Chapter Seven

 

“Oh, no, Your Majesty,” Janice told the Dowager Duchess of Halsey. “I’m not suited to be a duchess.”

“Of course you are.” The woman who thought she was the Queen curled her fists in her lap. “He needs a wife who’ll make the most of her power. That’s why you’ll suit him well.”

“I don’t want power,” Janice said. “I want to read and take long walks and be with my family. I don’t need power.”

“Certainly you do,” said Her Majesty. “And there’s only one way to win the Duke of Halsey.”

“Perhaps you should tell Lady Opal and Lady Rose. Or Miss Branson.” Janice almost giggled at the thought of one of them becoming the next Duchess of Halsey, but she decided that would be churlish of her.

“Absolutely not,” said the dowager. “This is a state secret, and only I know it. Whoever I divulge it to will win Halsey, no matter what she looks like. No matter how big a dowry she has, or whether she’s even from a good family. None of those things will matter.”

“I see,” Janice replied uncertainly. The conversation was getting to be more interesting—and nerve-wracking—by the second. “But you needn’t bother telling me the secret. I can’t marry him. I need to love the man I marry. And I don’t even know Halsey. Not to mention that he’s a duke and I’m—I’m simply a girl who’s had two Seasons and didn’t take.”

“Pah,” said the dowager with a wicked gleam in her eye. “He’ll want you, all right, once I tell you what to do.”

“No, thank you.” Janice stood up. “Really. You’re too kind. But I’m here in Surrey to see you, Your Majesty.”

“Of course you are.” The old woman grabbed her wrist and held it tight. “And to hide from all those London gossips who’ll relish seeing you on the shelf. But are you going to let this opportunity slip through your fingers? It’s time for you to shine.” She leaned forward. “I know it must frustrate you no end that you’re not more influential.”

Janice’s hand flew to her heart. “Why would you say that, Your Majesty?”

The dowager slapped her coverlet. “An astute monarch always recognizes hidden ambition.”

Janice sighed. “I’m not ambitious.”

“Ridiculous.” The dowager curled her lip in scorn. “What’s wrong with you? You’re young! You should be reaching for the stars, child, not simpering in fear that you’ll offend someone.” She thrust out her shriveled chin. “I don’t believe you. You’re lying to me and to yourself.”

“But there are rules, Your Majesty, and a girl in my position must adhere to them.”

“Proper is as proper does. It only takes you so far. Life is short. You must live it while you can.”

“I appreciate the sentiment—”

“Oh, leave my sight.” The dowager flung her hand out. “I’ve no patience for flatterers. If you insist on becoming a spinster, suit yourself. But in your dotage, you’ll remember this day. You’ll remember that you could have become a duchess, and you threw the opportunity away.”

Janice opened her mouth to speak, but she was so astonished by the vehemence of the dowager’s words and the shock of her actual proposal that she didn’t know what to say.

The old woman grabbed her handkerchief and sneezed again. “This blasted sneezing. I can’t seem to rid myself of it.” She paused and looked indignantly over the lacy edge. “I blame Parliament.”

“Your Majesty,” Janice said softly, “please don’t upset yourself.”

The old woman continued muttering as she leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes, but within thirty seconds she began to snore.

Janice bit her lower lip. She was confused, yet at the same time it was really quite simple. The dowager duchess had two distinct facets to her identity, one real and one imagined. And the Queen in her wanted Janice to marry the Duke of Halsey!

“How long has she been like this?” Janice asked the nurse.

“For years-s-s-s, they say.” The nurse had a gap between her teeth and whistled on her s’s. ‘I’ve been with her only since she moved here from the dower house last year.”

“That explains why she hasn’t been in Town. Does it happen often, her switching back and forth like that … between the Queen and the dowager?”

“Many times-s-s-s a day.”

Goodness, that whistle was quite pronounced.

“As you can s-s-s-see,” the nurse went on, and Janice tried not to wince, “it happens every time she s-s-s-sneezes.”

“That’s the oddest thing. Has a doctor been in to see her?”

“Of course. He recommends rest and s-s-s-seclusion.”

Janice was glad a physician had attended upon the old lady, after all, but something felt terribly wrong about his advice. “How can seclusion help anyone?” She watched the sleeping duchess. “It’s all very sad.”

“It might be, but it ain’t my business.” The nurse shrugged.

“You don’t seem to care about her.” Anger made Janice bold.

“I’m not supposed to care,” the woman replied in a huff.

“Of course you are. She’s your charge. She’s obviously in need of affection and understanding.”

“That’s-s-s-s not what I’m paid for,” the nurse said. “I’m paid to keep her room clean, to feed her, and make sure she’s bathed and properly dress-s-s-sed.”

