In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

“No. I'm not drunk tonight, Effington. Not now at any rate,” St. James ended with ruefulness. “Just damnedably tired.”

  “I can see that, milord. If you are hungry, I can procure something from the kitchens for you.”

  St. James considered this for a moment, glanced at the cup of tea in his valet's hand. “No, I don't think that will be necessary,” he said, reaching out and taking the cup from the saucer. “A spot of tea will be adequate, thank you, Effington.” And drinking from the cup, he turned to make his way above stairs.

  Effington gave the slightest of beleaguered sighs as he glanced at his now naked saucer and turned to go back to the kitchens to brew himself another cup of tea. St. James called over his shoulder, “Let it steep just a tad longer this time, Effington. This cup is a little weak.”

  “Perhaps milordship should try adding a dollop of brandy to it if it is not up to your usual potency,” his valet returned with just a tinge of spitefulness in his voice.

  St. James let out a single guffaw, and then he made the turn in the staircase and was out of his valet's sight. “By God,” St. James said to himself, “one would think from what all those about me say that I have a problem with the drink.” He considered this for a brief moment, then shook his head with a small grin on his face. “No, I'm sure Effington was merely trying to be helpful.” He entered his rooms, went to the sideboard next to the fireplace and uncapped a decanter of brandy, added a healthy bit to his cup, tasted it, and found his tea much improved.

  He removed first his pistols, lay them aside with care, then his coat, flung it with little regard across one chair, collapsed on the chaise lounge and sprawled back. It felt very good to rest for a moment, and a moment was all he had, for he was certain that Effington would be up to offer assistance, and it amused the duke to be forever finished with his ablutions and leaving his valet with very little to do. If Effington were not otherwise occupied when St. James was dressing or undressing, then the duke would find some task that musts need done immediately, effectively removing Effington from the duties that he had been hired for. And St. James could not have really told anyone, had they asked, why he insisted on doing this, other than that he knew it annoyed his valet quite completely. The man was forever lamenting that he would quit his employ for St. James' careless appearance was a black mark on Effington's reputetion, and if milord could not have a care how he looked, he could at least have a care how he made his valet feel to see his employer walking around quite disheveled and knowing that everyone must be blaming Effington's skills.

  But for tonight, St. James was moving slow indeed, for when Effington returned with his fresh cup of tea, his lordship still was sprawled upon the chaise lounge, his boots not even removed and Effington, seeing his chance and seizing it with as much glee that St. James normally took in denying him his duty, quickly set down his cup and bent to the task of removing the tall black boots from his employer's feet.

  St. James opened one eye. “You've caught me, Effington, damn it.”

  “Yes, milord. For once I shall feel that I am earning a little of the salary you pay me.”

  St. James thought about this for a moment, then closed his eye again, leaving his valet to his rightful tasks. “I should take comfort in the fact that you are merely readying me for bed. It will be a terrible day when you get your hands on me to fit me for going out.”

  “I, on the other hand, milord, am very much looking forward to that day. And I must warn you that the longer you delay, the more elaborate I shall have to dress you, so that I may recoup my reputation all at once, for I may never have another chance.”

  “If you rig me out to that deplorable degree, you may be sure it will be your only chance,” St. James confirmed. But he did have to admit to himself that the simple task of readying for sleep would have been beyond him this night. He wondered how Miss Murdock was getting along, for if she were half as tired as he, she had his sympathies. Not to mention that his grandmother had probably taken advantage of the situation and grilled the poor girl while she was at her most defenseless.

  Which thought made him grin, for Miss Murdock even at her most defenseless was a force to be reckoned with, he concluded. For some unaccountable reason, that trait in her pleased him very much. He could settle with having a less than beautiful wife, and as it was necessary to merely have a wife as conveniently as possible, he could not afford to be choosy, but it would have galled him to be married to a namby-pamby, and if nothing else, that could not be laid at Miss Murdock's door.

