Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess (5 page)

Having examined the grounds,
she could understand why the duke was so focussed on better drainage and roads, but her domain would lie mainly indoors and she had yet to get a proper look at the interior.

Mrs Tomkins appeared after Holly had
devoured a hurried and absolutely undignified breakfast and gulped down a cup of chocolate, eager to press on. It was only fortunate that she had taken it in her private withdrawing room, where no servant could witness her ladyship’s rushed meal.

It was a relief to see the housekeeper.
If only Holly could focus on the house, she need not think about its master.

Strathavon
had sequestered himself in his study, attending to matters of the estate, which seemed to involve lots of paperwork and hours of weighty debate with Mr Swinton, and his head gardener. He also seemed to have surrounded himself with a veritable fortress of books on the successful management of an estate.

Holly supposed it was a good thing that
, unlike so many of his peers, he was not content to leave the running of the place to his steward while he gallivanted through London and Bath.

She saw him briefly
in the only functional parlour, where he seemed entirely abstracted as he peered out of the window at the orchard beyond.

Holly was
pleasantly surprised at the ease with which she’d assumed her intended role. Would the duke have been more taken with her, if she had been wild and hare-brained and irresponsible?

The sort of fun heiress who raced her horse about the grounds
, jumped fences and spent her days choosing new silks for her gowns.

“Are you ready to look at the house, madam?” Mrs Tomkins asked her, the slight brittleness in her voice implying that she was still wary of Holly and of wh
at she might do to the old manor.

A part of Holly longed to ask her about the installation of
garish golden bath tubs, just to quiz her, but that seemed an unkind joke to play on the old woman, so she held her tongue, asking instead whether there might be a warm, dry room she could use as a study.

While Mrs
Tomkins made no comment, Holly could sense her surprise at such a request. “A study? Why… Yes. There was a private study allocated to the previous duchess, your ladyship. Though it has been shut up these many years. I expect his lordship would not wish for it to be opened…”

Well, that was just too bad. He had married her so that she might set his estate to rights, and then left her to fend for herself
while he lurked in his study. It was his own fault entirely. Holly hadn’t the least intention of living in a tomb.

“I am certain it makes more sense to open it
up than to furnish another. It would be very silly to leave the room to fall victim to dust and age. No, open it up, Mrs Tomkins, and have it dusted and aired. It is high time, I believe, that Pontridge Abbey saw some air and light. But first, let us look at the rest of it.”

*

Hair neatly hidden in a frilled morning cap, Holly embarked on her quest to turn the old house into a homely and well-maintained abode. It was a very large house, and it had once been very grand.

She produced a square graphite pencil out of a pocket of her dress and a small memoranda book
, on which she proceeded to make lists and scribble notes. Lists always made Holly feel better.

They started in the kitchens and worked their
way up through the levels, ending at last on the roofs. Holly liked roofs, not least because she hadn’t been allowed on the roof at Millforte as a child and had been forced to sneak up there with Timothy, her eldest brother, when their governess wasn’t looking.

Timothy was at Portsmouth,
with His Majesty’s Navy, and Holly was very sorry that he had been unable to attend her wedding, sudden as it had been.

She stood there a moment, taking in the majestic views, and enjoying the cool fresh air ruffling her hair and making her skirts flutter behind her.

“Lady Strathavon?” said the housekeeper, interrupting her reverie with a raised eyebrow. “Is something amiss?”

“Not in the least
. Isn’t the roof simply marvellous, Mrs Tomkins?” Holly couldn’t help smiling as she returned her attention to her notebook and the state of the roof.

T
here was a lot of wear there too, just as the duke had told her, she observed. The housekeeper watched nervously as her ladyship ventured away from the door and peered carefully over the edge of the balustrade.

L
adies generally did not care for heights, Mrs Tomkins thought, unsure what to make of this young woman whom His Grace had brought into the house.

At last, regretfully, Holly had retreated back
indoors, where she meant to review her notes.

“It is a great shame
Pontridge has been let slide as it has,” said Mrs Tomkins as they returned to the parlour. “But there was only so much a skeleton staff could have done.”

“That is why we must appoint more staff,” Holly promptly replied. “I
should value your help in choosing suitable persons.”

