The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

Great-grandmother waved her hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, that’s all very well and good, but I object to his comportment. And his lack of dignity. And his obsession with his pigs.”

  Jane watched as onto Cousin Gabriel’s face came a faint, amused smile. “You might well accuse me of the same obsession, Grandmama.”

  “Well, that’s a different matter entirely,” answered Great-grandmother loftily. “The Penhallow pigs are renowned throughout Somerset for their superior size and bone structure. Now, Jane,” she went on, clearly done with dukes, timber, and things porcine, “I wanted to let you know that before you go off to your lessons tomorrow, Alice Simpkin, the Riverton seamstress, will come here to take your measurements and discuss various fabrics and trimmings. You’re in urgent need of gowns, pelisses, hats, shoes, and so on.”

  Not for the first time since arriving at Surmont Hall, Jane felt rather like a character in a fairy tale. Herself the drab little ragamuffin. Arriving at a magnificent palace. And Great-grandmother the magician, casually waving a wand that would produce—hey presto!—new clothes. Jane tried to remember the last time she had had something new.

  And couldn’t.

  She looked down at the ivory-colored silk brocade slippers Great-grandmother had loaned her. They were beautiful, but too tight. Only think of it. New shoes, which would fit. Happiness at the very thought filled Jane up like a balloon expanding with air, and for a few giddy moments she thought she might actually float up toward the ceiling.

  “Thank you very much, Great-grandmother,” she said, in her voice a lilt of pleasure. “And for taking me in like this. If you’re sure it’s not a horrible inconvenience?”

  Silvery brows raised high, as if surprised, Great-grandmother said, “Of course not, my dear Jane. And naturally we’ve taken you in—you’re family, and this is your home now. Your being here with us is, I know, exactly what Titus would have wanted.”

  “Family,” Jane murmured, and smiled. What a beautiful word.

  There was a tap on the open door. The Hall’s butler, Crenshaw, said in his concise, measured tones that the headmaster of the village school—of which Henrietta Penhallow was patroness—awaited her in the Green Saloon. “Tell Mr. Lumley I’ll be there directly, Crenshaw, thank you,” said Great-grandmother, and rose to her feet in a brisk rustle of silken skirts.

  Cousin Gabriel stood up as well. “And I’m to my study, to meet with my bailiff. I’ll see you at dinner, ladies.”

  Jane watched as they left the room, then turned to Livia, admiring how neat and composed she looked in her simple, elegant gown of dark blue. Her vivid auburn hair was dressed in a high knot at the back of her head, with soft tendrils allowed to fall loose about her ears and frame her face. Jane wondered if her wavier hair would look as pretty like that.

  “I’ve barely had a chance to talk with you, Jane, these past three days,” Livia said with a kind smile. “I know you’ve needed to rest, and I’ve been so busy. How are you getting on?”

  “Oh, ma’am, I hardly know. It feels like a dream. A good dream, but . . .”

  “A little overwhelming?”

  “A little,” Jane admitted.

  “I was overwhelmed too, when I first came here. I can’t tell you how many times I got lost trying to get from one place to another! And I made so many mistakes and missteps.”

  Jane stared. How surprising. Livia seemed so easy in herself, and so accomplished. “Did you really, ma’am?”

  “Oh, yes! Frequently, I assure you! But it got better, you know, over time. And please, won’t you call me ‘Livia’? There aren’t that many years between us, after all.”

  “Livia it is, then,” answered Jane, a little shyly.

  “Good! That sounds much better.” Livia smiled at her again, then went on in a more serious tone. “I’ve been thinking about what you said that first day, Jane, and how it must have been so hard having your great-grandmother Kent pass away, leaving you all alone.”

