Kit and Elizabeth

by Tuft, Karen

  “And so, what better time for Lady Elizabeth to return to Society,” Lady Walmsley said, drawing Kit back to the conversation, “than when the most eligible of England’s noble gentlemen is there, simply waiting for her to dazzle him with her grace and beauty.”

  “Aylesham, hmm,” the duchess said.

  Apparently still talking about Aylesham, Kit thought, glancing out the window, rain still slashing heavily against the panes.

  That was when he saw a coach enter the front courtyard. A rather impressive-looking vehicle, too, if his eyes didn’t deceive him. Kit ought to be glad that another diversion was on its way; perhaps it would mean a break from a continuing conversation in which he had no interest. Except the sight of the coach made him uneasy. From the appearance of Marwood Manor and the servants’ less-than-enthusiastic reception, he doubted the place had seen many visitors over the last year, and for two coaches to arrive here on the same rainy afternoon, their own included, meant that Lady Walmsley’s instincts had been right. Her insistence that they leave immediately had put them here before decisions had been made and they could influence the outcome.

  He watched the coach intently until it was out of sight from the view of the window. He suspected he knew who would be arriving at the late Duke of Marwood’s ancestral home so swiftly after the man’s death.

  And his suspicions proved correct.

  “The, ahem, Duke of Marwood and the Duchess of Marwood, Your Grace,” the butler announced to the room shortly thereafter.

  ***

  The new Duke of Marwood was a short, balding man with an apparently healthy appetite, if his midsection was any indication, Kit thought. He wore a yellow silk waistcoat that had been extensively embroidered with flowers and greenery—flowers and greenery!— the buttons of which strained to stay in their respective buttonholes. His neckcloth was tied in an impressively elaborate fashion, held in place by a glittering diamond stickpin, and his boots were shined as to be almost mirror-like. He had deigned to wear a black armband in deference to his predecessor.

  Their hostess rose to her feet. Her face was taut, and she looked as though she’d aged a decade in the space of a minute. “Samuel, Minerva, how do you do? May I present to you the Countess of Walmsley and the Earl of Cantwell? Lady Walmsley, Cantwell, the Duke and Duchess of Marwood.” She sounded like she was choking on her words.

  The duke raised a glittering quizzing glass fully to his eye and looked over Kit and Lady Walmsley with barely concealed disdain. He nodded.

  “How do you do, Your Grace,” Lady Walmsley chirped with surprising cheerfulness, nodding toward the new duke. “And you as well, Your Grace,” she said, smiling at the duchess.

  The duchess was a round, dimpled woman who abounded in ringlets and black ruffles and too much paint on her face that contrasted garishly with the somberness of her dress. Kit bit the inside of his cheek for fear his humor at their chosen attire would show in his expression when what was needed at the moment was decorum.

  “Won’t you please be seated?” the Duchess of Marwood—er, the widowed Duchess of Marwood—said. How awkward it was to be here watching the transition from old to new take place. From the looks of it, Kit doubted the prior duchess was keen on relinquishing her title or her home.

  The newcomers sat side by side on the settee that faced the fireplace, which meant that all of the seats located in that particular part of the room had occupants, giving Kit the excuse to remain where he was—out of the way, by the window.

  “I ordered your butler to have tea and refreshment brought,” the duke said, glancing at the tray that already sat on the sofa table in front of him. “Dear Minerva is famished, as am I. Such a dreary ride in the rain—”

  “I thought for certain our coach was going to slide right into a ditch at any minute,” his wife interjected, fanning herself as if to prevent herself from fainting. “Terribly exhausting journey. I could do with a cup of tea and a sandwich or a biscuit or two to revive myself. My dear Samuel is so solicitous of me.”

  “Who wouldn’t wish to be, my dear?” the duke said, patting her hand. “Our fair cousin doesn’t mind my asserting a bit of authority over the staff in such a manner; after all, they will shortly be answering to us anyway.”

  Kit felt animosity radiate from the former duchess like a wave of blistering heat, although the newest arrivals to Marwood Manor seemed oblivious. Lady Walmsley shot him a glance of “I told you so.”

