Chapter 3

 

“Obedience is the indispensable virtue in a good wife.”—Lady Ratchett

 

“A pattern-card of propriety, am I?” muttered Elizabeth, as she paced the bedroom floor. “A paragon of all the virtues? Well brought-up young woman, quiet demeanor, lack of artifice, and an utter bore?” She kicked at a tapestry footstool that had been so ill-advised as to place itself in her pathway.

The room was hung with puckered green satin that matched the damask draperies, and furnished somewhat overwhelmingly with a tallboy and writing desk, dressing table with an oval glass, upholstered chairs with overstuffed seats, satinwood-veneered wardrobe, and a great mahogany bed with delicately carved posts. Candles blazed on the mantelpiece, and a fire burned in the hearth. This was the duchess’s bedchamber, which connected with the duke’s by way of his lordship’s dressing room. Currently, the dressing room door was closed.

Elizabeth tossed her reticule on the carpet. She might well have stomped on it had not her abigail entered the room, followed by servants carrying hot water in cans and a large hip bath.

Apparently St. Clair had decided that his duchess was to bathe. That, or the entire household already knew of the countless times she’d caused the carriage to pause along the road. Elizabeth felt half-sick with mortification. Her abigail snatched up the discarded reticule and removed it from harm’s way.

The servants departed, leaving Elizabeth alone with her servant, who helped her out of the carriage dress and petticoat, unhooked her corset. She sighed with relief. “Thank you, Daphne. Perhaps you might find me something to eat.”

The abigail curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The door closed behind her. Elizabeth untied her garters, stripped off her knitted silk stockings, pulled off her chemise, rebelliously set aside her wedding ring, and stepped naked into the tub. Maman would not approve of such immodesty, but Maman wasn’t there.

Elizabeth sank up to her chin in the blissfully warm water. She might have been grateful to her husband for his thoughtfulness—if it was his thoughtfulness—had he not banished her to her bedchamber as if she were an inconvenient child.

She lifted the soapy sponge to her chest, smoothed it down her arms. St. Clair was accustomed to having all his whims gratified. Maman had said he would expect the same unquestioning obedience from his wife.

Maman had also said that when a gentleman married a damsel for her fortune, that damsel could consequently expect no rude awakenings. “Hah!” But in all fairness, Maman could hardly have anticipated that Elizabeth would find two extraneous females residing beneath her husband’s roof, one a relative and the other definitely not, for to embrace a relative like that green-eyed temptress had embraced St. Clair must be against the law.

Elizabeth raised one foot out of the water, and applied the soapy sponge. Lady Augusta, at least, wasn’t eager to do her cousin’s bidding. Elizabeth found herself briefly in charity with that disagreeable female. She was not in charity with the exotic creature Mr. Slyte had referred to as “Mouse.”

Obviously, this Mouse female was no stranger to either Mr. Slyte or Lord Charnwood. Mr. Slyte, however, had not closeted himself with her. Unlike the blasted duke. Perhaps it was the long carriage journey combined with the various trying events of the day that had so overset Elizabeth’s equilibrium. She could not recall that she had ever before wished so strongly to wring someone’s—anyone’s!—neck. The sponge slipped out of her fingers, and landed on the floor.

Daphne re-entered the chamber, followed by a maidservant carrying a tray. The housemaid set down her burden, curtsied, and withdrew. The abigail held up a large towel and wrapped it around her mistress as she climbed out of the bath. “Well, Daphne, we have grown very grand,” said Elizabeth as the abigail patted her dry, slipped a nightgown over her head, and seated her before the dressing table with its array of glass bottles and flasks. “What are they saying belowstairs?”

Daphne met her mistress’s gaze in the oval glass. She looked her usual practical red-haired self. Her mistress, however, looked pale and drawn. “Little that I’ve been able to hear, Miss Elizabeth—I mean, Your Grace. I’m a stranger to them, so they don’t talk in front of me. That Magda woman is known to the staff. At least to the housekeeper and butler and cook.”

