An Ideal Duchess (32 page)

             
He plucked the model away from the boys when they began to tug on it, the elder, Lord Rodborough, already exhibiting signs of possessiveness and officiousness—though, Bron conceded, he was the heir. He rose from his crouching position when the door opened, and turned to see Beryl bouncing into the room. She paused mid-bounce and then grinned at him.

             
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Bron,” Beryl flung her velvet toque onto the lamp stand beside the door and then swept past him, arms outstretched to the boys. “Come give aunt a cuddle.”

             
“Aunt! Aunt!” They cried happily, running into his sister’s embrace.

             
“What are you doing here?” He said with a frown at the informal display in front of the nursemaid. “Where is your governess?”

             
Beryl scowled at him after setting the boys down. “My governess has been let go. Fräulein Günter, however, is lost in the Arboretum.”

             
“And why, pray tell, is that?” Bron glowered at her.

             
“I don’t like her.” Beryl lifted her chin. “Why should Miss Snowden be replaced by a beastly German governess when everyone knows the Germans are determined to destroy England?”

             
“Where the devil did you hear something so absurd?”

             
“The Daily Mail,” His sister said confidently. “Mr. Le Queux is preparing us for the invasion, and I must do my part in stopping Fräulein from using our home as a base for her spy operations.”

             
Bron could only laugh at her. The boys began giggling as well, which increased his amusement. Beryl scowled again, and jammed her hands on her hips.

             
“Laugh all you want, Bron, but I am making myself useful to this country.”

             
“Are you sure you just don’t want to learn German?” He asked seriously. “Accusing Fräulein of being a spy is a serious accusation, Beryl.”

             
“You’ll see,” His sister muttered darkly. “You still haven’t explained why you are in the nursery.”

             
He was suddenly aware of the model aeroplane in his hands, and hid it behind his back. Though why he did this, when his sharp-eyed little sister was standing before him he did not know. She pounced, darting around him in an attempt to see what he held behind him. Bron twisted around, making certain not to step on his sons, who were laughing and jumping as though this were a game, and moved away from Beryl. She came after him, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him towards her. He grasped air when she swooped to snatch the model from his hands, and she smiled triumphantly at him.

             
“Ha! What is this?” Beryl frowned at it.

             
“Never mind, Ber,” He reached for the model, but she turned away, stepping back from his arm span.

             
“A-aer-plane!” One of the boys cried, clapping his small hands.

             
He raised a brow sardonically at the child; now would be the time for him to repeat what he told them.

             
“An aeroplane?” Beryl smiled down at his son before looking back at him. “Really, Bron?”

             
“Yes, really,” He said shortly, gesturing for her to return the model.

             
“So this must be why you’re so secretive about your doings away from the estate,” Beryl looked smug. “Does Amanda know? Have you taken her flying in your aeroplane?”

             
Bron gave her a stony look, and his sister’s smile faded as she took step back. “Give it to me, Beryl.”

             
“I’m sorry Bron,” She said hastily, handing the model aeroplane to him. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

             
“Go and find your governess.” He said tersely. “I don’t want to hear about you mistreating the woman—and the Daily Mail is no longer allowed in this house, is that understood?”

             
“Yes, Bron,” Beryl looked subdued and chagrined.

             
He glanced about the room, finding the nursemaid standing at a discreet distance. “That goes for belowstairs, as well.”

             
“Yes, Your Grace.” The nursemaid curtseyed.

             
“Good.” He looked at his sons, who had quieted, their thumbs back in their mouths. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it when he didn’t know what to say to or about them. “Come along, Beryl, so the nursemaid can return to her duties.” He gestured curtly for Beryl to precede him out of the nursery. “I will speak with Mother about Miss Snowden.”

             
“You will?” Beryl’s good humor returned and she bounced on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a peach, Bron! I promise I shan’t tell Amanda about your aeroplane.”

             
Bron was taken aback by her words as she scampered away, and when he reached his bedroom shortly thereafter, he felt a prickle of self-reproach worrying at him like a bee he could not seem to brush away. The model aeroplane felt heavy and cumbersome in his hands, and he ran his fingers across the miniature struts and balloon silk stretched across the biplane wingspan. What he would not give to actually fly away, far and high above the weight of Bledington. He had described it as a millstone around his neck, but now he saw it as a cursed albatross…
ah! Well a-day!
He thought mockingly. He wanted to damn Alex for destroying himself, but he supposed, per the teachings of the church, he was already damned.

             
It was a shame Alex had damned him as well. He glanced at the model in his hands and promptly crumpled the wood and silk in his fist.

*          *          *

Rawson Manor

              Lady Rawson—nee Annabel McKenzie of Nathrop, Colorado, not California or Pittsburgh, as Sylvia described with the typical Englishman’s muddled American geography—had the falsest laugh to go with the falsest blonde hair. She also smoked incessantly, and her vulgar mode of dress matched the rather vulgar, ostentatious and hodgepodge fittings in the recently enlarged country house.

             
However, Amanda supposed, one could not avoid one’s hostess, and so she smiled whenever Lady Rawson played one of her slightly cruel practical jokes or paid one of her double-edged compliments. My God, she wondered, when did she become such a snob? She was supposed to be ecstatic about being in a proper country house party with the smart set, which was completely unlike the oppressive and repressive atmosphere of Bledington.

