The Duchess

by Jude Deveraux

  Trevelyan looked at Claire for a long moment. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “She won’t like that,” he said at last. “You’re interfering too much in her life.”

  Claire turned away from him, for something in what he said and the way he said it frightened her. “Shall we go and tell Angus MacTarvit?”

  “Yes, please,” Nyssa said. “We shall go now and you shall explain everything that you’ve done.”

  Trevelyan gave a nod to Oman, and thirty minutes later the group was piled into one of the MacArran carriages. They were an odd assortment of people. Trevelyan was wearing the plaid, which she now knew was the laird’s plaid and which she again told him he shouldn’t wear. He replied that Harry’s kilts would be too short on him, the snideness of which was not lost on Claire. Nyssa was radiant in a golden brown robe that was heavily embroidered with a diamond pattern. Brat, not to be outdone by her enemy/friend, wore a blue robe and had flowers in her hair. Oman, of course, couldn’t have looked more strange. Only Claire was “normal” in her plain red wool dress.

  She didn’t realize that she was looking at the group in the carriage as she feared the crofters were going to see them—as people from another planet.

  Nyssa said something in Peshan to Trevelyan and he smiled.

  Claire looked at Nyssa. “Translate please.”

  Trevelyan answered because Nyssa had turned and looked out the window. “She said that of all of us, the contraption on your behind made you the strangest looking.”

  “My bustle!” Claire said with indignation. “I’ll have you know that—” She stopped because everyone in the carriage was smiling, and Claire began to laugh too. She grinned at Trevelyan. “At least you aren’t dressed like George Washington today.”

  Trevelyan smiled back at her.

  When they were still a mile from Angus’s house, the carriage road ran out and they had to walk. Angus met them at the top of the hill, his gun nowhere to be seen. Behind him were about a dozen crofters. It looked as though they had seen the carriage from a long way off and had come to greet the passengers. The crofters were speechless as they watched the glittering, silk-clad group walk up the hill.

  Angus, who had never before been at a loss for words, looked from Brat to Nyssa, then back again. His eyes grew wider with each look.

  Trevelyan looked at Claire, saw that her feelings were on the verge of being hurt, then he grabbed Angus’s thick arm and pushed him toward the cottage. “Come in here, old man. Claire has something to tell you.”

  The three of them went into the cottage. Claire sat on the only chair, Trevelyan took a stool and they waited patiently while Angus poured each of them a glass of his whisky. When they were served and Angus was seated, he spoke. “What brings the lot of you here?”

  “This,” Claire said and handed the letter to Angus.

  He took it, looked at it, but didn’t seem to comprehend the letter. Claire realized that he couldn’t read.

  “The Prince of Wales has issued a royal warrant for your whisky,” Claire said.

  Angus turned to Trevelyan as though for explanation.

  “We went to Edinburgh recently, and the prince was visiting the queen at Balmoral. Claire sent him a bottle of your whisky and he liked it.”

  Angus frowned and looked back at Claire. She could tell that he still didn’t understand. “You’re protected by a prince now, a man who’ll someday be king. He won’t allow anyone to stop you from making your whisky, not even a duchess. People all over the world will want to buy your whisky. Especially Americans. Americans love anything Scottish. You’ll have rich Americans coming here to bargain with you over the price. You can charge them thousands if you like. Americans love to overpay so they can brag to their friends about how much what they have costs.”

  Angus looked at Trevelyan.

  “Unfortunately, everything she says is true.”

  Claire made a face at Trevelyan.

  Claire could see that Angus was upset by what they were saying to him. Angus stood and turned his back to them for a moment. When he did speak his voice was not quite steady. “I have always loved the old ways. My family has always abided by the old ways.”

  Claire drew in her breath. “You don’t have to accept the warrant. I don’t know if there’s ever been anyone who’s declined it before but I’m sure it can be done. You can stay just the way you are if you want.”

