An Ideal Duchess (31 page)

             
“I don’t know…”

             
“Please don’t tell me it’s because of your children!” Sylvia looked horrified. “My Bertie—named for his godfather the King, though I despise it—didn’t even register my absence when he was a baby.”

             
“Sylvia, that’s appalling. Besides, I see my boys in the nursery every day.”

             
“How disgustingly maternal,” Sylvia curled her lip. “But please say you’ll come anyways—Cutty adores you and says one look at you always cures his dyspepsia.”

             
“But it’s so far away—”

             
“Darling, there are telephones and telegraph offices everywhere for you to receive your no doubt hourly updates on your sons.” Sylvia wheedled.

             
Amanda felt her resolve wavering beneath Sylvia’s persuasiveness. The road ahead of her continued on in a straight, unceasing, tedious line, somehow seeming to mock the steady misery of her present. Perhaps moving outside of Bledington’s suffocating walls was the antidote to her restlessness, and going more than one day without seeing Viola or Ursula or even Malvern’s coldly disapproving faces would keep her from going mad from the loneliness.

             
“Marvelous!” Sylvia exclaimed, deciding for her before she could speak. “I will care for all of the arrangements—will you bring this wonderful motor?—and you don’t have to do anything but bring your belongings!”

             
“Are you absolutely certain that it’s alright, Sylvia?”

             
“Trust me, darling—Lady Rawson will eat you up: a fellow American and a duchess? Besides what could possibly go wrong when you are in my hands?”

*          *          *

              Jacky Wilcox was a man of few words, but when he did speak, most shut their gobs to listen. Maggie felt a qualm of anxiety mixed with defiance when she noticed her brother entering the servants’ hall, the dark quietness of his chauffeur’s livery (she finally learned to pronounce the French word) matching his quiet demeanor. His brown hair was parted in the middle and brushed back with sweet-smelling brilliantine until it gleamed in the lamplight, and more than one housemaid who happened to be in the hall blushed and giggled shyly at his appearance at the table. Jacky, however, paid them no mind; he saved his passion for his automobiles and aeroplanes.

             
He moved easily to where she sat at the head of the table near Mr. Fowler and Mrs. Finch, settling his tall, lean frame onto the bench beside her. She continued mending the lace on the duchess’s handkerchiefs, forcing her eyes to remain on the nimble-fingered, detailed task.

             
“Well, our Maggie,” He sighed deeply

             
It wasn’t a statement like, his deep sigh indicating a question.

             
“Hello Jacky,” She replied coolly and carefully bit the knotted end of her fine silk thread with her teeth.

             
“I expect you would be liking a cup of tea before thy trip then, Wilcox?” The cook, Mrs. Alcock stepped from the kitchen, her hands on her hips.

             
“Aye,” Jacky answered.

             
“Nellie!” Mrs. Alcock called for the scullery maid as she returned to the recesses of the kitchen.

             
Not a minute later, Nellie scurried in with a cup of tea for Jacky, her hands red and chapped, lifeless hair falling in her face from her cap, and her apron dirty with vegetable shavings and bits of meat. She blushed a furious red when Jacky thanked her as he took his cup, and beat a hasty retreat back to the scullery. Maggie finished her sewing as her brother finished his tea and then folded the handkerchiefs into neat, matching triangles before tucking them inside of the wooden handkerchief box. She sensed rather than heard Jacky’s entreaty for her to remain, and she stifled the urge to scowl at him as she remained seated, waiting for him to finish his tea.

             
He set the cup down on the table and flicked his fingers in a familiar gesture. Talk, it seemed to say.

             
“Her Grace is waiting for me upstairs, Jacky,” She murmured. “I mustn’t delay.”

             
“I’ve the motor running,” He said calmly. “Won’t go without me behind the wheel.”

             
“It was Mum who put you up to this, weren’t it? I know she doesn’t want me to leave Bledington.”

             
“I, Maggie, it were I.” Jacky’s gaze sharpened on her face. “You’re too young to go gallivanting about the countryside in strange houses.”

             
“I’m seventeen. You’ve motored across France with His Grace and you’re only three years older.”

             
“I’m a man.”

             
“Being in service knows no sex, Jacky. If I am Her Grace’s lady’s maid, I must go where she needs me.”

             
Jacky pursed his lips. “This trip doesn’t sit right with them upstairs and I don’t want you mixed up in it.”

             
She closed her mouth tightly, well aware of the awful row the duchess and His Grace had over her acceptance of Mrs. Montague’s invitation to Lady Rawson’s house party. It wasn’t even a proper row, either, with yells, thrown pots, and thrashings, just His Grace speaking to the duchess in that terrible, cold voice of his and the duchess flippant and sarcastic.

             
The look Jacky gave her let her know that he knew of the unnatural state of their marriage, but he would never tell what the duke said to him, just as she would never tell what the duchess said to her.

             
She clutched the handkerchief box tightly, determined not to allow Jacky to forbid her to accompany the duchess to Rawson Manor. It would be her first real time as a lady’s maid, not simple the jumped-up former housemaid many in belowstairs still considered her. At Rawson Manor she would be called Miss Malvern and would even be served her meals by the lower housemaids. The prospect was exciting and thrilling, and all of Bledington’s housemaids were positively green with envy.

             
Mostly, she wanted a bit of space between her and her Mum, who had a bad time of it since Da was injured of falling off a ladder last winter and was now afraid of any bit of change in their lives. So she wasn’t going to change her mind one jot!

