“Good morning, Eliza!”
Eliza gave Rebecca a grateful smile as she entered the breakfast room, happy to hear a cheerful, welcoming voice.
“Rebecca! You address our guest as Mrs. James,” her mother chided. “You have not been given leave to use her Christian name.”
Eliza bristled at the cold tone, wanting to slink under the table in face of the dowager’s withering stare. Begin as you mean to go on, Lizzie. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.” At that thought, Eliza threw her shoulders back and returned the dowager’s gaze, even as she swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I would like to thank you again, Your Grace, for allowing me into your home. I understand my arrival was a surprise, but I will endeavor not to be a burden on your family. I am ready and able to work to assist you.” There. That sounded confident. Right?
A glimmer of surprise and then respect flashed in the dowager’s eye, but before she could respond, Becca cut in. “I’m sure you could hardly be a burden, Mrs. James. Please, sit here, and have some breakfast. The footman will bring you a plate and pour your coffee.”
Well, at least Rebecca didn’t seem intimidated by her mother. And coffee? The word was heaven to Eliza’s ears. She sank into the chair next to Emmeline as a small plate heaped with eggs, cheese, and toast was set in front of her. Not quite an Egg McMuffin, but thank goodness for familiar foods. “Thank you very much,” she said automatically to the footman, who looked at her in surprise.
Everyone at the table stilled, including the footman.
“We do not thank servants, Mrs. James,” intoned Deveric’s mother in that condescending voice.
Oops. “My apologies; I did not mean to err. My mother taught me the kind thing to do is thank people who perform a service for you.”
All eyes flew to Eliza. She wanted to clamp her hand over her mouth. Why had she said that? She’d tried to justify her faux pas but instead sounded like she was schooling the dowager. Definitely not her intent; she didn’t need to get into a war with this fierce old biddy, whether Eliza thought thanking servants was appropriate or not.
“It is simply not done,” the dowager said after a pause, her voice pure starch.
Eliza took a bite of the rather over-brown piece of toast from her plate, determined to not let that woman get her down. The toast was dry in her mouth; she missed the big, sugary muffins she used to get from the coffee shop across from the bookstore already.
“Do you not care for it, Mrs. James?” Emmeline asked.
Eliza was unsure of her tone; it was neither welcoming nor unwelcoming. Disinterested, perhaps. That was better than openly hostile, was it not? It would not surprise her if the whole family had doubts about her this morning.
“No, no, it is delicious.”
After a moment, Deveric’s mother set down her teacup, her eyes fixing on Eliza. “Tell me again, Mrs. James, what is the connection between our two families?”
Eliza’s forkful of eggs stopped in midair. The dowager was openly challenging her. According to what Deveric had said last night, the family had known of their American cousins, though distant. She’d have to be careful what she said.
“To be honest, I am not quite sure. My father always said we had relatives in England, but I did not know much beyond that.”
“You are from where in Virginia?”
“Charlottesville. Home of ... Thomas Jefferson.” She’d nearly said the University of Virginia, but it hadn’t yet been built. What a bewildering thought.
The dowager sniffed. “I am no great admirer of the rebellious upstart.”
Eliza had to bite her lip to keep from retorting. She wasn’t here to win over the dowager. She was here to win over Deveric. Though it’d be a lot easier if everyone else liked her, too. Tears prickled behind her eyes.
Emmeline broke in. “Would you like a tour of the house today, Mrs. James?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful.” She breathed out a sigh of relief. Thank you, Emmeline, for putting an end to that particular conversation. “I am surprised Deveric and Lady Amara are not with you all this morning.”
The dowager drew herself up in her seat, impaling Eliza with a baleful glance. “You may do things differently in America, Mrs. James, but here in England, we expect people to address their betters properly. It is inappropriate for you to address the duke by his Christian name.”
“My betters?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. But, dang, this woman raised her hackles. Why did Dveric’s mother hate her so? Because you don’t belong, and she knows it.
“Indeed,” answered the Dragon, as Eliza decided she would now call her. Internally, at least.
After a moment, she exhaled and gave the Dowager Dragon a wan smile. You win this battle. I retreat. For the moment.
