Chapter 15
Frances
Two days later, Frances sat in a carriage beside him, but this time they weren’t going to the theatre. They were returning to his country seat.
She had assumed that they would remain in his London townhouse for a while longer, but they had only stayed there for two nights. Two interminable nights, during which they had scarcely exchanged more than pleasantries. Two nights that she had spent in the guest chamber, as was expected.
“Why is it necessary that we return to Somerset now?” she asked.
James took a deep breath. “Representatives from Somerset Trust will be coming to the estate to review our arrangement and satisfy themselves that all is in order. They will want to see the estate with their own eyes, and I must be there so I can ensure they understand everything. Besides, you should familiarize yourself with the estate, in case they ask you any questions.”
“Me?” she replied, her eyebrows raised. “Why would they ask me questions?”
He shrugged. “They most likely will not, but you will be hosting them when they come. You are the Duchess now, after all. You will be expected to serve tea and such. Play the gracious hostess, as it were. And if something comes up, it would be good if you are familiar with the estate. I thought you might want to explore.”
“I do,” she said.
She hadn’t really considered what her new role would mean. She had never thought about the duties of a duchess. She had never even met a duchess until she met Evelyn. She should have asked her more questions.
She resolved that the moment she arrived at their country home—she would write to Marianne and ask her what was expected of a lady married to a titled gentlemen. Hopefully, her cousin would respond quickly before the arrival of the representatives from Somerset Trust.
Her relationship with James had not exactly improved since the wedding.
It was true that he had defended her against her father, which she much appreciated, but he had clearly overheard her say that her life would be miserable now, and that seemed to have affected him.
He had been more distant these last two days, barely speaking to her.
In fact, the few words they had just exchanged were the most they had spoken since their wedding breakfast. The silence hung between them like a heavy shroud.
To her relief, he spent most of the journey to Somerset sleeping, and when he was awake, she attempted to sleep.
On the occasions that they were both awake at the same time, each had their nose buried in a book—she in a novel, and he in estate paperwork, which he read with his traveling desk balanced on his legs.
When they arrived in Somerset, she could not have been more grateful. The air in the carriage had been thick with tension, and she was grateful to step out into the country air.
“Does it remind you of home?” James asked.
“The country roads do, yes. But I cannot say that your home reminds me of my home. It is ten times the size,” she replied, looking up at Ellery Hall.
It was a grand estate, three stories tall, with two marble statues of King David standing outside.
She did not know much about architecture, but the house seemed to be from the Tudor era.
All symmetry and grand proportions, built to impress.
A huge lake stretched to the right, with geese and swans merrily swimming about.
To her horror, the entire staff had assembled outside the house when they approached. She had heard of such displays before, but had hoped that she would be spared. She did not feel like a duchess. She did not feel worthy of such a reception. She felt like an imposter.
“Let me introduce you to the staff,” James said.
He walked past her, stiff as an arrow. She had hoped that being at his country seat would help him relax, perhaps introduce some softness to his rigor, but the opposite seemed to be true. He looked more tense than ever, wound tighter than a watch spring.
“This is Harken, the butler,” he introduced a stout-looking elder gentleman with jolly eyes and thin lips that appeared even smaller due to his heavy mustache. “And this is Mrs. Westwood, the housekeeper. She will show you the house and tell you about the daily running of the household.”
Frances was introduced to an array of other servants—an under butler, housemaids, scullery maids, kitchen maids, footmen, valets, coachmen, grooms, gardeners, and who knew what else.
A veritable army of servants, all looking to her for direction she did not know how to give.
She could scarcely remember any of their names.
Every one of them bowed and curtsied before her as though she were the Queen of England. It was so bizarre.
She was nothing but a girl from the country who had been their equal. Well, almost their equal. Her father was a member of the gentry. Therefore, she was a gentleman’s daughter. Regardless, she had not been brought up as such. She had been brought up as a commoner.
James escorted her inside, and immediately she realized that the house she was going to live in from now on was very much like her new husband—cold, rigid, and orderly. Not a cushion out of place, not a speck of dust to be found. It was a museum, not a home.
