Nothing Like a Duke

by Jane Ashford

  “A sort of human crutch?” Robert said. “For the orally feeble?”

  Flora choked. If she hadn’t known that Robert was trying to put Lady Victoria off, she’d have been shocked at his unkindness.

  The younger girl whirled on him. “You are…horrid, utterly horrid! How could I have thought you charming? Or admirable? I’ve never been so mistaken about a person in my life.”

  She launched into a tirade, enumerating his many faults. Though Flora recognized that it was provoked, and that the girl was taking out her fear and frustration about the play on Robert, it was still uncomfortable to witness. Others in the room turned away or laughed nervously or observed with a connoisseur’s enjoyment, according to their different temperaments.

  Flora met Robert’s eyes and saw her thought processes mirrored there. They shared one of those moments of perfect understanding that made him so very…riveting.

  Lady Victoria strode out of the room in a froth of muslin. Edward Trevellyn started to follow, but Lord Carrick called him back. “We must work out the movements in your last scene,” he insisted. With obvious reluctance, Mr. Trevellyn came back.

  Robert strolled across the room and stopped beside Flora. Several people gave him disapproving looks. Frances Reynolds glared at him. “I believe I’m off the hook,” he said.

  “I should say so. At the risk of your reputation for being agreeable.”

  “Ah.” He looked around the room. “Well, couldn’t be helped. I’ll have to retrieve it through, er, social good works.”

  “Social… What would those entail?” When his blue eyes laughed down into hers, it was hard to see anything else. She simply wanted to fall into them.

  “Oh, teaching a few young sprigs how to tie a neckcloth. Dancing with one or two neglected young ladies. Ingratiating myself with the dowagers.”

  “And you are very good at that.”

  “When I want to be.”

  He kept looking at her. All impediments had been removed, his expression seemed to suggest. Life now opened up to them, a spacious playground. “Will Lady Victoria forgive you so easily?” Flora asked.

  “Not for a while.” He shook his head. “Youngsters can become so attached to a wrongheaded idea. I know I did. Of course I had three older brothers only too ready to administer a salutary dose of reality. But Trevellyn is right there to, ah, catch her.”

  “He’s clearly eager to do so,” Flora replied.

  “So, a relief all ’round then.”

  Not quite all, Flora thought. Her father had taught her to divide a question into its important components, examine each one, and formulate a solution from the results. But she hadn’t been able to apply his method lately. Bits of information kept slipping away from her and then rushing back like a storm surge at the seashore, tipping her into a froth of confusion.

  “I’ll offer her my apologies,” Robert said. “Once she’s settled, ah, elsewhere.”

  The play had diverted energies that should have been devoted to deciphering her situation, Flora acknowledged. In two days, it would be over. She’d figure it all out then. “I promised Frances I’d look at her costumes with her,” she said, and moved away.

  Flora had thought the tableaux caused a buzz of activity, but that was nothing to the frantic action in the last hours before the performance.

  A team of local seamstresses had been recruited to alter old clothes for costumes. A stream of housemaids went in and out of their room, fetching people for fittings and trays of tea and cakes to fuel the good ladies in a crescendo of stitching. Estate workmen came to install a curtain across one end of the ballroom. Footmen carried in chairs from around the house and arranged them in rows. Carrick grew ever more wild-eyed and dictatorial, even quarreling with his friend Wrentham.

  Two hours before the performance was to begin, the ballroom was a chaos of last-minute alterations, muttering of lines, and shrieks of dismay at some lost bit of adornment. In his gray-wigged guise as father of the hero, Robert began to think they were facing a debacle. But somehow, at the last possible moment, the helpers drew back, the actors in the opening scene took their places, and the footmen pulled the curtains back on The Rivals.

