The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (41 page)

They had a week to get Cousin Stephanie ready to go to town and show herself worthy of being a duke’s bride. Everything about her needed transforming. Gracious heavens, what must His Grace have thought of her in that dreadful cloak and bonnet? And in the even more dreadful gray dress? She needed new clothes, she needed to dress her hair differently, she needed to learn how to curtsy and how to converse in polite society. She needed to learn to
impress
people. How were they ever to be ready in time?

The village seamstress was brought to Sindon Park and kept a virtual prisoner in an attic room until she had produced a number of new clothes, which would have to do until Cousin Bertha had a chance to take Cousin Stephanie to a more fashionable modiste in London. A former ladies’ maid, who had a reputation as an artistic dresser of hair, was engaged and set to work to show
what she could do with Cousin Stephanie’s unfortunately red and unfortunately unruly hair.

All the dresses except one—the one Stephanie had insisted upon for day wear—were so bedecked with ribbons and frills and flounces at Cousin Bertha’s insistence that Stephanie swore privately she would never wear any of them. They made her look as if she were masquerading as a sixteen-year-old—a sixteen-year-old without any taste whatsoever. And the curls and ringlets with which her new maid loaded and decorated her head made her look so grotesque that she always brushed them out as soon as she was able and knotted her hair in its usual comfortable style.

“You have no
idea
how to go on, my love,” Cousin Bertha said in despair the day before they left for town. “You will appear a veritable
bumpkin
to His Grace. I would not doubt he will quietly dissolve the betrothal. You look like a
governess
.”

Perhaps he really would dissolve the betrothal, Stephanie thought. Surely he would. He must have had second thoughts—and third and fourth thoughts—by now. He must have realized what a dreadful mistake he had made. As had she.

She could no longer remember what he looked like. She had only disturbing and vague memories of a tall, handsome, rather arrogant figure. The memories terrified her as did the knowledge that he was a duke. Was a duke not next to a prince in rank? Above earls and marquesses and barons? How could she enter that world? Just a couple of weeks ago she had been a governess.

Several times—usually during the nights, when she awoke from disturbing dreams—she was on the verge of writing to him, telling him that she had changed her mind, telling him that she would release him from his promise, so hastily and rashly given. He would be as relieved as she, she told herself.

But always before she could write the letter—though once she actually started it—she remembered how little time she had. Less than four months during which to find a husband. Or else she must go back to being a governess. Sometimes the prospect of that familiar and drab life was less daunting than the one that actually faced her.

And now suddenly—it all seemed to have happened to her without her exercising any control at all over events—here she was. In London. At the Duchess of Bridgwater’s house. Feeling numb and terrified all at the same time.

They were almost late. When she had gazed at her image in the glass at the Pulteney Hotel, and Cousin Bertha and her new maid had stood behind her, exclaiming on what a pretty picture she made, she had been almost paralyzed with horror. She looked grotesque! Despite the protests of her maid and the cries of dismay from Cousin Bertha, she had almost torn off the pink dress in her haste, and she had dragged a brush through her hair until tears stood in her eyes. And so at least she felt comfortable—oh, no, she did not!—in her plain blue dress and with her hair dressed as she had always worn it at the Burnabys’.

The Duchess of Bridgwater, his mother, was an elegant, gracious lady. She looked like a duchess. The ladies with her—his sisters?—all had illustrious-sounding titles. She felt overwhelmed, totally out of her depth. Suddenly, she was almost grateful for the six years of frequent humiliations she had been made to suffer. Those years had taught her always to be calm and dignified, never to crumble in a nasty situation.

She could not even remember the names of the ladies after the duchess had finished presenting her. Yet they were to be her sisters-in-law. The idea was so ludicrous that she almost laughed in her nervousness.

And then
he
was there before her—she had not even noticed him until that moment—taking her hand in his, bowing over it, kissing it. And she remembered in a rush that, yes, of course, this was how he looked. He was tall and elegant. His face was handsome and proud. He was not smiling. His pale gray eyes seemed cold. He had been
kind
to her, she thought desperately. For three days she had talked to him and felt at ease with him. But the thought was crowded out by the knowledge that he was a duke. This grand house belonged to his mother. These ladies—she seemed to remember that one of them was a marchioness, and all of them had titles—were his sisters.