The whistles were going a mile a minute at the moment.

“Those are all very important things,” Janice said. “But there’s more an invalid needs than that.”

“You heard her—she doesn’t think she’s an invalid. She wants out of here. But where can she go, s-s-s-speaking the way she does?”

Irony of ironies that a whistling nurse said that. “Don’t you ever allow her to walk in the gardens?”

The woman shook her head. “She never leaves this room. Doctor’s orders.”

“That’s reprehensible. I’m going to talk to the duke about that.”

“Good luck. His Grace believes the doctor is right. He doesn’t want her hurting herself.”

“I still intend to speak with him,” Janice said. “And what about Her Grace’s secretary? Does he have a role here? Who mailed the note to my mother in London?”

“Her secretary”—the woman gave a short laugh—“is the fishmonger who comes once a week. She pays him to mail things out for her.”

“He comes up here?”

“Her Grace insists that he does. She tells the duke she wants to discuss fishing with him, and His Grace allows it but only because Her Grace creates a fuss. She likes to remind him that fishing is a favorite family pastime, that his own father—her son Russell—used to love it, he and his big brother, Everett, both. Supposedly, they’d spend hours a day in a rowboat on the estate pond. She waxes on about it to the fishmonger, and he just nods, then mails her correspondence out. But it’s none of my business. No, it’s not.”

“I never thought I’d say this”—Janice advanced to within a foot of the nurse—“but in this instance I’m glad that you believe so. Because that’s how she got a letter to me. What’s your name?”

“Martha. Mrs. Martha Poole.”

“Well, Mrs. Poole, if you can’t tell me at this very moment that you’ll show more heart to this woman, then I’ll go to the duke immediately and call for your replacement. Furthermore, if you can’t drum up even one iota of affection for Her Grace, I expect you to pretend that you can. And you’d better be a very good actress. Is that understood?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Who are you to talk to me this way?”

“I’m Lady Janice Sherwood, as you know very well.”

Mrs. Poole glowered. “All right.”

Janice put every bit of cool threat she could into the look she sent the nurse at that moment. She’d seen Mama use the same expression when they were poor and up against the tough nuts who comprised London’s rough population. She’d also seen Mama use it as the marchioness—with unruly servants, rude guests, and her own brood of six children.

“My lady,” Mrs. Poole tacked on to the end of her sentence as if it physically pained her to do so.

“Thank you, Mrs. Poole,” Janice said in a pleasant tone. “Carry on.”

*   *   *

It took her another minute to return to her room, where Isobel was waiting with a freshly pressed gown for dinner.

“But you must clean up first, my lady,” the maid said.

“Of course.” Janice sat on the edge of her bed, her knees weak. She couldn’t believe how naturally it had come to her to defend the duchess, but it had. Mama would be proud, she knew. “I haven’t had a moment’s rest, Izzy, since I arrived.”

“Have you not? Tell me all about going to the stables, my lady. I’ve been enjoying my tea and some delicious biscuits while I put away your things.”

“I’m glad for you.” Janice told her all about the puppies, Oscar’s fainting, and Mr. Callahan’s reviving the ailing pup.

“That man saved a puppy?” Izzy asked.

That man being the same one who’d kissed Janice mercilessly in the falling snow that afternoon. “Yes, he did.” She blushed thinking about how for a few heady moments she’d responded to his passionate ministrations with equal ardor.

“Oh, my lady”—Isobel crushed one of Janice’s gowns to her chest—“are you all right? Just talking about him makes me shiver.” She paused. “But somehow in a good way.” She gave a little giggle and hung the gown in an armoire.

“Really, Izzy.” Janice pretended to be shocked, but she wasn’t. She understood, unfortunately, her maid’s reaction to the man.

Isobel strode to the small dressing table and began to arrange Janice’s combs in a neat line. “What are you going to do about him? Especially now that he’s saved a puppy? I’d be lost, I would. Don’t you crave—?”

“That’s enough.” Janice stood and approached the dressing table. She bent low over it to see her reflection in the looking glass. Did she have hidden ambition? Was she so frustrated at being invisible that an ill old woman could tell? “I’ll grant you that it was good of him to save a puppy. But—”

The maid’s expression turned bright. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the duke kissed you the way he kissed you?”

Janice held on to her patience. “It would be enlightening,” she admitted. “But I must ask you not to tell anyone that I kissed a groom. Promise me?” She handed her a brush.

Isobel patted the dressing-table seat, and Janice sat down. For a few seconds, the maid worked to restore Janice’s hair to a semblance of order. “I’d never reveal your secret, my lady. Never. Not even to my mum. Or my three sisters. Or my grandmother, although up until now I’ve told her everything. Polly, too, the upstairs maid in London. As well as Jude, my childhood friend whose father tamed tigers. I don’t see him often, but when I do, we tell each other everything.”

