If Holly were completely honest, she was more afraid that they would be disappointed in her: that she could not even make a success of such a simple thing as marriage. So she ignored the prickles of guilt and wrote long, happy letters home instead.
She now knew that it had been naïve to assume that a gentleman of Strathavon’s standing would ever feel for a person of her plain appearance and dull disposition anything more than the courtesy naturally due a wife.
When her letters were written and sealed, Holly would lean back a little in her chair, and observe the study. It was easily her favourite room in the house, far superior to the lonely bedroom and even the pleasant parlour. It was a very handsome room, now that it had been dusted.
It made her feel strangely at ease, whether she was reading, or attending to the tiresome duties of being the lady in residence. In this room, Holly took care of household accounts, discussed menus with the cook and the day’s cleaning with the housekeeper.
It was strange how at home she felt in her little private room – more so than in the echoing galleries that comprised most of the rest of the grand house.
There was a painting on the wall of a lady in a bergère hat of the style that had been vastly popular in the last century. She wondered if this was the same Mary Pontridge whose journal had been such a comfort to Holly: a soothing voice speaking through the years, providing a quiet assurance.
She hadn’t seen a portrait of Sylvester’s mother in the gallery, and so had no way of drawing a comparison.
Looking closely, Holly decided that there was an unmistakable resemblance to the present duke around the eyes and mouth – and yet where his expression was unreadable, and unassailable like some medieval fortress, hers was open and friendly.
Holly had taken an instant liking to the lady, and she made a mental note to ask the housekeeper whether the subject of the portrait had been Strathavon’s mother. It would be good to put a face to her invisible friend.
Holly was contemplating the painting and listening to the wind beginning to pick up outside, signalling another summer storm, when a furious knocking on the door woke her from her reverie.
“Yes, do come in!” Holly exclaimed, alarmed at the urgency – was there a fire?
Mrs Tomkins flew into the room and executed a hasty curtsey. “You Ladyship, there is an urgent matter with the cook. He is threatening to leave – and if he does, we won’t ever find a replacement for him.”
Holly exhaled. “The cook? You had me frightened a moment, Mrs Tomkins. But a cook, I think, is something I can handle, even if he is in a temper. Do send him in.”
The housekeeper gave her a deeply doubtful look. “As you wish, Your Grace.” Mrs Tomkins was pale and tremulous at the thought of losing any member respected of the kitchen staff.
Holly felt a slight headache coming on and carefully pinched the bridge of her nose as Mr Walsh, the under-cook, and Monsieur Marsenne, the head cook, marched into her office, both looking artfully long-suffering. Clearly, whatever it was was bound to be more than a bit of trouble, but she supposed the distraction would do her good.
“You Grace, allow me to say, most regretfully, that I resi –” began Mr Walsh.
Determined not to be outdone, Monsieur Marsenne cut in. “You cannot resign! It is I who resign. I cannot share the kitchen with such ignorance anymore.”
“Maybe,” Holly interrupted, noticing that her housekeeper had decided not to put in an appearance herself, “you would care to tell me what this is all about?”
Which may not have been the best choice of words, because they did, at once, speaking over each other, until Holly raised a hand.
“Please. I cannot understand you. We will start with Monsieur Marsenne, alphabetically. Then, Mr Walsh. Now, do start again.” She was distinctly reminded of all the times she had been forced to negotiate a treaty between her squabbling siblings. This, after all, was not much different.
Holly steepled her fingers, and endeavoured to look grave.
The matter, she learnt after hearing out both men, stood that their ideas about cuisine were fundamentally different. His lordship’s under-cook was an almost religious adherent to that masterpiece of the mysterious H. Glasse, titled The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, which was said to have revolutionised kitchens all over England.
Monsieur Marsenne, however, was very much a devotee of the modern French school of Monsieur Antonin Careme, arguably the finest cook in the world.
For this reason, the age-old conflict between England and France was daily enacted in his lordship’s kitchens, and now it seemed the whole issue had blown up into a bigger quarrel than ever before.
Holly listened with genteel patience for a good half hour, while her housekeeper artfully managed to pass by her door at least nine times before the meeting was concluded.
She had warned Holly before to practice utter precision with her words, when interviewing any of the artistic temperaments to be found in the kitchens. His Grace would not, after all, take kindly to losing a cook.
Holly had grimly pointed out that he would be even more displeased to learn that his household was being run from inside his kitchens. And it was unconscionable that her household ever should.
When both men had grown silent at last, Holly fixed them with a look that caused them to shift uncomfortably.
“You have put a dilemma before me,” she said at last, in her most reasonable tones. “For you are the finest cooks to be had in all London, and I should hate to have to send abroad in search of replacements. Advertising is always so very dreary – and one is sure to get a flurry of response, now that it is summer and household employment is scare.”
They gaped at her in astonishment, having failed to detect the faintest note of the expected sycophancy in the duchess’s voice.