Rebecca reached over and put a hand on Eliza’s, which Eliza had unconsciously clenched in a fist. “I don’t mind if you call me Becca; everyone in the family does. And you’re family. Right, Mama?” Becca’s face expressed only guileless cheerfulness, but rebellion flamed in her eyes.
An ally. Thank God.
“Perhaps,” the dowager answered after a moment. “That remains to be seen.”
A short time later, Deveric’s mother left the room, announcing she had matters to attend to regarding the afternoon plans for the guests. As she exited, Becca relaxed in her seat and Emmeline sighed.
Eliza chewed the inside of her cheek, which she’d been doing ever since the Dragon had made that crack about Jefferson. She’d wanted to retort Thomas Jefferson was one of the greatest men who’d ever lived. Er, was living.
Her eyes narrowed. She could hold her own against that Dragon; she refused to let the woman cow her. Outwardly, at least. The woman was rather terrifying. But making enemies with the dowager was ill-advised, especially if Eliza hoped to be Duchess herself someday.
Still, the interaction stung. She’d read about the class system in England in both her academic realm and her romance novels, of course, but it was certainly different to be confronted with it face-to-face. Eliza suddenly wanted to hug Betsy and apologize for everyone who’d ever made a servant feel inferior.
“We’re sorry about Mama,” said Becca. “She is quite lovely much of the time, truly, but fiercely protective of the family name and, well, of our brother, considering everything he’s gone through.”
Emmeline gave her sister a sharp glance.
“Everything he’s gone through?” Eliza couldn’t help but ask, before taking another bite. The eggs, at least, were delicious.
Becca’s eyes darted to her sister.
Emmeline answered after a moment. “My brother’s wife died in childbirth three years ago. His newborn daughter, too. And these past few months, Harrington has been quite sickly.”
“Eliza is our cousin. Surely, we needn’t be so formal, Em,” Becca interjected. “His name is Frederick. We call him Freddy.”
“Frederick?”
“Deveric’s son.”
Eliza’s mouth fell open. Wait, what? None of that was in Cat’s story. Not that it had been detailed enough to account for everything Eliza would face here, but first Deveric had a brother, now a son? And he’d lost a daughter? What other unexpected surprises lurked in her future?
Her heart squeezed at the thought of all he’d gone through, even as her stomach knotted with anxiety. She set her fork down, appetite gone. Eliza had lost a spouse, and then her parents. That was awful enough, almost beyond bearable. But losing a child—she couldn’t fathom that pain.
“Oh, my God. The poor man.”
Both sisters nodded in agreement.
“He bears it well,” Emmeline continued. “He never shows sadness.”
“He never shows much of anything,” Becca interrupted. “I’m far younger than he is, but I remember he used to laugh and play a lot more. With me. With Freddy.” At Eliza’s wrinkled brow, she added, “Now it’s all duty, even with his son.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-two.”
Eliza chuckled. “Okay, that’s good to know, but what I meant was, how old is his son?”
Becca wrinkled her nose in confusion. “What is this oakey? Why do you address us as such?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She was trying so hard to blend in, to not to mess up language-wise—at least she hadn’t yet said awesome—but okay was such an integral part of her vocabulary, she didn’t notice when she said it. She’d have to try harder. “It’s an American expression, I suppose. It means something like ‘all right’ or ‘good’, or even maybe ‘I agree.’”
“Very good,” said Becca. “Or maybe I should say ‘Very oakey?’”
Eliza laughed.
“And Freddy’s just turned five,” Becca added. “He is such a sweet boy. I do wish Deveric spent more time with him.”
Emmeline cleared her throat, her lips pinching in silent reprimand. Not supposed to be telling me so much, I guess.
It was hard to imagine Deveric with a five-year-old son, given in her mind he was the devilishly romantic hero Cat had conjured up for her. A son. So she was to be a stepmother. She choked on a sip of coffee.
That’s quite a leap, Eliza James. You’re sitting here, a penniless distant relation whom the Dowager Dragon clearly doesn’t like, and you’ve already married yourself off to her son.
Well, a girl could dream.