Sixteen
“He tries so not to glower, but His Grace is the type to fret over his womenfolk.” Her Grace, Anna, Duchess of Moreland, did not sound concerned that every half minute or so the Duke of Moreland took note of his duchess’s progress around the garden with Hannah.
His Grace was similarly vigilant regarding his various sisters as they minced about with Con, Gil, Ian, and Malcolm, while the smaller of the two marchionesses, the youngest of the lot, sat among the roses with the MacGregor wives and His Grace.
“He seems a very hale gentleman,” Hannah said, hoping it wasn’t too plebeian to describe a duke as hale.
The duchess approved, if her smile was any indication. “The Windhams are a hardy lot. The former duke and duchess lived well into their eighties and were seldom under the weather. Moreland shows every sign of taking after his father in this regard.”
Her Grace blew her husband a kiss. He bowed slightly in her direction, and Hannah wanted to blush for them both.
“We’re quite shameless. The younger generation mutters about former times being more permissive and the elderly needing humoring. We despair of them, of course, being so strict and proper all the time.” Her Grace paused and bent to sniff at a white rose. “Did you enjoy the bouquet?”
This, Hannah suspected, was how a duchess got down to business. “I haven’t seen it yet. I was still above stairs when the flowers arrived.”
With gloved fingers, the duchess snapped off the rose and passed it to Hannah. “Were you still recovering from last night? We’re unfashionable, to be calling at such an hour, but I saw you, you know.”
“Saw me?”
“Last night.” Her Grace was a tall woman. When she slipped her arm through Hannah’s, Hannah had no choice but to wander down the white gravel walkway with her guest. “At the ball. Your swain was so concerned for you he did not notice one little old lady on her way to the retiring room. He was carrying you down the corridor, your skirts billowing, and you were so pale…”
Her Grace’s gaze strayed to the flower in Hannah’s hand. Little old lady, indeed. Hannah found the duchess neither little nor old, though she was, unquestionably, a lady.
“I fainted, Your Grace. I don’t know what gossip you’ve heard, but Lord Balfour was concerned for me, nothing more.”
“He was beside himself. I wasn’t at all sure we should call so soon, but Moreland was of the opinion that it couldn’t hurt.”
A duke and a duchess had discussed Hannah’s swoon. The notion was unfathomable, and not in a comforting sense. “We’re very pleased to have your company, Your Grace. Were Ash—his lordship here, I’m sure he’d agree.”
Except Asher hadn’t come back from his ride in the park with his brothers. He’d said something to them about business in the City, and now all and sundry were milling about the garden among near royalty without benefit of Lord Balfour’s charming presence.
“I have nine children, Miss Cooper, and an embarrassment of grandchildren. Do you know your eyes change when you think of him?”
Hannah did not dare slip her arm free, but she wanted to. She wanted to tear off directly for the docks. It was one thing to be interrogated by a duchess, quite another to be interrogated by a mother of nine, and something else yet again to answer questions put by a seasoned grandmother.
“Lord Balfour is an estimable man and an exemplary host.”
“Moreland says the fellow is besotted with you. His Grace has an instinct for these things—much as his father did—though you’d never think it to watch him duking about.”
Her Grace gave her husband a little wave.
“I’m sure His Grace is a very good judge of character.” Hannah was wearing gloves too, of course, excellent gloves of pale kidskin. As she twirled the rose between her fingers, a thorn managed to prick her even through the leather.
“He is an excellent judge of character, among many other things—he married me, didn’t he?” She beamed at her husband like a girl of eighteen. “His reasoning, to which it is my ceaseless privilege to be privy, went thus: if you and your swain needed a little persuading toward the altar, then this minor tempest would see you wed. That’s fine, assuming you are equally besotted.” The duchess paused and regarded Hannah levelly. “Are you besotted?”
Of course she was. Besotted wasn’t merely in love. Besotted was somewhere between passionately fond and enamored nigh to illness. Hannah considered dissembling, considered mentioning the increasingly cloudy sky. Considered tossing the rose at the duchess’s dainty feet and bolting for the house.
“I esteem Lord Balfour above all others, Your Grace, but my responsibilities lie in Boston, and his are in Scotland.”
