An Ideal Duchess (40 page)

             
“Yes, you did,” He flung her arm away and stumbled blindly out of the deer park, his stomach churning from the urge to vomit.             

             
Matthews had reached their horses by the time Bron managed to make his way to the lane.

             
“Your Grace,” The estate manager looked concerned. “Are you—”

             
“We must cut our time short, Matthews,” He interrupted the man, realizing he must appear rather green about the gills. “I must escort Her Grace home.”

             
“Yes, of course, Your Grace, but—”

             
Bron turned away to wait for his wife to emerge from the deer park. She did, and had also donned her safety skirt, stepping towards them as though she had not run about like an irresponsible hoyden. There was, however, no mistake for the wild tumble of her chignon, nor the reddened, slightly swollen quality of her lips, and he could just imagine what Matthews thought they were up to. He glowered at her, having half a mind to leave her to make her way home not simply for her carelessness, but for frightening him half to death with her attempt at playing a game.

             
Matthews would have more questions. She held his hat in her hands and for a moment, he had the churlish urge to slap it from her grasp, but it passed and he settled the top hat onto his head before grimly helping her into the saddle and untying Theodosia’s reins from the fence.

             
“You can’t punish me for something I did not know Malvern,” She grasped his hand when he handed her the reins. “My God, you’ve been punishing me for my ignorance for two years and I am sick of it.”

             
“This isn’t the place for a discussion,” He said tersely. “Matthews is waiting.”

             
“You aren’t going to discuss it,” She released his hand, her eyes bright with a hurt he could not stand to see.

             
He lowered his eyes to the hand holding the reins, a hand that only moments before had been caressing her without a care as to their whereabouts or personal troubles. Dammit, he swore to himself, and he threw the reins at her. He turned to look at Matthews, who appeared slightly uncomfortable and bewildered, and instructed the man to escort Amanda back to Bledington. Her weary disappointment was palpable, and when she rode past him, their eyes caught, briefly, her blue eyes dull and dark, light a light that had been dimmed. Or rather the dying throes of a butterfly just before a Lepidopterologist rammed his mounting pins through its wings.

*          *          *

              The following week, Amanda did accompany Ursula on her rounds about the estate, and the difference in attitude was startling. The tenants were almost exaggeratingly deferential towards the dowager duchess and in retrospect, her and Beryl (who had accompanied them to give her long-suffering Fräulein a half-day) as well. Gone was the simple delight in viewing the young duchess, and the hesitant friendliness from the farmers; in its place were an awed, self-effacing quiet and a tendency to speak only when Ursula directly addressed them.

             
The resulting afternoon playing “ladies bountiful” was stultifying and dissatisfying, particularly when they paid the most desultory of calls on Bledington’s humblest cottages. She felt more cagey than usual, finding that the more she struggled against the gilded cage constructed for her, the more trapped she seemed to be. Nothing she did seemed to meet Bledington standards, and when she did rebel, it only backfired, sending her hurtling back into Bledington’s sharp, unloving bosom.

             
She felt the eyes of the members of the Girls’ Friendly Society on her as she strolled restlessly about the meeting room in the town hall, inspecting the needlework samples created by the girls of Bledington’s grammar school. She hoped they got their gossip’s worth staring at her and whispering, and then pretending they were not when she glanced at them. She had worn the turkey red Lucile suit she’d discarded in favor of her riding habit to accompany Malvern about the estate, and upon her introduction to some of the more soberly clad members, they looked upon her as though she were attired as Beelzebub himself.

             
Here was one instance where being a duchess did not cover a multitude of sins—
no pun intended
, she added to herself with a small, brittle laugh.

             
She paused before a particularly good set of embroidered lace handkerchiefs and ran a finger over the finely textured lace. This was quality unparalleled even by London standards, and she took the set back to the group of women, who sat in chairs circled around Ursula’s padded seat. “This is uncommonly fine—whoever tatted the lace and embroidered such tiny, exquisite doves on the corners should be encouraged to sell their wares.”

             
Fourteen sets of eyes swiveled in her direction, all expressing various states of disapproval, and Amanda refrained from rolling her eyes in irritation.

             
“Someone has a pair of gifted hands, and it would be a shame to let them fall into disuse.”

             
“The girls are taught the rudiments of needlecraft for the benefit of their households—or perhaps when they go into service—not for mere commerce,” sniffed Mrs. Thorneycroft¸ the president of their local branch.

             
“This, Mrs. Thorneycroft, is beyond the rudiments,” Amanda dropped a handkerchief into the woman’s hands. “This is a natural talent, and it is our Christian duty to nurture one another’s talents, is it not Mrs. Newton?”

             
The vicar’s wife looked surprised to hear her name (the American accent, no doubt), but she nodded jerkily, like a startled rabbit.

             
“And how, Duchess, do you propose to nurture these talents?” Ursula lifted a brow.

             
“A…a needlework school, perhaps,” Amanda glanced at each woman in turn. “I recall Lady Warwick once opened one for her girls at Easton Lodge.”

             
“It failed, didn’t it?” asked one of the Misses Yardley.

             
“It would not fail with such venerable ladies as yourselves at its helm,” Amanda saw and pressed her advantage. “I completely defer to your expertise in these matters, since this branch of the GFS has done such excellent work for the girls of Bledington and the outlying villages in the parish.”

