with a leer. From his uneven gait and flushed face, Emily could see he was drunk and her heart sank.

  She tried to scurry past him, but he reached out and slid his arm around her waist and pulled her harshly into his arms.

  “Pretty little thing,” he crooned, and then one hand forced her chin up and he bent his head to kiss her.

  Emily twisted her head, unable to restrain a whimper of panic as she pushed him as hard as she could, causing him to stagger backward. She was very frightened, for she knew she must not cry out for help; to raise an alarm among the sleeping guests would mean instant dismissal.

  The marquess came back to her and grasped her arms in a tight hold. “You must not fight me, dear child,” he said. “You cannot get away.”

  “Let me go, sir. Oh, please, let me go,” she pleaded, and he laughed, his bad breath washing over her and making her feel faint. She noticed that he was perspiring and his mouth was wet and loose.

  “Let you go? When I have just captured such a prize? No, no! Come now, no more of this innocent c
ringing. I know you maids, and I want my share. Why, you should be honored that I ask you into my bed.”

  He laughed again as Emily cried out, “No, no!” She thought she had never hated anyone so much in her entire life as he pressed his body against hers and forced her hard against the wall. Suddenly, behind him, she heard a soft but forceful voice.

  “Do you really find rape that amusing, m’lord?”

  The marquess dropped his hands and whirled, and Emily saw the arrogant stranger leaning casually against the opposite wall.

  “Your Grace!” the marquess sputtered as he attempted a low bow.

  “Now, I myself prefer a willing partner,” the stranger said in a conversational way as he straightened up. “And this girl does not appear at all willing Bad ton, Richard, bad ton. Besides, I am surprised you would lower yourself to make love to a common maid. Can it be the highborn ladies all despise your suit?”

  His voice was scornful, and the marquess flushed. “Oh, I am sure the mighty Duke of Wrotherham has never had any need to seek any lady under the rank of countess,” he sneered as Emily gasped. The Duke of Wrotherham? Why, his father had been one of her mother’s lovers! No wonder he had looked so familiar.

  The duke nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. “You should emulate my fastidious example, m’lord. Come now, off to bed with you. I doubt that in your condition you would find the encounter at all, er, fulfilling.”

  The marquess sneaked a sideways glance at Emily and licked his lips, but when he looked back at the duke, it was to see him advancing purposefully, rolling up the sleeves of the open shirt he wore above a tight pair of evening breeches as he did so.

  “I should hate to rouse the house, for then everyone would learn of your indiscretion,” the duke pointed out in a deep-voiced whisper.