  “But enough of that,” the duke continued. “We were aghast to hear the news of poor cousin George’s death. Taken before his time and unable to be here in the bosom of his family when he passed.” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his nose as if he were about to weep, although Kit didn’t believe it for a minute. These two were doing their best to play their respective parts, but Kit had been around enough peers in the House of Lords who’d come out on the victorious side of one bill or another and watched them attempt to hide their own glee with an affectation of sympathy for the losers to recognize the signs. “I said to Minerva, ‘Minerva,’ said I, ‘We must leave this very instant, if not sooner, and rush to the side of our cousin and her daughter—’” He looked around. “Why, where is our niece? Where is our dear Elizabeth?”

  “I have been wondering the same thing,” Lady Walmsley said, inserting herself into the conversation. “Such a lovely young lady. I grew so fond of her last summer and have missed her company greatly.”

  The former duchess’s back straightened.

  “You see,” Lady Walmsley continued, “it appears we are of one mind: to come and support our friends and relations in their time of need. How thoughtful you are to be here when the duchess needs you, especially since Lady Elizabeth is returning to London with me tomorrow.”

  And there it was. The sly old bird had fired the first shot. Kit leaned his hip against a nearby table and crossed his arms in anticipation of the exchange of fire that was bound to follow.

  ***

  When Elizabeth finally arrived back at the house, she decided to enter through the kitchen door at the back, She was soaked to the skin, and going through the kitchen would allow her to slip into her rooms unnoticed by Mama, who would be apoplectic at her appearance.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to slip inside completely unnoticed.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” Mrs. Reed whispered as she rushed over to help Elizabeth remove her cloak. “You foolish girl, just look at you! Oh, my goodness me! Visitors have arrived, and my pantry bare, and Stokes is in such a state, I tell you—and your mother . . . well, suffice it to say you are expected to show yourself in the parlor as soon as possible, by which I mean you were expected there already.”

  “But I must change—” Elizabeth began, gesturing at her wet clothes.

  “There isn’t time for that! Stokes has come looking for you twice. He’s already taken up tea for the first set of visitors who arrived, an earl and a countess, he said, so I was obliged to use the very last leaves in the caddy, and then he shows up again saying there’s more visitors and more tea needed. And refreshment this time.” She quickly hung Elizabeth’s cloak near the fire while Elizabeth removed her sodden gloves and picked up a couple of dish towels that lay folded nearby. “What am I to do? You can’t make tea with an empty caddy, now can you? And the latest visitors are the new Duke and Duchess of Marwood, wouldn’t you know, but the earl and countess got the last of the tea, despite their lower rank. If only I’d known the new duke and his missus were arriving today; but what would I have served the earl and countess, then? Here, give me those.” She snatched the towels from Elizabeth’s grasp and began dabbing at Elizabeth’s hair and neck to soak up the dampness.

  “I can be changed into dry clothes in just minutes if Sally will help,” Elizabeth said. She felt like a child in the nursery again, being patted dry by the cook in this way.

  “Stokes already has Sally hel
ping the Duke and Duchess’s valet and maid take the luggage to their rooms.”

  “Oh dear,” Elizabeth said. Mama’s things were mostly packed for her anticipated move to Yorkshire, but Elizabeth was certain Mama would not relinquish Papa’s or her suites of rooms—the rooms that had been hers from the day of her marriage to Papa—to Papa’s second cousin and his wife, whether they were the new Duke and Duchess of Marwood or not.

  “And me with a bare pantry and all,” Mrs. Reed continued without taking a breath. “You can be sure they’ll be expecting supper next. What am I supposed to feed these people and their servants? Tight-fisted, stingy—”

  “Enough,” Elizabeth said softly, gently extricating herself from Mrs. Reed’s well-intentioned attacks with the towels. “Complaining will not help solve things. You are an accomplished cook, Mrs. Reed. I’m sure whatever you come up with will be delicious and to everyone’s liking. Now think—there must be something here in the pantry you can use to conjure up for tea now and a meal for later.”

  “Well, there’s a fruitcake I was keeping for a special occasion—don’t know what I was thinking—and I have a small stash of tea,” Mrs. Reed grumbled. “But it’s mine, you know, bought with my own money. Not pilfered or anything.”

