An Ideal Duchess (29 page)

             
“I’m dressing for bed, Maggie,” She gestured towards the row of buttons down the back of her blouse.

             
“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” Maggie looked worried in her reflection as she set to the blouse.

             
“I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I was up early for the hunt.”

             
Maggie’s nimble fingers made short work of the impossible cloth-covered buttons, and she pushed the blouse down her shoulders and arms, reaching to the waistband of her walking skirt to unhook her blouse from the fastening connecting the two articles of clothing. Her skirt went next, and she balanced on Maggie’s arm to step out of the circle of blue serge.

“How was the hunt, Your Grace?” Maggie bent to pick up the skirt and folded it over her arm.

“Haven’t you heard? I embarrassed the family dreadfully,” Her light laugh was brittle.”I’m shocked Fowler didn’t spread the news of my debacle across the servants’ hall.”

             
“Oh no, Your Grace, Mr. Fowler isn’t a gossip, especially when it comes to the family.” The housemaid stood on her toes to pull Amanda’s layers of undergarments over her head.

             
Amanda stood only in her drawers, goosepimples raised across her arms and shoulders as she crossed her hands over her naked breasts.

             
“Would you like me to draw a bath for you, Your Grace?” Maggie looked diminutive behind the daunting pile of clothes slung over her arms, which she would take downstairs to mend and press.

             
The sight made Amanda laugh, her first real taste of amusement of the day. She walked over to her wardrobe and chose an elegant cambric nightdress from the wide, deep bottom drawer, and pulled this over her head.             

             
“I’m so glad you’re my lady’s maid now,” She smiled over her shoulder. “I couldn’t abide one more day with that dreadful Bowen.”

             
“The row in the servants’ hall when Mr. Fowler told her she was to be replaced by me, Maggie Wilcox, a sixth housemaid?!” Maggie giggled.

             
“I have no regrets,” Amanda sat on the cane seat chair beside the wardrobe and removed her boots and stockings.

             
“Me either, Your Grace!” Maggie’s eyes shone reverently. “I swear to be the best lady’s maid you could possibly ever, ever find in the whole of England—or even the world.”

             
“All I need, Maggie, is the best lady’s maid in Bledington,” Amanda said wryly, her mouth twisting with a hopefulness she was surprised to feel towards this much younger housemaid.

             
“Yes, Your Grace, I promise. I’ll always be grateful to you!” The housemaid—no, lady’s maid, bounced on her toes, revealing her age, before bounding out of the room with a pile of Amanda’s clothes in her arms.

Cheltenham, February 1906
             

             
A thick sheet of rain fell heavily from the sodden gray sky, beating a fierce tattoo against the windows of the hall where the families and supporters of each candidate standing for the General Election had moved to escape the dreary weather. Amanda, wrapped in sables and wearing her tall, beribboned and feather hat, felt conspicuous in the midst of the impatient, feet-shuffling crowd, most of whom were simple farmers, local shopkeepers and businessmen, and common laborers. However, like them, she was there to support the Liberal candidate for Rendcomb, who had lost his seat when switching parties after Winston Churchill had crossed the bench last year in reaction to Balfour and the Tory Party’s intransigent politics.

             
Though Anthony had ably represented the constituency as a Conservative for six years, he and Bron had quarreled bitterly last spring when Anthony decided his principles were stronger than his obligation to the Townsend family, to Malvern even, and their long-held Tory beliefs. That was the last time Anthony had been invited to Bledington, and Malvern stubbornly dug his heels in when she made attempts to bridge their estrangement. She caught Anthony’s eye from where he sat on the platform, and gave him a smile of encouragement, crossing her fingers for luck as they all waited for the counting agents to return from tallying the ballots. As a woman, she was unable to vote, but she found the entire process of Anthony’s standing for Parliament infinitely fascinating. She had pestered him for weeks with demands to assist his campaign, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that he allowed her to canvass for him.

             
What a thrill it had been to stand on a platform and deliver a speech in support of Anthony’s platform—many things she found agreeable, such as free school meals and social reform—or to distribute ballots with the local ladies of the Women’s Liberal Union, or even to meet with some of the constituents. She admitted that her position as Duchess of Malvern—and as a charming, beautiful woman—served her well when taking tea with farmers’ wives and paying calls on the gentry, but it was all for a most excellent cause.

             
She, and practically everyone else, turned when three men came through the side door holding rain-slicked umbrellas, the hems of their trousers soaked to the calf from the gushing torrents of rain lashing at their backs. The counting agents! She crossed her ankles in mimicry of her fingers as the candidates rose from their chairs: Mr. Thomas Marsham for the Labour Party, Sir Samuel McHugh for the Tories, and Anthony Challoner for the Liberals.

             
There was the sound of the door behind them opening, but Amanda, assuming it a tardy counting agent, did not pay it any mind, her attention affixed to the platform. As one of the counting agent’s began reading the tally, Bim went rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead. She turned to see that Malvern had entered the hall, rain dripping from the brim of his bowler and the broad shoulders of his greatcoat. Her stomach twisted into knots. He had retreated into brooding silences when she decided to canvass for Bim after her initial attempt to discuss it led to his refusal to even listen to her. She had laughed at first, not taking his reaction seriously, for she saw little harm in helping a friend, but Malvern seemed to take her defection quite personally.