They walked on in silence while Hannah tried to swallow past a tightness in her throat.
“It’s as well we came to call then. Were you to marry his lordship, we’d be offering felicitations. Since you are not to marry, our call will ensure a peer of the realm and a blameless young lady preserve their spotless reputations. A word of advice, though, before my husband attaches himself to your other arm and begins to dispense same.”
“I am much in need of wise counsel, Your Grace.”
“Methinks you are in need of a handkerchief more, or perhaps a stout blow to your common sense.”
Grandmothers saw too much, regardless of rank, station, or society of origin. The duke was on his feet, bowing over each lady’s hand a dozen yards away.
“Do not hare off to the Colonies posthaste, Miss Cooper. Gad about at the seashore, go walking in the Lakes, enjoy the rest of the Season, flirt with the young men, make the young ladies jealous. If you make a hasty departure for America now, my efforts will mean nothing. There will be speculation, and that can be as damaging as outright accusations. And, Miss Cooper?”
Would this walk about the garden never end? “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Rare blooms are sometimes surprisingly hardy. They don’t merely survive transplanting. Sometimes they thrive all the better for new conditions.”
Her Grace patted Hannah’s cheek with the exact same blend of affection and warning Hannah’s own grandmother would have applied, then turned and called out to the duke. Five minutes later, amid much fluttering and smiling, the ducal conveyance rumbled off, though somehow, despite all the kind wishes and good cheer, the bloom in Hannah’s grasp had been torn to shreds.
***
“Letter for you.” Malcolm bounced into the parlor and handed the little epistle to Hannah. “It’s from Boston. I peeked. Shameless of me, but there you have it.”
“My thanks. If it’s for me, then it’s likely from Boston, isn’t it?”
Malcolm seated himself to Hannah’s left, studying his American soon-to-be-cousin. “Earlier today you were officially blessed by more venerable titles than London is likely to see outside of a royal christening, and yet, you look downcast. The Marchioness of Deene herself winked at me, Hannah, and I’m thinking of posting a notice in The Times to this effect. What can possibly be amiss?”
He did not add that Hannah was soon to be laughing in the faces of all who’d smirked behind their fans the previous evening. One ducal bouquet would quiet the tabbies utterly, and a visit all but assured Hannah the wedding of the Season. He’d felt bad about the smirking, of course, but inspiration had struck when he’d seen Hannah and Asher skulking out of the ballroom hand in hand.
A man with creditors and mouths to feed did not argue with inspiration, and it had all turned out for the best anyway.
Hannah studied her unopened letter, a single folded page, the handwriting blocky, like a child’s. And then, as Malcolm considered Hannah, the bluebirds of much deserved triumph fluttering around in his chest plummeted to his vitals.
“The duchess’s visit has not set you to rights, Hannah Cooper. What’s amiss?”
She blinked at the letter, a sign of impending disaster if Malcolm had ever seen one. “The duchess’s visit has unruined me, and that puts certain other matters in a different, more complicated light.”
“Are those other matters related to last night’s indiscretion?”
The question was exceedingly uncomfortable. Malcolm had consoled himself that Asher and Hannah belonged together, and his efforts were in the way of nudging two stubborn, independent people in the direction of their best interests. Doubt assailed him, aiming a loaded blunderbuss at the few bluebirds still on the wing.
“Not the indiscretion you’re accusing me of. I honestly did faint, you know. Have you any idea where Asher has gone off to?”
He knew exactly where Asher had gone off to, because he’d bribed a street Arab to follow the man. Given how crowded Fleet Street and The Strand were, the job had been easy. “Asher had some business in the City.”
“That’s the financial district?”
“The business district. The courts, lawyers, and bankers tend to be over that way.” Doctor’s Commons was in the same direction, of course.
“He’s transacting business today?”
Americans had the most persistent sense of curiosity. “Nothing that will take long. Aren’t you pleased to have the blessing of the Duchess of Moreland, Hannah?”
For the first time, Hannah shifted her gaze to regard him. “Was there something you wanted, Malcolm?”
