Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“What instructions should I give Mr. Smithers for the arrangement of your private sitting room, Your Grace?” asked Gladys, Rose’s new lady’s maid, a cheerful young redhead of strong build and healthy complexion.
At Westvale Park, Rose had always shared her mother’s maids.
There had been several of these over the years, and Rose had been close to none of them.
Now Duchess of Ravenhill, she found that not only was she unable to answer the simplest questions put to her as mistress of the house, but that she did not really even know how to speak to her maid.
“I am not sure yet,” Rose admitted self-consciously, looking through into the empty room of her suite that was supposed to be transformed into a sitting room.
“I would write to my mother but she is so busy with my father and I have never had a sitting room of my own. At home, I had only a bedroom and a dressing room.”
Gladys was still looking expectantly at her and Rose felt helpless. This was her fourth day at Ravenhill House and she had no more idea yet how to answer questions like this than she had done on her first arrival.
Rose had so far failed to answer questions on which of the duchy’s extensive collection of jewelry she would require to be kept at home and which in the bank vault, what menus should be planned for the winter, or whether she required the services of a dressmaker.
Other people had always arranged jewelry, menus and clothing and Rose did not know where to begin.
She was also beginning to suspect that the staff were becoming frustrated with her ignorance and timidity. How could they not? It frustrated even Rose herself.
Mrs. Jennings’ tour of the house and introduction to its staff on her first day at Ravenhill had flowed over her as comprehensively as the wedding service. There were too many people, too much detail and too many unspecified responsibilities apparently on Rose’s own shoulders.
Tiny but extremely quick-moving and efficient, Rose suspected the housekeeper found her new duchess faintly ridiculous, although she could not say the woman had been anything other than polite.
“Perhaps a desk for writing letters?” Gladys offered and Rose clutched at this.
“Yes, a desk of course. I must have a desk, mustn’t I?” she gabbled.
“Which desk would you like, Your Grace?”
Rose was stumped once more by this further question. Was the maid asking for size, style and color, in order to give instructions to a carpenter? Or would Mr. Smithers the butler be sent to town to buy one matching her specifications? How stupid she felt!
“I do not know,” she admitted, rather shamefacedly, just as Mrs. Jennings bustled past the open door and stopped there.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I trust breakfast was to your satisfaction,” she said, her sharp eyes scanning the scene. “Is everything well, Gladys?”
“I was consulting Her Grace on plans for her private sitting room,” the maid informed the older woman respectfully.
“Very good. Do let Mr. Smithers know as soon as possible,” replied the housekeeper. “It has been so long since Ravenhill House has had a duchess but I am sure we must do our best to make Her Grace comfortable.”
Before the woman could move on down the corridor, Rose stepped forward and held out a hand.
“Mrs. Jennings, I wonder if I might ask your opinion,” she implored, conscious that her behavior was likely odd but desperate enough to ask anyway. “What is the best arrangement for a sitting room? I am afraid I do not know.”
She cast her eyes down, not wanting to see whatever look passed between the two servants in the face of her ignorance. When Rose looked up again, Mrs. Jennings was regarding her directly with an appraising expression. Rose supposed that the housekeeper saw right through her.
“Perhaps we might view the furniture stores in the attics and you can select whatever suits your tastes, Your Grace. If you do not like what we have, we will send out for whatever you require.”
“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful,” Rose rushed to reply. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Jennings. I had no idea…”
“Go and tell Mrs. Greene to check the linen rotation in the East Wing without me, Gladys,” instructed Mrs. Jennings crisply, before Rose had even finished her sentence. “I will accompany Her Grace to the attics to choose furnishings.”
Curtsying, Gladys departed and Rose followed gratefully after the small but fast-walking housekeeper.
“Desk, table, shelves,” Mrs. Jennings counted off on her small, neat fingers, having already made some pencil notes on a small pad she carried in her pocket. “Now we must look at seating. I suggest a high-backed chair for your desk and a chaise-longue for reading in comfort.”
The young footman summoned by the housekeeper to help the ladies began to wrap the furniture already viewed back up in its protective blankets. Rose nodded assent to every one of Mrs. Jennings’ suggestions.