  “No one would suggest otherwise,” Elizabeth said reassuringly, although, really, Mama and even Stokes might be inclined to suggest precisely that. “There you go—fruitcake and tea—an immediate problem solved. And thank you for being willing to share when we’re in such a bind. It only remains for you to see if there’s a chicken or a rabbit that will make a nice soup, and then everything will be fine. Now, I’ll just go up to my rooms and—”

  “There you are.” Stokes’s voice boomed behind her.

  She turned with a start. Having known Stokes nearly her entire life, she didn’t understand why he still unsettled her so much, and his grimace upon seeing her in her current state of dishevelment did nothing to alleviate the feeling. She sternly reminded herself that she was the daughter of a duke, and he was merely a butler, but it didn’t embolden her this time any more than it ever had.

  “You are to join your mother in the parlor. Immediately,” he said.

  “Stokes—” she said.

  “Immediately,” he snapped. He turned on his heel and walked to the door, holding it open and glaring back at her, expecting that she would meekly follow.

  Which she knew she was going to do. She sighed.

  She patted her coiffure, trying to assess the damage, and glanced down at her dress. Mama was going to be beyond furious. Furious that Elizabeth hadn’t been here when she’d first summoned her, and furious that her only child would appear before the new duke and duchess and the other guests looking so . . . so appallingly inadequate.

  She glanced back at Mrs. Reed, and sent her a feigned smile of encouragement. “Your rabbit stew is fit for the finest dining tables in England, Mrs. Reed.” Then she turned and followed Stokes down the corridor, dread seeping through her, along with the dampness.

  She suddenly remembered she’d left the tiny acorns in her cloak pocket in the kitchen, where Mrs. Reed or a maid might find them and throw them away.

  Her heart fell. What did it say that they were so easily forgotten?

  ***

  The new Duke of Marwood, Kit could see, was not to be outdone by a mere bird of a countess. “But we have only just arrived, Lady Walmsley,” the duke said in protest. “Surely you would not take our dear Elizabeth from us so soon. She was always such a delightful, dutiful little girl growing up. We long to reacquaint ourselves with her. It has been too long.”

  Kit could see the muscle in the former duchess’s jaw clench from clear across the room.

  “Our eldest son—we were blessed with three—wished to travel here with us, you know,” the new duchess said to no one in particular. “He has always expressed an interest in Marwood Manor, knowing there was the possibility that, one day, it would be his.” She smiled at Lady Walmsley before turning her attention to the former duchess. “Such a sad state of affairs that you and dear cousin George weren’t blessed with a son. Male heirs seem to be much more abundant on our branch of the Spaulding family tree—although if there was ever a daughter that deserved praise for her refined and elegant ways, it is your sweet Elizabeth. Never puts a foot wrong, never speaks a word out of place.”

  “Well said, my dear,” the duke said. “The very epitome of all that is noble and good amongst our fairer sex.”

  “I cannot imagine where that girl has gone off to,” the former duchess muttered. “I’m sure she’ll be joining us shortly,” she said in a louder voice. “We have longed for sympathetic company this entire past year, and now that it seems we have it at last, I can only imagine that she must have been waylaid in some unexpected manner, for who would not rush to greet such dear people as all of you?”

  Kit nearly checked himself to see if the duchess’s words, which dripped with sarcasm, left any physical damage to his personal being. There was obviously no love lost between the cousins and little regard for him and Lady Walmsley, who, obviously, had shown up on her doorstep with ulterior motives and not out of any real kindness to the duchess, although he felt a great deal of sympathy for Lady Elizabeth if this was a sample of what she’d been experiencing for the past year.

  “Lady Elizabeth Spaulding,” the butler boomed.

  Kit shifted his attention to the door after the butler’s announcement. And then he simply stared.

  Lady Elizabeth stood just inside the door, her eyes lowered, her hands clutched together in front of her, trying her best—he assumed—to hide her incredibly wet and bedraggled appearance.

  She was an utter mess.

