Chapter 12
“Your Grace, may I present Madame Beaumont, our cook?” Mrs. Wells said, with the particular formality of a woman who took introductions seriously regardless of whether they occurred in a drawing room or a kitchen.
The woman who stepped forward was stout, rosy-cheeked, and smiling with such genuine warmth that Frances felt something in her chest loosen for the first time since breakfast.
“Ah, Your Grace!” Madame Beaumont dropped into a curtsy so deep it seemed structurally ambitious for a woman of her build, and yet she executed it with surprising grace.
“What an honor, what a pleasure! I have been waiting all zee morning to meet you. All zee morning! I say to my girls, today we meet zee new duchess, and everything must be perfect, you understand, non?”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Madame Beaumont,” Frances said. “I have heard wonderful things about your cooking.”
She had not, in fact, heard anything at all about the cooking, but it seemed the right thing to say, and from the way Madame Beaumont’s face lit up, it was exactly that.
“You are too kind, too kind!” The cook seized Frances by the elbow with a familiarity that would have been unthinkable upstairs and steered her toward the great range where several copper pots were simmering.
“But you must not take my word for it, non. You must taste. Come, come. I am preparing zee sauces for tonight’s dinner—a velouté, a beurre blanc, and something special, something I make only for occasions of great importance. ”
Frances allowed herself to be guided. The kitchen was warm and busy and smelled of butter and herbs, and it was so thoroughly removed from the cool formality of the breakfast room that she could have wept with relief.
Do not think about breakfast. Do not think about him.
Madame Beaumont pressed a small silver spoon into her hand. “Taste. Zee velouté first.”
Frances tasted. It was extraordinary—rich and smooth with a depth of flavor she could not immediately identify that made her want a second spoonful. “That is wonderful.”
“Oui, of course, it is wonderful. I make it.” Madame Beaumont was already reaching for another spoon. “Now zee beurre blanc. Careful, it is hot.”
Frances tasted the beurre blanc, and then the third sauce which turned out to involve shallots, white wine, and something Madame Beaumont would only describe as ‘my secret, Madame Duchess, even zee Duke does not know.’
Each one was better than the last, and by the time she set down the third spoon, Frances was smiling in a way that felt genuine rather than performed, which was not something she had expected to be doing so early in the morning.
“You approve?” Madame Beaumont asked, tapping her wooden spoon against the edge of the range with an air of someone who already knew the answer but wished to hear it confirmed.
“I more than approve. You are an artist, Madame Beaumont.”
The cook beamed and launched into a rapid description of the evening’s full menu, gesturing with her spoon as if the meal were being choreographed rather than cooked.
Frances listened and nodded and let herself be carried along by the woman’s enthusiasm, because it was warm and uncomplicated and required nothing of her except appreciation.
“Ah, but before I forget—” Madame Beaumont turned and crossed to a side table where a tray sat waiting, laid with delicate China and small, carefully arranged portions.
“I have also prepared Her Grace’s breakfast. Zee Dowager Duchess,” she added.
“She takes her meals in her rooms. I prepare everything myself—no one else touches Her Grace’s tray. ”
Frances approached the tray and looked it over. The portions were modest: a soft-boiled egg, thinly sliced bread with butter, a small pot of preserves, and a cup set ready for chocolate. Everything was arranged with obvious care.
“It is beautifully done,” Frances said. “She is fortunate to have you.”
Madame Beaumont pressed a hand to her chest and said something in rapid French that Frances did not catch but understood by feeling.
“The Dowager Duchess generally wakes between ten and eleven,” Mrs. Wells offered, stepping forward. “Her health does not permit an earlier hour. She takes breakfast in her sitting room in her quarters, and on better days, she may come down to the drawing room in the afternoon.”
“I see,” Frances said. She looked at the tray again—the careful portions, the fine china, the small jar of preserves. A great deal of attention for a woman she had not yet met.
When will he introduce me to her?
Alexander had informed her the day before that he would introduce her to his mother in a few days. Frances had agreed because pushing seemed unwise, but standing here, looking at the Dowager Duchess’s breakfast tray, she found herself increasingly curious about the woman behind it.
What sort of mother produced a man so entirely governed by duty that he could propose marriage as though negotiating a lease? What sort of woman lived quietly in the upper rooms of this enormous house while her son ran the whole of it with the efficiency of a military campaign?
What does she think of me if she thinks of me at all?
Frances pushed the thought aside and turned back to Mrs. Wells. “Shall we continue?”
They continued.
The household accounts took the better part of an hour. Mrs. Wells produced the ledgers with the pride of someone whose columns were always in order, and Frances sat across from her at the housekeeper’s desk and reviewed them with what she hoped was the appearance of competence.
The numbers were clear enough—Lavinia had taught her how to read a household book years ago when their own household had required rather more creative arithmetic than any young woman should have been expected to manage.
“These are very thorough, Mrs. Wells,” she said.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I do try.”
They moved on to the linen cupboards which were immaculate and organized with a precision that bordered on the devotional. Every shelf was labeled. Every stack was uniform. Frances ran her hand along a row of folded sheets, counted silently, and thought, Lavinia would approve.
“Is there anything Your Grace would like altered?” Mrs. Wells asked.
“Not at all. You have managed everything admirably.”