             
The women appeared flattered, but indecisive, and she could sense their reluctance to commit to her proposed project as long as Ursula remained noncommittal, her silence an almost tacit motion against Amanda. Well, she wasn’t going to bid for her mother-in-law’s approval, nor would she allow the dowager to undermine her once again. She opened her mouth to further persuade the women to her idea when she was interrupted by the noisy arrival of Beryl and two unfamiliar women. Mrs. Thorneycroft rose promptly and clasped the hands of the elder of the two, a small, dark-haired woman of sharp beauty.

             
“Lady Tewksbury, how good of you to come,”

             
“Oh I do hope I haven’t disrupted your meeting,” said Lady Tewksbury as she removed her coat. “Lady Dulcie and I have just come in on the London train, and Lady Beryl was so kind to meet us at the door.”

             
Beryl and Lady Dulcie—a tall, rangy young woman with shockingly cropped strawberry blonde hair and sturdy boots beneath her walking skirt—swung their clasped hands in fun as they followed Lady Tewksbury, who greeted each member of Bledington’s GFS in turn. Amanda noticed the fission of hesitation when Lady Tewksbury reached Ursula’s chair, but they covered this quickly, though her mother-in-law only extended two fingers to the Marchioness. Lady Tewksbury’s calm expression tightened until she reached Amanda, where her mouth stretched into another genuine smile of delight.

             
“And you are the Duchess of Malvern,” Lady Tewksbury cupped Amanda’s cheeks with her gloved hands. “
Bellissima
!—you must have tea at Tewksbury Manor immediately. Come, Dulcie, meet the Duchess.”

             
Lady Tewksbury drifted back to the ladies of the GFS after this abrupt order. Lady Dulcie’s handshake was brief and mannish, though her unusual eyes—a mix of brown and gray—remained fixed on Amanda’s face for so long, she self-consciously touched her nose.

             
“Forgive my mother,” Lady Dulcie’s voice was brisk. “She has wanted to know you for years.”

             
“I don’t understand why she didn’t just call on me at Bledington,” Amanda frowned in confusion.

             
“You mean you don’t know?” Lady Dulcie looked surprised.

             
“No, I don’t, obviously,”

             
Lady Dulcie grimaced, darting a brief look in Beryl, who stood near, a worshipful expression on her face as she stared at the marchioness’s daughter. “It isn’t my place to say…”

             
“You can’t bring something up and expect me to relinquish my curiosity at will,” Amanda lowered her voice and motioned for Lady Dulcie to shift out of Beryl’s earshot.

             
“I’m sure you shall find out soon enough. I say, what do you think of women’s suffrage?”

             
She was taken aback not only by the dropped topic of whatever it was that prevented Lady Tewksbury from calling at Bledington, but the abrupt change in subject, and could only stammer, “I haven’t had much time to form an opinion of it at all.”

             
“A pity,” Lady Dulcie squinted. “We could use a few titled ladies in support of our cause.”

             
“I’m afraid my days of wreaking havoc on the greater society are over,” She replied sardonically. “I am quite surprised your mother allows you to associate with that crowd.”

             
“You’re much too young to toe the party—and family—line, Duchess,” Lady Dulcie lifted both brows in query. “Or have they swallowed you whole?”

             
“I
beg
your pardon?”

             
“Oh come now, Duchess—and an American too! With your position and your wealth, you could do much good.”

             
“Why do you think I am here?” She said crisply.

             
“Those Anglican relics?” Lady Dulcie scoffed. “They congratulate themselves after each meeting of this godawful society, pleased with their minuscule contribution to their even more miniscule corner of England, while millions of women and girls starve, sell their bodies, and are denied the slightest bit of control over their lives that comes with the ability to vote.”

             
“What do you do to contribute to your miniscule corner of England?” Amanda narrowed her eyes defensively. “I don’t see you here assisting the poor women and girls of Bledington.”

             
To her surprise, Lady Dulcie’s belligerent expression softened into a broad smile. “Here is my card, Duchess,”

             
Amanda glanced down at the white pasteboard Lady Dulcie had rummaged from her coat pocket. “Taplow House Settlement, Bethnal Green, London” it said.

             
“My settlement house for the poor of the East End,” Lady Dulcie looked proud. “You could do better to visit us in London than waste time with the GFS.”

             
“You merely want my patronage,” Amanda thrust the card at Lady Dulcie.

             
“Well, yes of course—I have little shame in soliciting funds from the wealthy—but I believe it would do you good to get away from Bledington. I know how suffocating it—and the family—can be.” Lady Dulcie’s eyes were intense, but kind, as she lifted a brow in meaning.

             
Amanda shrank away from Lady Dulcie’s painful perceptiveness, not wanting a stranger to rip the bandage from her wounds, and was grateful when Ursula rose to announce her imminent departure. There was a flurry of handshakes and good-byes, and within moments, Amanda, her mother-in-law, and Beryl, were in the brougham on their way back to Bledington Park. She listened attentively as Beryl prattled on about Lady Dulcie, her excitement over seeing her obvious object of worship interrupted only by the distant sound of a hunter’s bugle.

             
“Why aren’t we hunting this season, Mama?”

             
“I don’t like the pack,” Ursula said shortly. “Things have changed considerably since Sir Hugo died, and not for the better.”

             
“There are other local packs, Ursula,” Amanda said dryly.

             
“No,” Her mother-in-law said emphatically. “We shall wait until another Master is elected.”

             
“But Lord Tewksbury—”

             
“No more, Beryl,” Ursula gave her youngest child a quelling gaze. “And no more of that wild Dulcie Landower. What her mother must be thinking to allow her to mix with radicals by permitting her to attend Somerville.”