             
She twitched her skirt out of the way when someone shifted to sit in the vacant chair beside her. A man, she presumed, and the quick glance she darted towards her new seating partner confirmed the fact. She briefly catalogued a wide smile, floppy light brown hair, and blue eyes before the raucous show of amateur theatricals recaptured her attention.

             
One of the new renovations to Rawson Manor, Lady Rawson was eager to boast, was the transformation of the billiards’ room into a personal theater. The play Lady Rawson, her silent husband Sir Ned, and the other guests were attempting to put on—and attempting was a nice description—was an abbreviated version of
She Stoops to Conquer
. Sylvia, relishing the chance to wear full eighteenth century costume, strode across the small stage as “Kate Hardcastle” and preened when the audience began clapping.

             
Amanda laughed at Sylvia’s broad style of acting, though between the hoots at her low bodice and the laughter at Sir Ned’s abysmal ability to remember his lines, the entire production was utterly disreputable. At the end of the play, Sylvia, instead of kissing the gentleman playing “Charles Marlow”, blew a kiss in what she first assumed was her direction. No, she turned to the man beside her, who shouted in humor, it was in his direction. He caught her glance and smiled again, which gave her an excuse to examine him. He was so blindingly young and handsome, she blinked in bedazzlement, and she raised her eyebrow at Sylvia, who winked and sauntered offstage as Cutty and Lord Denham lowered the velvet curtain over the stage.

             
Later, in between a few hands of bridge and the late supper, Amanda went upstairs to find the absent Sylvia, and walked to her bedroom. There were cards stuck in narrow metal slots on each bedroom door, and Amanda idly read those in sight-distance as she neared Sylvia’s room. Apparently, she noticed wryly, husbands and wives did not live cheek-by-jowl at Rawson Manor. Sylvia’s lady’s maid,

             
Langton, answered the door at Amanda’s brisk rap. She followed the maid—and the sounds of water splashing—to the modern bathroom complete with needle shower, tiled floor, and a great claw bathtub in which Sylvia lounged, one slender white arm hanging over the edge to keep the cigarette she held in a long enamel holder dry. Scented bubbles covered Sylvia’s indecent bits, and Amanda sat on the gilt chair that Sylvia gestured for her to take.

             
“You’ve finally lost that wretched, depressing look in your eyes!”,” Sylvia kissed the air in the vicinity of Amanda’s cheeks. “I told you Rawson would do wonders for the spirit.”

             
Amanda smiled self-consciously, wondering of her unhappiness had been that apparent. She brushed her anxiety aside to focus on Sylvia.               “And the body too, I assume?”

             
“Oh, yes, the boy,” Sylvia took a drag of her cigarette and then leaned her chin on the edge of the tub. “He’s absolutely deevie, isn’t he? So fresh and tender.”

             
“You sound as though you are describing a cut of chicken,”

             
“Don’t be so boring, Amanda,” Sylvia narrowed her kohl-rimmed eyes. “I know you’ve noticed the delectable Julian Goddard yourself.”

             
“He is handsome, yes, but I have absolutely no interest in that corner,”

             
“Good,” Sylvia leaned back in the tub. “I don’t take too kindly to poaching…”

             
“As if I would ever—I am a married woman.” Amanda said with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

             
“But are you happily?” Sylvia said slyly. “No, don’t answer that—we are here strictly for amusement and hang our husbands!”

             
“It will be rather difficult for you to do so since Cutty is here,” She reminded Sylvia.

             
“Oh tosh. Cutty is a great sport.  He only comes for the bridge parties, so don’t mind him.”

             
Amanda could only shake her head at Sylvia’s blitheness towards her marriage, and she rose from the chair. “I’m going to dress for supper.”

             
“Do wear your best Paquin. La Rawson is an absolute
cat
about every woman’s frocks, and with your face and figure, she will be positively
puce
with anger.”

             
“Yes, Sylvia,” She said dryly.

             
“I’m only looking out for you darling,” Sylvia arched a manicured eyebrow. “You’re a little green for all your air of sophistication, and I wouldn’t want you to fall out of bounds.”

             
She sighed in amusement and lifted her shoulders, though she felt grateful to arouse Sylvia’s concern. Sylvia waved with her cigarette holder as Amanda made her way from the bathroom and then the room, and began down the hallway towards her own bedroom. She promptly collided with the unseen figure coming up the hallway, and the person steadied her with their hands. She looked up into the friendly, handsome face of Sylvia’s swain-to-be, Julian Goddard.

             
“Oh hello, going to dress for dinner?” He said, hands still on her shoulders.

             
“Mr. Goddard,” She lifted a brow at his hands.

             
“My apologies Mrs…”

             
“Her Grace,” Amanda smiled blandly. “The Duchess of Malvern.”

             
Mr. Goddard looked chagrined and bemused, but removed his hands from her. “I wouldn’t have mistaken your title had we been properly introduced.”

             
“What a pity,” Amanda said sharply and then stepped around him to hurry towards her bedroom.

             
Thankfully, Maggie was inside, laying out her gown for the evening. Judging by Mr. Goddard’s forwardness both in the theater and in the hallway, she would not put it beyond him to knock on her door to cajole entry.

             
“Not the green, Maggie, the beaded cream silk gown from Paquin.” Amanda began to unfasten the short row of fabric-covered buttons on her shirtwaist. “How are you enjoying Rawson?”

             
“It’s quite lavish, Your Grace,” Maggie said, switching the frocks from Amanda’s wardrobe. “The staff has their own bathroom, with running water and water closet!”