She was his betrothed. No, it was impossible. As she allowed him to lead her toward a love seat, as she seated herself, she felt that the room was without sufficient air. She wanted nothing more than to jump to her feet and race from the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. She wanted to run and run and run. But where? Back to the Pulteney? There was nowhere else to run. London was bewilderingly strange and new to her. At the Pulteney she would have to wait for Cousin Bertha’s return. Reality would have to be faced eventually.

Better to face it now.

Cousin Bertha had launched into loud speech. She was telling her audience about the expenses of their journey, about the high cost of rooms at the Pulteney and the exorbitant cost of meals there. She was telling them that she had brought her own bedsheets with her because one could never trust inns and hotels to have changed the linen after the last guests—not to mention the possibility of damp.

“One can never be too sure,” she said, dropping her voice confidentially, as if whole armies of hotel servants might be standing with their ears pressed to the drawing room door to hear themselves maligned. “And I thought His Grace would thank me for protecting dear Stephanie
from chills and fevers. He would not want to have a bride with the sneezes and a red nose on her wedding night, would he?” She simpered.

Someone had placed a cup and saucer in Stephanie’s hand. She did not know quite how they had got there. The cup was filled with tea. She touched the handle with the fingers of one hand, but she knew that she would not be able to lift the cup successfully to her lips. The duke was commending Cousin Bertha on her careful nature and reminding her that the Czar of Russia had stayed at the Pulteney a few years ago.

“Miss Gray.” One of the younger ladies—not the marchioness—was smiling at her. She had spoken up determinedly before Cousin Bertha could open her mouth again. “I understand from Alistair that you inherited Sindon Park only very recently and saw it for the first time less than two weeks ago. That must have been exciting. Are you pleased with the property?”

“Yes, thank you,” Stephanie said. There was an expectant pause, during which everyone’s eyes were on her, including
his
. There must be more to say. She could not think of a single thing.

“Of course she is pleased with it,” Cousin Bertha said. “Are you not, my love? She is rather shy, you know. But how could she not be pleased? The furnishings and draperies alone are enough to pay a king’s ransom.”

“I understand that the park is somewhat celebrated,” the duchess said. “Do you admire it, Miss Gray? How would you describe it?”

The park. For one moment she could not bring a single image of it to mind, though she had spent hours every day for a week strolling about it, drinking in the wonder and the beauty and the peace of it all.

“It is very pretty,” she said. And then she remembered what she had missed. “Your Grace.”

“The rhododendrons were planted there at great expense,”
Cousin Bertha said. “And the roses must have cost a minor fortune, I declare. There are two large rose arbors, Your Grace. Not one, but two. But then money is not lacking for such extravagant shows at Sindon. Mr. Cavendish always says that the visitors who come by the dozens every year to view the park should be charged for the privilege. But I always declare that those who are wealthy should be willing to share a little of their wealth free of charge. Would you not agree?” She smiled about at the ladies and at the duke.

The Duke of Bridgwater gravely agreed and mentioned the lime avenue at Sindon as a feature of the park he had particularly admired.

“Miss Gray,” one of the younger ladies said—also not the marchioness, “do have a cake. Let me set your cup and saucer on this little table beside you so that your hands will be free.” She smiled warmly.

“Thank you,” Stephanie said, relinquishing the cup and saucer with some relief. And then the plate of cakes was offered. “No, thank you.”

She had used to visit in the parish with her mother—and alone after her mother’s passing. She had even visited frequently at the big house, where Squire Reaves had six daughters as well as a son, some of them older than she, some of them younger. She had never had problems conversing with people of any age or social level. Visiting had always been one of her greatest pleasures. Even during her years as a governess she had occasionally taken the children visiting or received visitors in the nursery. She had always accomplished both with the greatest of ease.