  Her mother gasped, the butler smirked, and Lady Elizabeth’s countenance went from a bluish white to a deep crimson in the snap of a finger.

  “Good heavens, what sort of nonsense is going on here?” the new Duke of Marwood exclaimed while the new duchess choked back a giggle.

  Kit leaped into action, berating himself for his momentary lapse. “Lady Elizabeth,” he said, making his way across the room to her side and taking her hand in his. It was cold and limp. “How truly generous of spirit you are to attend to unexpected visitors when it is apparent that we have arrived at such an inopportune moment. How may I assist?”

  She looked up at him, dazed and blinking, with eyes the color of the summer sky. “Kit,” she breathed.

  Chapter 7

  Her eyes must surely be deceiving her.

  The Earl of Cantwell was standing in front of her, holding her hand to his lips, his brown eyes intent on her own.

  Oh, good heavens, she’d called him Kit!

  “I mean Lord Cantwell,” she said, still trying to get her bearings. She must pull herself together, and quickly too. And was that really Lady Walmsley who had rushed up just now and taken her other hand and was kissing her cheek? “Lady Walmsley, what a nice surprise.”

  “When I heard about your father . . . well, needless to say, I felt I must rush to be here to offer my condolences, as dear as you’d become after our time together last summer. And Cantwell was considerate enough to escort me. Such a kind young gentleman.” Lady Walmsley flicked a glance at Lord Cantwell, who had not let go of Elizabeth’s hand and was still standing partially in front of her. Elizabeth got the impression he was trying his best to hide her ghastly appearance from the other people in the room.

  People who must be faced regardless.

  She gently pried her hands free from both Lady Walmsley and Lord Cantwell and straightened her back. “Cousin Samuel, Cousin Minerva, welcome to Marwood Manor. I’m sorry you had to travel in such rainy—”

  “Yes, well, never mind that,” Mama interrupted. “Go, and for heaven’s sake, make yourself presentable.”

  “My apologies, Mama, and to you, Cousin Samuel and Cousin Minerva. I was under the impression
—”

  “Just go!” Mama snapped. “And don’t return until you are fit to be seen by others.”

  Elizabeth spun on her heel and fled the room.

  “It appears the situation here has deteriorated even more than I expected, Minerva,” she heard her uncle say before she was blessedly out of hearing range.

  Stokes had insisted she present herself. That she was to do so immediately. He had set her up to humiliate herself; she knew he had. Even if Mama had told him to find her quickly, Elizabeth should have known better than to show up as a sodden mess. She did know better. She barely trusted her own thoughts anymore.

  What a fool she was.

  And Kit had seen her disgrace. The Earl of Cantwell, she mentally chided herself. He was the Earl of Cantwell. She should not think of him as Kit, despite the few occasions they’d been in each other’s company last summer.

  She scurried up the stairs and down the corridor to her bedchamber. When she was safely inside, she closed the door, leaned her back against it, and took a few minutes to catch her breath. Then she went into her dressing room, to the full-length mirror. She stood in front of it and forced herself to look, pushing a dripping lock of hair over her shoulder.

  Wet. Drab. Pale. Thin.

  Pathetic.

  There was a soft knock on her bedchamber door, and a few moments later, Sally poked her head around the door connecting it to the dressing room. “Mrs. Reed said you might be needing some help, my lady. Oh no, look at your poor gown!” She quickly unbuttoned the back of Elizabeth’s gown and assisted her out of her clothing—even Elizabeth’s petticoat and chemise were wet—and into a dressing gown. “There now, that feels much better, I’m sure. And I’ll build up the fire so you can get nice and warm and dry your hair. There’s no tea, or I’d go fetch some for you.” She knelt on the hearth and stoked the warm coals that had been banked earlier this morning.

  Elizabeth sat and began pulling pins from her hair. “I know all about the tea, Sally, but thank you for thinking of it.” Once she’d removed all the pins, she picked up her brush and began running it through her hair, leaning closer to the fire so it would dry more quickly. Elizabeth’s personal maid, Gibbons, had tearfully told her six months ago that she could no longer remain in service here. “If it weren’t for Ma and my little sisters, I wouldn’t go,” she’d said. “But—”