The afternoon revealed the gardens. The head gardener was an aging man of uncertain age who talked about his roses the way some men talk about their children—with pride, worry, and occasional gentle frustration.
Frances strolled along the gravel paths with him, asking questions about the planting schedule and the condition of the herbaceous border, and to her surprise, she realized she was truly interested.
But throughout the day—as she attended to the ledgers, linens, lavender beds, and the kitchen garden—she remained conscious of being watched.
Eyes that were not unkind or hostile; they were simply watchful.
The maids who paused in their work as she passed.
The footman who held a door and then glanced at his colleague with a look that said something Frances could not quite read.
The gardener’s boy, who stopped weeding entirely and stared until the head gardener cuffed him gently on the shoulder.
They were assessing her. All of them. Measuring the new duchess against whatever they had expected or hoped for or feared, and Frances felt the weight of it settle across her shoulders like a garment she had not asked to wear.
She kept her back straight. She smiled when it was appropriate, asked questions, remembered names, and said please and thank you, because those were the things she could control, and controlling them was the only strategy available to her.
I am not out of my depth. I am simply in a new depth. There is a difference.
She repeated this to herself as she climbed the stairs at the end of the afternoon, and by the time she reached her chambers, she had almost convinced herself it was true.
Miss Ripley fastened the final button on the back of Frances’s dinner dress then stepped back. Frances looked at herself in the mirror with the sharp eye of a woman unsure whom she was dressing for.
The dress was one of deep green silk that Lavinia had insisted upon before the wedding, on the grounds that a duchess ought to have dresses that spoke for themselves. Frances smoothed the front of it, tucked a strand of hair that had escaped its pin, and went downstairs.
The drawing room was empty.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the arrangement of chairs and the fire that had been built up and the decanters set out on the side table, and she waited.
She was not sure exactly what she was waiting for.
A footstep in the hallway, perhaps. The particular sound of a door opening at the far end of the hall.
Nothing came.
Graves appeared instead, materializing in the doorway.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I am to inform you that His Grace will not be joining you for dinner this evening. He has gone out on business.”
Frances looked at him. “Business?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“At dinner time?”
Graves’s expression remained mostly the same or changed so subtly that someone less attentive might not notice—a gentle softening around the eyes, a slight lowering of the brows, and a face that was attempting to hide sympathy but not quite succeeding.
Frances noticed it and felt sharp resentment right away, surprising her because she did not seek pity from the butler or anyone else in the house.
As the Duchess of Whitestone, she had accepted this arrangement knowingly and confidently, and she refused to appear distressed simply because her husband missed dinner.
Again.
“Thank you, Graves,” she said. “I shall dine alone.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I have the meal served?”
“Please.”
In the dining room, Frances sat at one end of the table and gazed along its polished length toward the empty chair at the opposite end. She mused that the entire Pembroke family’s former dining room could probably fit into the space between them, leaving enough room for a small parlor.
This is ridiculous.
The first course arrived. Then the second.
Then a third that she had not expected, and a fourth after that.
Madame Beaumont had outdone herself with a thoroughness that suggested either great professional pride or a personal campaign to ensure the new duchess did not go hungry—possibly both.
There was a creamy lobster soup that was so good Frances closed her eyes after the first spoonful and let herself simply enjoy something, just for a moment, without attaching any larger meaning to it.
“Graves.”
The butler stepped forward. “Your Grace?”
“Please convey my compliments to Madame Beaumont. The soup is exceptional.”
“I shall do so directly, Your Grace. She will be most gratified.”
He withdrew, and Frances was alone again.
She ate. The soup, then a fish course, then something with pheasant that was undoubtedly excellent but that she could not bring herself to taste properly because the room was too quiet, the table was too long, and the clink of her silverware against the plate was the only sound, and it echoed.
Eleanor would have something to say about this.
The thought arrived gently, without warning, and Frances set down her spoon and let it sit.
Eleanor was somewhere in Scotland now, or should have been if her journey went as planned.
Frances tried to imagine her—in a carriage on a northern road or perhaps already there, standing in a village she had never seen before with a man she loved beside her.
Was she happy? Was she scared? Was she gazing at an unfamiliar sky and wondering if she had made the right decision?
She made her choice because she was in love.
Frances had said that to the Duke, and she had meant it. Eleanor had chosen love. It had been reckless, impulsive, and it had upended everything, but Frances could not bring herself to condemn it because at least Eleanor had chosen it.
At least she had looked at two roads and walked down the one she wanted, rather than the one that had been selected for her by a man with a list.
I hope you are happy, Ellie. I hope he is everything you believed him to be.
She picked up her spoon again and finished the soup.
The pheasant was followed by a pudding, a delicate thing with cream and something that tasted of vanilla, and Frances ate it without tasting it because her thoughts had moved, without her permission, to a different person entirely.
Where could he have gone?
The question pushed forward before she could stop it.
What business requires attention at this hour? What could possibly demand his presence tonight, on their second day of marriage?
She put down her spoon. He never mentioned he was leaving nor sent any word. He just left, and Graves was sent to deliver the news as if she were a tenant being notified of a schedule change.
Frances pushed back her chair and stood, telling herself that she did not care what business kept him. This marriage was one of necessity and nothing more. And the sooner she fully accepted that, the better.