He wanted her to be happy. He wanted Asher to be happy. He wanted himself to be happy, though he was willing to settle for being solvent and in good health.
“Let’s go for an ice.” He made a grab for her hand, but she snatched it away.
“It’s going to rain, Malcolm, and I do not want an ice. Last night, I was a pariah, a fallen woman, a social failure despite my wealth and despite not having done one thing wrong. Today I’m bosom bows with a lot of sweet-smelling, titled beldames. Did you know, when I arrived here I’d made an objective out of being ruined?”
He had not known that, but she was American. He was coming to believe that was synonymous with unhinged. “Why?”
“I wanted the freedom to tend to my responsibilities. I wanted to be with people who loved me even when they didn’t approve of me. I wanted… I wanted to go home.”
Freedom? Why were Americans always prosing on about their bloody freedom? “Scotland has freedom and is home to many, even the Queen and her prince consort sometimes. They’re wonderful neighbors. Lots of kiddies underfoot, and Albert is a great sportsman.”
She glared at him as if he’d just farted at high tea. “Yesterday, I was a scandal. Today I am the darling of a duchess and her titled relations. I’m getting floral panegyrics from a rascally old duke, and the invitations, as of an hour ago, have filled three baskets.”
Moreland would like being called rascally. Malcolm tried a smile, though the conversation was leaving him utterly flummoxed. “It’s like that bit with the loaves and fishes, you see. One duchess can work miracles with the calls and invitations.”
“I didn’t want a miracle. I never wanted a miracle.”
She sounded not angry, but bewildered—forlorn. He didn’t dare pat her hand. “I take it you aren’t going to be cheered to learn that Asher has gone to purchase a special license?”
“A license for what?”
“Holy matrimony, presumably to you.”
And then she did cry, not loudly, not untidily, but she broke Malcolm’s heart all the same.
***
“Why is that sitting out here?” Asher asked the question casually, though a sizable trunk in the middle of the barn aisle, where it might get kicked or worse, was not an everyday sight.
The groom who’d taken Asher’s horse paused to regard the trunk, a nondescript sturdy piece of gray-green luggage that would hold a fair amount. “Headed for the docks, guv. Young Miss had it out here before her came downstairs.”
Young Miss, as distinguished from Miss Enid, though the help had all manner of names for the older houseguest, none of them flattering.
Asher’s first reaction was pleasure that Hannah should be so eager to depart for points north. “Don’t you mean it’s headed for the train station?” King’s Cross was the usual point of departure for the northbound express trains—and they would be taking an express to Edinburgh, of course. Likely hiring private cars, making a family party out of the journey.
“Not the train station.” The old groom regarded the trunk again, his expression sad, as if the thing were a casket, not a mere repository for clothes and books.
Asher leaned over to read the address carefully lettered onto the side. “Boston?”
“And she said she’ll have several more down here by the end of the week, though she isn’t sure t’other lady will be joining her for the return journey. I’da rather kept Young Miss and sent t’other ’un back. Come along, horse.”
With a sense of cold foreboding, Asher waited until the clip-clop of the horse’s hoofbeats had faded, then took out a knife and slit the twine fastening the trunk.
Hannah’s clothing, some everyday, some newly purchased, lay carefully wrapped in thin paper and folded around sachets of lavender and sage. A volume of Walter Scott occupied pride of place on the top of the heap, the edition Asher had last seen at the inn in Steeth.
A set of nightclothes was among the garments Hannah was sending back to Boston—a nightgown and peignoir of green silk bordered in satin, the embroidery a blue, green, and purple riot of peacock feathers and flowers. Beaded slippers completed the ensemble, though there was no lift on the right heel.
He refolded her clothes, the silk cool and soft in his hands.
Fiona’s cat came strutting by, standing on its back legs to peer into the trunk. Asher lifted the cat aside, wanting instead to either throw the beast a good distance or pick it up and cuddle it.
“She’s sending part of her trousseau back to Boston.”
He closed the trunk and sat on it for a long time, stroking the purring cat. Hannah had no sisters. Her granny wasn’t going to be wearing such finery, and neither was her uncommunicative mother.