  All in all, he was convinced that she would do better than he had dared hope, for if this did not all come out right, she would need some fortitude to deal with what was left. She would manage it, he wagered. Had in reality, already wagered quite a bit on it.

  If he could only get her down the marriage aisle, then all would be set, mayhaps not as neatly as he had planned, but that could not be helped. It had not occurred to him that a Squire's daughter would find his suit objectionable.

  “Up, milord,” Effington interrupted his musings, after tugging off his shirt and maneuvering him to remove his breeches also, “and I will put this over your head and help you into bed.”

  St. James opened his eyes again, his thoughts evaporating as he saw a long bed gown in his valet's hands. “Oh, no, Effington!” he said. “Lamentable enough that I need your services tonight when I am not even drunk, but you will not prevail upon me to put that on. I can not imagine where you even found it, for it was not in my wardrobe, I am certain.”

  “Indeed, it was, sir,” Effington answered, “for I took the liberty of buying you several when I first started as I was quite frankly appalled to find that you normally slept nearly without any clothing at all.”

  “And so I shall sleep again tonight.”

  “It is not seemly, milord,” Effington argued, “for a man of your station to sleep like the veriest common of the common.”

  “Bah!” St. James returned. “And who is to know it, other than you? And if I offend your sensibilities, I can not find it in myself to care over much. Good night, Effington. I can make my own way into bed. Pour me a glass of brandy on your way out.”

  Effington, feeling a good deal of disapproval at the duke's lack of cooperation in the area of his night attire, drew himself upright in indignation at this last request. He returned the rejected garment to its wardrobe and then went with meekness to the sideboard, where he did pour a brandy. Then he turned to his employer. “There you go, milord, poured as requested,” and leaving the glass on the sideboard left without further comment from the rooms.

  He heard St. James' outburst of laughter behind him as he closed the door, knew not whether to go to his rooms and write up his resignation papers, a task he contemplated on a daily basis, or to try again to adjust to the many eccentricities of his employer, a goal that had so far eluded him. He was well-paid, he reminded himself, but the thought of putting up with such indignities for many years to come nearly was enough to make him weep. “If I were only allowed to dress him appropriately just once,” he consoled himself as he made his way up to his room on the third floor, “then I would be satisfied. But if the chance does not come soon, I will have no other choice but to find a position in another household where my considerable talents at hiding the negative and playing up the positive can be used and appreciated.”

  With that half-formed decision made in his mind, he turned into his own rooms, realized he had forgotten his tea cup in milord's chamber, and did not doubt that the duke had somehow orchestrated that little lapse in his memory also, as merely another way to bedevil him.

  His lordship, unaware of his valet's ire, had forgone the poured brandy as too much work in retrieving it from the sideboard, and had closed his eyes as he remained on the chaise lounge in nothing but the most intimate of his under apparel. His naked chest gleamed in the moonlight that shone through his window, and his dark hair fell into his face and he slept.

  Effington, upon finding him in this disgraceful mann
er the following morning, marked it down as yet another grievance to be aired for when he would finally have had enough and did compose his letter of resignation.

  Miss Murdock, on the other hand, woke up quite refreshed when a young lady who let it be known that her name was Jeannie and that she would be Miss's lady's maid, brought in Miss Murdock a steaming cup of chocolate, fluffed and propped up her pillows so that she could enjoy her cup in bed, and then whipped back the curtains across the windows in Miss Murdock's room allowing in a glorious morning sun.

  Miss Murdock blinked in bewilderment at all of this activity, had to, for a moment, remind herself of where she was and all the events that had brought her here, and allowed herself to sit back in this newfound luxury and enjoy the first day in many years that she had not had to spring out of bed, bathe in the cold water of her bedroom basin, quickly dress and go below stairs of her home to stoke up the kitchen fire and begin procuring breakfast for her father and herself, and like as not, Kennedy the groom also.

