The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (43 page)

“The gray is just too plain and even shabby,” Her Grace said. “And the other dresses are … well, monstrous, if you will forgive plain speaking, dear. Do I detect the hand of Mrs. Cavendish in the selecting of them?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Stephanie said. “She assured me that they were all the crack, though I loathed them even before they were made.” She felt disloyal saying so, but she was appalled to think that the duchess might think they represented her taste.

“I have a few maids who will go into transports of delight over the prospect of owning them,” Her Grace said. “And would you be more comfortable calling me Mother? Perhaps you would more easily forget that I am a person who inspires awe in you.”

Stephanie was not sure a name would make any difference.
It was the regal grace and the unconscious arrogance and the self-assurance of her future mother-in-law that awed her. “Yes, thank you,” she said, “Mother.”

“I will call you Stephanie,” the duchess announced. It was not a question. “It is a pretty name.”

And so only the blue dress would do until tomorrow, when she was to spend all day—the duchess had stressed the fact that it would be
all day
—at a fashionable modiste’s, being outfitted from the skin out for every possible occasion that might present itself for the next six months or so.

“We will not look beyond that,” Her Grace said in a quite matter-of-fact voice. “If all is as it should be, you will need larger, looser clothes for the following six months.”

It took Stephanie a few moments to grasp her meaning. She blushed scarlet when she did so.

Her Grace was to hire a maid for Stephanie—the maid from home was paid handsomely and sent back there. In the meanwhile, the duchess’s own maid was brought to Stephanie’s dressing room to dress her hair. The curls and ringlets that resulted were not as grotesque as the ones produced yesterday had been. They actually made her look elegant and even handsome. The duchess viewed the final effect with her head to one side and a thoughtful look on her face.

“No,” Stephanie said at last. She had vowed last night at the Pulteney, during a long and sleepless night, that she was not going to be awed into incoherence again. But that was more easily said than done, of course. She was trembling now. “It is very fine, Marie. Is it not, Your Gr … Mother? But it is not
me
. I … No, I cannot.”

“Perhaps for a ball,” the duchess said. “Certainly it shows off your finest feature to advantage. But if you would be happier with something a little simpler for the
afternoon, then Marie will oblige you. But not yesterday’s or this morning’s severe knot, Stephanie. Let us compromise on something between the two extremes, shall we?”

They did so, and both seemed pleased with the result. Stephanie’s hair was brushed smoothly but softly back from her face and curled simply behind.

“Yes,” Stephanie said. “Yes, I like it. Thank you so very much, Marie. How clever you are with your hands. I am afraid I have given you a great deal of work, forcing you to change the very skilled style you gave me first.” She smiled at the maid in the looking glass.

“It will do quite nicely,” Her Grace agreed and nodded dismissal to the maid. She waited for Marie to leave the room and close the door behind her before speaking quite kindly. “There is no need to thank servants, Stephanie. A cool compliment now and then is quite sufficient. Certainly one does not need to be apologetic about the amount of work one is causing. Servants are hired and paid to work.”

Stephanie, still seated on the dressing table stool, stared at her future mother-in-law’s image. She flushed. How gauche she must seem. And yet she did not know that she could ever become oblivious to servants as many employers, even the Burnabys, seemed to be. Servants were people.

“I am sorry, Mother,” she said.

Her Grace smiled. “You are to be a duchess, Stephanie,” she said. “You will be expected to look and act the part. Much of it is nonsense, of course, but that is life. You must learn to tread the fine line between pride and conceit. You must expect to be looked up to by everyone except royalty. You will accomplish that by always being gracious but never being overfamiliar. It will be easier for you in future if you can cultivate the correct manner from the start. It will be a week before we can have
enough clothes made for you to enable you to mingle comfortably with your peers. We will use that week to prepare you in other ways too. It will not be as daunting as you perhaps fear. Once you have accepted in your mind and your body and your emotions that you are no one’s inferior—you are to be Alistair’s
bride
, his
duchess
—you will no longer fear having to meet the ton. Most of the
ton
will be your social inferiors.”

“You knew that I was afraid yesterday?” Stephanie asked.

The duchess raised her eyebrows. “I
hope
you were afraid,” she said. “I would hate to think that you can do no better than you did then.”

Stephanie grimaced.

“Even now,” Her Grace said, “you are by no means a nobody. Your father was a gentleman and your mother a lady. And you are a wealthy woman—an independently wealthy woman, which is a rare distinction. There are not many women who are the sole owners of properties like Sindon Park. Alistair is coming to tea, dear. He will be here soon. He was brought up from birth to know that one day he would be a duke and head of his family. He has been both for almost eleven years since the death of my husband. He has all the pride of manner and all the stiff dignity that have been bred into him. He is very like his father. In order to please him, you must become his equal. You will not do that by cowering before him and being afraid even to look him in the eye. It will not be a good marriage, Stephanie, if it is an unequal one. I shall leave you alone for half an hour this afternoon. You must converse with him.”

Her Grace had not mentioned until now that he was coming to tea. Stephanie had thought she would not see him again until she was deemed presentable. He must have been very displeased with her yesterday. His manner had been aloof, even though he had been perfectly
polite, especially toward Cousin Bertha, whom the other ladies had all but cut.

Was it true, what the duchess had said? If she made herself into the person the duchess wanted her to be, would she please him? Would she find it easier to lead the life she must lead as his duchess? Would her marriage have a better chance of success?

