A Duchess in Name Page 11

  All through his sleepless night and his early morning flight to the coast, he battled back the guilt. He owed her nothing. Besides, it wasn’t as if she would stay at Briarwood. No doubt she’d be on the morning train back to London. He’d only been making a point, dragging her out to Briarwood for the night. Whatever she had planned for her married life, he would not play a part. He was going back to his life in Italy, the one place he’d been happy and at peace. She was free to run back to her parents and swan about London enjoying her newly purchased title.

  Andrew leaned back on the cushions and closed his eyes. After the endless day yesterday and the events of last night, he needed rest. But somehow he knew his sleep would no longer be untroubled.

  * * *

  Morning sunlight found Victoria early because she’d failed to close the bed hangings the night before. She was exhausted, body and soul, with scratchy eyes and a swollen throat after her bout of tears in the middle of the night. Unfamiliar aches made themselves known, reminding her of what had come before the tears. The worst part was the knot of dread settling in her stomach. She wasn’t sure how she’d bring herself to look her new husband in the eye in the harsh light of morning.

  A light scratch sounded at her door, one she recognized as Molly’s. Pushing aside her fatigue and aches, she sat up in bed. No matter what had happened the night before, now it was morning and time to get on with things.

  “Good morning, Your Ladyship,” Molly sang as she backed into the room bearing a tray. “I’ve brought your tea. Shall I bring up water to wash? A full bath might be a stretch for the staff at present, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Some hot water will be fine. What time is breakfast?”

  Molly looked puzzled. “But I’ve brought your breakfast.”

  “No, I meant what time is His Lordship having breakfast?” She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the event. “I thought I might join him downstairs.”

  “Oh, but he’s gone, My Lady.”

  “Gone? What do you mean?”

  “He was up at dawn calling for a carriage. He’s gone. He left a letter. It’s there on the tray.”

  A flush of cold raced down her body as Molly’s words sank in.

  “Thank you, Molly. That will be all,” she said. Molly watched her for one moment longer, eyebrows furrowed in concern, before she dipped a curtsy and left the room.

  Climbing out of bed, she yanked her flimsy peignoir tightly around her body. Her nightgown was still in shreds on the floor. On unsteady feet, she crossed to the hearth where Molly had left her tray on the table. Propped against the teapot was a creamy envelope, her name inscribed in angular script. She broke the red wax seal and drew out the single folded sheet. His handwriting was as sharp as he was, all points and hard edges.

  Lady Dunnley,

  I fear I cannot stay away from my work at this critical time, so I have departed for Italy. Make yourself at home at Briarwood Manor. My father’s business manager in London has my direction should you have need of my assistance.

  Regards,

  Lord Dunnley

  It was shocking in its brevity, in its impersonal politeness. This was a note written to an acquaintance, not a wife. She’d been pinning all her hopes, slim as they were, on having time alone to get to know each other, away from her family, away from London.

  Well, she was away, all right. And alone. She’d been abandoned in a crumbling estate in Hampshire. He’d never had any intention of getting to know her or building some sort of relationship with her. He’d gotten what he wanted—her fortune—and now there was nothing more to be said. His desertion the night before was only the beginning of her humiliation. What would people say? The Earl of Dunnley fled his wife and the whole of England the morning after his wedding. The talk would be unbearable.

  Or it would be if she were in London to hear it. And as her only alternative in London was to go back to her parents’ house, or to Waring House with the odious duke and duchess, she had no intention of returning anytime soon. Hang what London society had to say. Let them talk. She’d never hear it.

  Sinking into the ratty armchair before the fire, she crushed her husband’s insulting letter in her hand and threw it away from her, watching it blacken and curl in the fireplace. She was still staring into the smoky fire, watching the letter burn to ash, when Molly rapped at the door again.

  “I’m sorry, My Lady, but I’ve brought the water up. I thought I’d bring it myself and help you get dressed, seeing as you have visitors waiting.”

  “Visitors?” Victoria sat up quickly. “Who’s come to visit?”

  “I don’t know, My Lady. The housekeeper, that lovely Mrs. Palmer, only said they were waiting to speak with you.”

  “They’re here to see me?”

  “Well.” Molly kept her eyes averted as she set the water on the stand and moved to the wardrobe to select a dress. “They asked to see His Lordship, but since he’s had to leave—”

  “I see.”

  “Should I tell her to send them away and come back when he returns?”

  Victoria blinked. He’d given her no indication of how long he planned to stay away. Was she to expect days, weeks or months? Here she was, alone in a rotting heap of stones in Hampshire, and now people were here to see him and he wasn’t even here to receive them. With a disgusted huff, she shoved herself to her feet and began shrugging out of her peignoir.

  “No, of course not. I’ll see them.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Molly said evenly. “Now, why don’t you wash up and I’ll set out your dress? What about the lovely new blue one for today?”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, she descended the main staircase of Briarwood Manor to find it looked even worse than she’d imagined. Heavy velvet curtains, thick with dust, were closed over the windows, leaving it perpetually twilight inside. The little light managing to penetrate the gloom only highlighted the dust and cobwebs nearly choking the rooms.

