Chapter 9
“Stop, wait! Don’t go!”
She was running after a carriage just as it set across a bridge. Rain and leaves pelted her face. Her legs felt so tired, like bags of sand had been tied to them. Tears welled up in her eyes, blending with the debris. She couldn’t keep up, she couldn’t—-
“It’s giving way!”
The bridge shuddered. The carriage before her wavered and slid sideways, tipping into the water with a shriek. The bright yellow lantern careened out of sight, plunging her into darkness. She stumbled as the wood crumbled beneath her feet. She fell, deep, deep into the raging, wet turmoil.
The water burned her, tore at her skin with its unutterable coldness. It swirled around her, blinding, whirling—a maelstrom of fear and confusion. Something tightened around her throat. Tighter—tighter! She couldn’t breathe!
Caroline sat straight up in bed, flinging aside the sheets. Oscar growled in protest. She brushed the hair out of her face, disoriented. Her room. She was in her room. She sobbed once, wrapping her arms around her legs. The tears streamed down her face, dripping into her nightgown.
Oscar padded next to her, rubbing her leg with his warm, fluffy body. She picked him up, and he licked at her face, trying to get at her tears. It wasn’t real. None of it was real—not the carriage, not the curse, not the water. She took a deep breath through her nose.
The duke’s face, the dance of his eyes when he had looked at her flitted through her mind. She smiled and relaxed a little as if sinking into a warm bath. Then, the rest of yesterday’s conversation and its future import marched firmly into her thoughts.
For one tumultuous, joyful moment, the novelty, victory, and awe of it still rang through her mind. She pulled a brush through her long, thick hair. What an honor it would be to enter the room as his wife!
Caroline frowned. The faces of the whispering garden watchers flashed through her mind. It had been so horrible, standing transfixed by their appalling stares and slanderous murmurs!
She looked at herself in the mirror, tracing the path of the scar on her cheek.
Most of the duchesses that she had ever heard of didn’t hide away at home, even if they wanted to.
What a demanding social schedule a duchess was expected to keep!
Balls, parties, afternoon teas—she shuddered.
At least she might get a headache, surely, and then have an excuse for staying home where she wanted to be in the first place.
She rubbed her hand over her cotton nightgown. The duchesses she had known were very grand figures, bright ladies dripping with diamonds and dining with kings.
She rubbed a finger over her scarred hand. At least Aunt Olivia had insisted on her education—there she would have nothing to hide.
What if her curse— She clamped down on the thought, locked it in a trunk, and slid it to the back of her mind where it could mumble to its heart’s content. It would escape, no doubt, to haunt her again, but not before she had eaten a bit of toast first.
Caroline wrapped herself in a shawl and headed down to breakfast. She dined by herself that morning.
Aunt Olivia had taken Marengo on a long ride across the estate, and Winifred had busied herself with the odious task of cleaning the greenhouse in the wake of the mischievous monkey’s enthusiastic escape to those quarters.
Caroline, then, found herself quite alone when the duchess came to call.
Martha, the kitchen maid, saw her in. She entered the room where Caroline was reading and bobbed a quick curtsey.
“The Duchess of Blackmore, my lady, here to see you.”
Caroline’s eyebrows rose in surprise. She nearly dropped the book she was reading. The duchess! She stood, pulling at the sleeve of her home dress. She had to change—but no, there wasn’t time. She sat back down. She wasn’t prepared. She—
Martha reentered, gesturing the duchess in behind her. She bobbed a quick curtsey and fled.
Caroline smiled with all that was left of her courage. The duchess returned the curtsey, regal as a queen. She was dressed in a rich taffeta walking dress that reminded Caroline strongly of a late summer rose. A mauve silk bonnet perched on her head like a crown.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Caroline said. “Welcome to Kingston.”
As she approached her daughter-in-law to be, the reason for her son’s choice suddenly became much more apparent. The tilt of her head spoke to elegance without affectation, and the quick, pleasant smile on her lips hinted at a disposition willing to be pleased and to appreciate.
Duchess Esther Blackmore had tried, of course, to dissuade Frederic from this rash course of action—encouraged him to pay the girl to go off somewhere or send her to Ireland with the other things peers loved to forget.
But he had been adamant. This was the woman that he had chosen, and this was the woman that he was to marry.
