An Ideal Duchess (48 page)

             
“I can help you and Vi with your correspondence,” Beryl reached for the typewriter Viola carried into the room. “Let me take that.”

             
Viola paused, the covered typewriter and correspondence box in her arms, and she obediently turned to Ursula for approval. Ursula pursed her lips, finding no tangible reason to deny Beryl’s request, and waved a hand for Viola to hand the typewriter over.

             
“Set it gently on the desk, my lady,” Viola said quietly. “It’s heavier than it seems.”

             
Ursula retrieved her spectacles from the chain tucked in her bodice and hooked them over the bridge of her nose as she sat at the desk. Viola angled another spindly-legged chair to face her. She opened the correspondence box her secretary and companion placed beside the typewriter, and began sorting her letters, cards and invitations into separate slots in the box.

             
“Open my invitations if you please, Beryl,” She glanced at her daughter over the spectacles.

             
“Yes, Mama,” Beryl reached between Ursula and Viola for the small collection of invitations from various friends and associates across the county.

             
The three women worked in companionable silence for a quarter of an hour broken only by the clickety-clack of the typewriter keys as Viola typed out thirty-five words a minute in response to those letters Ursula typically gave evasive replies. They were usually requests for donations to charities, or offers to sit on some board or other, and Ursula’s one and only reaction was a politely-couched no. These charities and organizations required time away from Bledington, and most attendees tended to sit there and gawk at her. She shuddered in disgust.

             
“Ooh!” Beryl cried.

             
Ursula lifted a brow at her daughter.

             
“Beatrix Tewksbury…” Beryl’s lips moved silent as she read the letter. Her face brightened. “A ball! Lady Tewksbury has invited me to a ball in a two weeks’ time at Tewksbury Abbey.”

             
Before she could stop herself, Ursula snatched the invitation, ripped it in half and tossed it into the rubbish basket.

             
“Mama!”

             
Even Viola blinked at her in surprise.

             
To cover up her embarrassing reaction, Ursula said hastily, “It is impossible. We are going to London the week before the dance, so we couldn’t possibly make it.”

             
“So soon, Mama?” Beryl wrinkled her brow in bewilderment. “Have you taken a lease on a house for my first season?”

             
“Yes, of course,” Ursula said crossly. “You don’t think I would launch you into society from a hotel?”

             
“It’s frightfully expensive, don’t you think?” Beryl began sorting through the invitations again. “But Amanda has heaps and heaps of money.”

             
“Where did you learn to speak of such vulgar matters? Certainly not from Miss Snowden,” Ursula looked appalled at her daughter.

             
“Oh Mama, don’t be so old-fashioned,” Beryl laughed. “Money is no longer a vulgar topic. The papers talk about all of the money brought in by the Americans all the time, and everyone knows Amanda’s money saved us from rack and ruin.”

             
“I shan’t like to hear you repeat such a preposterous claim ever again,” Ursula said coldly. “I see I must have a word with Miss Snowden over your inability to discern the suitability of such appalling conversation.”

             
“Yes, of course Mama,” Beryl appeared subdued. 

             
“You are dismissed,” Ursula turned back to her correspondence.

             
“Yes, Mama,” Beryl rose and the quick sound of the door closing signaled her departure.

             
Ursula was more rattled than she wanted to admit by the gall of Beatrix’s invitation. It was unconscionable to take her anger with
That Woman
out on her daughter, but she posited that she must take a firmer hand with her daughter; she had neglected her upbringing for far too long out of guilt and embarrassment. Without a firm hand, Beryl was liable to end up a disgrace, or worse, a suffragette like
That Woman’s
dreadful daughter. The sooner Beryl was out and in her own household, the better it would be for both her peace of mind and her bitter memories.

              “I should like to visit that Bristol factory with you next time you go,” Viola lay back on the blanket spread over the grass and peered up at the sky.

             
She had followed him outside when she saw him walking across the grounds that chilly, but sunny Sunday afternoon, and she had the foresight to bring a picnic lunch. She turned her head when Bron remained silent to where he sat against the massive, gnarled tree trunk, his head bent over the notepad on which he scratched out whatever sums and figures went into creating an aeroplane.

             
She took the opportunity to drink him in greedily: the wavy red lock escaping from his neatly brushed hair to fall romantically over his brow, his firm lips and strong jaw, the scattering of golden freckles across his skin, the long, muscular legs encased in snug buckskin jods, his strong, fine boned hands.

             
She felt smug with the knowledge he’d shared with her, that he had resumed flying and even invested in an aeroplane company. His wife did not know, and she expected she never would know, and Viola hugged the secret to her, envisioning it as a step towards the reunion she knew was imminent. He did not completely reciprocate her pursuit, but she knew he was hers once again, and she would wait until he came to terms with this truth.             

             
“Did you hear me, Bron?” She asked cajolingly.

             
“I did,” He raised his eyes from the notepad; they were silvered by the light streaming from the sun. “No.”

             
“I don’t see why not…” She said crossly.

             
“Don’t sulk, Vi, you’re far too clever for it,” He snapped.

             
She sat up when he clambered to his feet and grew alarmed when it appeared he was going to leave.

