Chapter Twelve #3
“Necessary? I’m afraid it is. Worthington is quite old-fashioned about such matters.
Unmarried ladies must be properly chaperoned, particularly during our evening diversions.
” Her smile gleamed. “We wouldn’t wish any whispers of impropriety, would we?
Not when Catherine is at such a delicate age for making a match. ”
It was masterfully done—using propriety itself as a weapon, forcing them to accept the separation or seem careless with Catherine’s reputation.
“How thoughtful,” Marianne said before Adrian could respond. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think Catherine wasn’t receiving the full protection due to an unmarried lady of quality.”
“Exactly! I knew you’d understand. After all, you must be so careful about perceptions, given your own... unusual circumstances.”
Before Marianne could respond, Worthington himself tottered forward, his ancient face creasing into what might have been intended as a welcoming smile.
“Harrowmere! Good of you to come, good of you. Need young blood around here. Well, younger than mine, anyway.” He wheezed a laugh at his own joke. “Your ladies are looking splendid. Venetia will take good care of them, won’t you, my dear?”
“Of course, darling.” Venetia’s hand on his arm was possessive, proprietary. “I live only to ensure your guests’ comfort.”
As footmen led them toward their respective chambers, Marianne caught Adrian’s eye. The battle had begun before they’d even crossed the threshold. Separated, isolated, already on the defensive—Venetia had won the opening round.
But as Marianne’s mother has always said, the first round was merely to test one’s opponent’s reach. The true fight was yet to come.
***
Their rooms were magnificent—chosen, clearly, to intimidate.
The ducal suite overlooked the formal gardens; silk wallpaper gleamed under gilt-framed paintings, and every surface whispered of centuries of privilege.
Yet the insults were subtle: the flowers were past their prime, the fire unlit despite the chill, the water in the basin tepid.
“Petty,” Adrian observed, dipping a finger into the water. “But effective. She wants us unsettled from the start.”
“Then we’ll balance ourselves.” Marianne was already directing Sarah with brisk authority, ensuring her court dress hung in full view—bait for any curious servant’s tongue. “What’s the schedule?”
“Tea at four, dinner at eight, then ‘evening entertainments.’” Adrian lifted the card left on the mantel. “Tomorrow: riding, archery, and ‘leisure pursuits,’ which—given this company—could mean anything from whist to partners not one’s own.”
“Adrian!”
“I’m not exaggerating. Worthington’s gatherings have a reputation.” He crossed to the window, surveying the grounds with a strategist’s eye. “We’ll need signals. If you’re in distress, drop your fan. If you require immediate extraction, mention your mother’s roses—something innocuous but distinct.”
“And if I’m actually enjoying myself?”
He turned, incredulous. “Here? Highly unlikely.”
“Perhaps. But watching Venetia’s expression when I wear Mother’s emeralds may provide some amusement.”
His mouth curved. “There’s my bloodthirsty duchess.”
A knock interrupted them. Sarah entered, flustered.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there’s been a situation with Lady Catherine.”
Both Adrian and Marianne stiffened.
“What kind of situation?” Adrian’s tone could have frozen flame.
“She’s been placed with Lady Thornton’s daughter. The young lady’s... not well, Your Grace. Laudanum, the other maid believes. Lady Catherine’s with her, but—”
Adrian was already striding for the door, but Marianne caught his arm.
“Let me. A woman’s touch may serve better here.”
“Venetia’s behind this.”
“Of course she is.” Marianne straightened her shoulders. “Time to show her what merchant-class pragmatism can do.”
***
Catherine’s room was chaos. A girl—no more than eighteen—lay sprawled across the bed, eyes fluttering, skin pale with the telltale glaze of opium dreams. Catherine knelt beside her, coaxing weak responses, while Lady Thornton wrung her hands helplessly in the doorway.
“She’s been like this for hours,” the older woman wailed. “Ever since Venetia gave her ‘something for her nerves.’”
