9. Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
“Y ou have a guard dog issue.”
Alice blinked and looked up from her plate, a second helping of the delicacies half-assembled before her. Her fingers hovered over a sandwich filled with thin apple slices and soft cheese as the dowager’s words registered. She could feel those piercing eyes boring into her, studying her every movement with unsettling intensity.
“A ... dog?”
The dowager hummed thoughtfully, lifting her teacup for a long, deliberate sip. The china clinked softly after she drained the last drops, leaving only dregs behind. Alice sat patiently, attempting to decipher the strange woman across from her. She was unlike any of the elderly ladies Alice knew from her village—there was something almost predatory in her bearing, like a cat toying with its prey.
“It appears, from the very start of the ball, your mother had her eyes set on the Duke of Gainsbury.”
Alice swallowed hard, flushing at the mention of the duke’s name, the bite of sandwich suddenly dry in her mouth. That was, in fact, precisely their aim, but Captain Lacey’s cutting remarks about fortune hunting still stung fresh, his words a mocking echo in her mind.
‘The next time you scheme to hunt a man’s fortune, perhaps do not speak so loudly. You never know who is listening.’
Though she knew she could hardly fall lower in the dowager’s estimation, the truth of her mother’s intentions made her cheeks burn with shame. They were, as the captain had so accurately observed, nothing more than fortune hunters. Alice looked down at her plate, unable to meet the older woman’s knowing gaze.
“It is obvious to anyone with half a brain what she was attempting,” the dowager continued, “begging for any chance at an introduction. Even my daughter-in-law saw through it, though you will find her more placating than I. However, in granting you the introduction, she did you a disservice.”
“I beg your pardon?” Alice asked. “I am not sure I catch your meaning.”
“A man of his standing and fortune, at most gatherings, would have had his own entourage of devotees—mamas and their daughters, such as yourself, hanging on his every word.” The dowager leaned forward slightly. “Yet, how did you find His Grace at the party?”
Alice furrowed her brow, trying to push past the traumatic memories of her ruin to recall their initial encounter. The memory surfaced slowly, like something dredged from murky depths.
“He was alone.”
The dowager nodded, a satisfied gleam in her eye.
“And one might ask just why that was. But then you likely discovered the answer yourself. As soon as your mother blared her purpose here, for all the room to hear, who was the first person who crossed your path?”
Alice froze, her teacup halfway to her lips as she remembered the flash of chestnut hair, the haughty air of the man who had dressed her down and stolen her drink. Her fingers tightened on the delicate china.
“Captain Lacey.”
“The very same. Victor is a faithful hound, following the duke’s coattails and nipping at anyone who dares get too close to his master.”
“A guard dog issue,” Alice echoed, finally understanding the metaphor.
The dowager’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She reached for a biscuit, breaking it precisely in half before continuing. “While most people in attendance this week are happily married flowers in my garden, I have more than my fair share of bachelors in attendance. So the next question I must ask is: are you serious about pursuing the duke, or should we focus our efforts elsewhere?”
Alice had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from letting out a bark of hysterical laughter. She had vomited all over the Duke of Gainsbury, and his reaction had been one of frozen shock—a scene that would be forever burned into her memory, haunting her until her dying day.
“Even if I wished to have him,” she said carefully, “I do not think he would ever have me.”
“And how do you know that is so?” The dowager arched one silver eyebrow.
“You saw it yourself last night. I made a fool of us both.” Alice’s voice cracked slightly. “Who would want anything to do with such a wretched and ghastly woman?”
The dowager merely hummed again, taking a nibble of her biscuit.
“Until he has told you straight from his mouth, do not discount him. I’ve seen love sprout from much poorer soil.” The dowager set down her biscuit and leaned forward, her expression turning deadly serious. “If you are to be part of my Garden, I must have your full participation, and that includes your candor. You must tell me what is in your heart, the ugly parts and all, if we are to weed out what’s keeping you from blooming. And so my question is, do you wish to pursue the duke?”
Alice fiddled with her hands in her lap, pondering the question. Her brief interaction with Elias had been built on a flimsy foundation, and she had felt poorly during their entire dance. Yet he had been so charismatic, so genuinely kind despite their difference in station. Even if she hadn’t felt the immediate spark described in novels, he seemed like a perfectly fine man to marry. Perhaps, given the opportunity to know him with a clear head and steady stomach, something might stir within her breast.
Finally, she nodded.
“Yes, I would very much like to pursue him.”
“So then, you first must rid yourself of his dog.”
“And just how should I go about doing that?”
“Victor may be a prickly man, but you can bring him to heel. You must convince him you are worthy of his master’s time.” The dowager’s eyes glittered with amusement.
“I do not think Captain Lacey wishes to be in my presence.”
“I will see what I can do about that.” The dowager’s smile turned knowing. “We can find ample opportunity for you to prove yourself to the man, to stop him from yapping. And if you are lucky enough to get into Victor’s good graces, well, that would be the first step toward winning the duke’s heart. But there is one condition you must follow.”