             
There were a number of murmurs as he slowly removed his hat, the close-crop of his hair gleaming in neat auburn waves from his high brow (his handsome vitality undamaged by the sodden  state of his attire), and took the nearest seat to the door, which happened to place him directly in Bim’s line of vision. She turned, ducking her head to escape Malvern’s attention, her mouth tightening at the thought of another emotionally taxing quarrel—though she supposed that he could find her amongst the crowd of people clad in rough attire and store-bought suits even without recognizing the hat he watched her purchase in London last autumn. . She glanced quickly at Bim, whose countenance had relaxed, but his agitation was apparent in the slight jogging of his left knee over which he had slung his gleaming top hat.

             
Behind the candidates, another counting agent held a piece of chalk standing in front of a green oblong chalkboard, on which he began writing the surnames of the candidates and their respective parties. She held her breath as this counting agent then filled in the numbers of the votes each men received, crossing her fingers tighter than ever as watched the numbers filled for Bim—3,216—Mr. Marsham—1,709—and finally, Sir Samuel McHugh—3,109.

             
She threw her hands up with joy, her sable tippet sailing through the air to land on the soft tweed cap of a man sitting in another row. She flushed with a small touch of chagrin when the entire hall burst into laughter, though the foot stamps and cheers mingling with jeering at the results afterwards, covered her impulsive gesture of excitement.

             
Bim flipped his top hat onto his head and shook hands with the men he had defeated, his relief and pleasure apparent as he stepped to the podium, his yellow-gloved hands clutching its sides. He leaned forward to be heard over the rustling murmurs and cheers from the crowd, his usual facile expression serious and composed.

             
“Words cannot describe how pleased I am to represent you, Rendcomb, in the House of Parliament—” He paused when the crowd let up a yell that filled the low rafters of the hall. “I would like to thank my fellow candidates, Mr. Marsham and Sir Samuel McHugh for their worthy contest, and it is my sincerest hope that all of you will continue to look upon me as a trustworthy and reliable steward of your interests.”

             
“Do you include the interests of women in your stewardship?”

             
Amanda turned as a young woman rose from the crowd, her dark hair tucked neatly beneath the broad brim of her black hat. She wore a black tailor-made costume, the severity only broken by the crisp white of her tie and high collar and her gloves.

             
“Will the Liberal Party give women the vote?” Another woman stood up, thin and hollow-eyed beneath her soft cloth cap, her clothes of a much simpler nature than the first woman.

             
Amanda gasped, giving both women a closer look; she had never seen real live suffragettes in the flesh. Almost immediately, a number of men rose to grab both women by their arms, tugging them down the aisle, undoubtedly with the intention to throw them out into the rain. She rose indignantly, intending to stop the men, when Bim spoke.

             
“No, let them remain.” He gave the manhandling men a grim look. “I don’t agree with violence towards ladies who ask a question of their candidate in a public meeting.”

             
The men let the suffragettes go, but not without a rough shove before returning to their seats. The two women stumbled against one another, to the mocking titters of the crowd, but they exchanged a brief glance, one Amanda interpreted as that of a person accustomed to this sort of treatment. She looked at Bim, who gave her an imperceptible nod of thanks, and then sat back down; realizing only when her glance swept the crowd as she sank into her chair, that she had obtained Malvern’s attention. Dash it, she swore to herself, but returned her attention to the two women, increasingly aware that Malvern’s eyes remained affixed to the sensitive inch of skin exposed between the top of her blouse and her hairline.

             
“Now, Miss…” Bim gestured for the suffragettes to continue.

             
“Miss Trant, Jessica Trant.” The dark-haired woman said, her voice quavering slightly, before her chin rose in defiance.

             
“Mrs. Dalziel,” The other woman said, glowering at the crowd. “And I’ll remember this to your mothers, young Jessop and Clowes.”

             
“Miss Trant and Mrs. Dalziel,” Bim smiled gently, his eyes lingering on Miss Jessica Trant.

             
Amanda raised an  eyebrow at that.

             
“Well, Mr. Challoner,” Miss Trant approached the platform. “Do you intend to support women’s suffrage, or will you continue to hem and haw and deceive like your fellow party members?”

             
The men in the hall did not like that, many rising to their feet, faces red, and others stamping their feet in antagonism. Amanda glanced nervously at the women, but they remained unperturbed, and Miss Trant held Bim’s unwavering regard.

             
“I admit I haven’t placed much thought on the issue of women’s suffrage—” Bim held up his hand when Miss Trant began interrupting him. “But I will take it under serious consideration, though I will only act on it if I feel it suits the needs of those who already have the vote.”

             
“You are a coward, Mr. Challoner.”

             
The boos, shouts, and jeers took on a less accommodating tenor, and Amanda clutched her sables tighter to her throat, jerking away when the men around her rose to their feet and began shouting down Miss Trant and Mrs. Dalziel. Bim attempted to regain control of the crowd, but when the men started towards the suffragettes, he jumped from the platform to grab the women by the arm and pull them away from the angry crowd.

             
Amanda stood as well, trying not to panic as she pushed and shoved her away against the tide of the crowd in an attempt to follow Bim, who took the women towards the side entrance from which the counting agents had entered the hall.

She had the breath knocked out of her when someone’s elbow jabbed into her stomach, and then felt her head pulled in the opposite direction as someone grabbed at the feather on her hat. A hand grabbed her arm, and she reached up to retrieve her hatpin, planning to stick the owner of the hand, but then world tipped and swayed before she realized she was being carried through the melee.

              “Malvern!” She gasped, instinctively clutching her arms around his neck when he gave her a brief glance. “My hat!”

             
Having removed her hatpin, her brand new Paris model had slipped from her head to fall to the ground, its au courant shape crushed beneath the uncaring feet of brutish men.