That Magda person was better known to St. Clair than was his wife. A pity he hadn’t married her. Elizabeth reached for the refreshment tray, on which sat a pot of chocolate and a plate of digestive biscuits.

Digestive biscuits? The entire household did know of her adventures along the Bath Road. After those adventures, Elizabeth would have liked to enjoy a proper meal. Boiled salmon and dressed cucumber with anchovy sauce. Roast loin of veal. Artichoke bottoms. Followed by a rhubarb tart.

Her stomach protested. She picked up a digestive biscuit and nibbled at it cautiously.

Daphne had already seen her mistress’s belongings unpacked and stowed away in the tallboy and wardrobe, had arranged the dressing chamber to her liking. Now she unpinned Elizabeth’s long hair and picked up a silver-backed hairbrush. Lady Ratchett had been all cock-a-hoop that her daughter had made so illustrious a match, and determined the new duchess should do nothing for which her mama might blush. Daphne had been instructed to inform Lady Ratchett immediately if Elizabeth made a misstep.

There was nothing new in this; Daphne had been frequently quizzed by her ladyship in the past. In Miss Elizabeth’s place, Daphne would have married Old Nick himself to get out of that house. Though Lord Charnwood might be a duke of the first stare, he could only be cast into the shade by Lady Ratchett when it came to raking a body over the coals.

Gently, she drew the brush through her mistress’s hair. Daphne was handmaiden to a duchess now, and no longer dwelt under Lady Ratchett’s roof. Whatever she told Milady—and she must eventually tell Milady something or Milady would raise a dreadful rumpus—there’ be no tales told just yet.

Soothed by the rhythmic brushstrokes, Elizabeth closed her eyes, and wondered how long it would be before Daphne sent Maman a report. “No doubt there is some good reason for that woman’s presence. I mustn’t make a piece of work of it. It would never do for me to disoblige my husband. Maman has said so.”

“Seems to me His Grace might benefit from some disobligement,” Daphne replied pertly. “Though it’s not my place to think. But if I was to think, I think I’d want some explanations in your place. No true gentleman would have his ladybird under the same roof as his wife. A proper lady might well swoon from the shock.”

No proper lady, Elizabeth reflected, would gossip with her servants. Maman would not approve.

But what was Daphne saying? “Ladybird?”

The abigail set down her hairbrush on the dressing table. “Ladybird. High flyer. Bread and cheese and kisses. Bachelor’s fare, Your Grace.”

Elizabeth raised her fingers to her aching temples. She might have felt better for a few kisses herself. Although not from her husband, because Maman had been precise about what that led to. But it wouldn’t, would it, if Daphne was correct in believing the duke had brought his bit o’ muslin into the house?

Elizabeth’s rebellious stomach churned. “You have been reading too many romantic novels,” she scolded, with more conviction than she felt.

True, Daphne was fond of romantic novels; tales of damsels in distress who managed to preserve themselves, if not their virtue, in the very nick of time. Damsels not unlike her poor mistress, who might have been being powdered and perfumed in preparation for her initiation into some wicked sultan’s harem, while the brute amused himself elsewhere.

Daphne pulled a bottle from her pocket. “Do you have the headache, Your Grace? A couple drops of laudanum should ease the pain.” Meaningfully, she paused. “More than that and you’ll fall fast asleep.”

Elizabeth eyed her abigail, and the little bottle. Maman had not approved of laudanum. “If you ‘Your Grace’ me one more time, I swear I shall throw this hairbrush at you.”

Daphne placed the laudanum on the dresser. Her mistress would soon enough grow accustomed to her title. As well as other things. The duchess looked quite pretty in her square-collared nightdress and dressing gown of fine lawn, her thick golden hair curling to her waist. Daphne wondered if the duke had yet noticed that his bride wasn’t exactly platter-faced.

A knock sounded on the door. Two footmen entered the room, carrying between them Birdie’s huge cage. Panted one, “Compliments of His Grace.”