And her eyes! Bright, bewitching pools of glittering starlight, full of life and animation. If she had not been absolutely sure of her son’s character, Lady Caroline’s beauty alone might have convinced her of the truth of some of the scandalous rumors. Except—
She frowned ever so slightly. A lurid, dark scar stretched from one side of the lady’s face nearly down to her chin, and another ran across her hand. Lady Caroline’s smile became a little less certain. The child could tell she was staring, no doubt. So, she was perceptive, as well.
“Your Grace,” Lady Caroline said, her voice as pleasant as the tinkle of a bell in spring. “I am honored by your visit.”
Esther curtsied. Lady Caroline gestured her to a seat.
“Please excuse my lack of preparation.” She returned to the couch where she had been reading. “I was engrossed in a book and did not hear your arrival. My aunt, Lady Olivia, has gone out on her morning ride, and Winifred—” She paused.
“Winifred?”
“My lady’s maid.” Lady Caroline blushed. Esther nodded. Even before the scandalous event, she had heard—cursorily, of course—about Viscountess Olivia’s young, isolated ward. The poor thing had little more than Lady Olivia and a monkey for civilized company.
“I see. Fortunately, my business today—as I’m sure you’ve guessed—has to do primarily with you.”
Lady Caroline blushed. Her heightened color suited the dramatic contours of her face. Esther tried not to show too much admiration. If not for her scar, however, this lady would have been one of the diamonds among the peerage.
“Lord Blackmore told me that you had accepted his proposal. That is true, I suppose?”
A shadow of anxiety flitted across Lady Caroline’s face. Young and impressionable still. Good. She’d be able to work with that. It could prove useful in preparing her, gently but firmly, for her important role.
“I was—” Lady Caroline folded her hands in her lap. “I was grateful to accept the duke’s offer yesterday.”
Lady Caroline smiled shyly. Her face softened when she did, heightening the contours of her skin. Excellent. Perhaps that could be used to do something about that lurid scar. The Duchess of Blackmore set her reticule next to her on the couch.
“I am here,” Esther continued, “to help you plan the day of your union—the wedding and other such arrangements—and to prepare you for your future role as a duchess.”
“That is very considerate of you, madam. I should be glad for your help and to get to know you a little better.”
Inwardly, Esther congratulated her. She had been led to believe—if not by rumor then definitely by sparse fact—that Lady Caroline was a recluse in more than just the lonely sense of the word.
After all, she rarely went into society and therefore must be awkward in it.
She was pleased to discover the lack of truth in those rumors.
If only the entire situation could be resolved so easily.
The barest hint of a sigh dipped from her lips.
Caroline pulled the bell at her elbow.
“Perhaps, Your Grace, you would care for some tea while we discuss? Or other refreshment?”
“I would, thank you.”
Esther inclined her head. A servant brought tea—toasted rolls with a bit of light-colored jam and small, tasty morsels of plum cake.
Lady Caroline graciously presided over the whole.
Esther smiled into her cup. This mysterious lady was accustomed to playing hostess and not at all embarrassed.
That would serve her well in the days to come.
The repast, in due course, was consumed.
Lady Caroline sipped frugally at her tea and consumed only half of a biscuit, but whether from inclination or nerves, the dowager couldn’t ascertain.
This lady must have some sore spot—some weakness.
It was Esther’s duty to sniff it out, to inure her daughter-in-law to be against less well-meant sallies against her character.
Her son—miraculously, it suddenly seemed—had embroiled himself in a scandal with a lady of at least decent, if not superior, quality. Time would only tell.
“Oh, thank you—it’s a particular favorite of mine. Please, take another bit.”
Caroline gestured to the plate of plum cake. Would she ever, after the stress of this interview, be able to eat plum cake again? She wanted to run back to her room and hide. Perhaps it might have been easier to accept the heap of scandal and retreat into ignominy.
As unaccustomed as she was to visitors—especially polished, noble ones—her nerves felt wrung out like a wet rag.
She managed, however, to serve the tea without spilling the pot everywhere which was a small mercy, and she also answered most of the dowager’s questions with composure which was a much larger one.
“And how did you leave the duke today, Your Grace?” Caroline asked. Oh dear. What that too forward? She hoped the duchess did not think her impertinent, inquiring so boldly after her son after all that had happened. The Duchess of Blackmore did not appear to notice.