But did she want to change herself? She had always been conscious of her imperfections—how could she not be as the daughter of a clergyman?—and she had always striven to become a better person. But on the whole she had been satisfied with the person she was. Was she now to make herself into an imitation of her future mother-in-law? Was she to think and feel and move and behave toward others as if she were superior to everyone but the royal family? Her father had always taught her to think of herself as the equal of everyone, but to behave as if she were the lowliest of servants even to the poorest of the poor. Her father had exaggerated the matter, of course, but even so—arrogance and the assumption of superiority seemed alien to her nature.

Did she want to change that much?

Did she want to please him? But she
must
please him. His kindness and his courtliness had led him to this—to having to marry a woman who was in no way suited to be his wife.

She would give anything, she thought—almost anything on earth—to release herself from this terrible mess. She felt as if she were living through a nightmare.

And yet the idea was laughable. She had been a governess and was now a wealthy, propertied woman. She had been a clergyman’s daughter and was now to be a duchess. She had been a lonely spinster of six-and-twenty and was now to marry a handsome, influential man. And it was all a nightmare?

“Come, Stephanie,” the duchess was saying, “we will
go down to the drawing room and await Alistair’s arrival. Lift your chin, dear? Ah, yes. Already you look more the part. Remember always to keep it raised. You are
someone
. You are going to be the Duchess of Bridgwater in just one month’s time.”

And she was going to see the Duke of Bridgwater in just a few minutes’ time, Stephanie thought. She wondered if he would seem as much a stranger to her as he had seemed yesterday. She shivered and remembered to keep her chin up as she followed her future mother-in-law down the stairs.

HE WAS WEARING THE SAME DRESS AS SHE HAD WORN
the day before. Her face was still pale, and she still had dark smudges beneath her eyes, as if she had not slept well for several nights. Probably she had not, he thought. Neither had he. She was still unsmiling. Only her hair was different. Not a great deal, it was true. It was still combed straight back from her face and over her head and knotted at the back. Except that it was not scraped back quite so severely. It seemed softer and shinier. And the knot was composed of a few small, discreet curls.

She still looked like a governess.

But today she looked almost pretty again.

“Miss Gray.” He bowed over her hand—it was as cold as it had been yesterday—and raised his eyes to hers. Today she looked back at him. Today he remembered those unusual golden flecks in her eyes.

“Your Grace,” she said almost in a whisper.

They were no further forward than they had been yesterday at this time.

“Do show Stephanie to a seat, Alistair,” his mother said. “And be seated yourself. You may stand and look impressively ducal when you are delivering a speech in the House of Lords, but here you are my son—and my guest.”

Ah. So his mother was calling her Stephanie already, was she? It was more than he was doing. He wondered if his mother truly believed that the task she had set herself was a possible one.

They talked at some length about the weather, which was cloudy and chilly and no different from what it had been for the past week or more. They talked about the Pulteney Hotel, since it had been mentioned, and he and his mother told Miss Gray about the visit to which he had alluded yesterday. The Czar of Russia and his sister had stayed at the hotel while in London with other European dignitaries, celebrating Europe’s first victory over Napoleon Bonaparte—before Waterloo. And he spoke of Waterloo until his mother fixed him with a sharp glance, and he remembered that a battle did not make suitable drawing room conversation for the hearing of ladies.

Stephanie Gray spoke today in more than monosyllables, though not significantly more. For half an hour his mother and he carried the weight of the conversation, until his mother got to her feet and he jumped to his. Half an hour and he was being treated as a guest. It was time to take his leave. But that was not his mother’s intention.

“I have some business to take care of abovestairs,” she said, smiling graciously. “Perhaps you will keep Stephanie company, Alistair, until I return. We would not wish her to feel lonely on her first day here, would we? I will be no longer than half an hour.”

Ah, so she had remembered. He was glad of it, though he did not know what they would talk about. But good Lord, they had spent almost three days together not so long ago and there had been very few silences, and none of those had been uncomfortable.

He hurried across the room in order to hold the door open for his mother. She smiled reassuringly as she
passed him. He closed the door and stood facing it for a moment, considering his next move. But when he turned, it was to find Stephanie Gray’s eyes full upon him.

“It is just not going to work, is it?” she said. “I believe it would be better if I went back to Sindon and we forgot all about this disaster of a betrothal. It
is
a disaster, is it not?”

He walked slowly back across the room, resisted the temptation to stand before the fireplace, where he would feel in control, and took a seat close to hers. “It is because you are shy?” he asked. “This has been an ordeal for you?”

Her lips twitched, but she did not quite smile. “I have never been shy,” she said. “No one has ever said it of me before. I just do not know this world, Your Grace. It is quite alien to me. Trying to live in it would be an embarrassment to me and worse than that for you. You have been kind to me. I still consider myself deeply in your debt and always will. I still feel responsible for this situation. But it just will not do. I will tell Her Grace so myself. I will explain to her that none of the blame must fall upon you. You have acted throughout as a true gentleman.”

There was color in her cheeks again and light in her eyes. She looked more like his fuchsia ladybird again, though he must not encourage himself to think of her in those terms. Guilt gnawed at him for a moment. She was
not
responsible. The blame was his.

“You are awed by titles and fashionable dress and manners,” he said. “It is understandable, but they are all superficial, you know. People are people when all is said and done.”

“I think,” she said, half smiling again, “you really believe that. You are wrong. You would not like having me as your duchess, Your Grace. And I would not like being a duchess. It would be foolish, then, to press on with
this betrothal merely because at the time it seemed to you the honorable thing to do to offer for me. And because I was weak enough to consent.”