An Ideal Duchess (43 page)

             
“Yes, please do,” Her Grace replied. “Boys, we’ve brought your cake, but you must eat it quick to avert suspicion.”

             
Their lordships immediately moved towards the cake, and Maggie quickly unwrapped the butcher paper and twine to serve them their birthday cake. She made sure to slice extra large pieces, and they scrambled away with their booty, heads bent close as they ate and crowed over their gifts.

             
Maggie turned with a plate of cake to hand to Her Grace, but the duchess had since moved to the open window, the curtains now billowing around her, and in the light of the silvery moon, her profile was drawn and fathomless as she looked out across the rolling hills of Bledington.              

              Mr. Fowler was late for breakfast that morning. It was such an unusual occurrence, many belowstairs dared to break the usual edict of complete silence at mealtimes. Maggie, dining as she was with Mrs. Finch, Mr. Pettingell, and Mademoiselle Moreau in the housekeeper’s sitting room, refrained from the temptation to question the butler’s whereabouts that morning, and busied herself with her breakfast of hot buttered crumpets, eggs, and kippers.

             
They all turned in unison towards the sound of someone opening the door to the housekeeper’s sitting room, and in stepped Mr. Fowler, attired in his usual butler’s livery and a grave, respectful expression. Yet, when he sat in his chair at the head of the short, rectangular table and Rosie, the second housemaid, hurried in to serve him his breakfast, he appeared gimlet-eyed and determined.

             
“Good morning, Mrs. Finch, Mr. Pettingell, Mademoiselle Moreau,” Mr. Fowler paused before turning to Maggie. “Miss Wilcox.”

             
Mr. Fowler liked order in his household, and five years later had yet to forgive Her Grace—and in extension, Maggie—for disrupting his well-oiled machine by plucking Maggie from the ranks of the housemaids to become her lady’s maid. In his very traditional mind, the only proper lady’s maid was a French lady’s maid, though he naturally had no liking for foreigners and mistrusted the dowager duchess’s Mademoiselle. Maggie lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed and replied, “Good morning, Mr. Fowler.”

             
“I apologize for my delay, Mrs. Finch, but I was investigating Mrs. Alcock’s claim that a cake has been stolen from her larder,” Mr. Fowler said tersely while stirring milk into his tea.

             
Maggie returned her attention to the crumpet she was buttering, then reached for the pot of orange marmalade on the table, and slathered that over the butter.

             
“And were her claims, true, Mr. Fowler?” Mrs. Finch replied in her soft Buckinghamshire drawl. “Mrs. Alcock
does
guard her larder like a terrier on a bone.”

             
“It appears so, Mrs. Finch,” Mr. Fowler paused, and Maggie darted a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He looked perturbed. “I shall, of course, have to relay this issue to the dowager duchess after we attend our morning prayers in the chapel.”

             
“I shall defer to your lead, of course, Mr. Fowler,” Mrs. Finch said. “Though I dearly hope this does not herald the arrival of a thief in our midst.”

             
“Quite so, Mrs. Finch,”

             
“The last servant hired was
le chauffeur
…” Mademoiselle said suggestively.

             
“You take that back, Mademoiselle Moreau,” Maggie rose from her chair. “My brother is not a thief.”

             
“Return to your seat at once, Miss Wilcox,” The butler said sharply.

             
Maggie dropped immediately back into her seat. “I am sorry Mr. Fowler…but she has no right—”

             
“And you have no right to disturb our breakfast in my sitting room, young lady,” Mrs. Finch interrupted. “Mademoiselle, we shall deal with this issue without your assistance, if you please?”

             
“My apologies, Madame Finch,” The lady’s maid said sourly, flicking a disdainful glance Maggie’s way before returning to her coffee.

             
“I am sorry, Mrs Finch,” Maggie said unhappily.

             
“Now, if we may continue our breakfast in peace…” Mrs. Finch gave them all a warning glance.

             
Maggie crammed the rest of her crumpet into her mouth and washed her plate of eggs and kippers down with a cup of tea. Her fingers trembled nervously throughout the entire meal, and she wrestled with confessing and getting the sack, or getting her mistress into even worse trouble over wanting to give their lordships a secret birthday party.

             
Her stomach churned queasily, but she couldn’t not eat when she had her duties to attend to, and she tried her best to ignore the unease that disrupted her digestion. Perhaps the dowager duchess was on to something with her silent mealtimes. She rose sedately when Mr. Fowler signaled the end of their breakfast, but she hurried down the corridor to the servants’ hall, where she found the rest of the staff rising from their much simpler breakfast and donning coats and hats for their walk to the chapel.

             
“Doris,” She reached for her old friend. “Have you seen my brother?”

             
“Oh, now you’re not too high in the instep to speak to me,” Doris smirked as she buttoned her black wool coat. “Shove off, Miss La-di-dah.”

             
Maggie’s face burned with anger and humiliation as the rest of the staff began to giggle. She turned on her heel and walked out of the servants’ hall to fetch her coat. Perhaps Jacky was still in the garage with the motorcar. She reached for her coat, a stylish, ankle-length blue wool coat with a nipped in waist and lots of hidden pockets—Her Grace had given it to her last autumn when she’d replenished her wardrobe in Paris—and paused.

             
Had she snubbed Doris and her other old pals when she had become a lady’s maid? She shook her head at the thought—she was still the same old Maggie, just in an improved situation. She remembered she had concerns that were more pressing than Doris’s assumptions, and slipped on her coat and the matching Tam-o-shanter her Mum had knitted.