Landscapes hung in the entrance hall, each a perfect distance from the next. Every flower vase, every statue, every tapestry appeared to have been hung as if by careful design.
She spotted a parlor to the right and the drawing room to the left, with a corridor leading back but entirely cast in darkness. A wide staircase rose before her, covered by a red rug.
“Lizette can show you to your chamber,” Mrs. Westwood said, and presented a young woman with fiery red hair and a freckled face who smiled at her.
She appeared to be Frances’s age, which was a relief. Frances had been dismayed to hear that Clara, the maid who had attended to her at Aunt Eugenia’s, would not be accompanying her.
But of course she wouldn’t. She was her aunt’s employee, after all.
“It is lovely to meet you, Your Grace,” Lizette said after Frances had addressed her, as was proper.
“And you,” Frances returned.
She turned back and found that James had already walked away in the direction of the darkened hall.
“Shall I see you at dinner?” she called.
He turned and nodded. “I take dinner at eight,” he said, then continued on without another word. As though she were merely another piece of furniture to be installed and forgotten.
After that, Lizette escorted her up to the third floor.
“You’ll be staying in the east wing, Your Grace. In the former Duchess’s chambers. They offer the best views of the estate, if you ask me. A view of the garden on one side and of the lake on the other.”
Frances nodded as they walked down the hall.
Just like downstairs, everything here was handled with perfection. Every picture frame was perfectly hung and dusted, and the vases had not a single flower out of place. Every side table was perfectly positioned in the middle between two doors.
“Where are His Grace’s chambers?” she asked.
Lizette looked back and pointed in the other direction. “In the west wing.”
The west wing. On the opposite side of the house. As far away from me as possible.
Frances might as well be in Scotland for all the good proximity would do. Quite bad design, she assumed.
“You said I’d be staying in the east wing, in the former Duchess’s chambers.”
“Yes,” Lizette said cheerfully.
“And have the Duke’s chambers always been in the west wing?”
Lizette looked at her, her smile faltering. “No. The Duke’s chambers were also in the east wing, but they had been converted into guest rooms. His Grace has always lived in the west wing, since he was a lad.”
“I see.”
So perhaps this was not about her, but more about comfort, something James was used to. Still, it felt odd to know that he was on the opposite side of the house when they were meant to occupy adjacent chambers.
At the end of the hall, Lizette stopped and entered a chamber.
For the second time in just a few weeks, Frances could not believe that this was her new living quarters. She had been impressed by the size of her bedchamber at Aunt Eugenia’s house, but this? This was beyond the pale.
The bedchamber alone was twice the size of her room at Aunt Eugenia’s house, and she could have fitted her little room back in Bedfordshire into this space five times over.
“His Grace said that you had a limited wardrobe,” Lizette revealed. “So we have arranged for you to meet with a seamstress in town. It may not be the same quality as what you are used to in London, but she is—”
“I am not used to London seamstresses either. I am from Bedfordshire. We have no grand seamstresses there.”
Lizette smiled. “I heard that you had grown up in the country. How very exciting. I have a cousin from Bedfordshire.”
“You do?” Frances asked, immediately feeling more at ease. “That is wonderful. You must tell me all about your cousin. Perhaps I know him. Or her.”
Lizette smiled, but there was something different in her eyes now. Hesitation.
“Of course, if you wish, Your Grace.”
I am not her equal. I must remember this. I am the Duchess now, whether I like it or not, and she has been trained to think of me as her superior. And the gulf between us can never be bridged.
Frances instantly felt bad for making the young girl uncomfortable. She bit her lip. “Pray, how many tenants live on the estate?”
Lizette looked at her strangely, as though she had expected James to tell her all about that. “I am uncertain. Thirty, perhaps?”
“Thirty tenants?”
It was incomprehensible. Frances could barely believe it. So many. Thirty families depended on this estate. On him. On her now too, she supposed.
“I see,” she said. “And I suppose the steward interacts with them daily?”