Rough and Rugged: A Meet Me In Milwaukee Charity Anthology

Chapter Six

The next day when I go to Aberfeld House, I set two maids to cleaning and polishing the staircase. I cross the servants’ corridor into the library. Only two candles burn on the cabinet, either side of a small globe. I open the curtains, as dusty as they are, and search the shelves. I need to know what kind of women are duchesses. I’ve never met a single one.

I finally find DeBrett’s The Peerage of the United Kingdom Ireland, in two volumes, the seventh editions, considerably improved, volume one, England, London 1809. I carry the book to the window to read the small print.

I thumb through “Symbols of Heraldry, Coronets Arms,” until I find the section titled “Peerage of England, Dukes,” containing a list with family histories. As I suspect, many duchesses are daughters of dukes or earls. Could I ever follow them? Simply asking the question provides the answer. I am a country girl, raised in a quiet village, my father a minor baron. The duchesses of Richmond, Gordon, Manchester, and Bedford, were all daughters of dukes. The famous Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, was the daughter of an earl. Even Georgiana’s successor as duchess, Bess she was called, was the daughter of an earl. As was the Duchess of Rutland. To say I feel inadequate is a great understatement.

Later, I name several duchesses who are daughters of dukes to Betsy. “Or daughters of earls, just like your cousins, Caroline and Regina. I could not possibly know what they know, growing up as they did—rich, in noble households.”

“But Meg, you can learn,” Betsy responds. “Philip does not know what it means to be a duke as yet, does he?”

“Chopping down trees while half naked probably isn’t one of the requirements for a ducal coronet.”

We laugh. But my heart is broken. I’ve not only overcome my aversion to Philip. I have actually kissed him, been fondled, and have felt my blood boil. I want him in the most carnal sense. Probably not how a potential duchess would behave, though eventually some of them produce nine or ten children.

I manage to avoid Philip until he leaves Aberfeld House the next morning. I take out my frustrations beating the dirt out of the carpets hanging on lines near the stables. With each whack, I pretend I am striking down the limitations Society imposes. I swing the rug beater with all my strength. Smack. A cloud of dust blows away in the breeze. I swing again and again until I am dizzy. I cannot let myself spend more time with the duke. I will hold him back, spoil his chances to make a success of himself. He needs a wife who already holds social standing. What if he realizes his mistake someday and resents me? I could not bear it. How do I break it off?

Later, I am in the Morning Room, folding freshly laundered linens. My mind is filled with would-be approaches to ending my obsession with Philip, and his with me. Last night while trying to sleep, I uncomfortably alternated between imagining ways I could break it off and disturbing visions of our farewells.

Philip suddenly walks through the doorway, massaging his left shoulder as he enters. “Good day, Meg,” he says, and his smile melts my heart. I make a half-curtsey and worry if my hair is drooping out from my mobcap. What will he think of my faded pinny and the clogs on my feet? I must look as frightful as I feel.

“Your Grace,” I exclaim. “I thought you would be out all day.”

“My shoulder cramped up this morning and my eyes are aching from lack of sleep. That Dowager woman is a threat to my sanity.”

Oh, how well I know that threat. Poor Philip. To avoid offending her, he had to be polite, respectful.

“I cannot silence the dowager or fix your aching shoulder, but I have just the remedy for tired eyes.”

Once I get him to stretch out on his bed and hold his arms still, I go to the kitchen, take a cucumber from the cold larder, and slice it

“What are you doing with those vegetables?” he asks when I return to his bedchamber.

“Close your eyes and keep them closed.” I place a slice on each of his eyelids. “This will cool and moisten your eyes.”

He catches my hand and squeezes it. “Thank you. I think.”

“Sleep if you can and in a quarter hour or so, I will replace the slices with fresh ones.”

“Where did you learn about cucumbers?”

“An old secret to give one bright and sparkling eyes. Just rest while I finish with the linens.” I gently pull my hand from his. What a ridiculous way to begin ending our connection.

When I return later to replace the slices, he is asleep. I stare at him for a few moments. Will I be able to push him away? I take the coward’s route and hurry home to hide in bed. I must break it off with Philip, try to explain why we must stamp out our feelings for each other. Can I tell him exactly why? Maybe, if I can suppress my tears.

I am utterly miserable. I cannot forget his touches, his kisses, how much I love being with him when we are in each other’s arms; but also when we talk about the estate, the walnut trees, and our dreams. But we must be finished with our intimacies. When I go out, I’ll see him everywhere, hear of his work, his ideas, his spirit. The whole community focuses on his every move, his every word. The tiniest rumor spreads everywhere. Every village maiden has fallen in love with him. And mamas all over the realm are inventing reasons to visit Abersham village.

I cannot rest. Not the slightest thought enters my mind without images of Philip. If this is love, I call it more an obsession than a delight. Blinding passion at one moment, sweet remembrance of his soft lips the next. Neither extreme is acceptable. I wish I could talk to my mother, to confess to someone besides Betsy, to be soothed by a considerate and gentle soul, with sympathy for my longing for his touch. I try to shut out the ache that brings such passion, desire, hunger—the emptiness I long to be filled. If only I had told him it was over, but when I tried to explain it, words failed.

Worst of all, I believe he loves me too, with all the power I feel for him. I must stay away from him. What if he turns to me with eyes filled with yearning and others recognize the truth? I imagine Philip receiving Lady Broadmoor and her daughter. Or others on the hunt, beautiful young females with status, tempting dowries, and worthy settlements. He can’t tell anyone he loves me. What young woman would agree to marry a man who loves another? Though since he is a duke, she might ignore his true desires for the sake of status. Ambitious mamas would not allow a duke’s prior romance to prevent a daughter’s ascent to the height of the peerage. My pillow is already damp with tears. I rest my forehead on my arm and sniffle.

How can I get away from here, and put duchesses and dukes out of my mind. The only place is my aunt’s house in Bath. Her children are all married off and she now shares a house near Queen Square with another widow. Once, she invited me to visit, and I suppose she would welcome me now. It seems like the only thing to do. I rise and scribble a note of inquiry, without explaining the real reason I want to come.