  “I am to inform you that the Dowager Duchess plans to take you shopping immediately after breakfast, Miss,” Jeannie told her. She had deep red hair and interesting green eyes and an aura of maturity about her, although Lizzie could not believe she was more than a year or two older than herself. “So I shall set out your dress and your shoes,” Jeannie continued as she opened the wardrobe, “and then when you are—Oh, my,” she ended on a disapproving note. “Whatever has happened to all your luggage?”

  Miss Murdock choked a little on her hot chocolate, said, “Oh, why, I hadn't the time to pack it and bring it with me, you see.” Which saying made her feel a little better, for she was not outright lying.

  “I see,” said Jeannie. She pulled the single change of dress, that the very nice Soren, the Duchess' own lady's maid, had hung up the night before, out of the wardrobe. “Oh, dear,” she said.

  Miss Murdock sighed, said with total frankness, “The others I left behind were worse, I assure you.”

  “Well,” Jeannie said, “I can see why the Duchess wishes to take you shopping post-haste then, for I must tell you to go shopping so early in the morning is quite remarkable.”

  “And quite pointless,” Miss Murdock added. “For I do not at all wish to have a new wardrobe as I do not intend to be here above a day or two and do not see myself having any callers or going to any events that would necessitate the expense. But I shall have to take that up with the Dowager, of course.”

  Jeannie looked taken aback by this confiding, but she did give the dress a good brushing and made no further comments on it, much to Miss Murdock's relief. She finished her chocolate, allowed Jeannie to help her dress, an uncomfortable feeling, as she had never thought herself so helpless as to be unable to dress herself before, and presently found herself ready to go below stairs and join her hostess for breakfast.

  Ashton showed Miss Murdock into the morning room. Lady Lenora was already there, and Lizzie was introduced to her daughter-in-law, Lydia.

  “Very pleased to meet you, ma'am,” Miss Murdock responded.

  Lydia set down her fork and gave deliberate appraisal to the new arrival. Looking less than approving, she said, “And very surprised to meet you, Miss Murdock. I could scarce credit it when my mother-inlaw informed me that St. James had foisted your presence upon her in the middle of last night.”

  Miss Murdock blushed but was saved of a response by the Duchess saying, “Enough, Lydia. I will not tolerate such a poor welcome from you to Miss Murdock. It is hardly her fault if St. James has seen fit to have her dragged about the countryside in the night.”

  Lydia sniffed, retrieved her fork, took a dainty bite from the plate in front of her. “Of course, she is welcome, as it is your home and you may welcome whom you may.”

  “Thank you so much for recalling that,” the Duchess returned. Her tone was a good deal warmer when she turned to Miss Murdock and bade her to be seated. “I trust you slept well last night, Miss Murdock?”

  Lizzie smiled at her benefactress. “Indeed, I did, ma'am. Thank you.”

  “Good,” the Duchess continued, “for I have quite a busy day planned for us, as your lady's maid should have informed you.”

  “Oh, she did, ma'am, but I was hoping to discuss this with you before leaving. I really do not think it would be wise under the circumstances. . . .”

  “Poppycock!” the Duchess replied. “We shall go shopping if for no other reason then that I will enjoy it and you should indulge me. So let me hear no more of what is wise and unwise.”

  “Of course, ma'am. I did not mean that I would not enjoy the outing with you. I just have some concern. . .”

  “Well, concern yourself no longer, dear. It will amuse me to spend a day outfitting you as you should be and I will not take no for an answer so you may as well enjoy your breakfast and place yourself in my hands to get the job done as it should be.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Miss Murdock replied, her misgivings not at all lulled but seeing from the old lady's face that she would make no headway and that if she persisted she would be forced to reveal more of the circumstances of her being there to Lydia, whom she had understandably taken a dislike to.

  Lydia said now in a helpful voice, “Really, Lady Lenora, I should be happy to escort Miss Murdock around to the shops and make the proper purchases. You should not allow yourself to be put out at your age.”

  “I shall not be in the least put out,” the Duchess replied. “But am looking forward to it, as I have said. And I do not mean to insult you, Lydia, but my taste has never matched yours and I would much prefer to do this myself.”

