An Ideal Duchess (56 page)
Authors: Evangeline Holland
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Sagas, #Romance, #General
“Righto.”
And he was off, striding back outside of her house and down the steps to the foot pavement, alongside which stood a shiny black motorcar filled with other Royal Flying Corps officers on their way to report for war.
She wanted to lift her hand to wave goodbye, but found her limbs frozen in place with fear and regret, and she could only remain at the door to watch him slide gracefully into the automobile and slam the door shut behind him. His face, which he turned away as the motorcar pulled away from the kerb, was a tense white oval in the moonlight, and she had to cling to the door for strength as he moved further and further away.
The salty taste of tears clung to her lips and when she realized she was crying, she could only wonder what was to become of them—all of them.
Even though I run Edwardian Promenade and believe in writing fiction that brings the past to light in accurate a portrait as possible, I am still human and I am first and foremost a novelist, not a historian! That said, I have pulled deeply from the recesses of history to recreate many of the events seen in An Ideal Duchess—case in point, the interruption of a House of Commons session by suffragettes. Anthony Challoner and Jessica Trant are fictional characters, but the events, even down to the MP’s monologue, are taken directly from historical record. I also feel the Pankhursts would approve of my placing Emmeline’s words while standing at the dock in Bow Street court into Jessica’s mouth.
The American Heiress-marries-English-Lord was a popular trope in fiction even during the height of the transatlantic marriage mart, and when I set out to write An Ideal Duchess, I struggled with presenting something new. It’s become a bit of a cliché (to me at least) to follow the blueprint laid down by Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsan in her richly detailed memoirs, The Glitter and The Gold. That is, the conflict between the cold English lord and the warm-hearted American heiress, and the American heiress versus late Victorian and Edwardian society, and whether she will triumph over society and win her English lord’s heart.
This is present in this book, of course, but I wanted to give the cold English lord a voice since he is so often viewed through the eyes of his American bride. I was also intrigued by Consuelo Vanderbilt finding freedom in philanthropy after her separation from the Duke of Marlborough, a freedom—as per Amanda Mackenzie Stuart’s dual biography of Consuelo and her mother—that would have been unknown to Consuelo had she married an American gentleman. That irony drove the trajectory of my own American heiress’s story arc when her duke found himself shackled to the bonds of duty and tradition he attempted to impose upon her.
Another thing I hoped to convey was the nuanced relationship between those upstairs and those downstairs, as well as the mindsets that kept the class system in check. Maggie Wilcox, my housemaid, is content with her position until a well-meaning Amanda urges her to want more—a more the wealthy and privileged American heiress blithely assumes anyone can achieve. Yet, is Amanda one to push against high society when her millions subsidize the upstairs/downstairs lifestyle?
I chose to end An Ideal Duchess on the eve of WWI as a point-of-no-return for Bron and Amanda. The war, as we all know, broke tradition in two and turned long-held values upside-down. And so we leave our Duke and Duchess on the brink of change: will they take it and come together, or will it push them apart for good?
Writing a book is a labor of love, particularly a book that has gone through as many changes and as much tumult as this one.
First and foremost, I would like to give thanks to God for blessing me with the ability to string words together into (I fervently hope!) a story people want to spend time consuming. Next, I would like to thank my former agent, Kevan Lyon, for her insights and nurturing. We ended up parting ways, but without you, Kevan, I wouldn’t be the writer I am today. Last but not least, my family! We’ve all been through a lot, and my decision to write has meant much sacrifice and conflict for all of us. Thank you for your support even when you did not know what I was doing, or at times felt I was wasting my time.
Thanks also to the amazing people I’ve met through blogging and writing. There are so many of you to name I’m afraid I’d offend if I started rattling off a list! Just know that I am eternally humbled to belong to such a gracious, hilarious, and talented community.
A DUCHESS’S HEART
FEBRUARY 2014
London, April 1917
The applause was deafening, and the Duchess of Malvern, despite this occasion marking her fifth viewing of Oscar Asche’s Chu Chin Chow, joined in just as heartily as the cast of the musical bowed before the red velvet curtains cloaked the glittering exotic sets and daring costumes for the night. The lights flickered on, illuminating the elegant interior of His Majesty’s Theatre once more, and everyone slowly rose from their seats, whether they be stall, balcony, circle, or the private box in which she sat with her guests, as though abruptly awoken from an enchanted slumber. Amanda pulled her opera cloak over her shoulders, which were practically bare save for the thin straps of her shimmering gold lamé frock, and rose as well.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” The young officer who had sat beside her, and was now holding his trench coat over his arm, smiled shyly. “I suppose Cochrane and I would have been out of luck obtaining tickets for the show had I not run into you at the canteen.”
The other officer, Cochrane, grinned broadly, his ears sticking out from beneath the brim of his hat.
“Thank Mr. Warfield,” Amanda lifted a brow in gesture towards the man who sat behind her. “I don’t know how he was able to obtain them, what with hundreds of people queuing every day at the box office!”
Douglas Warfield smiled smugly at her approbation, and took her arm to escort her from the box.
“Connections, my darling,” He murmured in her ear as they joined the crush of people leaving the balcony stall.
“Shall we dine at the Carlton?” Amanda half turned to include the two young officers who trailed behind them into the conversation.
