A Duke for Christmas (5 page)

“Ah, yes, a most eccentric lady. She vowed to leave England if they brought Lord Liverpool in as Prime Minister. She was true to her word.”

“Yes, I remember that.” He dipped his pen in the inkwell and sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“Will there be anything further, Your Grace?”

“Yes, indeed, Fissing. Procure a horse.”

“Your Grace?”

“A horse, suitable for a lady who has not been mounted for some three years. Not too sluggish, but not restive either. A gentle mare of four or five years. Jasper Coachman should be able to help you. By morning, if you please. We will be departing no later than ten o’clock.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Dominic felt no compunction at giving such an order. He knew well that Fissing felt his full talents were never utilized by his master. By all accounts, Dominic’s grandfather had been exacting, tyrannical, and bad-mannered. The very qualities that had sent Dom’s father into self-imposed exile, changing his name and hiding his lineage, had apparently attached his valets to his interest with hoops of iron. Neither the original valet nor Fissing would have turned a hair if the late Duke of Saltaire had asked for a battleship, an elephant, or a holy relic of Saint Anselm. They lived by the principle that the master was the master and the man more than a man. That Fissing could do no more for the present holder of the title than shine his boots or arrange his travel meant that the greater part of his gifts were unused and underappreciated.

As Dominic suspected, in the morning, a horse exactly as specified stood outside the inn. The mare was gray, with a lighter mane and feathers on fetlocks and hocks. A fine lady’s saddle rode its back, a ribbon of gold toolwork all along the edges, matched by a bridle with brasses bright as the gold.

Dominic stood so that he could gain the best view of Sophie’s face when she came out of the inn. Her reaction did not disappoint him. A surprised “Oh!” came from her lips as she stopped short upon the threshold. Her bright eyes swept over the mare, taking in her points at a glance. “What a darling!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, Fissing. Wherever did you find her?”

“A simple matter,” his man said, even his humility a matter of pride.

Feeling the wind go out of his sails, Dominic watched as Sophie went to the mare, holding out her hand in greeting. “What gentle eyes,” she said. “What is her name?”

“Rosamund, ma’am. She belonged to a young lady of good family. They were reluctant to sell her. However, she was not being ridden enough to continue her good health.”

“What happened to the young lady?”

Dominic held up his hand in warning but Fissing ignored him magnificently. “She passed away some months ago, ma’am. Most unfortunate.”

“I shall ride in her memory.”

“So I took the liberty of telling her parents, ma’am.”

Now, at last, Sophie looked for him. “You’re very thoughtful, sir. Do you aspire to be a genie, granting every wish as soon as it is spoken?”

“Fissing is the genie,” Dominic said, happy to give credit where it was due so long as she looked at him with enjoyment sparkling in her eyes.

“Then you must be the sheikh whose commands he fulfills. Thank you very much,” she said with a curtsy. She looked down at herself. “Now I know why my riding dress was laid out instead of my round gown.”

The green cloth had seen one too many pressings with a too hot iron. Shiny patches showed in the full skirt and a rent had been inexpertly sewn up in the right sleeve. She wore a man’s hat that was slightly too big for her, tied on with a spotted scarf.

Dominic made a basket with his interlaced fingers. Sophie put her knee into it and he tossed her up into the saddle. The horse stood like a carved statue while she arranged her skirts to fall becomingly. Dominic noticed that the leather of her boots was much creased about the ankles and the heels were badly worn.

Somehow this sight brought welling up a feeling of rage against the late Broderick Banner that all his foreknowledge of the man’s fecklessness had not been able to stir. What right had a poet to keep his wife from riding, from dressing decently, from eating properly? He’d noticed that everything she wore was too big in the body, as if she’d lost at least a stone since they were made for her bride clothes.

While Fissing saw that the two maids were comfortably bestowed in one carriage, Dominic went to consult with his groom and coachman about their route. He had, therefore, a few minutes to gain command of himself before he returned to Sophie. After all, one couldn’t let a newly minted widow guess that one’s opinion of her husband hadn’t improved upon his death. He believed it wrong to speak ill of the dead, but there was no stricture upon
thinking
ill of them.