Mrs Tomkins seemed pleased at this acknowledgement of her position, and
gave Holly a brief smile.

“Certainly, your ladyship.”

Deciding that she ought to start as she meant to continue, Holly asked for the household accounts to be brought into her withdrawing room, and appointed an interview with Mrs Tomkins and her cook for the following morning, once she had decided how best to proceed.

She felt very satisfied with the morning’s work.
Resting a while in front of the fire, she was glad that she had worn her comfortable old gown, which proved to be eminently sensible attire for marching through the dust. And it was pleasantly warm.

It was a shame that there was no way t
o make the old house less draughty. Holly brushed at her skirt as she noticed the patches of dust she had managed to pick up in her progress through Pontridge Abbey.

Holly wrinkled her nose.
She did feel rather grubby. Besides, she reminded herself bitterly, it was not as though the duke was there to see her in such a state, stalking through the house in a raggedy gown like Hamlet’s ghost.

“Mrs Tomkins, would you be
so good as to have a bath sent up to my chambers?” Holly asked, feeling tiredness set it. Was this how Admiral Nelson felt after a whole morning of campaigning?

Despite Mrs Tomkins’
s clear reservations, Holly seemed to have passed muster, because the housekeeper gave her another tight smile, curtseyed and proceeded about her business, sending up some chocolate for Holly as she set out the books in the withdrawing room.

After a well-deserved bath, t
he new Duchess of Strathavon spent the rest of her evening carefully going over household accounts and was both pleasantly surprised and suitably flummoxed to find that, despite the negligence of the house, the accounts were perfectly in order, the household expenses minimal.

She saw that Strathavon had recently employed fifteen new members of domestic staff to maintain the house and fifteen to see to the grounds, to bolster the skeleton staff that his brother had left to run Pontridge. She need only hire some extra hands for the restoration, and then all would be sure to go smoothly.

At least she could rest assured that
there were more than enough funds to set Pontridge to rights.

The next day, Holly returned to her lists and summoned an army of maids and footmen to help her take on the dust. She had ended up with a very long list of what needed to be cleaned, refurbished and removed.

There were several windows that would have to be replaced
in the upper rooms, the Chinese papers were a disgrace and new ones would need to be acquired for two parlours and some of the neglected bedrooms.

Having split up her troops into
different battalions, Holly set them to work on the first floor. If they happened to look unsettled at her ladyship’s ambitious plans, no one said anything.

Mrs Tomkins, who had come to help Holly oversee matters,
seemed to mellow considerably when she perceived that Holly wished to fix and preserve the house in as graceful a condition as it had ever known.

A
part of Holly felt that if she recovered the Pontridge, she would recover some hope for her marriage also – patch it up, so that it was the happy union she had envisioned. Perchance she could even win the heart of her impassive duke.

Curtains were aired
and dust swept away, so that Holly couldn’t help but sneeze as she stood amidst it all. She had the windows opened and fresh air let in. Followed around by an army of maids, Holly had a number of tall mirrors moved opposite the windows to let more light into the gloomier corridors.

S
he called a break at midday, to allow everyone to return to their usual duties. When it was just Holly and Mrs Tomkins left in what must once have been a portrait gallery, Holly sighed, and sat in a musty old chair, looking around her and feeling pleased.

“We shall have to clean the paintings tomorrow, I think, Mrs
Tomkins,” she said, examining a turbulent seascape rendering. “And plants – I must have potted plants. Do remind me to have a word with Swinton. I expect some handsome pots can be got in town.”

She motioned for the older woman to take a seat. There were times when standing on ceremony was just unfitting.

Holly’s new ally regarded her knowingly a moment as she settled on a stool. “I think His Grace will be pleased, your ladyship. He always loved this house. I recall he was adamant that he should never leave it to go to school. Ah. He did, of course, most unwillingly.”

The new duchess
felt a tenderness bloom inside her, picturing Sylvester as a young boy, sulking as the family carriage took him off to school for yet another term.

She imagined his dark hair would have been scruffy out of sheer outrage, his blue eyes blazing with determination.
She hoped also that Mrs Tomkins was right about his being pleased with the house, especially since some of it would have to be completely redone.