“If you don’t mind, Your Grace, my leave is only for two days, and I have to catch the early train for Kent.” Cochrane shrugged apologetically.
“Oh, of course, Captain!” Amanda exclaimed. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you up so late you’d miss your train. What of you, Lieutenant Howson—must you also leave early in the morning?”
“My family lives in London,” Howson grinned.
“Excellent!” Amanda took the lieutenant’s arm, now in possession of two escorts.
Douglas narrowed his eyes at her, but she smiled blandly, wanting to keep a buffer between them tonight.
Some of the magic of Mr. Asche’s spectacle seemed to cling to the crowd as they moved out of the theatre and into the Haymarket. She saw Captain Cochrane off despite his inability to obtain a taxi in the crush of carriages, motorcars, and people, and Amanda watched the young man turn up his collar and walk in the direction of his billet, stricken by a familiar pang of worry and pain of seeing the back of another young, bright-eyed soldier. It was not her habit to pick up lonely young officers while working at the canteen at Victoria Station, but Cochrane—and Howson for that matter—had that hollow-eyed, clenched-jaw look she tried her damndest to eradicate.
If that meant springing them on Douglas, disrupting his tête-a-tête evening with her, then so be it. She might not be involved in nursing or driving ambulances like her sister-in-law Beryl, but she could open her home to soldiers and hard-working VADs for balls and take officers out for the theatre or to supper, or even both. This, incidentally, was what she intended to do tonight, in spite of Douglas’s apparent irritation.
The Carlton Hotel was adjacent to His Majesty’s, and their walk was short and brisk, thankfully, for the streets were rather wet and slushy from the sudden snowfall of earlier in the month. It and the theatre were the only bright spots on the otherwise darkened Haymarket, and the passing vehicles crept slowly through the pitch blackness of the night to unknown destinations. Once inside the elegant enclave of the Carlton’s restaurant, the maître d’hôtel, M. Joseph, escorted the three of them to a small round table near the Palm Court.
Douglas helped remove her cloak as Lieutenant Howson pulled back her seat, and Amanda sat, stricken for the umpteenth time by how exceedingly normal it seemed to dine after the theatre. Only the officers in khaki, who squired ladies clad in glittering evening dress around the Palm Court to the light playing of the palm court orchestra, signified the brutal struggle that raged just across the Channel. Sometimes, in the silence of the early morning, she fancied she could hear the roar of the guns and shells pounding the rolling green valleys of France into the churning mud and barren trees she saw in issues of the Times.
She shivered and the expression of “someone walking over her grave” came unbidden to her mind. It was the morbid turn of her thoughts, she thought as she retrieved the small menu their waiter laid on their table, and forcibly shook off that brief moment of cold, wretched foreboding. Rationing laid a light finger on the dishes available, and the three of them ended up dining on three courses rather than six or seven of the Carlton’s pre-war heyday, though thankfully the wine remained excellent.
Amanda sipped amusedly on her champagne as Lieutenant Howson cleaned his plate, his expressive features telegraphing his deep, deep enjoyment of his food. Douglas merely raised a brow in reaction to her smile and returned to clearing his own bone china dish.
“I don’t fancy returning to tinned food and bully beef after tonight,” Lieutenant Howson gave his empty plate a rueful look and then drank his claret.
“Is it really that dreadful?” Amanda set her glass on the table. “Punch regularly chaffs about soldiers’ rations, but I assumed it was another of their endless and indiscriminate jests.”
“Between you and me,” the lieutenant lowered his voice. “It is that dreadful. But,” and his voice rose to normal levels. “It’s what our government provides, and when I see the sacrifices many of you make here in Blighty, I cannot rightfully complain.”
“I’ll tell you about sacrifices,” Douglas’s fork clattered on his plate as he scowled across the table at the lieutenant. “What of the damned poor job the British are doing to protect my ships from being torpedoed by German U-boats?”
“Douglas—”
Lieutenant Howson stiffened. “We wouldn’t need to protect American ships if America hadn’t slunk away like cowards after the Lusitania’s sinking.”
“We had no truck with this blasted European war,” Douglas waved his hand dismissively. “Besides, we’re in now—and just when you fellows seem to need it.”
“Would you like to dance, Lieutenant?” Amanda interjected, wanting to douse the disagreement before it became too volatile, or even physical.
The lieutenant looked startled by her abruptness, but could not refuse her request since Amanda rose from her chair, which also forced him and Douglas to stand out of habitual politeness. She frowned at Douglas over the lieutenant’s shoulder as she moved to the Palm Court, her hand moving automatically to Howson’s shoulder and left hand, and his right hand curving around her back.
Aggravation and anger radiated from every line in Lieutenant Howson’s body, his brown eyes distant and stormy, and his mouth flattened into a thin white line as the orchestra struck up a gentle hesitation waltz. Amanda’s feet moved instinctively into the steps, and she smiled up at the lieutenant, clearing her throat delicately to bring his attention to her.
“You are a marvelous dancer, Lieutenant. Wherever did you learn?”
The lieutenant’s grip tightened on waist, and she narrowed the gap between their bodies when he frowned down at her. However, to her relief, his frown—and the anger—dissipated, and his mouth curved into a slight grin.
“I’m always a marvelous dancer when there’s a beautiful woman in my arms, Your Grace.”