  Angus turned a furious face to her. “Decline? Do I look daft to you? Stupid? Do you think I want to spend my old age freezing in this house? My children left because there was no work for them. I tried to sell my whisky in town but she—” He nodded his head in the general direction of Bramley. “She set upon my wagons and broke the bottles.”

  He grinned at Claire. “Some of the old ways are fine. You’ll not get me out of my kilt, but I could do without a diet of stolen beef. I should like to buy…” His head came up. “I should like oranges in the winter.”

  He sat down on his stool and for a moment he stared at the floor. “If there’s work, maybe my family can come home. I have four boys, all fine, strappin’ lads. They’re in America now and two of them have wives.” Angus looked up at Claire and she could see there were tears in his eyes. “One of my sons has a child. I’ve never seen it and never thought I would.”

  Claire looked at Angus, feeling rather like crying herself, then she looked at Trevelyan. He was watching her with great intensity and he didn’t look away when she stared back at him. After a while Trevelyan stood, held out his hand to Claire and moved toward the door. Angus didn’t seem to notice when they left.

  Still holding Trevelyan’s hand, Claire followed him outside. To the side of the cottage they could hear the sound of bagpipes and Claire started in that direction, but Trevelyan pulled her toward the woods. “Where are we going?” she asked, but he didn’t answer.

  When they were hidden in the woods, he turned to her, took her face in his hands, and kissed her in a way that he’d never kissed her before. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, it was a kiss of…of love, she thought.

  Still holding her face in his hands, he moved back from her and just looked at her, as though he were memorizing her features.

  “That was a very kind thing you did for him,” Trevelyan whispered.

  For some reason Claire was embarrassed by his compliment. “It’s no more than anyone else would have done. I thought perhaps the prince would try the whisky if I sent it to him. I thought he liked me when I met him in London.”

  Trevelyan was still looking at her in his odd way, but then he smiled. “I think Nyssa has arranged a party. Shall we go and watch her dance?”

  Claire knew that as long as she lived she would never experience a day such as the one when she told Angus about the royal warrant. Angus opened great kegs of whisky and passed it out to everyone—without charging a penny.

  “The world is near its end,” Trevelyan said under his breath to Claire.

  The first time Claire had visited Angus she had tried to learn the dances, but today it was Nyssa and Brat who were dancing. When Claire saw how good the two beautiful young women were, she stepped away and watched. Their feet skipped lightly over the swords laid on the ground.

  When Brat tripped over her robe, Nyssa said that they wanted clothes like the Scots. One of the women offered her a long, homespun skirt, but Nyssa pointed to one of the boys and said that was what she wanted to wear. Some people told her that women did not wear the short kilt, but Trevelyan stepped in and said that Nyssa was to have whatever she wanted. Angus brought out two kilts of the dark MacTarvit plaid. The kilts looked as though they had been laid away for years, as though they meant a great deal to the old man. Nyssa took one of the kilts, then kissed Angus’s weathered cheek. Brat, not to be outdone, kissed his other cheek.

  Angus beamed, showing off a couple of missing teeth.

  When the pretty young women reappeared from inside Angus’s house wearing the kilts, their legs bare, there were some disapproving looks f
rom the women and some leers from the men. Trevelyan went to Brat and Nyssa, offered each an arm, and escorted them to the pipers. All disapproving looks stopped, as did the leers. When the music was playing again, he walked back to Claire.

  “It’s as though your word is law,” she said, looking up at him. “They didn’t think the girls should wear the kilts until you said it was all right. And when you escorted the girls, the crofters gave their approval.”

  Trevelyan shrugged and looked away. “They’re fine dancers, aren’t they?”

  Claire knew she was going to get no answers out of him. She stood to one side and watched as he moved among the people, talking to them. He seemed to know most of them by name and he asked after their relatives and their homes.

  At noon Claire saw Trevelyan talking to two young boys, then she saw the boys hurry off down the hills toward Bramley.

  “Where are they going?” she asked Trevelyan, but he chucked her under the chin and told her it was a surprise.