“Did you leave anyone out?” Janice said warily to Isobel’s reflection.

“No, my lady.”

Janice chuckled. “I’m glad I can count on you.”

Isobel lifted a casual shoulder and added a pin to the back of Janice’s coiffure. “He was the most handsome groom I’ve ever seen in my life. I think I’ll have to go out to the stables to look at him again—while I visit the puppies, of course.”

“We should be done speaking of him—”

“Yes, but I think he might even be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life, too,” Isobel gushed. “The duke is one to admire, as well, but you can’t imagine him moving boulders. Mr. Callahan could, I’m sure. I’d like to see him chop wood, too. Wouldn’t you?”

“No, Izzy,” Janice said evenly. “I would not like to see him chop wood.”

Which was a lie. She most certainly would. And if she looked out her bedchamber window long enough, she just might see him at work. The stable block’s south side faced the house, and already she couldn’t help wanting to peek out whenever she could to catch a glimpse of him walking to and fro.

Isobel bit her lip and stepped back from the dressing table. “Sorry, my lady. I don’t mean to dwell on him.”

Guilt made Janice sigh as she pinched her cheeks to add some color. “It’s all right. I know how easy it is to lose one’s head over a man. I’ve done so once before, and it wasn’t at all comfortable when it ended. So I try not to find myself in that position again.”

Stupid Finn. Thank God he was long gone.

“But that was ages ago, wasn’t it, my lady?”

“Long enough that I should put it behind me, and I have.” Janice stood once more. “But it took some time. The heart is a fragile thing.”

“You’re right,” Isobel said. “I know my heart is extremely fragile. All of me is, my lady.” She looked down modestly.

“Right.” Janice smiled, remembering how Isobel once hoisted two full trunks over her head.

“What is it?” Isobel raised her head and gazed suspiciously at her.

“Nothing.” Janice’s tone was light and brisk. “As usual, you lift my spirits without even trying. We really must stop talking of this morning’s events, memorable as they were. It’s time to get ready for dinner. Unless you think I have a few moments in which to read.”

There was a knock on the door, and she exchanged a wry glance with her supposedly fragile servant. “I suppose you’ll have to answer it.”

“I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Isobel’s eyes narrowed with purpose, and she opened the door wide, as if to confront a lion.

The nurse stood there, looking as taciturn as she had upstairs.

In a way she was a lion, but one Janice intended to tame. “Come in, Mrs. Poole.” There wasn’t a question about wanting to see her. Anything to do with the duchess was important.

“My lady,” Mrs. Poole said, “I’ve mess-s-s-age.”

Isobel blinked fast, probably at the strong whistle on the s in message.

“And your message is?” Janice prodded the nurse.

Mrs. Poole folded her hands. “The dowager awoke and said she never got to tell you good-bye.”

“Oh.” Janice was puzzled that the nurse had come all this way to tell her so. “She sneezed and fell asleep quickly. Neither of us was able to make our farewells.”

“She tends to fall asleep fast, but she woke up shortly after you left.” The woman hesitated.

“As … the Queen?” Janice asked.

Isobel drew in her chin, and no wonder. Janice hadn’t told her yet that Mr. Callahan was right—the dowager did think she was the Queen, at least some of the time.

“No,” said Mrs. Poole, “she woke up as Her Grace.”

Isobel’s eyes widened.

“She was asking after her grandson,” Mrs. Poole went on, “and I told her that he was soon to visit. But she wasn’t satisfied with that. She got a little teary.”

“Oh, dear,” Janice said, her heart pained. “That’s a terrible shame.”

“I-I offered her a new handkerchief.” Mrs. Poole looked over Janice’s head.

“You did? That was good of you, Mrs. Poole.”

“Yes, well, I opened the curtains, too, which seemed to cheer her.”

“Very nicely done.” There was hope for this nurse, after all.

Mrs. Poole returned her reluctant gaze to Janice’s. “But then she sneezed and … well, you know what happened.”

“Right. She became the Queen.”

Isobel dropped the hatbox she was carrying in the far corner of the room.

The nurse paused to frown at her.

“Don’t mind me.” Isobel said airily. But her eyes gave her away. She was intensely curious and desperate to hear more.

Mrs. Poole looked back at Janice. “Her Majesty told me to pass this message on immediately to the young lady who recently visited her—‘the clever, frustrated one,’ she said.”

Janice scratched the side of her nose. “I suppose she might mean me.”