“And what is that?”
“You must do all this with minimal input from your mama. I will not assist you otherwise.”
Alice’s breath caught in her throat. It all felt as though it was happening too fast. She did not know why this woman believed she could accomplish anything without her mother’s guidance. As difficult as Mrs. Montrose could be, she had taught Alice everything, and they had always shared the majority of their waking hours together. To be without her felt like stepping off the edge of a cliff into a bottomless ravine.
“After Victor is persuaded, the rest shall be easier,” the dowager continued, eyeing Alice’s dress with obvious distaste. “We will have to get you a new wardrobe, of course—we cannot have you in whatever that is. Thankfully, Lady Fairfax has quite the collection and a seamstress of her own in residence at Fairfax Hall.”
Alice glanced down at her dress, knowing the dowager was correct. The garment was several years old, having been adjusted to follow the year’s fashionable silhouette time and again by their maid. While Miss Eastridge had made a valiant effort, the dress was nothing close to what the other women wore. The contrast was stark—she seemed more like a weed than a rose.
“You do not have to.”
“Oh, but I do,” the dowager insisted. “Now, I have been told your mother is quite the stickler in terms of your etiquette lessons.”
“Where did you?—”
She raised a hand, cutting off Alice’s question.
“I have my sources. I understand she has taught you extensively in the art of manners, and it shows through in your overall air when you are not vomiting upon a duke. You have quite an agreeable countenance that one is content to be around. But I wonder ...”
The dowager took her empty teacup and passed it to Alice, who stared at it as it clinked against its saucer.
“While your outer veneer is quite lovely, I wonder what goes on in your mind. So, if you may, please humor me in serving me tea.” She motioned to the steaming teapot. “The only stipulation is that I wish you to speak aloud your thoughts as you do so.”
The dowager sat back, waiting expectantly. Alice’s head spun at this request. No one had ever asked her to open up and spill out everything inside. Only she knew the rotten core within, the uncontrolled thoughts that took her over at every moment, and the despair they caused. While the dowager had demanded pure candor, she knew she couldn’t be perfectly honest about what went on within, and so she began to carefully edit her words.
“First, I must ensure the cup is positioned just so,” Alice began, adjusting the teacup with trembling fingers. “Not too close to the edge—what if my sleeve should catch it? The tablecloth would be ruined. The tea must be poured at precisely the right angle, not too quickly or it might splash, not too slowly as to annoy. One must smile while pouring, but not too broadly—that would seem overeager. Perhaps a gentle curve of the lips?”
But then, as though it had been waiting for years for just such a chance, the darkness that clouded every thought pressed insistently against the invisible dam that always held it inside of her. Her stream of consciousness grew more frantic every second, each possible disaster catalogued and analyzed, each tiny movement dissected and judged. The dark pressure strained against Alice’s delicate facade until it cracked. What started out as a trickle became a stream, then a river, then a furious torrent that burst out of her at last while the dowager watched with growing astonishment.
“But then, what if my hand shakes? What if I spill? What if the tea is too strong or too weak? I should have asked to sample it beforehand—oh heavens, what if the Dowager Countess finds it undrinkable? What if she sends me away in disgust? The milk must be added in just the right proportion, but some prefer it without—should I have asked? What if she thinks me presumptuous for adding milk without permission? What if this entire display proves I am not worthy of her Garden at all? The sugar tongs must be handled delicately, the cubes dropped in without splashing, but my hands won’t stop shaking—they never stop shaking when it matters most—and if I ruin her dress she’ll surely cast me out, and Mama will never forgive me, and I’ll have failed at the one thing I was born to do ...”
When she finally fell silent, the dowager looked thoroughly dumbfounded. Alice’s cheeks burned as the older woman took a careful sip of the tea she had just prepared.
“Did I do something wrong?” Alice asked.
Instead of answering, the dowager reached for Alice’s own cup, dregs of her finished tea sloshing at the bottom. With effortless movements, she poured fresh tea.
“What do you imagine I am thinking as I do this?” the dowager asked.
Alice shook her head slowly, watching as the older woman’s hands moved with grace. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle splash of tea against porcelain.
“Nothing,” the dowager said at last. “Absolutely nothing. Not a single thought crosses my mind as I pour. My hands know what to do without instruction or worry.” She added a precise measure of milk, then two sugar cubes that dropped into the tea with quiet plunks.
The woman’s words struck Alice like a slap. All her life, her mother had demanded perfection. Every one of her movements analyzed, every gesture critiqued. That one could simply ... exist— could perform tasks without the constant internal commentary that plagued her—seemed impossible.
The dowager stirred the tea with smooth, unhurried movements before setting it in front of Alice with a gentle clink. Her eyes, when they met Alice’s, held something that might have been sympathy.
“I do think,” she said slowly, “I have my work cut out for me.”