  “It was hard,” Jane said, “but in her illness she suffered so much those last two years, especially as we began to run out of money, that in a way I couldn’t help but be relieved for her. If that doesn’t sound like an awful thing to say?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “We did get along better toward the end, which made me glad. I’m afraid that I was rather a disappointment to her. She was very proud of her years in London, you see, and she tried so hard to bring me up in the same mold. She taught me how to speak properly, having once been a lady’s maid to a well-educated banker’s wife, and she also taught me to read and write, and to stand up straight, and bathe—that in itself made the other children see me as rather freakish.” Jane gave a wry smile. “And she did her best to keep me close at home, which I hated. Although after my parents died, she had to let me go about the town, picking up and delivering the mending. And she even had to admit that I was good at it. I was clever at counting and making sure people didn’t try to short the fee. Oh, how I loved my moments of freedom!” Then Jane sobered once more. “Looking back—and knowing what I do now—I think she was afraid I’d end up like Charity. She was always warning me against the village boys, saying I had to look higher. And how furious she was that her grandson Josiah married a mere blacksmith’s daughter. Poor lady—life was so hard for her.”

  Livia nodded sympathetically. “But Jane, why exactly were you a disappointment to her?”

  “Oh, because I hated sewing, and sitting quietly, and being good. I wanted to be running around with the other children, getting dirty in the mud and swinging from tree-limbs and chasing pigs. And I was always asking her things. I think I drove her half-mad with all my questions. Why is the sky blue? What are the stars made of? Why do some trees lose their leaves in the autumn? Where do babies come from? If it isn’t true that toad-powder tea will cure the bloody flux, why did Great-grandfather write it in a pamphlet? What happened to make our poor king go mad? Are there really pixies in the forest? And boggarts, lurking in the dark and just waiting to bite one’s ankles? And so on.”

  “You know, you’re reminding me of something Granny once said about Titus,” Livia remarked thoughtfully. “That he was a great one for asking questions, too. And he never liked doing what he was told, either.”

  “Did she say it like it was a bad thing?” asked Jane, a bit anxiously.

  Livia laughed. “No, she said these were qualities Titus got from her. Apparently Granny was rather a renegade in her youth as well.”

  Jane leaned back against the sofa, in her mind picturing Great-grandmother Henrietta as she was now—so dignified, ramrod-straight, elegant, and exacting. “I must say, that’s hard to believe.”

  “Isn’t it? But that’s what she says, and always smiles in a mysterious way and refuses to tell us anything else. She looks exactly like the Mona Lisa when she does that—full of fascinating secrets from her past.”

  Jane found herself wondering precisely what those secrets might be, and looked to the mantelpiece where, next to Grandfather Titus’ portrait, was a small painting of Richard Penhallow—Great-grandmother’s long-dead husband. Titus’ father; Cousin Gabriel’s grandfather. And her great-grandfather. Richard wore a long frock-coat, with white frilled sleeves extending from below the wide cuffs, a gorgeously embroidered waistcoat, close-fitting knee-breeches, white stockings, and black buckled shoes. His hair was worn long, and on his attractive face was a small, mischievous smile.

  He looked quite like a person she would want to know, Jane thought. Was there something to do with Richard, perhaps, that had sparked Great-grandmother’s mysterious smile?

  Also, who was Mona Lisa? Someone else from the neighborhood to whom Jane would soon be introduced? And why did she have a mysterious smile? Was it really because of secrets in her past? Most people had those. Jane had some of her own, in fact, and a few of them actually did make her smile sometimes . . .

  She broke out of her reverie when Livia stood up and said in her kind way:

  “Well, Jane, I must go o
ff to the kitchen and talk with Cook, and I want to stop by my poultry-yard for a few minutes, and go up to the nursery after that. Are you tired, or would you like to come with me?”

  “Oh, I’m not tired anymore! And I’d love to come with you. If you truly don’t mind?”

  Livia flashed a warm smile. “I’d love it. It’s wonderful having you here, Jane.”

  “Really, Livia?”

  “Oh yes. I don’t know how it is, but somehow it seems like you’ve always been part of the family. You fit in so well. And Gabriel just told me yesterday how your being here is such a nice boost for Granny. She gets a little melancholy sometimes, you know, about all her children being gone.”

