Chapter 12
Madeline woke groggily, tangled in her sheets.
I wonder if this is how most women wake after their first night as a married woman; she thought drowsily. Her head thumped—too much champagne and anxiety, no doubt—and she felt faintly sick. It was an empty sort of nausea, the kind of feeling one got when one had gone to bed on an empty stomach.
She propped herself up into a sitting position, smothering a yawn, and peered around her room.
It was much larger and grander than what she had experienced back home. Papa’s house was lovely, of course, and very big and pretty, but the duke’s house was something else entirely.
Madeline’s bedroom was mostly decorated in shades of green, with plush chairs scattered here and there. There was a large fireplace facing the bed, and when she’d come to her room, she’d found it already lit without her having to ask, the fire high and filling the room with warmth.
There was a door leading to her own private washroom, another to a dressing room, and a door at the end that opened onto a neat little parlor, apparently for her express use.
These rooms were not the duchess’s apartments, of course, but Madeline did not very much want to be so close to the duke. However, if her modest little guest apartment was this grand, what on earth did the duchess’s bedroom look like?
She swung herself out of bed, yawning and stretching until her jaw cracked. Sunlight streamed in through the window, and she guessed that it was about half-past eight in the morning.
I do hope they didn’t notice my absence at the party; she thought regretfully, swinging a robe around her shoulders.
She had already decided not to go down for breakfast. She would dress here, eat a light breakfast in her parlor—married ladies could have breakfast in bed if they wanted—and then she would find Joan and baby Adam. It was hard to imagine that a whole day had gone by without her seeing him.
Crossing the room, Madeline rang the bell, then went over to the window to wait, staring out at the grounds below. Morning sunlight bathed the lawn, revealing a few gardeners picking over the rocks and soil.
“You rang, Your Grace?”
She flinched at the voice, turning around to find a young woman of about eighteen smiling nervously at her. She had a pink-cheeked, round face, and tendrils of brown hair escaped from under her cap.
“My name is Anne,” the girl added. “I’m to be your ladies’ maid.”
“I see. Well, it’s good to meet you, Anne,” Madeline said, smiling in a way that she thought a proper duchess might.
Everybody was going to be looking at her from now on, judging her, wondering if she was a ‘proper’ duchess.
What the consequences would be if she were not a proper duchess, Madeline could not say. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“Shall I lay out a dress for you, Your Grace?” Anne asked hopefully. “His Grace had all of your gowns hung up and ready for you to wear.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Anne crossed to a large cupboard and swung open the doors. Madeline paused, taking a step toward it, and frowned.
“Those aren’t my dresses, Anne. I don’t have a red satin gown.
That blue gauzy thing isn’t mine either.
And this one…” She paused, pulling out a dress with ruched, puffy sleeves and a wide skirt of white and gold brocade.
The neckline was daringly low, and there was something thrillingly old-fashioned about the bodice.
Nobody else would wear a gown like this in society.
She would stand out a mile if she wore it.
Why did that make her want to wear it even more?
“This is beautiful, but it isn’t mine.”
Anne cleared her throat, looking a little embarrassed. “I… I believe His Grace had them made for you, Your Grace. He had your measurements after the wedding dress was made and commissioned a few more gowns. I assumed you knew. I’m sorry.”
Madeline bit her lip. “I… I didn’t know. How kind of him.”
“Will you wear the gold and white one?” Anne asked eagerly.
“Well, it seems a shame to waste it just on wearing it around the house.”
Anne shrugged. “I never think a pretty dress is a waste, as long as you feel beautiful in it. Lots of people might see it, but my Ma always said that the most important eyes on yourself were your own, resting on your reflection in a mirror.”
Madeline gave a short laugh. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman. Very well then. The brocade. I’ll wear that today.”
An hour later, clothed in her marvelous brocaded gown with its wide sleeves and low neckline, which skimmed the tips of her shoulders, Madeline ventured out into the hall. She had been directed to the nursery by Anne, who had stayed behind to straighten up the room and put things away.