  It wasn’t until sundown that she found out what the surprise was. Trevelyan had arranged for all of the crofters, over a hundred of them, to be fed at Bramley, and they were invited to see a play in the theater of Brat’s friend Cammy.

  Trevelyan mounted a horse that a stable boy from Bramley had brought him and put his hand down to Claire to lift her up in the saddle before him.

  When she was seated in front of him, she leaned back, feeling the strength of him. It was difficult to believe that this was the man who she’d thought was old when he’d fainted after catching her horse.

  Trevelyan rode with her through the woods, away from the many people who were walking toward Bramley.

  “I don’t think your presence here is going to continue to be a secret,” Claire said.

  “No.”

  She had expected him to say more, but he didn’t and she didn’t press him. He was not going to tell her more than he wanted to.

  “Do you sometimes feel that there are moments of perfect happiness?” she asked. “That there are times that you do not want to end?”

  “No,” he answered. “I always want to see what’s going to happen.”

  She smiled in the darkness and was quiet as she rested against him. Right now she didn’t want to think about the future.

  They rode so slowly through the dark Scottish countryside that they reached the door to the east wing of the house at the same time as the crofters did. Inside they found tables in a sitting room Claire had never seen before being filled with food, and Camelot J. Montgomery was beside himself with excitement. He was going to have an audience for his plays.

  Claire stood in the doorway and watched the people tentatively approach the tables and the food.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Trevelyan asked her. “Isn’t this the sort of thing you plan to do when you’re the duchess? Isn’t this equality something like what you Americans believe?”

  “I guess so.” She looked up at him, worry showing on her face. “What will Harry’s mother do when she hears of this?”

  Trevelyan shrugged. “She’ll do nothing she hasn’t done before. Now stop worrying and come and eat.”

  Claire allowed him to lead her into the room. She made an attempt to keep her worries to herself, but she couldn’t help thinking of that woman and what she might do.

  After the people had eaten, they went into Cammy’s tiny theater. There were seats for only half of the people, but the others stood along the walls and looked in awe at the gilded surroundings. When the curtain rose, Claire thought she’d see an odd version of a play, but instead she saw Nyssa alone on the stage.

  Nyssa was beautifully dressed in a heavy red robe that flashed with jewels. Behind the curtain a flute began to play an eerie tune.

  Standing beside him, Claire could feel Trevelyan stiffen. When she looked at him, his eyes were wide and he looked almost angry. “What is it?” Claire whispered.

  Trevelyan looked away from her, hiding his face so she couldn’t see it, but she had the distinct impression that something was causing him great distress. “Tell me what’s wrong?” she whispered. “Who is playing the flute?”

  Slowly, Trevelyan turned back toward her, then he pulled her to him, her back to his front. “Watch,” he said and his voice was husky. “She is going to dance. It’s an ancient dance of great meaning.”

  “What does it mean?” Claire asked, trying to turn so she could see his face, but he wouldn’t allow her to turn.

  He put his lips close to her ear. “It is a sacred dance of death. All the young priestesses are taught this dance.”

  Claire looked at Nyssa on the stage. Nyssa removed her heavy robe and under it she was wearing thin, gauzy garments that barely concealed her lithe, golden-skinned body. Even though Nyssa’s garments were provocative and even indecent, there wasn’t a murmur from the audience. Everyone seemed to realize that he was seeing something that was far removed from a comedy.

  Nyssa’s dance, if it could be called that, consisted of slow, beautiful movements, movements that had no spontaneity to them, but were studied and perfect. She moved to the long, slow flute music with precision, her exquisite little face utterly solemn.

  “I don’t like this,” Claire said and tried to move away from Trevelyan, but he held her fast.

  “Nyssa believes in her religion with all her heart and soul,” he whispered.

  Claire continued watching the dance, but it gave her goose bumps, and when Nyssa at last slowly and gracefully fell to the ground in a deathlike pose, no one in the audience moved. Nyssa lay where she was for the longest time, and the audience mirrored her stillness. Then Brat ran from behind the curtains and grabbed Nyssa, pulling her up into her arms.