“She’s beautifully behaved,” Sophie said, turning the mare in a circle.

“Of course. Fissing wouldn’t have stood for it, otherwise.”

“You shouldn’t have done it. But I’m so glad you did.”

He smiled at her over the back of his own bay hack, already proved over the distance. “It was a pleasure. I don’t often have the opportunity to do things for other people. Things I want to do, at any rate.”

She urged the horse forward and said a few words to the girls in the carriage. They looked troubled that she would not be with them, but one of them caressed the side curtains and, glancing at Dominic, said something in her own tongue. Then, with an effort that brought a frown to her smooth brow, she said, “Pretty. Such pretty.”

“My word,” Dominic answered. “English.”

“Very good, Angelina,” Sophie said.
“Va bene.”

The coachman mounted on the box of the carriage, the boy beside him. The berlin with the luggage would be driven by Peck, the groom, with the other boy sitting there, arms folded. Fissing had his new sheets to keep him contented. Gossip was the stuff of life to him, for only by constant application could he master the thousand and one intricacies of high life that His Grace could not be troubled to remember. Dominic suspected he never would live up to Fissing’s standards of dukeliness.

It took them quite half an hour to leave Dover, thanks to the traffic in the streets. “And I thought London was bad,” Dominic said, waiting behind two drays that had locked rear wheels, completely blocking the intersection.

“You should see Rome at Christmas,” Sophie said. “No holiday was complete without at least two carriages overturned and a fire. The glorious races at the Coliseum couldn’t be nearly so exciting.”

“I think you will miss that city.”

“I suppose I will miss some things about it. It can be very beautiful, especially in the early morning. There’s something about the way the light comes in among the buildings. One finger of it would touch my bedroom window every morning in the spring, turning all my litter into gold. Even in winter a pale thread would reach through, reminding me that spring wasn’t so far away.”

She seemed almost to be speaking to herself. Dominic didn’t speak but gazed at her, willing her to say more. But a fight broke out between the two dray drivers, breaking her concentration. Pressing her mare forward, she stopped on the near side of the drays and, rising in the saddle, looked over. “Please, gentlemen, I want to go home and I have many miles yet to travel.”

The two men, covered in dust and not a little blood, drew apart. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Lend a hand here, Henry.”

“Aye, Silas. Comin’, I am.”

They were five miles beyond the town when there was at last room to let the horses do more than walk.

Dominic realized he had nothing to concern himself with. Though it may have been a few years since she’d last ridden, she’d forgotten nothing of her skill. The mare and the woman seemed alike in their longing for a faster pace and a taste of freedom.

They stopped for the night at the Gorgon’s Head in Bainbridge, a more select house than Mrs. Cricklewood’s. Here there was little need for Fissing’s talents, though he would have gone to the stake sooner than admit it. He contented his pride by accepting even the extraordinary services with an air that said the valet wasn’t the sort to denigrate those doing their best, however limited.

Though the Gorgon’s Head was famous across the south of England for the splendor of its table, the landlord was not about to serve his finest dinner to the Duke of Saltaire without adding a great many extra touches. Nor would his lady guest lack any attention. The bill would be commensurate with the trouble, Dominic thought, and remembered with what pleasure he’d hosted dinners for impoverished friends when freshly come into his money.

Washed and immaculately shaved, Dominic waited in the best private parlor. A large bouquet of candles cast a dreamy, golden glow over the table, highlighting the crystal stemware and plates created from one of Mr. Wedgwood’s most delightful dreams. Dried flowers gave out a faded, sweet scent over the fireplace, like ghosts of roses lingering in a place they’d loved. Dominic reminded himself that he’d ordered none of this; he was not trying to create a romantic atmosphere. Was it his fault if the management misunderstood his relationship with Sophie?

As the minutes ticked past, she did not appear. Dominic watched the candles shrink. Then, abruptly, he left the room.

“Sophie?” he asked, rapping lightly at her door. “Are you coming down to dine?”

When her voice came, it was tight. “No, I can’t... that is, I
don’t believe I shall. Would, you ask to have a little soup sent up to me?”

“Are you ill?”