  “Well, it’s wonderful for me too,” said Jane, blinking away sudden tears, feeling less like a grubby little sparrow and more like a nice clean swan, and then she rose to her feet, reaching out impulsively to hug Livia. “I never had a sister, but now I feel like I do.”

  Livia hugged her back, then pulled away to smile again at Jane. “It’s the same with me. I’m so glad you found us. Now! Shall we be on our way, before we both turn into watering-pots?”

  Jane smiled too, happiness making her feel all light and floaty again. “I’m ready.”

  “Good! And there’s an excellent chance that Cook will have some more of those delicious York biscuits. In case we need something to tide us over till dinner.”

  “Oh, do let’s ask,” said Jane, and went away with Livia, cheerfully disregarding the fact that her feet, in those charming borrowed slippers, pinched her toes quite dreadfully.

  “I say, Father, the most ripping thing happened today.”

  Anthony was stretched out on top of the covers of Wakefield’s bed, both of them propped up on pillows. Flickering light from a three-branched candelabrum played over Wakefield’s still-damp hair, which Nurse had, after Wakefield’s bath, parted on the side and vigorously combed flat as she always did, giving Wakefield the appearance of a very small businessman. Who happened to be wearing a white ruffled nightshirt. The bedclothes were tucked up around his armpits, and snuggled against him was the little pug Snuffles, who was curled up in a ball and snoring in a quiet, peaceful way which Anthony found very soothing. He said:

  “Do tell.”

  “On the way home from the vicarage, just as we passed the lodge-house, Higson ran over a toad.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, and Father, the toad was absolutely flat. I had Higson pull up so I could get down from the cart and look.”

  “Did you pick it up?”

  “Well, I would have, but Higson told me not to, or I’d get warts.”

  “I once found a dead toad over by the lake when I was just your age.”

  “Did you pick it up, Father?”

  “Of course. I didn’t have a groom breathing down my neck.”

  “Did you get warts?”

  “No.”

  “I told Higson he was wrong,” said Wakefield bitterly.

  “Instead of warts I developed the most spectacular rash. My entire right hand and arm was a blistering scarlet for a fortnight.”

  Bitterness evolved instantly into admiration. “I say, Father, how splendid.”

  “Yes, in the sense that I had complete control over Nurse the entire time. I only had to threaten to touch her with the afflicted limb and she fled the room.”

  “I knew I should have picked up that toad.”

  “Unfortunately, my arm felt like it was on fire.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, altogether a mixed bag. So do keep it in mind the next time you see a dead toad.”

  Wakefield looked thoughtful, then said, “Father, will you talk to Higson about letting me take the reins again? He’s being very ibstoperous about it.”

  “Do you mean obstreperous?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. Just because I ran us off the road last week. The cart did turn over, but the pony wasn’t hurt, and that’s what matters. We weren’t hurt either. Oh, Father, you should have seen Higson. He rolled into the ditch just like a ball.”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s reluctant to have you drive the pony-cart again.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. Higson broke wind and I was laughing so hard that I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “An entirely reasonable distraction, old chap, but when you’re holding the reins it’s all your responsibility.”

  “Yes, Father. Did you overturn carts when you were little?”

  “Several times.”

  “Did it make you a better driver?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll do better, Father, I promise.”

  “I know you will. I’ll talk to Higson.”

  Wakefield smiled beatifically, which made him look for the moment more like a cherub in a Renaissance painting than a businessman. “Thank you, Father! Can I drive the pony-cart to lessons tomorrow?”

  “Yes. By the way, you’re to have a new schoolfellow.”

  “I am? Who is it?”

  “A young lady named Miss Kent.”

  “A lady, Father?”

  “Yes, she’s a relation of the Penhallows. I met her today over at the Hall.”

  “Oh, Father, she’s not like Mrs. Penhallow, is she?”

  “Which one?”

  “The older one, with the white hair. She was very nasty to me at the fête last year.”

  “Was she? Why?”

  “Well, I was rolling a hoop past the cheese stall, minding my own business, and—”

  “Did you roll the hoop into her?”