             
“Stubborn, our Maggie,” Jacky eyed her calm like. “Don’t say as I didn’t warn you not to get mixed up in their lives. We can like and admire, but always remember your place.”

             
“You worry too much for an aero-pilot, Jacky,” Maggie refrained from bouncing from her seat with glee. He was to let her go!

             
“Aye,” He said, and surprised her by cupping her head to place a fond kiss on her brow. “Go on then, and don’t forget to say good-bye to Mum.”

              Bron fiddled with the small model of his latest aeroplane design, but could not concentrate on the task at hand. He set the model on his desk and picked up his pen with the agenda of fixing his calculations, but found he was unable to concentrate on that either. He threw the pen down with disgust and ran a hand through his hair.

             
The truth was, he had been distracted and irascible since Amanda left Bledington for Rawson Manor two days ago. Their volatile relationship was exhausting, particularly when it crept upon them unexpectedly and exploded in their faces. If she would only behave as a duchess should and stop undermining him at every turn they would get along famously, and Bledington wouldn’t feel like a powder keg waiting for the right (or wrong) match.

             
He looked up at the vibrating gong of the grandfather clock situated at the end of the long gallery between the Duke and Duchess’ suites and the rest of the bedrooms. He counted three deep, sonorous booms, and realized this was about the time Amanda usually stopped whatever she was doing to run upstairs to visit the boys in the nursery. It was disconcerting to also realize that other than the few times the nanny brought them down during tea—when he managed to be at Bledington—he rarely saw or heard them. But, he thought flatly, this was how he and his brother were raised, how Beryl was raised before she was old enough to have a governess and move to the schoolroom, and how countless other friends and family members were raised and in turn raised their own children. His gaze dropped to the aeroplane model on his desk, and he picked it up again, unaware that he had risen from his chair until he reached his door.

             
What the bloody hell was he doing?
He paused, hand on the ornate doorknob. They were babies, and not only would they not know what the bloody hell an aeroplane was, but they could possibly break it with their clumsy ignorance. But he found himself continuing on, crossing the long gallery to the flight of stairs leading to the nursery wing, feeling foolish every step of the way. When he reached the day nursery, he realized why she visited them at this hour: the nursemaid was waking them from their naps. He felt something squeeze his heart as he stared at the identical boys, who, despite their soft, pink baby faces, looked frightening like he and Alex. Hand it to Amanda to birth twins to further exacerbate his still raw and numbing grief.

             
The nursery maid lifted one of them in her arms and turned towards the door with a smile. It faded when she realized he was not his wife, and the slim, dark-haired young woman set the boy down to bob a deep curtsey.

             
“I…” He cleared his throat before he stammered an apology. “I merely thought to pop in and see them since their mother is away.”

             
“Yes, Your Grace,” The nursemaid’s voice had a soft, soothing Irish lilt.

             
She lifted the other from his small bed and set him on the floor, and then took their hands to walk them in his direction.

             
“Lord Rodborough and Lord Cornelius, Your Grace. Bow to your father, your lordships.”

             
Bron stared down at them as they stared up at him, their thumbs in their mouths. He felt like a ruddy giant in front of them, and reddened with embarrassment when the small boys executed awkward bows. Then one tipped over at his feet and burst into tears. That set off the other one, and he looked helplessly at them for a brief moment as the nursemaid bent to gather them to her with a shushing sounds. They only cried harder, their little faces turning red, and he sighed in exasperation and thrust his model aeroplane into one of their hands. Almost immediately, he stopped crying, and like magic or some mad conjuration, the other stopped crying as well, and reached for the model.

             
The nursemaid looked amazed, and Bron smiled wryly, crouching until he was eye level with them.

             
“Gentle, be gentle,” He scolded softly, pulling their wet fingers away from the model. “Hold out your hands.”

             
They obeyed, four small hands outstretched towards him and two pairs of solemn gray eyes fixed on his face. It was uncanny how much they resembled him, and he scrutinized their faces for any trace of Amanda. No, he thought with a surprised lift of his brows, they were completely and utterly Townsend, especially with the bright, curling red hair brought into his family by his Scottish great-great grandmother. He laughed inwardly at this ironic circumstance, and then placed the model into their hands. He didn’t know if they understood a quarter of the words he spoke as he explained just how an aeroplane could fly, but it was pleasant to have someone with whom he could discuss his obsession with flight even if they could only understand and exclaim every five or seven words.

             
Bim had proven himself unreliable and untrustworthy and time had not lessened his searing betrayal—nor Amanda’s presence on Bim’s side of the hall, directly flouting Bron’s backing of the Conservative candidate. If it were not for his open support, Bim’s hold on his seat when his father died would have been uneasy, ready to be toppled by a more seasoned MP. With his support withdrawn, he had expected Bim to fail, and a small part of him admired the tenacity of Anthony Challoner’s campaign for his old seat. The other part, which made up the majority of his thoughts, was stung by the defection of the constituents away from the Tories.

             
It was almost a patent rejection
him
and the generations of dutiful, steadfast rule by the Townsends, the Estcourts, the Beaches—all of the county families whose lineage stretched back to the earliest days of Norman settlement in Gloucestershire. Or perhaps, he thought darkly, the rejection of the establishment across all of England, for not one day passed over the previous month where he did not open a freshly-creased copy of
The Telegraph
to find Tories and Liberal Unionists toppled one by one in even the safest seats in favor of Campbell-Bannerman and his cronies.