“No, not ill.” He heard her slow footsteps approach the door. Pulling open the door, she stood before him, her figure swathed in a red woolen dressing gown. Stood, however, was perhaps not quite the correct word. True, she was on her feet, but her posture seemed as hunched as an old woman’s. “I think I shall drive tomorrow,” she said. “There are apparently some muscles that do not like suddenly returning to horseback.”

“Do you need help?”

“The Ferrara sisters have been a great comfort. Lucia is quite a talented masseur. I am hungry, though.”

“I happen to know they’ve gone to some trouble to make a special dinner. I shall order it sent here.”

“Not all of it. A glass of wine, however, would be most welcome.” She smiled—or perhaps it was a spasm of pain.

“You shall have it instantly. Go, make yourself comfortable, or as comfortable as possible, and I shall have everything done at once.”

“Thank you, Dominic.” With a sudden gesture, she reached out to grasp his sleeve. “You are being much too kind to me. I’m not...” Her fingers relaxed and her hand slipped from his arm. “I’m most grateful.”

“Not at all,” Dominic said, wondering very much what she had begun to say. He rather fancied she’d been going to add that she wasn’t used to having her comfort considered, but that might just be wishful thinking on his part. It wasn’t that he wanted her husband to have been brutal to her, though he wouldn’t have put it past Broderick Banner. But he wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t wanted Sophie to realize just what she’d given up in choosing the poet over the duke. He was ashamed of his feelings, but they existed anyway.

He met Fissing in the dining parlor. “Mrs. Banner will eat in her room tonight. She is tired.”

“Very good, Your Grace. I shall arrange matters at once.”

“The very best of each dish, mind, Fissing. I only wish there were flowers at this season.”

“Indeed. A table looks undressed without flowers or even a touch of Christmas greenery.”

“Well, there’ll be plenty of that at Finchley. Sir Kenton has asked me to stay over the Christmas season, but I think I shall return to London.”

“Not Saltaire, Your Grace?”

Dominic thought of drawing up before that great, echoing house, with its forty blank windows staring down. Of white marble turning the entrance hall into a huge frozen pudding where stiff servants seemed only half thawed as they made their formal greeting to the returning master. Of the reverberating silence when he had no guests and the empty gaiety when he did bring people to share it.

“It’s too late to invite friends. They all have plans by this time.”

“Then shall I go ahead to Town and open the house?”

“Yes, when we return to Finchley, you and the coachman might as well proceed on to London. I won’t need you at Finchley, and I can’t have the horses eating Sir Kenton out of house and home. My groom can put up at the inn and watch over Phrenicos for me.”

“And when may we expect Your Grace’s appearance in London?”

“I’m not sure. No more than a few days. Now, if you please, Fissing, Mrs. Banner’s tray?”

Fissing raised one black eyebrow in his most deprecating glance. “At once, Your Grace.”

Put solidly in his place, Dominic poured another glass of wine and fell to waiting for his own dinner. He doubted very much that Sophie would ride tomorrow, but he had hopes for the day after. It could only do her good to shake off the weakness of her long constraint at sea and, he’d begun to suspect, her long entrapment in Rome.

Sophie’s sore muscles kept her out of the saddle for two days, for which reprieve she returned much thanks. So long as the weather remained clear, however cold, Dominic would ride and not enter the carriage. His generosity and concern for her comfort, demonstrated both by the gift of Rosamund and by his tender consideration at each inn where they stopped, were like mines laid beneath the bulwarks of her self-command. She could not control when they might explode, destroying another piece of her facade. She’d already given away far, far too much. Dominic Swift was no fool. He could put two and two together and determine a very clear answer.

Though prudence demanded a third day’s travel in the carriage, the little taste she’d had of freedom and exercise made her confinement irksome. The motion of the carriage reminded her too much of the sea, with even less room for cramped muscles to stretch. Before retiring that night, she mentioned to Fissing that she would wish to ride again on the morrow.

She vowed that she would speak only of neutral subjects with Dominic: the weather, politics, and fashion. No personal matters would be permitted to intrude. If trouble arose, one could always find distractions to do with one’s horse—examine an alleged loose girth or wonder if the beast had picked up a stone or, as a last resort, propose a gallop.