As Madeline approached the nursery, she could hear Joan’s voice lifted in a soft little song, a lullaby of some kind. No, not a lullaby. It was a folk song, one that Madeline had heard sung before.
“I’ll sing you one, oh, Green Grow the Rushes, oh. What is your one, oh? One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.”
She reached the doorway and peeped inside.
The nursery had been freshly papered, clean, fresh, and pretty.
Thick carpets covered the floor to keep in the warmth, and there were toys of all kinds piled up in boxes everywhere.
A huge rocking-horse sat in the corner, far too big for a baby.
There was a crib in the corner, a large, ornate thing that had probably been specially commissioned.
Joan sat in a rocking chair by the window, cradling baby Adam to her, staring out of the window, and singing in a low voice.
A floorboard creaked under Madeline’s feet, and Joan abruptly stopped singing and glanced up.
“Ah, it’s yourself, Your Grace,” she beamed, getting to her feet. “Have you come to see the little man? He’s not long had his breakfast, and he’s in the perfect mood for some entertainment.”
“I did come to see him,” Madeline confessed. “That song you were singing… Does he like it?”
“Children love music,” Joan confirmed, gently transferring the warm weight of Adam from her arms to Madeline’s. “They like long songs and don’t much care if they’re silly or not. It soothes them, and it soothes me, I think.”
“I suppose so. I always think that Green Grow the Rushes is a sad song, however,” Madeline admitted.
Joan tilted her head. “How so?”
“Well, that line. One being all alone. It goes from twelve things all the way down to the core of the song, which is a single person alone. It’s lonely.”
“I suppose you could think of it that way,” Joan responded. “But I simply sing it the other way—one all the way to twelve.”
Madeline had to smile at that. “I suppose I cannot argue with that. I thought I would take Adam to the library, if you don’t mind.”
“If I don’t mind?” Joan repeated gently. She glanced down at Madeline, eyes shrewd. “You are the duchess, Your Grace. You’re this little fellow’s guardian. You must do what you think best. I’m only here to help you.”
Madeline flushed. “I don’t feel like a duchess.”
“Maybe not yet. However, if you want to take the little master to the library, I think it’s a fine idea. I’ll get some chores done in here, tidy up a little, and you can bring him back if he cries. I suspect you have a knack for babies yourself, eh?”
“I certainly hope so. I plan to read to him,” Madeline added in a rush. “I know he can’t read yet, or even… even really understand words very much, but he’s learning all the time. Papa said that reading to babies—and singing to them—is the finest way to teach them.”
“I think that is a marvelous idea, Your Grace,” Joan answered, sounding pleased.
She turned to go, then paused, glancing back at Joan.
“Joan, if His Grace, the duke, told you to take Adam away from me, would you do it?”
Joan paused in the act of folding a blanket. “Why, good gracious, whatever would His Grace do that for?”
Color rushed to Madeline’s face, and she regretted asking the question. She gave her head a tight shake. “No reason. I… I’m sure he wouldn’t. It’s just that…”
She trailed away. She couldn’t possibly say to Joan what she wanted to say.
My husband only married me because he knew I would not rest until I had guardianship of this baby. He could not be bothered to fight me over it. If he tires of me, or I offend him, he might take the baby elsewhere, and I do not know if I could stop him.
I would have failed Betty.
No, she could not say that. It was hard to admit to oneself that one did not trust one’s husband.
Even if one did desire him. Which she did not, of course, not one bit.
She averted her gaze from Joan’s staunch, steady stare and cleared her throat.
“Never mind, Joan,” she said, more strongly than before.
Joan inclined her head. “Of course, Your Grace. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will,” Madeline answered, and hurried out into the hallway.
Adam was thoroughly awake by the time they reached the library. He watched her out of wide, curious eyes, and eventually freed one arm from his swaddle, reaching up to touch her face.
“Aren’t you lovely?” Madeline whispered. “We got lost on our way to the library, but don’t worry, we are here now. Everything is well.”
She shouldered open the door and sucked in a breath.
Papa’s library was a decently sized room, well-stocked and comfortable. Tristan’s library was vast. The ceiling flew away, and the walls were ringed with bookshelves almost all the way to the top. Two mezzanines went around the room, reached by winding staircases and protected by gilt railings.