“The duke was very well, thank you. He’s anxious for your forthcoming union.”
Caroline’s heart jumped. Was he really? He had kissed her hand when he left. The warmth that rose from her blush could have replaced the living room fire.
The duchess was still speaking. “It will be a suitable situation for both of you, I believe.”
Caroline checked her feelings which had started if not to run wild at least to make alarming gestures toward doing so. It was a marriage of convenience, she told them, a doorway for both of them out of a desperate situation.
The duchess sipped at her tea. “The list to prepare for the wedding is quite extensive. Where shall I begin?”
“Wherever suits, Your Grace. I assume you have specific preparations in mind?”
Caroline folded both of her hands in her lap to steady them.
“First, of course, we must set the date for the union. I assume you already had a time, or at least a preferred location?”
“In all honesty, Your Grace, considering the suddenness of the proposal—”
Oh dear. Caroline cut her sentence short. That surely, had been awkward—if not in the phrasing, then definitely in the timing. Again, the duchess didn’t seem to notice.
“The proposal was sudden for all of us, dear, but now that we are engaged in such a path, we will see it through to the finish in good time. If you have no objections and are so inclined, I would suggest a fortnight hence at the parish church near Highcastle. Would that suit you?”
“I cannot think why not. If, of course, some conflict should arise, I will inform you directly.”
Two weeks! What a whirlwind! But of course, the date must be hurried to counter the swelling tides of scandal.
There was so much to be done! Even she, with her curse weighing heavily on her, had still heard and seen other brides discuss their elaborate plans and preparations for their nuptial day. Caroline sighed.
The duchess inclined her head approvingly. “Perfect. In that case, I shall make the necessary arrangements.”
“The next item—” Esther continued, pulling a prepared paper from her handbag, “is the guest list. I assume you have people who would like to attend?”
Caroline took another sip from her teacup. She imagined walking down the length of the parish church, the duke waiting near the far end. She spilled a drop of tea onto her saucer.
Caroline looked briefly at the floor. Surely the duchess of all people had heard the sad circumstances—both real and imagined—behind her family’s demise. She cleared her throat, trying to steady her voice.
“My cousin, of course, who inherited my estate, my Aunt Olivia, who you know, and Winifred.”
“The lady’s maid?”
“Yes.” Lady Caroline blushed but otherwise maintained her composure. The duchess nodded.
“Of course, they will be added to the list. Have you no other living family? No friends or acquaintances?”
Lady Caroline paled. Her hands quivered, but she folded them neatly in her lap.
“None of which I am aware, Your Grace. I shall rely on you, if you are so inclined, to prepare the guest list as you see fit.”
Esther frowned. It was difficult to tell timidity from deference, but she felt, occasionally, in Lady Caroline’s responses, a lack of temerity.
If her future daughter-in-law suffered from any fault—aside from her ghastly scars—it seemed to be the former and not the latter, which would suit a duchess poorly.
She would take note and train her accordingly.
The front door slammed. Both ladies jumped like birds on branches.
Lady Olivia Dresher, Viscountess of Vaugh, stomped into the room. Her hair was pulled back beneath a riding cap, a stylish, black, velvet thing with the smallest hint of beige lace. She had apparently just returned from her ride. Esther did not, to her credit, crinkle her nose.
Lady Olivia curtsied. “Your Grace! What a surprise!”
“Indeed!” she answered. “I have come to confer with Lady Caroline about preparations for the wedding.”
“Have you?” Olivia took a seat in the wingback chair between them. “I’m certain she will be more than capable enough to make her own preparations.”
Lady Caroline smiled fondly at her aunt.
“I am very grateful for the duchess’ support, Aunt, as I have been for yours. I will have much to do and even more to learn. How lucky I am to have two such ladies as my benefactresses.”
Lady Olivia settled, somewhat less miffed.
Despite herself, Esther smiled. Not that she would have admitted it out loud in any public quarter, but Lady Caroline—in the opinion she had gained during this interview—would make a fine duchess, given the appropriate time.
It really was too bad about her scars—and those unfortunate stories. Something would have to be done.
“If you are prepared to begin sooner rather than later,” she suggested, “perhaps you and I may go in search of a wedding gown. It may only be two weeks away, but the modiste may yet have time to make something up before then.”
“As I have said, I am honored by your assistance, Your Grace.”
“Please, dear—call me Esther.”