  The result was mixed, Robert decided, as the action unfolded before the other guests. Some of them, like Frances Reynolds and Flora as Mrs. Malaprop, did splendidly. The audience clearly enjoyed their appearances. Others made a decent showing, speaking their parts and managing their entrances and exits without obvious mistakes. Robert included himself in this second category. And then there were those who had to resort to the prompter, a young lady who’d volunteered to give up her few scenes as a servant to follow along and feed lines to those who required them.

  Lady Victoria was the chief culprit. She limped through her speeches, with frequent pauses for a reminder. It became more painful as the play went on, because she grew more self-conscious, and thus stumbled more often. Finally, about halfway through, during a scene she shared with Carrick, she seemed to lose her way entirely. Robert—observing from the side as he waited to go on again—couldn’t restrain a wince. Carrick’s ferocious scowl certainly wasn’t helping matters.

  “‘So, while I fondly imagined we were’…uh.” Victoria made a fluttering gesture. Then she gave up all pretense, asking, “Oh, what comes next?”

  The prompter provided the next word.

  “Yes. ‘…deceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I should…should…’”

  The murmured aid from the prompter came again. Clearly the audience could hear it, Robert thought, peeking around the edge of the curtain. Lydia Fotheringay had begun to smirk and roll her eyes. The Salbridges looked pained. Harriet Runyon gazed about as if wondering what she could do to save the situation.

  Victoria forged on. “‘…outwit and incense them all. Behold my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt’s consent and…and…’”

  The young lady behind the curtain provided another boost.

  “Yes,” said Lady Victoria. “‘Approbation. And I am myself the only dupe at last! But here, sir, here is the picture—Beverley’s picture!’” She groped in a pocket especially sewn into her gown. “Oh, where is the wretched thing?” she exclaimed impatiently.

  Robert turned at a scrabbling sound from the corner behind him. A table had been set up there to hold objects needed for the play. Trevellyn pawed through them, found what he was looking for, and hurried to toss a square of pasteboard onto the stage. It landed at Victoria’s feet. She picked it up. “‘Beverley’s picture,’” she said triumphantly, then stalled again. “Oh lud, what’s next?”

  The prompter gave her the words.

  “Yes, ‘…which I have worn, night and day, in spite of threats and entreaties! There, sir.’” She threw the pasteboard at Carrick, with quite convincing relish. “‘And be assured I throw…the…the original…’”

  Robert could see that she was truly distressed by this time. It was difficult to resist the impulse to help. But there was nothing he could do. The young lady with the pages of the play before her whispered the next line.

  “‘…the original from my heart as easily,’” Victoria said. And stopped again. “Um.”

  Carrick snapped. “You stupid girl!” he cried. Anger and frustration etched his face. “You’ve completely ruined the play.”

  Victoria shrank back. The imperious queen of their revels disappeared, and she looked very young and thoroughly humiliated.

  Robert heard the audience draw a collective breath. Whether from sympathy or anticipation, he couldn’t tell. Just as he concluded that he had to intervene somehow, Edward Trevellyn strode from behind him onto the stage, even though his character wasn’t part of the current scene. “You are offensive, sir,” he said to Carrick. “Quite beyond the line.”

  Moving to Victoria’s side, Trevellyn took her hand. A surprising dignity cloaked his stocky frame. H
e gazed down at Victoria, heart in his eyes, then heedless of all those around him, dropped to one knee. “Who the devil cares about the play?” he said. “Or a bunch of silly speeches. You are wonderful in every way. I beg you to make me the happiest man on Earth by becoming my wife.”

  Victoria flushed. She swallowed the obvious beginning of tears and drew a shaky breath. The slump in her shoulders gradually disappeared. She clutched Trevellyn’s fingers. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I would like to.”

  The man sprang up, grinning, and put an arm around her. The audience broke into applause.

  “This is a travesty of a performance,” exclaimed Carrick.

  “Oh, who cares?” said Victoria, her imperious manner restored. “We’re not going on.” She smiled up at Trevellyn.