It was a great shame t
o have to replace the decorations in much of the upper floors. They had once been very beautiful, and some trace of that beauty could be gleaned around the edges, but they had been reduced to an appalling state by the years of neglect.

The furniture was largely out
-dated. The upholstery and curtains were faded and worn, but Holly found them charming enough that she made up her mind to have them refurbished rather than replaced. Thankfully, nothing smelled damp or mouldy.

The sofas and chairs, as well as the bed hangings in a few of the statelier bedrooms, sport
ed cheerful floral embroidery of a skill and execution to which Holly knew she could never come close.

She recognised instantly the elegant work of Mrs Wright and
her school of seamstresses. It was easily the equal of that which had been done for Queen Charlotte, and it was plain that the last lady of the house had spared no expense in making it an elegant, comfortable place.

T
he last duchess had truly belonged there. No doubt she had been a woman of the most flawless breeding, and had become duchess for a much better reason than her ability to manage a household.

Hol
ly felt like a fraud – for she was merely the second daughter of a country squire and could claim neither great personal merit nor the love of the present duke.

She forcefully returned her attention to the task at hand.

The seamstress school responsible for the hangings was presently located in Bedfordshire, she recalled, for her mama had once ordered some curtains from there.

With an almost frantic passion, Holly wrote
to the headmistress about having the fabrics replaced. She felt as if, by restoring their faded beauty, she might be able to restore some much-needed warmth to Pontridge.

And there was yet more exploring to be done.

There were so many lovely secrets hidden throughout the house, just waiting to be found and dusted off. Like Strathavon’s heart…

In her exploration of the many forgotten rooms, H
olly came across a collection of mourning jewels in a glass cabinet, commissioned on the death of various loved ones, inscribed with names and dates.
I mourn for them I loved,
a silver pendant read.

Holly
ran a finger over it tentatively, wondering who it was that had warranted such love. She felt mystified and touched by the melancholy inscription.

That room had stood locked and forgotten, and no one had been able to locate the keys, until Ho
lly gave up at last and produced a hair pin from her simple coiffure.

“Lady Strathavon, what
– ” began Mrs Tomkins, bewildered.

“Not to worry, Mrs Tomkins! I learnt this from my brothers’
copy of
The Boy’s Own Guide to Various Amusements
by J.P. Hollinghurst
,
and I am almost certain it should work on this lock too,” Holly said brightly.

The housekeeper
considered a moment. “I shall hold the lamp, shall I, Your Grace?”

“That would be most handy, Mrs Tomkins.”

It took some scratching about in the lock, but old Hollinghurst came through for her once again, and Holly triumphantly pushed open the door, only to find another parlour, and the huge cabinet.

The cabinet would have to be moved to the portrait gallery, she decided. It was more fitting than
to leave it in some distant corner of the manor. All those old memories deserved sunlight too.

In the last duchess’s study, which she had made a point of having a
ired out that morning, Holly found another unexpected treasure. A thickly bound tome that turned out to be a journal kept by the previous Lady Strathavon, Mary Pontridge.

It documented
her own running of the house, her husband’s inheriting the title and the blissful state of her marriage. She seemed a happy, contented woman, pleased with her husband, her sons and the world at large.

Holly dra
nk in the words as though they were a balm for her soul, or a sweet, sweet wine. She wondered if she had any right to keep reading, but she never could resist a mystery, and the lady in question was certainly that.

Holly wished very
much that she too would someday know such joy within the halls of Pontridge Abbey. She was in awe of the woman, and even a little envious of her contentment, yet she also felt a strange kinship for the late Lady Strathavon.

Mary Pontridge had been a witty, warm
writer, whose talent had lain in perfectly capturing the idiosyncrasies of the people around her without the least malice or cruelty. Holly felt almost as if she had found a friend in her loneliness, as she tentatively turned the pages of the journal.

Knowing her own inability to let a mystery well enough alone, Holly
limited herself to only a few pages a day, lest she run out too soon. The more she permitted herself to read, the more Lady Strathavon became like a dear companion.

It was a great pity that they would never have the opportunity to speak in this
world, for Holly was sure she would have liked the lady very much.