“Therefore, I do think that it is fortunate for all that I am here to take charge of matters. I happen to be familiar with both culinary schools and, as such, we shall meet weekly to plan the menu while His Grace and I are resident at the house. I think it will help resolve matters, if I decide on the dishes myself, though your input will be very welcome. I would appreciate it, however, if my kitchens did not become the site of bloody combat. However, if you still wish to resign your positions, I shall understand.”
Then, she waited. Pontridge Abbey had enough funds to supply the kitchens with the finest assortment of ingredients, and a master who allowed his cooks the sort of creative leeway not generally found in genteel English households: it was too sweet a place to lose.
All that was wanted, really, was a firm hand.
They considered her words a moment. There was a strange, undeniable finality in the young woman’s voice that rather belied any chance of argument.
Sensing that they would find no quarter with the new duchess, and not entirely sure what had just happened, the cooks voiced their agreement, before politely taking their leave.
“Well, at least that is done with,” Holly murmured to herself with a sigh, closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair. Her first step would be to ban white soup from the menu.
Whether or not the duke noticed the results of this new arrangement, Holly was none the wiser. That evening, Strathavon disappeared for a week to go to Kent to consult with some German gentleman about roads.
She was deeply unhappy to see him go. She dreaded sitting in the grand dining room all by herself, and she was always so very relieved to have him around. His sure and solid presence was a comfort, even as the distance between them continued to chip away at her wounded heart.
A dark part of Holly wondered if he had also gone because he did not much wish to remain in the country with her. But that wasn’t right – it was more that he did not care either way.
The lonely vastness of the house threatened almost to swallow her in his absence.
If the staff had noticed the estrangement between the duke and his new wife, they never revealed this in Holly’s hearing, and she was very grateful for that
, as she threw herself into upholstery.
Moping wouldn’t do any good, and it would give the servants entirely the wrong impression of her, if she were to sit around staring gloomily out of windows when there was work to be done.
So Holly allowed herself a whole night of longing to go home, and indulging in melancholy, but she was quick to resume her work the next morning.
As word got around the small village of Pontridge Brook that a new duchess was established at the house, calling cards began arriving, presented to her on beautiful silver trays along with her breakfast.
Holly found that she dreaded receiving these visitors, unsure of what it was that she could possibly have to say to them. She had never been good at witty social banter.
Still, she returned each card with her own, and on the days when she was at home, she received visits from the ladies of the local gentry, headed first and foremost by Mrs Mullins, the vicar’s very brash wife.
Every other family of consequence was in London for the Season, which meant company was limited to the vicar’s wife and a few local ladies whose sole past-time seemed to be the dispensation of unwarranted advice.
They looked her over critically, and then inspected the parlour as best they could without incivility. Then, they would patronisingly offer advice on furnishings and the best services available in London, make polite enquiries after the health of the duke, impart some country gossip and blessedly leave within the appointed half an hour. It was clear that they believed her utterly inept when it came to running a household.
Holly would have loved a friend with whom to share her interests in boats, walks and novels, but none seemed forthcoming at Pontridge Brook, and she was surprised how lonely she could feel even whilst she entertained morning callers. The ladies of the village had all begun to blur into one another within the week.
Worse yet, propriety demanded that she return their calls with her own. Swallowing her dread at having to endure any more critical glances, Holly called for the Strathavon coach and set out visiting.
She wished that she had her own vehicle, like some of the wealthier ladies had, but she could not drive and hadn’t the faintest notion how one went about choosing horses. Holly supposed that one asked one’s husband for aid, but she was loath to write to him in London over such a thing. He already thought her a silly creature.
Since tolerable society was not to be had, Holly threw herself even deeper into the house. Dressed in her oldest gown, she oversaw the renovations with all the fervour and strategic genius of Admiral Lord Nelson himself.
She firmly believed in taking an active part in the cleaning, and her troops seemed to respect the brisk, capable character their young duchess exhibited in times of need.
As she worked her way from one vast room to the next, she discovered with frustration that a number of the doors were locked, and had been for so long that the keys were irretrievably lost.
After some deliberation, Holly once more made use of the wisdom of her brothers’ tutelage and the advice gleaned from the much-read pages of The Boy’s Own Guide. She was very glad that at least the boys had got useful books to read, and that she had managed to get her hands on all those tomes.
‘Bravo, Your Grace!’ exclaimed Mrs Tomkins as yet another old lock yielded to Holly’s pin and clicked open.
‘Thank you, Tomkins,’ Holly said with grim satisfaction.
Holly couldn’t help the sense of gratification that flooded her at having won that little battle.
Better yet, at the end of every day, when she trudged up to bed, she was almost asleep on her feet. It left her with blessedly little time to dwell on her own misery.
Holly spent her spare time exploring the elegantly laid-out grounds, which were thankfully in a much better state than the house. She had twice strolled down to the village, where she was an object of great curiosity and where she bought a pretty new fan while having a lengthy conversation with the shopkeeper about the best way to make peach preserves.