She sat now in the Duchess of Bridgwater’s drawing room as if she had never learned any of the social niceties at her mother’s knee. She could seem to volunteer nothing to the conversation. When questions were asked her in an attempt to draw her into the conversation, she
could seem to make only monosyllabic answers. Her mind was blank and paralyzed with dismay—something that had never happened to her before.

She was horrifyingly aware of the ghastly impression they were making, she and Cousin Bertha. Cousin Bertha was embarrassingly loud and vulgar, but Stephanie could not censure her—at least she was making an attempt to converse. Stephanie, on the other hand, was saying almost nothing. She was painfully aware of her appearance in contrast with that of the other ladies, and of her muteness.

They were all being exceedingly polite. But what must they really think of her? And of the Duke of Bridgwater’s betrothal to her?

She half raised her eyes to look at him, but found at the last moment that she did not have the courage to meet his eyes. Suddenly, she wished fervently that she was back at the Burnabys’.

He had actually kissed her once. His lips had touched hers.

And she was to marry him within a month. They were to live together in the intimacies of marriage.

And then Cousin Bertha was on her feet and signaling Stephanie with significantly raised eyebrows that it was time to take their leave. Stephanie half stumbled to her feet.

The Duke of Bridgwater spoke at the same moment. “Miss Gray,” he said, “perhaps you would do me the honor of driving in the park with me later this afternoon?”

“She would be delighted, Your Grace,” Cousin Bertha said. “Would you not, my love? It is Hyde Park you speak of? It is only fitting that the future Duchess of Bridgwater be seen in London’s most fashionable spot as soon as possible. You must wear your pink muslin, my
love. You will have more frills than any other lady there, I do declare. But then the dress cost a fortune.”

“Not today, Alistair,” the duchess said, stepping forward with a smile and linking her arm through Stephanie’s. “One can see that Miss Gray is still fatigued from her journey. And tomorrow will be a busy one for her. You will be moving here tomorrow, Miss Gray. It will be the best arrangement. It will give us an opportunity to get to know each other at our leisure before your wedding. I am sure Mrs. Cavendish will be delighted to be able to return to her husband far sooner than expected. You will, of course, return for the wedding one month from now, ma’am?”

Stephanie felt too numb to feel fully the dismay she knew she would feel soon. She could not do this. She just could not. Cousin Bertha exclaimed and protested and finally—because she really had no choice in the matter—muttered something about Her Grace being too kind.

“I will walk you downstairs, Miss Gray,” the duchess said, retaining her hold on Stephanie’s arm. “Alistair will escort you, Mrs. Cavendish.”

Stephanie wished desperately to redeem herself before leaving. She had never felt more like an utter dolt in her life. But the duchess spoke again before she could think of anything to say.

“I was the daughter of an earl,” she said quietly. “But I had lived all my life in the country—a very secure but very sheltered existence. I can remember the bewilderment with which I faced my first Season in town and the courtship of Alistair’s father. I thought I would never be able to measure up to the demands of being a duchess. But it is amazing what can be accomplished with a little courage and a little determination.”

“I suspect that more than a little is needed, Your
Grace,” Stephanie said, beginning at last to find her tongue.

The duchess patted her hand. “You are quite right,” she said. “Sometimes with the passage of time we belittle the efforts we once had to make. With a great deal of courage and determination, then.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Stephanie said. When she tried to smile, she found her facial muscles obeying her will for the first time in what seemed to be hours.

The Duke of Bridgwater took her hand in his again as she was leaving and raised it to his lips once more. “Good afternoon, Miss Gray,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

She wondered if it would be possible to write that letter to him after all this evening. Or was it too late? She had the feeling that she was being swept along by events quite beyond her control.

ORD
F
RANCIS
K
NELLER WAS INDEED IN TOWN
. T
HE
Duke of Bridgewater met him at White’s the following morning. He was looking healthy and sun-browned, just like a country squire, the duke noticed, though he had not lost his taste for brightly colored and exquisitely tailored coats. This morning’s was lime green.