Chapter Twenty-One
By breakfast the following morning, Lady Carrowmere’s note had become the subject of discussion.
“She hopes I was not overtaxed by the evening,” Petalia said, glancing towards the folded paper beside her plate. “How considerate. She waits until after arranging a room in which every person in Devonshire may stare at me, then writes to inquire whether I survived the staring.”
Edmund looked up from the breakfast table with the expression of a man who had not expected his wife to become dangerous before coffee.
The morning after Lady Carrowmere’s ball had arrived damp, grey, and considerably more peaceful than the previous evening deserved.
Wrenfield had taken the weather as permission to keep its fires high and its curtains half-drawn.
Outside, the lawns steamed softly under rain.
Inside, the house moved with the subdued excitement of servants who knew they were not to gossip and had no intention of being caught doing so.
Lady Maria sat at the far end of the table with toast, marmalade, and the moral satisfaction of a woman whose social campaign had not ended in disaster.
She lifted her cup. “Lady Carrowmere is not considerate, my dear. She is cautious. There is a difference. A considerate woman would not have invited Sir Lionel Harbury within a mile of a duchess whose marriage remains fresh enough for fools to prod. A cautious woman writes after the fool has been corrected and asks whether everyone is well, so that no one may accuse her of failing in civility.”
Petalia lowered the note. “Then I must answer with civility sharp enough not to appear sharpened.”
“Exactly,” Lady Maria said, pleased.
Petalia placed Lady Carrowmere’s note on the table and drew a sheet of paper towards her. “If I write, ‘Her Grace is perfectly recovered from the exertions of the evening and grateful for Lady Carrowmere’s concern’, will that sound too weak?”
“It sounds like a woman thanking her hostess,” Lady Maria said. “Perfectly tolerable.”
“Tolerable is not my aim.”
Edmund set down his cup. “What is your aim?”
Petalia dipped the pen, considered, and began writing. “To make clear that I am neither injured by the county’s curiosity nor indebted to it for future kindness. Also, if possible, to make Lady Carrowmere feel faintly ashamed without providing a sentence she may quote against me.”
Lady Maria’s smile widened. “Very good.”
Edmund watched Petalia write: the careful angle of her hand, the concentration in her brow, the brass hairpin holding her dark hair in place.
She had worn it last night to the ball. She wore it again this morning, though no guest was expected and no social statement required.
That pleased him in a place he had not known was waiting to be pleased.
When she finished, she sanded the note and handed it to Lady Maria.
Lady Maria read it aloud, her mouth curving.
“‘Dear Lady Carrowmere, His Grace and I thank you for your kind inquiry. I am entirely recovered from the evening’s exertions and shall remember with pleasure the courtesy of your welcome, as well as the excellence of your orchestra. Pray accept our compliments, and believe me, yours sincerely, Petalia, Duchess of Ashbourne.’”
She lowered the page. “My dear, that is devastating.”
Petalia blinked. “It is?”
“You praised the orchestra and not the company. You thanked her for courtesy, which implies you noticed where it was necessary. You used your title without apology. Lady Carrowmere will read this three times and dislike herself on the fourth.”
Edmund took the note when Maria passed it to him. He read it once, then folded it. “It will do.”
Petalia gave him a suspicious look. “That is all?”
“It is exact,” he said. “Better than sharp.”
Her expression softened before she bent again over the table.
Breakfast might have continued in relative peace if Pritchard had not entered with the face he wore when household matters had assembled themselves into a queue.
“Your Grace,” he said.
Both Edmund and Petalia looked up.
Pritchard’s control suffered a momentary disturbance. It had been occurring all week. The title now had two owners in daily use, and the household, though improving, occasionally found itself uncertain which Grace had been summoned by trouble.
Petalia rescued him. “Yes, Pritchard?”
The butler’s shoulders eased by half an inch.
“Mrs Barlow from the village has come regarding the new linen order. Mrs Holroyd says the matter may wait, but Mrs Barlow is anxious about the measurements for the west rooms. There is also the question of the old schoolroom curtains. Lady Mary has informed Annie they cannot be laundered because they are part of a scientific experiment concerning dust.”