The scrutiny in the village made Holly rather uneasy, though she felt sure it would wear off with time. She was confident that the residents of Pontridge Brook and its environs were weighing up the worth of new mistress of Pontridge Abbey.
Coming home from her outing, she took another look at the house, confirming her belief that it looked merely forsaken and not at all ominous. The only ghosts that haunted its labyrinthine halls were ones of dust and memory. It wanted only a patient hand to make it considerably more cheerful.
And she was sure a family might have done it some good also, though that was a very unlikely thing to ever happen now. This was a shame, for she had always wanted children.
The silence was especially difficult for Holly to bear, having grown up in a little manor house full of siblings, squabbles, noise and fun. She wondered how soon she would be able to ask her siblings to visit.
They would do fine work of filling the gloomy place with life! She thought wistfully, examining the house from a vantage point in the garden.
Her favourite part of the grounds was a walled flower garden, which was abloom with peonies, marigolds and late roses. Tall lilac trees added much-needed shade, and she thought that they would be magnificent when they flowered in the spring. The scent of the roses was magical and heady: enough to chase away her unease.
In fine weather, she might spend many happy hours on the bench, enjoying the relaxing company of the flowers, which seemed to lift her soul. The gardeners had done a beautiful job of the rose bushes which were evidently much cherished and very well cared for.
At home, Holly’s mama had always loved her roses best of all. During flower seasons, they had had vases of the gorgeous blooms throughout the house, the scent lingering in every room and brightening a rainy day.
In the winter, there had been rose petals and other sweet-smelling dried flowers to capture a bit of the faded spring and summer. The smell reminded Holly of home and she made a mental note to ask the gardeners for petals so that she might dry some for the winter.
She wondered if such a thing would be out of place at the grand house – but then, Pontridge could definitely benefit from the comforts of home.
At the end of the week, the duke returned and Holly was filled with bliss just to know that he was near. Since Strathavon seemed to have determined to speak as little as possible, even at dinner, and Holly could not bear the reticence when she had never before had silence in her whole life, she continued to tell him stories, merely to fill the vast dining room with words and memories.
She hoped that if she wove the narrative of her family around him, she could draw him out and closer to her, to weave him into the web of happy memories and love.
She told him of Arabella, who was ten and spent too much of her time falling out of trees and Harry, who was Arabella’s twin and every bit as rambunctious as the little girl, obsessed with one day being a grand duellist, though he was never allowed anything more fatal than a stick with which to hone his deadly skills.
John was fifteen, and away at Eton. He had been growing decidedly studious, to their father’s pleasure. Though it was generally felt among the siblings that he often took himself much too seriously and could usually do with a bit of fun to keep him from growing cobwebs.
Cassandra shared their parents’ love of botany and owned a pair of bronze-rimmed reading spectacles, though she hardly ever wore them, for she claimed they made her dizzy.
Holly came next, and after her Rose, who was spirited and adventurous, and engaged to be married to a newly-made Captain of the Navy once he could afford a wife. Holly had always wished she had a bit more of her sister’s fire and zest for life.
Rose understood about daring, passion and grand love – and Holly didn’t think Rose could ever have found herself in Holly’s shoes. Her manor would have been properly haunted, and her duke inevitably besotted with his new lady.
Timothy, the Millforte first-born, was more light-hearted than John, and given to a love of riding and
dancing. Despite being two years older than Holly and a year older than Rose, he had always aided and abetted their mischief, and even joined in himself.
Holly’s younger siblings in particular would adore the mysterious maze that was Pontridge Abbey – she could just picture them leaping from behind shadowed corners and making fun of the ancestral portraits, just as they did in the portrait gallery at home.
One especially memorable rainy afternoon, when Arabella and Harry were still only infants, the siblings had spent a splendidly diverting afternoon in the family gallery making up marvellous, scandalous and appalling histories for the many ancestors that graced those walls.
Had their governess caught them at it, they would have received a very thorough talking-to, but she had taken to her bed with a chill, and so their fun had gone unpunished. It was better than playing shades again, which tended to grow dull very quickly, especially when one ran out of silhouettes to make.
“Truth be told, we are still unable to walk down one of those passages without having to stifle a giggle over one painting or another,” Holly confided to her husband, unable to keep a wobble of laughter from her voice and a sparkle from her eyes.
Strathavon looked into her eyes a moment, seemingly lost in reverie, before shaking his head to clear away his musings. “It must have been a very diverting childhood,” he said politely.
Holly wondered if the duke had ever had such fun in this house. As far as she was concerned, houses were never gloomy in their own right, and anything could be made fun given a healthy imagination for games and a suitably large army of siblings to command.
She was in the middle of telling Strathavon the tale of how poor John had wandered into a prank set by Harry and got chased up a tree by an extremely irate goose when she noticed the astonished look her husband was giving her.
“How…remarkable”, the duke commented, from an impossible, icy, distance that still hurt Holly every time she was subjected to it. “You seem to have a very boisterous coterie of relations, my dear.”
Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess Page 5