  The other actors poured onto the stage, laughing and offering congratulations. Robert joined them as Carrick pulled off his hat and wig, threw them on the floor, and stomped them to pieces.

  The audience left its seats and added their felicitations to the happy couple. The earl sent for champagne, and a round of toasts to his daughter’s happiness began. Everyone except Carrick seemed to be having a fine time. Robert sipped from his glass and congratulated himself. He judged that Victoria was well settled with Trevellyn, though he wouldn’t have said so even a week ago. He thought the fellow would be a fine husband for her.

  A movement at floor level caught Robert’s eye. Plato sat there, gazing up at him. Robert bent to pat his head. He’d brought the little dog down for the performance because he felt he’d neglected him lately, and he’d had no fears of misbehavior. Indeed, Plato had sat at Mrs. Runyon’s feet while the play was going on, and now, when any other dog would have been running about and barking in the excitement, he remained philosophical.

  “So, we’ve done the thing, Plato,” Robert murmured. “You’ve heard the phrase ‘as good as a play’? This was miles better than our mediocre efforts.”

  The dog emitted one of his odd curmudgeonly sounds.

  “Yes, but it is one obstacle removed,” Robert pointed out.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Sir Liam Malloy, standing nearby. “Did you speak?”

  “Just wishing them every happiness,” answered Robert, raising his glass.

  “Ah.” Sir Liam nodded, and drank.

  Twelve

  “The drama of life is more vivid than any play,” Randolph said later that night. The two brothers sat on either side of the library fire, glasses of brandy in hand. Plato lay at their feet with his dark head resting on crossed paws. Most of the household had gone to bed, and the place was very quiet.

  It occurred to Robert that Randolph had seen a great variety of life by this time, in his profession. Parishioners no doubt came to him for guidance, and he was undoubtedly good at giving it.

  Robert remembered an incident from the summer when he was eight and Randolph ten. They’d joined a mob of estate children playing king of the hill, a scrum of boys shouting and jostling and exulting in the July heat. Some of them began mocking the son of the local miller, who had a stutter and declared himself k-k-k-king. Robert was chagrined to realize that he’d forgotten the lad’s name.

  He and Randolph had both objected to the teasing, and it had stopped. And that had been that for Robert. He learned later that Randolph visited the boy during subsequent school vacations and helped him overcome the stutter, without telling anyone that he was doing it. Robert had thought ever since that Randolph was the kindest of his brothers.

  Still, he hesitated. Robert Gresham wasn’t accustomed to asking for advice. He wasn’t accustomed to needing it. He glanced down and noticed that Plato was staring at him, almost as if urging him on. “I wonder…” he said.

  Randolph’s head came up as if he’d heard some unusual sound. He turned and met Robert’s eyes. There was no sign of the amusement that so often danced in his blue gaze.

  Robert considered a moment longer, then plunged ahead. “I suppose, as a clergyman, you hear about all sorts of problems.”

  “People sometimes bring their concerns to me,” Randolph agreed.

  “Have any of them been plagued by bad memories? So strongly that they can’t shake them off? That they…intrude against the person’s will?”

  Robert endured a long silent assessment. Finally, seeming satisfied, Randolph said, “A man or a woman?”

  “Does it matter?”

  His brother shrugged. “The approach might be different. If you’re speaking of a man, the cause is often battle. If it’s a woman, usually a more personal attack.”

  “Nothing like that,” Robert said. And then he wondered. Flora had been overpowered and imprisoned. “A woman,” he said.

  “Miss Jennings?”

  “Why would you say so?” Robert was wary of revealing confidences.

  “First, because there is something…dimmed about her, at bottom,” replied his brother. “And second because of the way you care for her.”

  “There are times when I find our family entirely too talkative,” Robert complained.

  “Gossip was hardly necessary,” Randolph said. “It’s obvious, seeing the two of you together. Quite lovely, in fact. I envy you. And it must be very strong, for you to go so far as asking for help.”