“Of course she means you, my lady!” Isobel interjected. There was a moment’s pause, and her face went red. “I don’t know about the ‘frustrated’ part. But you are clever.”

“Thank you, Isobel,” Janice said. “Do go on, Mrs. Poole.”

The nurse drew a deep breath. “I also assume you’re the young lady to whom the dowager refers because you’re the only one who’s visited her since she became ill.”

Janice’s heart sank. “You mean, Ladies Opal and Rose haven’t? Nor Miss Branson?”

“No, they haven’t. Nor have the other ladies who’ve been in residence.”

“Have there been many?” Isobel asked, agog.

“Yes,” the nurse said coolly, “not that it’s your business.”

Isobel’s mouth opened, but Janice held up a hand to silence her. “That’s unfortunate, that the dowager has had little feminine company other than yourself, Mrs. Poole. But the duke visits regularly, doesn’t he?”

“Once a day,” said the nurse. “He insists on sitting with Her Grace alone every afternoon at three o’clock. That’s when I take my tea.”

“How good of him.” Janice had arrived at that time and found his absence at tea rather touching, now that she knew exactly why he’d left her.

Mrs. Poole nodded. “He’s very devoted to her.”

He certainly appeared to be. “So what is this message?” Janice tried to curb her impatience. “I think I should be getting downstairs.”

“I don’t understand it myself.” The nurse’s manner was more stiff than ever. “But Her Majesty says…”

She hesitated.

“What?” Janice wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

Mrs. Poole’s lips thinned. “She says that you must say no. And that if you ignore her advice, you’re a fool.”

Janice felt her own mouth fall open—she’d been too long around Isobel—and quickly shut it. “That’s all?”

The nurse nodded. “She was quite emphatic about it, too. ‘No, no, no,’ she said as she fell asleep again.”

Hm-m-m.… Janice was almost dizzy thinking of the implications. “Thank you for passing that on.” She managed to smile calmly in farewell to Mrs. Poole.

The nurse, of course, refused to smile back.

Oh, well. There was only so much one could accomplish in a day.

“Goodness.” Isobel stared at Janice. “She whistles like a bird all day long. You’d think that would make her cheerful, but no. She’s as sour as a lemon. Do you know what she meant by that message, my lady?”

“I think I do.” Janice leaned her back against the door, her whole body fraught with tension. “The dowager told me there’s only one way to win over the duke, but she fell asleep before she could tell me. That was her one way.”

“‘Tell him no,’” Isobel said in a dramatic whisper. “How very clever of her. Everyone knows you must say yes to a duke. Whatever he wants he gets.”

“Exactly.” Janice swallowed to quell the butterflies in her stomach. “Not that it matters. I’m not interested in winning the duke. I’m here for the dowager’s sake.”

“But, my lady! Why won’t you at least try to win him? Imagine … you could be a duchess.”

Janice pushed off the door and began to pace in a small circle on the rich burgundy Aubusson carpet in front of the hearth. “I’ve already told you, Izzy. I’ll marry for love if I marry at all.”

“But think of how it would feel,” Isobel said, “to make those jealous women who say you’re the invisible sister upset? They’d have to pretend to be happy for you. And you could give them the cut direct if you chose.”

Janice sighed. “I have to admit, something to that effect would be satisfying for a few fleeting seconds. But seeking that sort of petty revenge isn’t a good reason to spend the rest of your life with a man you don’t love.”

“Even if he’s rich?”

“Yes, Isobel, even so.” Janice patted Izzy’s arm. “I know you mean well. But trust me that money doesn’t solve all one’s woes.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. It doesn’t,” she said softly. “It seems to me that only love makes things truly better.”

“I hope so,” Isobel said with a short chuckle, “as I’m never going to be rich.”

“Neither one of us knows what our futures hold. Besides”—Janice sighed—“I can’t say no to people. I think it comes from living in a large family. One has to compromise.”

“You are agreeable, my lady,” said Isobel. “Perhaps too nice.…”

“Isobel. One can never be too nice.”

“I don’t know, miss. I remember the circus trainers cracking their whips at the tigers. If they didn’t frighten them a little bit, they’d get eaten up.”

“I don’t propose to crack any whips,” said Janice, “nor shall I be devoured. I promise.”

They shared bemused smiles.

“Well, I’m off.” She looked one more time at her reflection and didn’t see an ounce of the lurking ambition that the dowager—as the Queen—seemed to think she had. “Wish me luck downstairs.”

“You don’t need it.” Isobel winked. “You know the secret.”

“Right,” said Janice dryly. “I suppose I do.”

Say no.

Say no, and if the dowager was right the world would be Janice’s, whether she magically blossomed out here in the country—per her mother’s wishes—or not.