             
“Y-you aren’t going just yet, are you Bron? You haven’t even eaten one of the sandwiches I packed,” Viola opened the picnic basket and held out a paper-wrapped sandwich to him. “It’s ham and cheddar.”

             
He stood over her, hands clenched loosely at his sides, and the slant of the sun cast him into shadows that seemed uncommonly ominous. She shook off that peculiar sensation and set the sandwich aside to reach for his hand, and smiling, said, “Sit down beside me, Bron.”

             
To her relief, he allowed himself to be tugged down onto the blanket until he knelt before her, close enough that she could move her hand from his hand to his face, where she could pull him in for a kiss. To her further relief, he seemed to share the same thoughts, brushing her cheek with the knuckles of his free hand, and she closed her eyes in anticipation of his lips. Instead, he pressed his forehead against hers with a deep sigh, his breath, accompanied by the crisp, sweet violet scent of his mouth antiseptic, tickling her skin. Viola tilted her face to kiss him instead, but he evaded her attempt, averting his face so that his cheek rested against her head and his hand moved to the nape of her neck, his grip firm enough to restrain her movements.

             
“Don’t Vi, just…just let it be,” He said sharply. “Be happy with this.”

             
“You needn’t deny us on account of her,” Viola fumed. “She’s no better than she ought to be.”

             
He was quiet for so long and so pointedly, she began to fear she had made him angry.

             
“Bron—”

             
“What have you heard?” He pushed her away from him, his eyes a chilly gray and his hands gripping her shoulders.

             
“It was Sylvia,” Viola winced when his fingers dug into her skin. “She’s a beastly gossip, but she and your wife were as thick as thieves at one point in time.”

             
“What did Sylvia say?”

             
“I didn’t go seeking for information…” She omitted her sending off a letter to Sylvia, who had been
persona non grata
at Bledington for six years. “Sylvia was merely prattling on and on—in her way, you know—about what really happened at Rawson Manor. There was also a bit of talk about Amanda and Anthony Challoner…”

             
“For someone who didn’t seek information, you managed to obtain an earful of it,” Bron said tersely.

             
“No one can shut Sylvia up once she starts on,” Viola smiled. “Even you know that.”

             
He stared over her head, eyes distant, and she relaxed as his grip on her shoulders relaxed, fingers that were once as claws now gentle as they slid down to absently caress her arms.

             
“So you see, Bron,” Viola said huskily, encouraged by his reaction. “You don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

             
His gaze snapped to hers, and she felt her pulse start to race again as she awaited his final capitulation. She saw his head tilted slightly, and his lids lowered half-mast as he frowned slightly down at her. She closed her eyes, but they promptly flew open at the sharp, unexpected blast of a whistle nearby.

             
This was followed by a succession of short, staccato blasts that grew closer and louder in intensity. Bron cursed, and she caught herself on her elbows as she fell backwards against the force of his hasty rising to his feet. She pushed herself back up and followed his line of vision just as two small boys in khaki ran out of the deer park, their auburn hair beneath their broad brimmed khaki hats gleaming fire beneath the sun.

             
They skid to a halt when they caught sight of their father, who was uncannily like them, and then saw her; their eyes widened and they exchanged a glance she recognized from her childhood with Bron and his brother:
tread carefully
.

             
“Hullo, Father,” One of them stammered after being nudged ahead by the other. “We’re scouting.”

             
“What did I tell you about playing in the deer park?” Bron’s voice was casual, so casual she would have missed the darker undertone had she not known him so well.

             
“N-n-not to,” The boy whispered, his brow puckered unhappily.

             
“Return to the house immediately, and go directly to the nursery,” Bron continued in that same, casual, silky tone.

             
“Yes, Father,” The boy’s voice was barely audible this time, and he and his brother turned to walk slowly towards Bledington.

             
Viola grimaced, grateful she was not on the receiving end of Bron’s fury. She turned away and rose to collect their belongings—she glanced quickly at Bron’s notepad, before placing it atop the picnic basket. She was bending to fold the blanket when another person ran from the direction of the deer park, her dark, unbound hair and skirts flying.

             
“Roddy, Neil, where are you going?” Beryl cried cheerfully. “The game isn’t—”

             
Bron’s sister paused mid-step when she saw him and frowned in bewilderment. “Oh, hello Bron...”

             
Viola looked up when another figure emerged from the deer park, this one slim and golden, and clad in a khaki jumper suit and shirtwaist.

             
“Boys! Where on earth are you going?” Bron’s wife lowered the whistle from her lips.

             
The look Amanda gave Bron when Beryl pointed in their direction made Viola shiver and take a half step back in trepidation, until she recalled who she was and lifted her chin defiantly as she returned to folding up the picnic blanket. Viola slung the basket over her arm and straightened, looking over at Bron, who to her surprise, had begun to step towards his wife, his mouth a thin white line in his ashen face. Amanda merely lifted the whistle to her lips, her cool blue eyes fixed on Bron’s face, and issued a succession of long, slow blasts that shrilly rent the air.

             
She turned away, tall, blonde, and proud, as though neither Bron nor Viola had interrupted her game; as though—Viola realized with an uncomfortable start—they did not even exist. Her pride in finally capturing Bron from Amanda seemed diminished and flattened rather than triumphant and exuberant, and she was left standing alone in the clearing when Bron finally departed without a backward glance.