             
Jacky was not in the garage when she ran out of the tradesman’s entrance and around the house, and neither was the motorcar. He had already left with the Family. She could only return to join the staff on their walk to church, where she hoped God would not smite her down for stealing the cake and hesitating to confess her crime.

*          *          *

              “It appears,” Ursula began, waiting until she captured everyone’s full attention. “That someone has committed a grievous sin on the day of the Lord.”

             
Ursula scanned each member of the family and staff gathered in the Saloon, and was surprised to see a brief expression of guilt flash across Malvern’s face. He shuffled his feet and lowered his head to the pocket watch he dug from his waistcoat. She made a mental note to invite him to her boudoir for a nice chat—she and her son had not engaged in an enjoyable tête-a-tête in a while. She turned to Fowler, who bobbed a little on his toes and cleared his throat in approval.

             
“Mr. Fowler has alerted me to the possibility that someone may have stolen from the larder between bedtime and sunrise, which is when the scullery maids rise to tend to the fires in the kitchen.”

             
She scanned everyone’s faces once more, lingering on a few white, frightened faces of some of the younger servants in the household. They were unlikely to be the culprits, too open with their emotions. She turned to the proud, handsome faces of her six matched footmen, all of equal height and breadth of shoulder and attired in spotless livery.

             
They were the envy of the county—and of their fellow servants—and would not risk their position in a great house such as Bledington for a mere cake. She dismissed the outdoor staff, for they rarely entered the house on any occasion and would not know where the larder would be, and then turned to the housemaids, twelve of them there were, ranging from the young sixth housemaids to the much older first housemaids. They stood nervously beneath her scrutiny, and Ursula narrowed her eyes at a particularly plump housemaid with red hair and spectacles.

             
“You, gel,” She crooked a finger at the maid. “Step forward.”

             
“B-b-but I didn’t do it!” The maid burst into tears.

             
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” an older housemaid stepped forward. “I would know if Felicity had left the bedroom—she snores.”

             
“Loudly,” another housemaid giggled.

             
The sound stopped when Mrs. Finch glared down the line of servants.

             
“And what of you?” Ursula frowned at the outspoken housemaid. “Would anyone know if you left the bedroom?”

             
The maid who spoke in defense of the snoring housemaid turned flushed. “I didn’t do it either, Your Grace.”

             
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mother, it was I,” Malvern interrupted her interrogation. “I was feeling rather peckish last night, and the cake was the only item left unwrapped. I didn’t realize it would cause such a fuss. Now stop tormenting these silly housemaids and let them return to their work.”

             
Ursula harrumphed and turned back to Fowler, who looked mildly embarrassed. “It appears we’ve found our culprit, Fowler. What shall we do with him?”

             
“I defer to your better judgment, Your Grace,” Fowler bowed.

             
Ursula nodded and gestured for him to dismiss the servants from the Saloon to resume their duties for the day. She caught a peculiar exchange of glances between her daughter-in-law and the girl’s lady’s maid as they departed, but turned to collar Malvern when he attempted to walk out of the Saloon.

             
“Malvern, a word,” She called after him.

             
He paused on his way to the study and said over his shoulder. “Can it wait, Mother? I am very busy at the moment.”

             
“Too busy for your own mama?” Ursula arched a forbidding brow.

             
He pivoted on one heel and turned to where she stood. She placed a hand on his arm and gestured towards the music room. “Come, my darling, let us have a good gup. We haven’t had one in a while.”

             
“Yes, of course, Mother,” He stared down at her, but she had the strangest feeling he was not paying her the least attention.

             
His preoccupation disturbed her, and when they entered the music room, she pressed him onto the piano bench and stroked his hair. “You have not played this in a number of years.”

             
He stared down at his hands, splayed on his lap, and she frowned at the nicks and scars marring his tanned, freckled skin.

             
“Malvern, my dear,” Ursula sat on the bench beside him. “What ever is the matter?”

             
He turned his eyes to her, eyes so like her own gray Montague eyes, and frowned. “Do you ever think about Alex?”

             
She had a lifetime’s worth of training in schooling her expression against unpleasantness, but this unexpected line of questioning took her aback, and she flinched.

             
“Of course, I do,” Ursula said crisply. “He was my own flesh and blood, taken from me at too young an age.”

             
“Come off that rot, Mother,” He looked away and then lifted the lid over the piano keys. “Be truthful, for once.”

             
“I don’t know what you mean, Malvern,” Ursula rose from the bench to move to a safer position.

             
She chose a high-backed upholstered chair that allowed her to see Malvern clearly, but was positioned at an odd enough angle to prohibit him from obtaining a neat view of her unless he rose from the piano. He shook his head and began playing, a simple piece she recognized as Schubert, one that would normally foster a smile on her face, a delight in her son’s wonderful talent. But at this moment the crescendos and allegros grated against her skin and agitated her nerves, and she could only sit in her chair with a pleased expression and clap encouragingly when he completed the movement.

             
He stopped abruptly and slammed the lid down over the keys. “I often wonder if I hadn’t got the proverbial short end of the stick when I inherited,”

             
“You are a very good duke, Malvern,” Ursula said emphatically. “One can never predict the future, or ask ‘what ifs’. The key to satisfaction and fulfilling one’s duty is to press forward, to never ask questions or second-guess one’s self.”