  Nyssa opened her eyes and her laughter rang out through the audience. At that people began clapping.

  Claire tried to turn to Trevelyan but he held her fast. “Watch,” he said, and within moments the flute began again, only this time the tune was fast and exciting. Nyssa, smiling, pushed Brat away and began to dance again, only this time the dance was obviously not about death.

  “And what is this dance a celebration of?” Claire said with sarcasm in her voice.

  “Procreation,” Trevelyan answered over the noise of the audience, which was beginning to clap and cheer at the sight of Nyssa’s undulations.

  Claire twisted to look at Trevelyan, saw that he was watching Nyssa with as much delight as all the other men were. “I need some air,” she said, then had to repeat it two times before he heard her. He smiled down at her knowingly, then took her hand and led her outside into the cool night air.

  He pulled her to the side of the house and in the darkness he began kissing her.

  “Is this for me or for Nyssa?” she asked when she could catch her breath.

  “Do you care?”

  She laughed. “Not really.” She put her hands in his hair and returned his kisses.

  At one point she opened her eyes to see Oman standing behind them. He was standing quietly, his heavy-lidded eyes half lowered, as though he didn’t mean to watch but had to. Claire pulled Trevelyan’s hair. He didn’t stop kissing her, but Trevelyan said something low in another language to Oman.

  Oman answered, then disappeared into the darkness.

  “What did he say?” Claire asked. Trevelyan was kissing her neck now and she couldn’t think very clearly. Trevelyan kept kissing.

  “What did Oman say?” she asked again.

  Trevelyan moved away from her enough to answer. “Harry has returned,” he said, then began kissing her throat again.

  It was as though someone had splashed her with cold water. She pushed away from Trevelyan and looked at him. “Have you nothing to say?”

  “I’d rather not talk now,” he murmured and leaned forward to kiss her again. When she didn’t respond, he said, “Let’s go into the garden.” He took her hand and started pulling her into the privacy of the trees.

  Claire followed him, thinking that he was leading them into
privacy so they could talk, but the moment they were alone, he grabbed her to him and began to kiss her.

  “Stop it!” she practically shouted as she pushed at him. When she had at last broken away, he stood there in the bright moonlight with a puzzled look on his face. “You can’t act as though nothing has happened. Didn’t you hear what Oman said?”

  Trevelyan’s face changed and Claire realized that she hadn’t seen his closed expression for days. It was as though a curtain had come down and he wasn’t going to allow her or anyone else to see into him. “I heard him.”

  Claire took a step toward him, but he backed away. Claire’s hands dropped to her side. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

  “People are free to do what they want in life.”

  “What does that mean? Is that something you read—or did you write it?”

  “It is fact.” His face was closing more, showing her less of him.

  She put her hands over her face. “Trevelyan, please don’t do this. Please don’t shut me out. What am I going to do? What are we going to do?”

  When he didn’t answer, she looked at him. He was standing there, staring at her. He was so tall, so dark, so far away from her. He wasn’t the Trevelyan who laughed with her. Now he was the Captain Baker of her childhood fantasies, a man as remote from her as a mythical figure.

  She put her hands to her side. “I was just one of them, wasn’t I? These last four days have been everything to me. Never in my life have I been so happy. I’ve shared so much with you. No, I thought I was sharing with you. I’ve never had anyone to talk to, not as I can talk to you. I can talk to you about what I read, what I think, what I hope. I can do anything I want with you, yet I was nothing to you.”

  She turned and started to walk away, but he caught her arm. “Why do you think you are nothing to me?” he asked softly.

  She turned on him, furious. “Oman tells you that Harry has returned and you say nothing. You don’t care that I have to go back to him, that I have to leave you and what we’ve had these last few days. You got what you wanted from me and now I’m just a chapter in your book. Or do American heiresses get whole chapters? Maybe only women like your Pearl of the Moon deserve entire chapters.”