“The chairs will be in the room next door,” the housekeeper told her briskly. “Come along.”
While Mrs. Jennings’ tone was friendly and helpful, Rose felt a moment of disquiet.
Should she really allow her housekeeper to chivvy her like a schoolgirl?
She supposed she was acting like one, and she also knew that it was how many in her own family treated her.
Still, she was now a duchess and surely things ought to be different now.
Swallowing her misgivings, Rose followed the housekeeper into the adjoining room where stacked wooden chairs of various kinds filled the back of the room from floor to rafters.
Around them, more substantial and ornate seating was wrapped in the same blankets as the desks.
Mrs. Jennings began to untie these and peek inside until she saw what she sought.
“Very old, but good quality,” the woman in black murmured as she revealed a chaise-longue covered in moss-green velvet. “I believe this likely belonged to the last Duchess of Ravenhill.”
“When was that?” Rose asked, stroking the rich fabric. “Was it a very long time ago?”
“Very,” Mrs. Jennings affirmed. “The previous duke did not marry and his father was a widower by the time he acceded to the dukedom. I suppose the last Duchess of Ravenhill before you must have been the grandmother of both the previous and present duke, Duchess Juliana. There’s a portrait of her in the gallery, if you’re interested in family history. ”
“I am,” Rose averred, although until this moment, she had not thought about it one bit. “I should like to see her portrait and I like her chaise-longue very much. May I have it for my sitting room?”
The housekeeper smiled, with some mild surprise at Rose’s manner, and then nodded.
“You may have whatever you wish for your sitting room, Your Grace. His Grace chose the rooms for your suite but instructed me that their furnishing was entirely in your hands.”
“They are very nice rooms,” said Rose politely, although in truth, they were presently very anonymous and bare apart from the essentials of bed, wardrobes and washstand. “Why did the duke pick those ones?”
The housekeeper thought about this question carefully before she answered.
“I suppose your suite has a very pleasant garden aspect that His Grace hoped you would appreciate. The rooms are also in a very quiet part of the house so that you will not be disturbed. I am sure he has chosen well.”
“Are the duke’s rooms in the same wing?” Rose asked innocently and saw puzzlement and a hint of compassion cross the other woman’s face.
She supposed it was a bit odd that she did not yet know even where her husband slept. At Westvale Park, the duchess’s suite was right next door to the duke’s suite, with a communicating door between them, but not all houses were the same.
“No, Your Grace. The ducal suite is at the far end of the west wing of the house. You are in the east wing.”
“Oh. I don’t suppose we shall cross paths very much in the evenings then,” Rose observed with a smile. “I suppose we shall see one another at meal times, when the duke pleases.”
The housekeeper blinked, her face briefly still as she considered her next words carefully.
Rose reflected that Dorian was often missing at luncheon and dinner, leaving his new wife to eat alone with mingled relief and disappointment.
Perhaps the housekeeper was embarrassed by this anti-social behavior but did not wish to criticize her employer.
“Now, let us find you a chair that will match your desk, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jennings picked up, turning towards the wooden chairs and seeming keen to change the subject. “Remember that the carpenter can adjust the height and anything can be re-upholstered for comfort…”
The dining table was set only for one that evening and the Duke of Ravenhill did not appear at all after breakfast. For all Rose knew, he might have gone to London or somewhere else.
Tonight, she was definitely disappointed by his absence, having wanted to tell him all about her new sitting room and the portrait of the last Duchess of Ravenhill.
Duchess Juliana’s picture had captivated Rose’s romantic imagination.
Like Rose, the last duchess had been blonde-haired and blue-eyed, but there, the resemblance ended.
At least in her portrait, Duchess Juliana seemed tall, almost Amazonian, with the self-assurance to match.
Her figure was small-waisted but curvaceous, in the fashion of the previous century.
Rose wished that she could ever feel so sure of herself, especially in such a gown as Duchess Juliana wore.
The blue silk and lace dress fitted daringly low on her rounded bosom and her smile spoke of confidence in her physical charms. Rose could only imagine being terrified that the dress would slip and expose her breasts.
Mrs. Jennings had told Rose all that she knew of this striking duchess.