Elizabeth gestured toward a mahogany table. The footmen set down the cage. Birdie sidled across her perch, head feathers ruffled, hard hooked beak opened to bite. Quickly the footmen stepped back.

“You’re bleeding!” cried Elizabeth. “Oh, goodness, you both are.” It was of no consequence, the footmen informed her, as they backed out of the room, taking with them the metal bath.

The door closed behind them. Elizabeth turned to the macaw. The parrot croaked and flashed her bright blue rump.

Warily, Daphne approached the cage. “Angels defend us! Your Grace—Miss Elizabeth—is that great thing a bird?”

Birdie snapped her beak. Elizabeth warned, “Don’t come too close! Hand me the blue linen shawl. She may find the color soothing. We’ll drape it on her cage.” Birdie made no gesture of appreciation as they placed the fabric over the back half of the ornate metal structure, but neither did she try to bite.

Elizabeth sank into a chair drawn up beside the birdcage table. “Thank you, Daphne. I’ll have no further need of you tonight.” The abigail gathered up the stained and rumpled carriage dress and bore it away.

Birdie sidled along the rough wood perch, to which some bark was still attached, ruffled her feathers, and did a little dance; spread out her wings and fanned her tail. “Biscuit?” she inquired.

She spoke! The parrot spoke! This discovery provided the sole bright moment in Elizabeth’s miserable day. “Had you eyelashes, you would flutter them at me, you shameless thing. And to no avail, because I ate the biscuits all myself. I suppose you are meant to keep me company while my husband occupies himself elsewhere.” Birdie hopped down off the perch and began to forage in the bottom of the cage.

Elizabeth bit her lip. She was inconvenient in truth, were St. Clair’s paramour downstairs. Could Daphne be correct in her suspicions? Was the sultry stranger a Fair Unfortunate? Elizabeth had never seen a fallen woman, at least not that she knew of, though there had been an incident when Maman had called a female a brazen piece, and cut her dead in the street.

That female had been less provocative than St. Clair’s Magda. Elizabeth was sent to bed with digestive biscuits and chocolate while the duke did whatever it was that he was doing elsewhere in the house. What was he doing? Surely he did not mean to have his inamorata under the same roof as his wife!

Alas, the duke might have anything under his roof that he desired, and his duchess could say naught about it. Or she could, but it would not signify. Charnwood was lord of all he surveyed, as well as a great deal that he did not.

Even Elizabeth’s fortune, left her by her grand-mama, was no longer hers but his.

She stared at the bed, a great solid piece of furniture with curtains and canopies, piles of pillows and blankets, and a green and white counterpane. Tonight she was expected to sleep there with her bridegroom. Unlikely the exotic Magda had ever closed her eyes and pruned her lips and counted a herd of sheep. Maybe things were different when a gentleman climbed into a bed that was not his own.

Under the circumstances, Elizabeth decided, even Maman couldn’t blame her for feeling overwhelmed.

She moved to the dressing table. Her wedding ring lay there, diamonds set in accent points among pearls in splendidly wrought gold. Gingerly, she picked up the ring and slipped it on her hand, then raised her eyes and examined her reflection in the glass. Ordinarily Elizabeth didn’t spend much time contemplating her reflection, for she knew how short she fell of the feminine ideal. Still, there was nothing wrong with her face except for its shape and slenderness. Nothing wrong with her person save that she was tall and thin.

What would the duke make of her person? What would he do with her person? What was he doing with some other person now? St. Clair had mentioned Prince Bladud and his pigs. If only she could contract leprosy, she might sleep alone tonight. Her gaze fell upon the laudanum.

Elizabeth picked up the small bottle. Daphne had said two drops would quiet a violent headache. Elizabeth uncorked the bottle and drank six, then crawled between the lace-trimmed sheets. If St. Clair managed to remove himself from his mistress long enough to consummate his marriage, she wouldn’t mind it in the least, because she would be fast asleep.