Edmund turned to Petalia. “Mary is inventive before noon.”
“Mary is inventive at all hours.” Petalia set down her napkin and rose.
“Tell Mrs Holroyd I shall come directly. Mrs Barlow may wait in the small parlour. As for the schoolroom curtains, they may be removed after luncheon. If Lady Mary objects, she may write a formal defence of dust in not fewer than twenty lines.”
Pritchard bowed. “Very good, Your Grace.”
He turned to leave, then paused. “And the blue room curtains? Mrs Holroyd wished to know whether they are to be laundered before the silver inventory or after.”
Petalia looked at Edmund.
He lifted both hands slightly. “Do not look at me. I married competence to avoid these questions.”
“You married scandal and received curtains,” she replied.
Lady Maria laughed into her tea.
Petalia thought for a moment. “After the silver inventory. If the silver is discovered to be missing, clean curtains will not console anyone.”
Pritchard’s mouth twitched. “An excellent point, Your Grace.”
The butler left.
Petalia looked at the closed door, then at the folded note beside her plate. “Lady Carrowmere before breakfast, curtains after. I begin to see why duchesses are encouraged to sit down.”
“Only between battles,” Lady Maria said.
Petalia rose. “Then I had better make use of the interval.”
The morning became busier than the note had promised.
Petalia met Mrs Barlow, chose the order in which rooms would be aired, defeated Mary’s dust experiment with the promised twenty-line defence, and listened to Declan’s explanation of why the schoolroom map required revision now that her authority over the house had changed its political geography.
Edmund had intended to spend the morning with estate correspondence. Instead he found himself lingering in doorways, not hiding exactly, but observing.
Once, he passed the schoolroom and heard Mary say, with grave outrage, “Duchesses should not still correct copywork.”
Petalia answered, “Duchesses correct whatever requires correcting. It is one of the lesser-known privileges of rank.”
Declan said, “Then the comma on page three is still wrong.”
“Traitor,” Mary muttered.
“Grammarian,” Declan replied.
Edmund moved on before they saw him smile.
By late afternoon, the rain had softened to mist. Petalia stood in the east corridor, giving Annie instructions about the linen closet, while Edmund lingered by the stair with no explanation that would satisfy a jury.
A footman brought a second note. Petalia opened it, read it, and looked towards Edmund.
“Lady Whitcombe invites us to Mrs Ashby’s supper next week.”
“No,” Edmund said.
Petalia folded the note.
“You have not read it.”
“I know Lady Whitcombe.”
“Even so, we cannot refuse every invitation forever.”
His expression darkened.
“We may if we wish.”
“We may,” she agreed. “But after last night, I am not certain we should.”
That checked him.
Petalia looked down at the note.
“Sir Lionel apologised. Lady Carrowmere wrote first. Now Lady Whitcombe invites rather than observes. That may not be acceptance, but it is movement.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he dismissed Annie with a nod.
When they were alone, he said, “You should not have to spend your life teaching people how to behave.”
“No. But I need not spend it hiding from them either.”
He studied her.
“You sound like my aunt.”
“I shall try not to make a habit of it.”
That won the faintest smile.
“Walk with me before supper.”
Petalia looked surprised.
“Is there something to discuss?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
The answer ought not to have been difficult. It still was.
“Because I want your company.”
For a moment, she simply looked at him.
Then her expression softened. “Very well.”
They walked no farther than the covered terrace. Rain whispered beyond the stone balustrade. Behind them, Wrenfield glowed warmly in the gathering dusk.
For once there was no crisis to mend, no visitor to endure, no household battle waiting around the next corner.
Petalia rested her hand lightly on his arm.
“This is pleasant.”
“Yes.”
She glanced at him. “You sound surprised.”
“I am learning not to be.”
Her smile lingered.
They stood together in the quiet while evening settled over the house.
Edmund covered her hand briefly with his own.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he found himself content to let the next hour arrive exactly as it pleased.