Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“The Dowager Viscountess of Levene has arrived, Your Grace,” Burrington the butler informed the Duke of Westall as he returned from a long morning walk around Westall Park’s woodlands.
“My grandmother is here?” Ambrose questioned, blinking at this news and then sighing. “Of course, she is. It is Tuesday morning and she told me she would call. It is lucky I came back now and did not stay out until luncheon.”
“Lady Levene would doubtless have had Parker take her out in the buggy to find you, as she did last time, Your Grace,” Burrington reminded his employer with a twinkle in his eye as he took the duke’s coat and hat.
Both of them knew Euphemia, Lady Levene, well enough not to underestimate her energy and determination.
She had outlived three husbands and two of her six children.
Sometimes, Ambrose wondered if this indefatigable relative would outlive them all.
He could quite imagine her getting past a hundred and still riding about the countryside or gadding around London.
“Lady Levene might not even have bothered with the buggy,” the duke noted with a laugh.
“My grandmother might be eight-and-seventy but she still rides a horse around her grounds every morning and has no intention of stopping. The family have begged her to at least be accompanied by a groom, although I suspect she ignores this.”
“Her Ladyship awaits you in the library,” Burrington added solemnly and then turned to close the front door.
Before Ambrose could get anywhere near the library, brisk light footsteps sounded on the stone floor and a silver-haired woman in a grey silk walking suit came marching across the hallway.
Euphemia’s back and shoulders were as erect as those of a trained soldier, as her first husband, General Sir Arthur Naseby had been.
Thirty years younger than Sir Arthur, Euphemia had married her second husband, Ambrose’s grandfather, after being widowed at only three-and-twenty.
When the old Duke of Westall passed away after thirty happy years together, she had then succumbed to the advances of a hearty country neighbor, Nathan Wilson, Viscount Levene, but outlived him too.
With six children between her first two marriages, and four stepchildren besides, Euphemia now had a fine crop of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Ambrose’s daughter Winifred was her favorite, however, and the old lady was a frequent visitor to Westall Park, although she made her home in the Levene Hall Dower House, an hour’s drive away.
“There you are, Ambrose,” his grandmother said sternly but with smiling eyes. “I was beginning to think that I must lead a search party again. Did you not remember that I was coming today?”
“I did, but not until you were already here,” Ambrose admitted, stepping forward to kiss her dutifully on the cheek. “How well you are looking, Grandmother.”
“As are you, Ambrose, although I could wish to see more roses in your cheeks. You are looking thin and pale. You need someone to look after you.”
At this, Ambrose burst out laughing.
“My valet assured me that I looked well enough this morning and Winnie told me last week that I was the most handsome father of her acquaintance.”
“Nonsense. You cannot expect your child or your servant to see the full truth, never mind speak it,” retorted Euphemia, taking hold of her grandson’s arm and walking him back in the direction of the library. “I, however, will never mince my words.”
“I know it,” said Ambrose, amused, and glad already of her stimulating company. “Shall we ring for tea?”
“I have already done so, young man,” she responded and then paused. “Did you remember that I was bringing someone with me today?”
“Vaguely,” answered the duke, hoping that it was another elderly lady and not some pretty but vacuous granddaughter of a friend or neighbor who would make eyes at him for the rest of the morning.
“Vaguely is better than nothing, I suppose. Well, the Dowager Marchioness of Kempleforth awaits us in the library. I have been telling her all about you while we waited. She is most eager to meet you.
Now, the Duke of Westall frowned. Kempleforth – where had he heard that name recently…?
“I see you know of her,” commented Lady Levene. “Good. Well, I did tell you that if you did not see to things yourself, I would be forced to call in a competent matchmaker and now I have.”
A matchmaker? Of course. With an internal groan, Ambrose remembered the conversation of Lady Frances at the Morgan House ball.
She too was being subjected to the same indignities by her family, although he doubted that there were the same legal and financial pressures bearing on her as in his own case.
“Yes, I have heard of Lady Kempleforth,” Ambrose admitted. “I was not, however, expecting to meet her this morning. You might have warned me of your purpose in bringing a visitor with you, Grandmother.”