On the ground floor, bookcases were stacked here and there, with at least a dozen leather armchairs and a dozen velvet ones scattered amongst them. The fireplace was twice as large as the one in her room, and there was a fire burning in it.
Madeline was glad to see that. In many fine libraries, seldom visited, she’d known many books to be ruined because of damp. Dampness closed in quickly when a room was cold.
She closed the door behind her with her heel and went toward the fireplace. The warmth hit her when she was at least ten feet away.
Carefully transferring Adam from one arm to another, she hurried into the forest of bookcases, searching for the book she had in mind.
“Aha! Found it,” Madeline murmured, smiling to herself. “You will like this one, Adam. It is called Much Ado About Nothing, by Shakespeare. It’s perhaps a little advanced for you, but I suspect you’ll like it a good deal when you’re older. For now, at least, it will be good for you to listen to.”
With the book tucked under her arm, Madeline retreated to the fireplace. She settled into a deep, comfortable armchair and carefully helped Adam into a sitting position. He blinked around him with large, inquisitive eyes, which swiveled to look up at her.
“We shall start at my favorite part,” Madeline said, smiling down at him. The corners of Adam’s mouth wavered, as if he were trying to smile back, revealing a gummy sort of lopsided grimace. Madeline’s heart seemed to miss a beat. Oh, how lovely if he were to smile at her!
“This story,” Madeline explained, “is a very old one. It’s about a great many things and different people, but everybody’s favorite characters are a lord and a lady who always argue when they meet, but there is a reason for that.
Now, here, listen to what Benedick says to Beatrice: What!
My dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?
But mark what she says back to him. Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signor Benedick?
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence. ”
Adam gurgled loudly, waving his arms, and Madeline broke off in her reading.
“Yes, it is shocking,” she laughed. “But it is also very funny. Meet food, by the way, means ‘good food’ or ‘appropriate food’, if you understand what I mean. I shall continue. Then, it is courtesy, a turncoat, says Benedick. But it is certain I am loved by all ladies—Ha! How full of himself he is—only you excepted; and I would I could find it in my heart that I did not have a hard heart, for truly… I love none. To which Beatrice says, quick as a flash, A dear happiness to women: they would else be troubled with a pernicious suitor.”
Adam squealed again, and Madeline laughed.
“You are trying to tell me what you think of the play?” she asked, pressing a kiss to his warm forehead.
“I shall read this play to you over and over again. And then, when you are older, I shall take you to see this play, and you will sit there the whole time, unable to work out why it all seems so familiar.”
Adam gurgled again, and then, quite unmistakably, his lips drew back in a wobbly, gummy smile.
Madeline laughed aloud, shaking her head.
“You’re smiling! You’re smiling at me! When you learn to talk, Adam, there will be no stopping you.
” Her smile faded, just a little. “I wish your parents could be here to hear this. Oh, I wish Betty could see you smile. But perhaps you already smiled at her and your papa? I hope so. It is not fair that they should miss this.”
Adam tilted his head, watching her curiously. Madeline swallowed past a lump in her throat.
“At any rate,” she said, voice trembling, “I am going to look after you now. I promise you, Adam, that I shall always, always make you smile.”
In the silence that followed, a voice spoke, clear and vaguely amused.
“You should not lie to him, you know.”
Madeline squeaked in alarm, snatching up the baby and jumping to her feet. She spun around and found herself facing—of course—Tristan.
He stood by the door, hands plunged in his pockets, and regarded her with a calm smile.
“What?” she managed.
“You heard me clearly, I think,” Tristan drawled. “You promised to always put a smile on his face. Well, I say you should not make promises you cannot keep. A promise that you know you cannot keep is simply a lie, you know.”
Madeline tightened her jaw. She had planned to avoid him all day, and in a house of this size, she had expected it to be easy enough.
Apparently, she was wrong.
“What is that you want?” she managed at last.
Tristan tilted his head. “Well, to begin with, I want to hear you finish that quote.”