  Mrs. Palmer met her at the foot of the stairs.

  “Good morning, Your Ladyship. I hope you slept well.”

  “Passably.”

  Mrs. Palmer noticed her taking in the disrepair all around them. “I apologize for the dreadful state of the house. There are only three of us here now. Myself, Polly, who cooks and helps with the washing and cleaning, and a boy from the village who comes during the day. We keep to the kitchens, mostly. The rest of the house has been all but shut up for many years now.”

  “There’s no need to explain, Mrs. Palmer. I’m aware of the state of things.” Words failed her for a moment. She supposed she should give some orders, begin making changes, but there was so much to do and she had no idea where to start. “I, ah... Perhaps we could hire on some additional staff to help out?”

  There. Staff. That would surely help, wouldn’t it? She had no idea what she’d tell them to do when they materialized, but extra people were sure to be useful in some way.

  Mrs. Palmer smiled. “Oh, we’d be so grateful for some additional staff, Your Ladyship. There haven’t been sufficient funds in the household allowance since—”

  Victoria held up a hand to cut her off. “That’s no longer an issue. You have my authority to hire on as many new staff as you need to make the house fit for residents. Then we’ll decide what to do next. Now, Molly said there are guests here to see me?”

  “Not guests, exactly, My Lady. Tenants.”

  “Excuse me? Whose tenants?”

  “Yours, My Lady. Or rather, the estate’s. Some of the tenant farmers have come to speak to His Lordship.”

  “Oh. What do they want?”

  “They didn’t say, precisely, but I know there are a great many concerns about the state of the lands. No doubt they wish to bring them to His Lordship’s attention. Shall I tell them to come back when he’s
returned?”

  She sighed. “No, I’ll see them, Mrs. Palmer.”

  “I’ve put them in the blue parlor. It’s where the duke has traditionally received tradesmen. The gold parlor, up front, is much larger and kept for the family’s use. When the family is in residence, that is.”

  She very much doubted any member of the Waring clan had stepped foot in the gold parlor in under twenty years. “I’d be grateful if you could show me to the blue parlor. I’m afraid I didn’t make note of all the rooms when I arrived last night.”

  Mrs. Palmer gave her a sad smile. Brilliant. The staff pitied her. She must truly be in dreadful straits.

  She followed Mrs. Palmer back through the house to the blue parlor, near the entrance to the servants’ stairs. When she stepped inside, she was confronted with no less than seven men waiting on her, all somewhat grubby and beat down. As soon as she entered, they shot to their feet and executed rusty bows.

  “Good day, gentlemen. I understand you’ve come to see my husband, the Earl of Dunnley. He’s not at home, but I’m delighted to meet you all.”

  “Your Ladyship,” the one closest to the door said, crushing his cap to his chest. He was a massive man in his early middle years, with a solid jaw nearly preceding him into the room. A shock of thinning sandy red hair splayed across his forehead. “I’m Mr. Martin Forbush. The Forbushes have farmed Briarwood for three generations. Congratulations on your marriage to His Lordship.”

  This wasn’t so bad. Some tenants had come to wish the lord of the manor well on the occasion of his marriage. This was something she could handle with ease. “Thank you, Mr. Forbush. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Another man, tall and thin as a whippet, spoke up next. “Mr. Busby, Your Ladyship. We did hope to have a word of business with His Lordship.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Busby, His Lordship was, ah, called back to Italy on a matter of some urgency. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Well, you see, My Lady...” He exchanged a nervous glance with Mr. Forbush. Tense silence filled the room. One man cleared his throat.

  “It’s like this...” Mr. Forbush began.

  And then they all began to speak at once.

  “Orley Dell is underwater for the better part of the year—”

  “—and the lower field is too boggy for naught but alfalfa—”

  “—need more rams to breed up a proper flock and—”

  “—can’t harvest fast enough with them old plows—”

  “—have to take the milk all the way to Basingstoke on account o’ there bein’ no proper dairy on th’ estate—”

  “—thieves took off with two o’ the finest sows you ever saw—”

  “—after payin’ the rent, there inn’t enough to hire on hands for the hay harvest—”

  The words spun in her head like another language. She could vaguely grasp they’d each come with some sort of farming concern. Most of them had more than one. But she could no more understand what they wanted or needed than if they’d been speaking Dutch. She took a step back and then another. When they kept advancing on her, talking all over each other in an effort to get their own cause heard first, she panicked.

  “I don’t know!” she cried. “The earl—that is, my husband—he’s supposed to deal with this sort of thing.”

  “When do you expect he might return, Your Ladyship?” Mr. Forbush pressed.

  There it was again—that hated question she had no answer to. When would he come back?

  She twisted her hands together, feeling near her breaking point after swearing to herself last night she wouldn’t shed another tear.

  “I’m not... That is... He didn’t... I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “His work is such—”

  “Ah, it’s just as I thought,” Mr. Forbush grumbled, throwing up his hands in disgust. “I told you lot not to expect help. The family hasn’t been on hand to run things in our generation. Can’t expect it to change now.”

