Chapter Thirty-One
Christiana sat in her private parlor and examined the lady sitting directly opposite her. She was middle-aged, perhaps in her fifties, and was dressed neatly but plainly. Her face was marked by patience and perhaps a little sternness.
Although the quality of the other applicants had not been promising, Christiana felt a tinge of hopefulness here. She had a good feeling about Mrs. Quince.
“Why did you leave your last position?” she asked.
“My mother became sick, and I moved home to care for her.”
“I see. Is she doing better?”
“She died,” Mrs. Quince said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be, Your Grace. She was suffering at the end, and her passing was a good thing, God rest her soul.”
“Your last post was in London?”
“Yes, ma’am, although I also oversaw their country property briefly.
As I understand it, it wasn’t in the family’s hands very long.
” Mrs. Quince’s expression didn’t change, not even a fraction of a flicker, but Christiana knew—she very intimately knew—what misfortunes could look like for servants.
After all, she had dismissed plenty, and most for no blame of their own.
“What can you tell me about your former family?”
“I ran a tight ship there,” Mrs. Quince said, and Christiana nodded. That was good—she had no intention of criticizing her former employers, no matter how difficult or problematic they might have been. “They left me an excellent reference.”
“Thank you.” Christiana accepted it, then reached for the portrait Amelia had finished. She held it out to Mrs. Quince. “Please look at this.”
Mrs. Quince took the painting. So far, Christiana had given it to a total of three applicants, and all had shown some reaction upon seeing his visage.
No matter how much they must have been prepared to work for the Beast of Somerset—she’d expected at least one of them had known his reputation in advance—they had been unable to hide their responses.
Mrs. Quince, however, surveyed it for a few moments without a visible shift in composure.
“My brother suffered burns from a fire,” she said after a moment, surprising Christiana.
“His were on his hands and arms, not his face, but the effects are similar to those that I see here. I nursed him for a while.”
Christiana hid her relief. “Family must mean a great deal to you.”
“My brother and I were always close.” After weighing her words for a moment, she added, “We lost him two years ago in a farming accident. His burns made it harder for him to work, but he insisted.”
“A tragedy. I’m sorry.”
Instead of decrying the sentiment, Mrs. Quince inclined her head. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Would you be content working in this house with me as your mistress and the Duke of Somerset as your master?”
“I would, Your Grace, and I’d be grateful for the work. I prefer living in the countryside over London, although of course I have experience with both. And it’s good to stay busy.”
That it was.
Christiana had known she would hire Mrs. Quince the moment the woman had seen the painting; hearing of her brother’s sad passing had only cinched the matter. “In which case, I should be delighted to offer this position to you.”
For a long moment, Mrs. Quince sat still, her hands still folded neatly in her lap. Then she gave a worn smile, the relief on her face stark. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will work hard and do my best.”
“I am perfectly sure you will.” Christiana rose. “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then tomorrow it is. Elkins will show you around today, so you have an eye for the house.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Christiana tucked the painting behind her chair and rang for Elkins.
The painting would have to go, but not yet.
She wanted to keep it a little longer. Foolish, when the man was elsewhere in the house, but she had a strange attachment to this depiction of him.
All his flaws on full display—and Christiana adored every single one.
Yes, she would burn it soon. Just… not quite yet.
Hugh cast aside his cravat and accepted the next one his valet handed him. It had been such a long time since he had dressed for dinner outside the manor that he felt as though he had forgotten how to behave.
Admittedly, it was a small gathering; Mrs. Barnaby had arranged a small dinner with Christiana to welcome them into the neighborhood. “Something that ought to have happened well before now, dear,” she had said. “But never mind that now.”
Hugh’s fingers shook on his cravat, and he concentrated.
Ever since the festival just a week or so ago, he had known Christiana was on a crusade to integrate him more firmly into the community.
They had even, somewhat to his horror, attended the village church on Sunday.
His family had a box there, of course, and he always donated generously to the church’s causes, but since the fire, he had never stepped foot inside the building.
Naturally, everyone had stared.
But Christiana had taken his hand, and eventually, they had focused back on the vicar, who was desperately trying to engage them in the word of God.
After, Hugh had endured endless small conversations with curious people attempting to ascertain if he were about to burst from his skin and become the monster of fable.
Needless to say, it had been an unpleasant few minutes, but he had remained polite, and Mrs. Barnaby had found him after the service and coerced him into accepting this invitation.
Once his cravat was appropriately tied, he made his way downstairs to the library, where he knew Christiana would be. And there she was, resplendent on the floor in an ice-blue gown, the skirts of which flowed about her like a silken sea.
“No ink this time, I hope,” he said by way of greeting.
She laughed, holding her hands—holding a book—up for his inspection. “No Latin today.”
“Then what?”
“French.” She showed him the book, which was once again Connaissance des Temps. “Is it time to go?”
“I think so.” He extended a hand, and she clasped it, letting him pull her to her feet. “If this goes poorly, I will put the blame squarely on your shoulders.”
She patted his lapels, though his valet had brushed him down before he’d left the dressing room. “Very well, but Mrs. Barnaby will not have invited anyone who would think badly of you.”
“Come, then. Let’s get this travesty over with.”
She giggled, light and girlish, as she tucked her hand in his arm. “Always so positive, Your Grace.”