  “I say, Father, that’s an awful onsanuation.”

  “Do you mean insinuation?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  There was a brief silence, modulated by the soft, pleasant sounds of Snuffles snoring.

  “I did roll the hoop into her, but not very hard.”

  “Ah.”

  “I apologized, Father, but she only said that I was a menace to society. Which I’m not.”

  “No, not yet, at any rate.”

  “I’ll tell you what, though, she was so nasty it made me feel like I wanted to be a menace to society.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Would you mind terribly, Father, if I became one when I grow up? A pirate, for example, or a highwayman?”

  “It’s hard to say. Perhaps we can revisit the subject when you’re a bit older.”

  Wakefield nodded, then put out his hand to stroke Snuffles’ soft little head. “So what’s she like, Father?”

  “Who?”

  “The lady who’s going to have lessons with Mr. Pressley and me.”

  “Miss Kent? I’m not sure. We hardly spoke.”

  “Does she seem like the type of person who would call you a menace to society if you rolled a hoop into her just a little?”

  “I don’t know, my boy. You might want to refrain from rolling hoops in her presence till you know her better.”

  “I will,” promised Wakefield. “I say, I hope she’s not going to turn out to be another boring grownup. Will you read to me now, Father?”

  “What would you like tonight?”

  “Tales from Shakespeare, please.”

  Anthony reached onto Wakefield’s bedside table and pulled the Shakespeare book from among the stack, and opened it. “We’re up to Romeo and Juliet.”

  “What’s that one about?”

  “It’s a sad love story.”

  “A love story? Ugh. Something good, Father.”

  “How about Hamlet?”

  “Is there sword-fighting?”

  “Yes, and a ghost, too. Also graves and a skull.”

  “That’s better. Is there hugging and kissing in it?”

  “A little, but it turns out badly.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then. Read that, Father, please.”

  And Anthony, secretly glad to not be reading about a sad love story, turned the pages of Romeo and Juliet and started in on the unromantic Hamlet.
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  Chapter 4

  Jane had been ushered into the vicarage by the dour housekeeper Mrs. McKenzie, and into a large, orderly study lined with bookshelves. There she met Mr. Pressley the vicar, who, she was extremely relieved to see, was very different from the Nantwich schoolmaster, being a pleasant, soft-spoken man of about Cousin Gabriel’s age, or perhaps a few years younger. She also met the Duke’s son Wakefield, tall for his eight years, wiry and fine-boned, with neatly trimmed hair the same light-brown color as the Duke’s, though his eyes were brown and not the deep blue of his father.

  “Miss Kent,” said the vicar, “may I introduce to you Master Wakefield Farr, the Marquis of Rutherford?”

  “How do you do?” said Jane.

  “Very well, thank you,” answered the little boy. “I say, you’re rather old for lessons, aren’t you?”

  “Master Wakefield,” said Mr. Pressley, gentle reproof in his voice, but Jane smiled at him and answered:

  “Yes, I am. You see, I had no chance to go to school before.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was no money.”

  “And there’s money now?”

  “It seems that way.”

  “That’s jolly.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m very lucky.”

  “Are you glad to be having lessons?”

  “Oh yes. There’s so much to know, isn’t there? For example, I want to learn more about Henry Tudor and all his wives.”

  “I know a lot already,” said the little boy matter-of-factly. “Miss Trevelyan’s writing a book about the fourth one, Anne of Cloves. The other day she read some of it out loud to Miss Humphrey and me.”

  “I just met them yesterday,” said Jane, of course tactfully bypassing Wakefield’s misnomer as she was hardly in a position to feel superior. “They seemed very nice.”

  “Oh, they’re splendid. My aunt Margaret doesn’t like Miss Humphrey, though. Because of her flowers.”

  Here the vicar intervened. “I would have called earlier at the Hall, Miss Kent, but Mrs. Penhallow indicated that you were fatigued after your long journey.”

  “Yes, I was. I spent most of the first three days in bed.”

  “That’s nothing,” Wakefield put in. “Father was once in bed for three years.”