Marianne took command without hesitation. “Sarah, fetch strong coffee—and ice water. Catherine, help me sit her up. Lady Thornton, what exactly did she take?”
“Laudanum, I believe. But more than usual. She’s been using it for months, ever since—” She broke off, but Marianne could fill in the rest. Some scandal, some heartbreak, the usual society tragedy that left women broken and whispered about.
For an hour, they worked—forcing coffee and water between the girl’s lips, pacing her through groggy half-consciousness, monitoring each breath until, at last, she drifted into what appeared to be natural sleep.
“Thank you,” Lady Thornton whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. “I didn’t know what to do. Venetia said it would help—that all the fashionable ladies use it.”
“Venetia says many things,” Marianne replied evenly. “Few of them useful.”
When Lady Thornton departed to rest, Catherine sank into a chair, spent.
“She did this deliberately,” she murmured. “Put me with someone fragile, knowing I’d help, knowing it would drain me before the evening began.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because exhaustion breeds carelessness. The weary let things slip—truths, fears, mistakes.” Marianne took the chair beside her. “But also to remind us that she can. To show power over the vulnerable.”
“Adrian was right,” Catherine said bleakly. “This is war.”
“Yes. But wars can be won.”
***
By the time they assembled for tea, Marianne had transformed herself into full duchess regalia.
She wore an afternoon dress of deep purple silk that had cost more than most people’s yearly income, with her mother’s amethysts at her throat.
Every hair was perfect, every gesture calculated to project serene confidence.
The drawing room was already full when they arrived—at least thirty guests, all watching their entrance with avid curiosity. Venetia held court near the fireplace, still in that cloth-of-gold that should have been too much for an afternoon but somehow wasn’t.
“Your Grace,” she called out, loud enough for everyone to hear. “How kind of you to finally join us. I hope your rooms are satisfactory?”
“Perfectly adequate,” Marianne replied, the word landing like a slap. “Though I was surprised at Lady Catherine’s accommodations. It seems inconsiderate to place her with a young lady in such fragile health—neither will be able to rest comfortably under the circumstances.”
A ripple went through the crowd; Lady Thornton flushed scarlet.
“Oh dear, has there been some difficulty?” Venetia’s eyes gleamed with mock concern. “How distressing. Though I suppose you’re well acquainted with managing such matters—coming from trade, as you do.”
“Indeed,” Marianne said smoothly. “Trade teaches one to spot damaged goods—and to avoid being poisoned by them.”
The room stilled; the double meaning needed no explanation. Venetia’s smile faltered, then hardened.
“How fascinating. You must tell us all about your merchant background. I’m sure everyone is dying to know how one transitions from counting coins to wearing a coronet.”
It was a direct attack, designed to humiliate. The room held its breath.
“Gladly,” Marianne replied, settling into a chair like a queen upon her throne.
“Though I should perhaps remind you, Lady Venetia, that my family hasn’t ‘counted coins’ in quite some time.
We employ several people to do that for us—and with rather more efficiency than most titled estates manage their debts.
” She smiled, perfectly serene. “But I imagine the transition is much like moving from mistress to wife—one simply requires the right opportunity, and the determination to grasp it.”
Someone gasped. Someone else tittered nervously. Venetia’s face went white, then red.
“Indeed,” she managed. “Though some transitions are more successful than others.”
“Quite true. Yet success can be such a fleeting thing, don’t you find?” Marianne sipped her tea calmly. “After all, May–December arrangements can be so very... brief. December has such a tendency to end abruptly.”
The insult to Worthington’s age was bold, perhaps too bold. But Venetia had drawn first blood with the room assignments and the laudanum. This was Marianne’s declaration that she wouldn’t be cowed.
Adrian, who’d been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke. “Perhaps we could discuss something more pleasant. Lady Venetia, I understand you’ve planned extensive entertainments. Might we hear about them?”
It was a lifeline, a chance to retreat from open warfare. Venetia took it, though her eyes promised retribution.