He smiled despite himself, his cheek pressing against the cool wood of his mask. “I have not yet learned the talent of overbearing optimism.”
“For shame!”
They moved out of the library together. Amelia, to her everlasting delight, had been invited with them, and she waited in the hall, nearly fizzing with excitement.
Hugh’s heart gave a pang. At her age, he had already been ensconced in Oxford, learning to be an adult—or something approaching one.
He had been given far more freedom than she had ever known.
Well, in London, she would have her taste of freedom, and no doubt she would make the most of it.
Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby’s house was situated a mile or two south of Grancott, on a modest estate. The carriage ride took very little time, and as they arrived, pulling up outside the two-story home, Christiana took Hugh’s arm. “Wait. Hugh, please, your mask.”
Every muscle in his body tightened. For so long, his mask had been his final defense; to sacrifice it now, when he felt as though he would walk into a den of lions, felt like a step too far. But Christiana slipped her hand in his.
“No one here is going to run screaming,” she murmured. “And we’re here with you.”
“You are not as fearsome as you believe,” Amelia said.
“Please?” Christiana asked. Her hand moved as though she wanted to untie his mask herself, but she held herself back.
He grunted. “Fine.” Feeling as though he was making the best or worst decision of his life, he removed the mask and left it on the carriage seat. His gloves, he kept.
“Perfect,” she said.
The coachman opened the carriage door, and he stepped down.
The night air was cool on his face—autumn was well on its way—and pleasant across his burns.
Christiana slipped her hand through his arm, and they entered the house.
The butler took them through to the drawing room, where several people, including Mrs. Barnaby, already gathered.
Questioning eyes stared at him, and his back stiffened under their scrutiny.
“Hugh! Dearest!” Mrs. Barnaby spread her hands in welcome as she came to greet them both. “Christiana. Darling Amelia! I am so glad you could make it on such a chilly evening.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Hugh said.
“You remember Miss Delacourt, of course?” Mrs. Barnaby waved her hand at a tall spinster sitting bolt upright on the sofa.
She had been what he would have described as “middle-aged” when he had been a boy, and she seemed to have defied the passage of time, appearing just the same now as she had then.
From what Hugh could remember, she had been fortunate enough to inherit her father’s estate and had thus not needed to marry.
As a child, Hugh had never known if that had been her choice or circumstance.
Now, looking at the rigid sternness of her expression, he felt quite certain it had been her choice.
Mrs. Barnaby introduced the other members of the group—all strangers—and to his surprise, none seemed inclined to run screaming from the room at the sight of him.
To be sure, a rotund, dandy of a young man named Sir Ronald Blake did keep sending him glances, but seemingly more out of curiosity than anything else.
And Amelia, consummate flirt that she was, immediately placed herself beside Blake and demanded his full attention.
Out of both politeness and deference, Hugh sat beside Miss Delacourt, easily the oldest person in the room.
As she offered him a thin smile, he remembered the final piece of information about her: she was perhaps the greatest gossip west of London.
“Sit, Duke,” she said. “You have come to grace us with your presence, I see.”
Hugh inclined his head. “It’s about time I introduced my wife to the wider community.”
“Who is she?”
“The only daughter of Viscount Barnsley.”
Miss Delacourt gave a rather violent snort. “That old buffoon? I wouldn’t have thought him capable of siring a future duchess.”
“I assure you she is.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. She has drawing-room manners. Educated well, I take it?”
“I believe so.”
“Good. A duchess ought to be able to behave well when necessary—and behaving badly when the occasion calls for it.” Her face split into a rare grin. “I’m glad you finally decided to marry. Poor Mrs. Barnaby has been going near out of her mind with worry for you.”
Hugh glanced across at Mrs. Barnaby, whose serenity had always impressed upon him the certainty of her calm mind. Not someone to lose her head. Still, he knew she cared, and he couldn’t suppress his guilt, once again, over throwing her out of his life so abruptly. “I’m sorry for that.”
“I hope you will continue to make your presence known here,” Miss Delacourt said. “After all, you own half the county; the least you could do is show your face once in a while.”
Show his face—just as he was doing now, free of the mask. “I’ll consider it,” he said.
“London could do with a little shaking up, too. A duke—he has responsibilities. What of the House of Lords?”
Hugh sighed. “I dislike long journeys.”
“Then go to London for the Season. Heaven knows that sister of yours is more than ready to make a splash.”
“And what,” he asked with a raised brow, “do you know of making a splash in London, Miss Delacourt?”
She cackled. “Oh, you don’t think I’ve always been closeted here, do you know? Oh, no, my dear duke. I have been known to make a splash once or twice in my time. London always has a fondness for a pretty face and large fortune.”
Hugh looked at Amelia, too occupied in making Sir Ronald Blake blush to notice his attention. “That is precisely what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh, she’ll keep you on your toes, all right. That’s half the fun of it. Just wait until you have children of your own. That’ll scare you like no tomorrow.”
Having a sister on the verge of London Society was bad enough, but a child of his own? A daughter? No sooner had the unpleasant thought lodged in the back of his throat than he imagined a child with Christiana’s silvery eyes and clever mind.
Family. Belonging. Three months ago, he had hardly thought it something he could have. But now…
Christiana glanced up, and when her eye caught his, she smiled, the expression so instinctual and honest that it made him feel weightless.
Now he wanted everything, and the terrifying thing was, he wasn’t certain he could be content without them.