  The rest of the men grumbled in weary acquiescence. Victoria only wished to get away from them and her own growing sense of failure.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me. I’m sure Mrs. Palmer will see you out.”

  They sketched cursory bows to her as she backed out of the room. Turning on her heel, she fled toward the front of the house, ducking into the first room she came to. In the gloomy light, it appeared to be the gold parlor Mrs. Palmer had mentioned, although it was hard to tell as it was dark and all the furnishings were shrouded in white cloths. She leaned against a white-shrouded piano, pressing a hand to her forehead as she tried to think of what to do. Something small scurried out from underneath. She shrieked and fell back, then felt the distinct sensation of tiny feet across the top of her foot as the thing, whatever it was, raced under her skirts and disappeared into the shadows across the room.

  This wasn’t fair! She’d been trained for the drawing room, not the pasture lands. She could pour tea for hours without spilling a drop. She spoke perfect French. She could converse for at least thirty minutes straight on the state of the weather; she could express a reasoned and proper opinion on the latest play, opera or ballet; she knew the popular cut of sleeves in Paris last fall. She did not know about fields and sheep and dairies and rats in the parlor! All those years of training, drilling Debrett’s Peerage and rules of etiquette were for nothing.

  She bit back tears as she fled the horrid gold parlor and its scurrying creatures, racing back up the stairs to her room. Slamming the door behind her, she fell against it, gasping for breath, swiping at her cheeks. Her fingers came away streaked with dust and tears. This place was nothing but dirt and disrepair. It scarcely seemed salvageable. Certainly not by her, raised to be merely lovely and well-mannered. Never had she felt more useless in her life.

  Her new husband was halfway back to Italy by now. In a flash, she hated him. How dare he leave her to face this alone? He didn’t have to love her or even like her, but she’d done nothing to deserve this abandonment. In that moment, if she’d had anywhere on earth to go, she’d have fled Briarwood Manor and perhaps her marriage, too.

  But there wasn’t anywhere to go. She’d made her gamble, marrying him in the hopes of gaining her freedom. She was free, but left alone in this wretched, ruined house. So far, the bargain they’d made was sharply tipped in his favor.

  As the reality set in—she was now set on this path for the rest of her life—the hated tears began again, and this time she didn’t even try to stop them. She fell across the bed, buried her face in her musty pillow and wept as if she’d never stop.

  * * *

  Cowardice was unlike her, but for one day, Victoria pled exhaustion, took to her bed and hid from the world. Well, it was hardly the world. The house held but four servants. And assorted small, furry interlopers.

  It was time to rise. She’d allowed herself the one day of self-pity, but a new day had dawned and she had to begin again, even though she still had no idea where to start.

  Molly’s knock came at the door.

  “I brought you a bit of breakfast, My Lady, in case you felt more like eating.”

  The night before she had foregone dinner, but this morning she was ready to eat the bed hangings, dust and all. She sat up and Molly placed the tray across her lap. There was a basket lined with a linen napkin, and whatever was inside was warm and smelled wonderful.

  “Are these muffins, Molly? Warm muffins?”

  “Not bad, either. Polly made them. Mrs. Palmer managed to get two girls up from Basingstoke yesterday, so they could manage a nice hot bath for you this morning if you felt so inclined.”

  Victoria sighed in relief. Things were already improving. “A bath would be heavenly.”

  Molly left her to go make arrangements for the bath while Victoria reclined against the pillows and tried to marshal h
er thoughts about the monumental task at hand. If some girls had been hired from the village, she’d set them to cleaning a few rooms, so she could at least live in modest comfort. And a large number of things needed to be fixed. That would mean hiring some workmen of some sort. Perhaps there was a handyman nearby they could employ. And she could make some lists. A good, lengthy list of things to be accomplished always made her thinking clearer.

  Feeling slightly energized and refreshed, she set the tray aside and threw back the covers. She’d taken no more than three steps toward the desk when something small, dark and disgustingly furry darted from beneath the bed and raced across her bare foot, disappearing under the musty drapes.

  She screamed, a bloodcurdling wail fit to bring the house down. Then, hauling her robe closed and giving the sash a vicious yank, she spun on her heel and marched to the bedroom door. Flinging it open, she charged out into the hallway.

  “Mrs. Palmer!” she bellowed through the empty, echoing house. “We are getting a cat!”

  Chapter Eight

  Andrew stepped onto the terrace of his modest, rented farmhouse in Italy and looked around. The feeling of peace and belonging he had always known here was conspicuously absent. Would he always feel this way now? Torn down the middle, as if there was somewhere else he was meant to be?

  The red painted door opened and Luciana stepped onto the terrace. She looked lovely, dressed in a simple white cotton dress that complimented her golden skin and glossy black hair. The flare of pleasure he usually felt when he returned to her was notably absent, too. Instead, there was a surprising surge of guilt. Where had that come from? And why?

  She didn’t cross to him right away. “Well? Is it done?” Bless her, she’d accepted the news of his engagement with perfect equanimity. She was a realist, and understood that some things simply had to be done. All the same, there was an awkwardness between them now that hadn’t been there before—this phantom bride, who never fully went away.