Chapter Six The Duchess of Ashcombe
Sebastian had expected marriage to alter his household.
He had not expected it to improve it within a fortnight.
The distinction became apparent on a damp Tuesday morning when Mrs. Linton requested ten minutes of his time and remained in the library for nearly forty, describing with controlled astonishment the changes Clara had made to Ashcombe House since taking possession of the household accounts.
“She has reduced the weekly candle order by almost a third, Your Grace.”
Sebastian looked up from a letter concerning a tenant dispute in Derbyshire.
“Has she?”
“Yes.”
“Are we sitting in darkness now?”
Mrs. Linton appeared faintly offended.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Then I assume she found waste.”
“She found that the upper corridors were being supplied according to an arrangement established when the late duchess entertained almost nightly. The same quantity has been ordered ever since.”
Sebastian leaned back. His mother had been dead nine years.
“How did nobody notice?”
Mrs. Linton’s expression suggested housekeepers did not enjoy questions to which dukes already knew the answer.
“The household has always followed established standards.”
“Apparently Clara considers standards open to amendment.”
There was no concealing his satisfaction. Mrs. Linton noticed it.
“She also spoke with Mr. Reeves about the butcher’s account.”
Sebastian set down his pen.
“What was wrong with it?”
“Several prices had increased gradually without corresponding changes to the market rate.”
“And?”
“Mr. Reeves has agreed to revise them.”
Sebastian stared.
“How?”
Mrs. Linton’s lips tightened.
“I believe Her Grace informed him that Ashcombe House had purchased meat from his family for twenty-three years and would be delighted to continue doing so if he wished to remain competitive.”
Sebastian almost smiled.
“Did she threaten to change suppliers?”
“Not in those words.”
“Of course not.”
“She was very polite.”
“That sounds more dangerous.”
Mrs. Linton’s mouth twitched. Sebastian had begun to suspect the housekeeper liked Clara. This mattered because Mrs. Linton had served at Ashcombe House for twenty-six years and considered most changes suspicious until they had survived at least a decade.
“There is something else,” she said.
Sebastian waited.
“The kitchen maids now have one afternoon free every fortnight.”
“Did they not before?”
Mrs. Linton hesitated.
“Not formally.”
“Why?”
“The kitchen is demanding.”
“So is Parliament. The members still leave regularly.”
Mrs. Linton ignored the comparison.
“Her Grace arranged a rotation with Mrs. Pike so there is no loss of service.”
“Then where is the problem?”
“There is no problem.”
Sebastian looked at her. Mrs. Linton lowered her eyes.
“I thought Your Grace should know.”
He understood then. Not a complaint. A report. The household was adjusting. Clara was not merely occupying rooms prepared for her. She was becoming mistress of the house. The thought pleased him more than was prudent.
“Thank you, Mrs. Linton.”
She curtsied and turned toward the door.
“Mrs. Linton.”
She paused.
“How are they receiving her?”
The housekeeper understood immediately.
“The servants?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Linton considered.
“They were uncertain at first.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. He knew why. The gossip surrounding Clara had entered Ashcombe House years before she did. Servants read newspapers, heard visitors, knew stories. Some had served Adrian.
“And now?”
“Her Grace remembers names.”
Sebastian waited. Mrs. Linton’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“She knows which footman’s mother is ill. She asked whether one of the scullery maids has sufficient boots because she noticed the girl limping in the yard. Yesterday she sent broth to Mr. Cobb’s wife after hearing she had been confined. The staff notice such things.”
Sebastian looked toward the fire. Of course they did. He had known Clara would manage. He had not anticipated how naturally the house would begin arranging itself around her. Mrs. Linton added, “If I may say so, Your Grace, she has been accustomed to responsibility.”
“Yes.”
“Without quite the means to carry it out.”
Sebastian looked back at her. The housekeeper knew more than he had realized.
“Apparently.”
“She seems to enjoy having the means.”
That almost made him laugh. Enjoy was not precisely the word Clara would use.
She distrusted authority whenever it became decorative, but gave her a list of accounts, three competing priorities and insufficient information and she became almost offensively cheerful.
Mrs. Linton left. Sebastian returned to the tenant letter.
He read the first line. Then the second.
Then, despite himself, he looked toward the ceiling as though he might somehow see through it to the breakfast room above.
Clara would be receiving callers soon. He knew because Ashcombe House had become almost impossible to enter between eleven and three without encountering women carrying cards, daughters and curiosity.