  “I ask for help when necessary.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “What about that time at Eton, when you rowed across the Thames alone to retrieve those cricket bats?”

  “That was fifteen years ago, Randolph!”

  “I’d have gone with you. I was playing, too. But you had to be seen as the nonpareil.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Randolph nodded. “Yes, that trick of raising one eyebrow and looking down your nose is marvelously effective. How old were you when you learned to do that? Fourteen? I always wondered if you practiced in the mirror.”

  In fact, he had, Robert thought, when he was a callow youth. But there was really no need to discuss that now.

  “There’s no harm in it,” added Randolph cordially. “We all set out to distinguish ourselves in our own ways.”

  “Perhaps we could return to my question?”

  Randolph’s eyes twinkled. “Certainly. I can tell you what I’ve observed, and gathered from colleagues. In such cases, the reaction often eases with time. Like grief. Or despair.”

  Robert found these uncomfortable comparisons.

  “It does no good to push a person so…afflicted to ‘get over it.’ Most are already ashamed that they cannot. Far more helpful to tell them they’re not wrong to feel as they do. And to believe it.”

  “Of course they’re not wrong. Why would anyone think so?”

  “I’ve noticed that many people judge themselves far more harshly than they do others.”

  Robert remembered what Flora had said about weakness. When, in fact, she was one of the strongest people he’d ever encountered.

  “And society expects people to make light of their difficulties,” Randolph added.

  Robert nodded. He waited. His brother said nothing more. “None of that seems like doing anything,” he finally said.

  “Ah.” Randolph looked sympathetic. “When all one can offer is compassion, it’s a hard lesson.”

  “There must be something more.”

  His brother considered. “Some people find ways to…correct the experience that haunts them.”

  “Correct?”

  “That’s not the right word,” Randolph said. “It gives the wrong impression. Say rather that life sometimes shows these individuals that they can cope with what haunts them.”

  “How would that be arranged?” Robert asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s more serendipity than planning,” his brother replied.

  This was frustrating. Robert wanted to make all right for Flora
. For his own sake, yes, but even more for hers. He hated to see her bowed by this unfair burden. He longed to take decisive action, and he’d hoped his brother would know how that might be done. Still, Randolph had offered his best. “Thank you.”

  “My dear Robert, of course.” Randolph smiled at him.

  It was odd. The handsomest of his brothers looked less perfect when he smiled. He also looked unutterably charming. “Do you remember the son of the miller at Langford?” Robert said. “The one with the stutter?”

  “Edward Farley.”

  “That’s the name.”

  “Of course,” said Randolph. “He runs the mill now, though his father is still there every day. Putting his oar in, as Edward says. He married the prettiest girl in the village. His words, again. They have four children.”

  Of course Randolph would know all this, Robert thought.

  “His eldest son won a scholarship to Winchester. Edward’s so proud he could burst.”

  “Someone must have given him a sterling reference.”

  Randolph looked self-conscious.

  Robert raised his glass to him.

  * * *

  In the aftermath of the play, several of the party’s younger guests declared life to be wretchedly flat and boring. They talked of other events they might plan to match the excitement of preparation and performance, but Flora didn’t think any would actually occur. Lord Carrick had departed, still sulking, and Lady Victoria was wholly occupied with her fiancé and wedding plans.

  The latter was a great relief. In the course of a day, Lady Victoria had shifted from a disapproving shadow dogging Flora’s steps into a distant presence who seemed barely aware of Flora’s existence. It was a measure of the younger girl’s focus on herself, Flora thought. Flora no longer had a place in her personal universe. “I’ve regained the freedom of obscurity,” she told Harriet the following afternoon, as they settled in one of Salbridges’ cozy parlors to write letters.

  “Not completely,” said her companion. “Your performance as Mrs. Malaprop was much admired. You could build on that notice.”

  Flora laughed and quoted. “‘O fy! It would be very inelegant in us. We should only participate things.’”