  “Of course,” Lydia replied with exaggerated sweetness. “I admit that you would have more experience in choosing clothing for someone of such short stature. And I must admit that I would not know what to do with her coloring,” she stared at Miss Murdock, “which I do not mean to offend but she is so dark. And that hair, it is so extremely brown, and her eyes are so perfectly bland. I'm sorry, Miss Murdock,” she confided. “It is just so uncommon for St. James to be moved into doing anything out of kindness. . .” She shook her head in despair. “I had rather hoped when I heard the news that you were to come and visit us that St. James had at last formed a serious attachment. . .” and she sighed.

  Miss Murdock, not knowing in the least how to defend herself after these remarks, merely answered, “Indeed, ma'am, I am sorry to disappoint you,” and with an air of serenity that she did not quite feel, took up her fork and stabbed a bit of fluffy egg from the plate that had been set before her.

  “If you are quite through, Lydia,” the Dowager cut in, “then I have several letters in my study that need sent around by messenger. Please see to it that Ashton takes care of this immediately.”

  “Of course,” Lydia replied, recognizing the dismissing tone in the Duchess's voice. “Very nice to have you here, Miss Murdock,” she added and pushed back from the table, her still enviable figure moving to the door.

  “Please forgive Lydia,” the Dowager told Miss Murdock once that lady had left. “She can be quite insufferable, but I hardly think she has the wit to know better.”

  “She was merely speaking the truth in this matter, milady, so it is impossible for me to take affront,” Miss Murdock replied. “It is obvious to everyone just how disparate this match is except to his lordship himself. Once he realizes that he is not fooling anyone, then this will all, thankfully, be at an end.”

  “And whom is it he wishes to fool, Miss Murdock?” the Dowager asked in a casual voice.

  Miss Murdock looked at her rather startled, said with guilty evasiveness, “Oh, I could not say, ma'am, if that is even his intention. For I have no idea what goes on in his head. It is merely the horse, ma'am, that he wished to procure, and he will see that it is not worth all of this, I am sure.”

  The Duchess replied, “I think you do know what is going on in his head, on this matter at least. And that in itself is rather significant, Miss Murdock, for I have never known him to confide
in another.” Seeing that her words were making her protégée uncomfortable, she added, “But be that as it may, I shall not pry, for I am certain St. James will tell me what he wishes me to know when he wishes me to know it.”

  With relief (which she would not have felt if she had but known the duchess better), Miss Murdock agreed, “I am sure that is so, ma'am, and as I have no doubt that this is all a bust at any rate, it would not do for you to become enmeshed in it only to have it all come to naught in the end.”

  “Tut. We shall see child. Now, if you have finished your breakfast, then I will call for the coach to be brought around so that we may begin getting you into something a little more the thing, my dear.”

  “Yes, ma'am. I only beg that you keep the expense modest and that we only buy one or two things so that once this is all over I may repay you.”

  “Do not think of it, Miss Murdock. You should have a new wardrobe for no other reason than putting up with my grandson's shameful conduct. I dare say, you have earned it, and I mean that in the most respectable way.”

  So Miss Murdock found herself only a short time later in the unmerciful hands of the owner of the Mystique Boutique. The equally unmerciful Duchess sat in a padded chair in the private salon directing all that went on with an iron will. “No, no, Dora, those colors are not at all what I had in mind. Apple green, I should think, and powder blue, and dare I say buttermilk yellow? Yes. I think buttermilk yellow would be just the thing. A ball gown from it, I believe.”

  Dora turned her stout figure with shocking quickness to the Duchess, the violet material she held in her hands drooping. “But, milady, those colors will make her seem even darker than she already is, I assure you. And she is already much too dark. I despair that even a thousand cucumbers will induce her skin to become the shade she was born with.”

  But the Duchess only nodded in approval. “Exactly, Dora! We can not make her into something she is not, so change the rules, I say. Make them compete on her turf. She has no remarkable features to speak of so we will make that dark complexion her calling card.”