She did feel guilty, however, that she had yet to tell Strathavon about her find. Holly had tried to tell herself that it was a journal written by a woman about private, female things, and as such was not suitable for a gentleman’s eyes.

And yet, that didn’t sit right with her. After all, Mary had been his mother, and he deserved to learn more about her, if he wished it. She wondered how she ought to bring it up, and when.

S
ecretly, Holly also hoped to learn a bit more about her new husband – to understand his past and gain from it an understanding of his present character. If she could but find some way into his heart, she might get to know even a little of his love.

On her fifth
day, Holly found an old oak-wood rocking-horse and took some delight in wondering whether it had belonged to her husband. She did tell Strathavon about this find, and even had it brought out at dinner.

“What a dreary old thing, my dear, wherever did you find it?”
her husband asked, the sentiment of the old toy completely lost on him, by all appearances.

“Dreary? Not at all
! Why, it is a rocking-horse. And I found it in one of the attics.”

“I can’t imagi
ne what you would want up there. Were you in search of ancient family ghosts? I regret to tell you we have none.”

Holly smiled at him, ignoring how close he h
ad come to the truth. “No. I was merely looking for things that might be of use in decorating the house once it has been properly cleaned.”

“
Yes, I have noticed a marked improvement. I really must commend your genius – especially in letting go those funerary drapes.”

Holly was surprised. He liked it. Her heart soared. But he had been so unbearably
polite
about it, as though discussing weather with a stranger. Her heart sank again. This could not be healthy – her heart doing these daily acrobatics.

“Thank you – I am pleased that it is to your liking. It is your home,” she said softly.

The duke raised an eyebrow. “Why, yours too, my dear!”

“Yes.”

He made no mention of the lock-picking incident, which made Holly certain that Mrs Tomkins had not told him. She wondered about that.

Holly spent the mornings in her
new study, with the windows open and the smells of rain and garden drifting inside and giving her a sense of energy and freshness. She would write letters to her family at Millforte, in which she found herself detailing the joys of running her own house and the felicity of married life.

Holly
felt very ashamed of herself for this dishonest correspondence, but she could not bring herself to tell her family of the lonely sham in which she found herself. She could just imagine Rose reading the letter aloud to them, as she always did with the letters Timothy wrote from the Academy.

They would be upset and hurt on her behalf
. She could just imagine the mortification of her papa stomping all the way to Pontridge to tell off His Grace of Strathavon for making Holly unhappy, no matter that it was Holly’s own fault.

If
Holly were completely honest, she was more afraid that they would be disappointed in her: that she could not even make a success of such a simple thing as marriage. So she ignored the prickles of guilt and wrote long, happy letters home instead.

She now knew that it
had been naïve to assume that a gentleman of Strathavon’s standing would ever feel for a person of her plain appearance and dull disposition anything more than the courtesy naturally due a wife.

When
her letters were written and sealed, Holly would lean back a little in her chair, and observe the study. It was easily her favourite room in the house, far superior to the lonely bedroom and even the pleasant parlour. It was a very handsome room, now that it had been dusted.

It
made her feel strangely at ease, whether she was reading, or attending to the tiresome duties of being the lady in residence. In this room, Holly took care of household accounts, discussed menus with the cook and the day’s cleaning with the housekeeper.

It was
strange how at home she felt in her little private room – more so than in the echoing galleries that comprised most of the rest of the grand house.

There was a painting on the wall of
a lady in a bergère hat of
the style
that had been vastly popular in the last century. She wondered if this was the same Mary Pontridge whose journal had been such a comfort to Holly: a soothing voice speaking through the years, providing a quiet assurance.

She hadn’t seen a
portrait of Sylvester’s mother in the gallery, and so had no way of drawing a comparison.

Looking closely, Holly decided that there
was an unmistakable resemblance to the present duke around the eyes and mouth – and yet where his expression was unreadable, and unassailable like some medieval fortress, hers was open and friendly.

Holly
had taken an instant liking to the lady, and she made a mental note to ask the housekeeper whether the subject of the portrait had been Strathavon’s mother. It would be good to put a face to her invisible friend.