London had spent eleven years treating Clara Whitcombe as a cautionary tale.
Now London had decided the Duchess of Ashcombe was fascinating.
Sebastian was not sure which version annoyed him more.
The first weeks of their marriage established a rhythm neither had discussed.
Clara breakfasted at nine. Sebastian had always breakfasted at eight.
By the tenth day, he was appearing at nine without admitting he had changed anything. She noticed. Naturally.
“You are late,” she said one morning as he entered.
“I live here.”
“That does not prevent lateness.”
“To whom am I late?”
“To breakfast.”
“Breakfast has no feelings.”
“The eggs do.”
Sebastian sat opposite her. Clara folded the newspaper she had been reading.
“You are becoming undisciplined.”
“I blame marriage.”
“I have improved the purchasing accounts.”
“You have.”
“I have repaired the servants’ rotation.”
“So Mrs. Linton informed me.”
“And I have reduced waste.”
“Yes.”
Clara poured coffee.
“Then marriage is improving you too.”
He accepted the cup.
“I had not realized I required such extensive renovation.”
Her eyes warmed.
“You are a duke. Nobody tells you.”
“You do.”
“Someone must.”
He looked at her over the rim of the cup.
This was what endangered him. Not the wedding.
Not the kiss in the chapel. Not even waking at night aware that Clara slept in a room twenty yards away.
It was breakfast. Ordinary, unremarkable breakfast. Her hand reaching for marmalade.
The way she read political news before society columns.
Her mild irritation when he took the final piece of toast without noticing.
He had imagined her as his wife long ago in romantic abstractions.
He had not imagined domesticity because at twenty-four he understood romance better than marriage.
Now he discovered the reverse. Marriage was Clara leaving a penciled correction in the margin of an estate report.
It was her shawl appearing on a chair in the library because she had forgotten it there.
It was hearing her voice in the corridor.
It was discovering the house no longer fell silent when he entered because somebody else had already filled it.
None of this belonged to him in the way he wanted.
That fact required daily remembering. Their agreement had been explicit.
Separate rooms. No expectation of intimacy.
Clara had married him for legal protection and family necessity.
Everything beyond that must be freely chosen. Sebastian could not decide whether honoring that promise made him decent or merely miserable. At half past ten, Clara rose.
“I have callers.”
“So I gathered.”
“Lady Fenmore is bringing both daughters.”
“My condolences.”
“She wishes to convince me to hold an assembly.”
“You will refuse.”
“I already have.”
“Then why is she coming?”
“She apparently believes I misunderstood my own decision.”
Sebastian smiled. Clara paused near the door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is never true.”
“You look remarkably pleased with yourself.”
“I have survived three weeks as a duchess.”
“Heroic.”
“It is exhausting.”
“You thrive on exhaustion.”
“That is slander.”
“Ask Mrs. Linton.”
She narrowed her eyes. Then left. Sebastian listened to her footsteps recede.
He waited five minutes. Then went upstairs for no reason he was prepared to explain.
He found Clara in the yellow drawing room surrounded by callers.
Lady Fenmore occupied the sofa beside her two daughters, both dressed in pale pink and attempting to look as though becoming acquainted with a duchess had been part of their ordinary Tuesday plans.
Lady Davenham sat opposite, while Mrs. Montrose had somehow obtained a place near the tea table despite not appearing on the morning list. Clara saw Sebastian at the door.
A flicker of amusement touched her face. He had walked into a trap.
“Ashcombe,” Lady Fenmore exclaimed. “How fortunate.”
Sebastian doubted it. He bowed.
“Ladies.”
Clara indicated the chair beside her.
“My husband has arrived just in time to explain why we shall not be holding an assembly next month.”
Sebastian looked at her. She smiled sweetly. Lady Fenmore leaned forward.
“My dear Ashcombe, we were only saying that Grosvenor Square has been positively starved of proper entertainment.”
“I was unaware.”
“You must give a ball.”
“Must I?”
Clara’s eyes lowered to hide her amusement.
“It would be the ideal occasion to introduce the duchess formally.”
Sebastian glanced at his wife.
“She appears introduced.”
Lady Fenmore laughed too loudly.
“Oh, men.”
Sebastian had no idea what that meant. Clara rescued him.
“We shall entertain eventually, but not yet. The house accounts are still being reviewed.”
Lady Davenham looked startled.
“Accounts?”
“Yes.”
“You personally review them?”
Clara lifted her teacup.
“Somebody must.”