“Of course. Tonight, we’ll have music and cards. Tomorrow, riding and archery for those who enjoy them, and I’ve arranged a special tableau vivant for the evening—scenes from mythology. I thought you might participate, Your Grace,” this to Marianne. “Perhaps as Pandora? It seems so appropriate.”
The insult was clear—Pandora, who released evil into the world through curiosity and pride.
“I prefer Penelope,” Marianne replied. “Patient, clever, and ultimately victorious.”
“How optimistic.”
The rest of tea was a careful dance of veiled insults and false pleasantries.
Other guests began to choose sides through their attention—some gravitating toward Venetia’s court, others showing subtle deference to the ducal couple.
Catherine, exhausted from the afternoon’s crisis, said little, but her presence beside Marianne was its own statement.
As they prepared for dinner, Adrian paced their room like a caged beast.
“You’re being too aggressive,” he said. “Venetia thrives on conflict. You’re giving her what she wants.”
“I’m showing her I won’t be intimidated.”
“You’re showing her where to strike.” He caught her shoulders, forcing her to face him. “She wanted you angry, reactive. Now she knows exactly how to provoke you.”
“So I should just accept her insults? Let her humiliate me publicly?”
“No,” he said gently. “But you don’t fight fire by throwing yourself into the flames.” His hands softened, sliding down her arms in reassurance. “You’re clever, Marianne. Far cleverer than she gives you credit for. Use that brilliance. Don’t let pride make you act on her terms.”
She wanted to argue, but he was right. Venetia had set the stage, chosen the players, written the script. Meeting her head-on would only tighten the trap.
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Something she’ll never expect,” he said softly.
“Kindness. Real warmth. Show an interest in the others—make them see you, not her. Win their affection, not their fear.” He drew her close, his voice low and steady.
“Be yourself—the woman who listens, who laughs, who disarms with wit instead of anger. That’s the woman who’ll defeat Venetia. Not the one wearing armour.”
“I thought the armour was necessary.”
“Some armour. But not so much that you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t be human.” He kissed her forehead. “She’s counting on you being stiff, superior, exactly what they expect from new nobility. Surprise them.”
***
Dinner was held in the great hall—a vast chamber large enough to swallow Marianne’s entire early childhood home.
The table settings were, naturally, gold; Venetia would never have tolerated anything so gauche as restraint.
Seating had been arranged for maximum disadvantage: Adrian at Worthington’s right hand, far from Marianne, who found herself between Lord Harrison and Sir Gerald Hawthorne.
Catherine had been relegated to the far end, surrounded by the youngest and silliest members of the party.
But Marianne remembered Adrian’s advice. Rather than bristle at the insult, she turned to Lord Harrison with a smile of genuine warmth.
“I understand you have interests in the new railway ventures,” she said. “My father has been considering an investment, though he finds the prospectuses impossibly dense. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
Harrison, who had clearly expected hauteur, blinked. “You’re interested in railways, Your Grace?”
“In anything that moves commerce forward,” Marianne replied lightly. “Beauty fades, but sound investments compound. Terribly merchant-class of me, I know—but I confess I find ledgers far more absorbing than fashion plates.”
“My word, that’s refreshing!” boomed Sir Gerald from her other side. “My wife spends a fortune on fripperies and couldn’t tell me what our estates yield in a year.”
“Perhaps she’s simply never been invited to learn?” Marianne suggested gently. “I’ve found that most women have an excellent head for figures—when given the opportunity to use it.”
The conversation flowed easily from there, ranging over investments, estate management, and the challenges of modern agriculture.
Marianne offered anecdotes from her father’s business, punctuated by keen observations and thoughtful questions.
By the second course, both men were entirely captivated, and others nearby leaned in to listen.
From her place of honour beside Worthington, Venetia watched the scene unfold—her expression curdling as what was meant to humiliate became, unmistakably, Marianne’s triumph.