“What? And give you the opportunity to get lost in your own woodlands or be called urgently to visit your bank or solicitor in London? I was not born yesterday, young man.”
They paused outside the library and looked at one another with mingled amusement, affection and determination on both sides.
“I would rather not do this,” Ambrose said quietly, looking at the door and then at Euphemia’s steely but not unkind face.
“But you must,” his grandmother responded unbendingly.
“For Winifred’s sake. If you do not marry this year, then under the terms of your father’s will, your mother’s entire fortune will be given to charity rather than remaining in your hands and passing to your daughter on her own future marriage or twenty-fifth birthday, whichever comes first.”
Ambrose’s mother had been a mining heiress, her fortune far greater than her husband’s. While losing it would hardly make him a pauper, it would be a considerable financial blow for the duchy, and a major dent in Winnie’s future prospects.
“Why did he do that?” asked Ambrose rhetorically.
It was the thousandth time he had asked this question since the ship carrying both his parents went down at sea four years earlier, making him the Duke of Westall. His wife Charlotte’s death had already made him a widowed father by then.
“Because he could not bear the thought of you being alone for your entire life,” replied his grandmother as she always did, squeezing his arm. “Nor can I, Ambrose, and Winifred needs a mother.”
Reaching out with her other hand before he could say anything more, she turned the handle on the library door and steered them both inside.
The matchmaker was not what Ambrose expected, although he could not say that he knew many ladies who made this activity their vocation as Lady Kempleforth had done.
“Have you always been a matchmaker, Lady Kempleforth?” Ambrose had inquired politely, after the initial introductions, not keen to begin on his own case although he knew his grandmother would not be deterred from her purpose.
“Always a matchmaker by instinct, Your Grace,” said the full-figured and cheerful woman, who wore a pink suit and carried a small Pomeranian lapdog.
“When Lord Kempleforth lived, it was my interest and many of our family and friends owed their happiness to my careful recommendations. Fifteen years ago, after Lord Kempleforth died, God rest him, I turned my mind and energy to it more actively.”
From Lady Kempleforth’s conversation and his grandmother’s comments, Ambrose gradually gathered that due to some mistake in his will, Lord Kempleforth had not left his widow well-provisioned.
Lady Kempleforth had also preferred to pass her dowry to her two daughters rather than live on it, with the result that both ladies were now well married but her own sources of secure income were few.
The gifts and expense payments she received from grateful families, in lieu of formal fees, were therefore very welcome.
Together, the income and connections from matchmaking helped Lady Kempleforth to maintain her place in society and not be reliant on her sons-in-law, both of whom she had selected and recommended, much to her daughters’ satisfaction.
“Well then, enough about me,” Lady Kempleforth said at last, setting down her empty teacup and turning surprisingly shrewd eyes on Ambrose. “I understand from Lady Levene that you must marry, Your Grace.”
“Yes,” Ambrose returned heavily, nodding. “I assume my grandmother has told you of my father’s will.”
“She has told me of that particular clause, yes. She has also told me that you have a nine-year-old daughter who must be your primary consideration in choosing a wife.”
Again, Ambrose nodded. Now that Lady Kempleforth had begun on her work, she was quick and direct in her speech without any prevarication or smoothing of feelings.
The Duke of Westall must marry and everyone in this room knew it.
There was no point in dancing around whether or not he wished to take a second wife. The only question was who it might be.
“Yes, I must marry a woman who will be a good stepmother to Winifred before anything else. She must be caring, intelligent and able to love my child as her own. For myself, I cannot say I care much beyond that.”
“Winifred has a governess, of course, and Miss Winters is an excellent woman, but her gifts are purely intellectual,” commented his grandmother. “The girl needs the care of a mother very badly. She grows shyer and more withdrawn each year.”
“Winifred has me,” Ambrose found himself protesting, feeling as though he was being accused of failing his beloved child in some way.
“Yes, and you are a most excellent father, Ambrose,” admitted Lady Levene.
"You cannot be a mother too. Who will take Winifred shopping for her dresses or out for ice cream with other little girls when I am gone? Who will listen to her upsets when she falls out with neighboring children? Who will soothe her heart when she grows up and falls in love?”