While the black-and-white cat kneaded Asher’s riding breeches with needle-sharp claws, Asher mentally revisited his conversations with Hannah the previous evening.
I can’t do this alone anymore. He’d seized on those words as an acceptance of a proposal, while Hannah had intended them as an announcement of her departure. And off he’d charged—after swiving her repeatedly—to fetch the special license.
“What are you doing pampering that great hairy beast when he ought by rights to be stuffing his maw with some fat English mousie?”
Ian stood in the doorway in plain shirt, simple black vest, and a black work kilt, hands on hips, regarding the cat.
“I’m exchanging confidences, one peer of the realm to another.”
Ian scratched the cat’s head. “We’ve had a surfeit of titles on hand lately. You missed all the excitement.”
Asher set the cat aside, though the animal bounded right back onto Hannah’s trunk and commenced to wash its paws. “We’ve had callers?”
Vultures, no doubt. Circling the remains of Hannah’s reputation.
“Old Moreland came by with the reigning dowagers. His duchess and his sisters. Malcolm didn’t know which one to flirt with first. Even Connor was strolling about the gardens like a besotted spaniel.”
Not vultures. Not anything Asher could have predicted, though for Hannah, he was glad. “I see.”
Ian pushed the cat off the trunk and settled beside Asher.
“You stink of the stables, Ian.”
Ian passed him a silver flask. “You stink of the City.” The cat popped onto Ian’s lap, already purring, while Ian mildly cursed the beast in Gaelic.
Asher took a bracing swallow of fine whiskey. “We’re leaving at week’s end.” He passed the flask back.
Ian tipped it up, offered it to the cat, then put the cap back on and tucked it into his sporran. “And where are we off to, now that our resident rebel has become the darling of Polite Society—despite an unfortunate tendency to lace her stays a bit too tightly?”
“Edinburgh. Home eventually.” Where a man could drink himself into oblivion if need be.
“Thank God.”
“You don’t like showing your ladies off, strutting about in your kilt, and flirting with duchesses?”
Ian smacked him on the arm hard enough to hurt, and that felt—good. “I don’t like watching you torture yourself with what you cannot have, and your wee rebel isn’t looking any too pleased with life these days either.”
“She’s not my rebel.”
“You missed your moment, then. Before the angels of social redemption came fluttering around, you could have snatched your lady up and made mad, passionate love to her. She’d be sporting your ring and a smile this morning.”
A smile perhaps, for a time. That was something. Maybe it could be enough. “She would not be sporting my ring.”
Ian paused in mid-scratch, his fingers buried in the cat’s fur. “Do you at least have a plan, Asher?”
“Yes, I have a plan.” He stood and yelled for a groom to get the bloody trunk back to the house, there to await its eventual removal to King’s Cross and a private railcar. “When she’s ready to sail for Boston, I plan to let her go.”
***
Evan Draper attributed his eventual arrival in the great metropolis of London to Saint Louis IX. That holy fellow had sired eleven children, gone on two crusades, and was considered a patron of everything from button makers, to prisoners, to some city in northern Africa, and difficult marriages. This last accounted for Draper’s acquaintance with Louis, a function of Granny Draper’s closet papism and poor luck in husbands.
Louis was also, however, the patron saint of distillers, and indirectly, that lot was responsible for Draper’s peregrinations about the realm by train.
Or perhaps St. Matthias—patron saint of gamblers—had taken a hand in things. Thanks to her second husband, Granny had been on good terms with St. Matthias too.
“Why, Mr. Draper, a pleasure to see you.” The Countess of Spathfoy was short, blond, achingly young, and possessed of very pretty blue eyes, and yet Draper was sure those eyes missed nothing.
“Your ladyship.” He did not dare take her hand. His every pair of gloves had suffered mal du train, with soot embedded beyond what any mere rinsing would get out.
“His lordship ought to be home momentarily, Mr. Draper. Shall I ring for some sustenance?”
Draper’s hand went to his middle, as if he’d shield his stomach from even the mention of words relating to food.
“No, thank you, your ladyship. All that time aboard the trains has played havoc with my digestion, and I wouldn’t want to trouble you unnecessarily. If Lord Spathfoy is from home, perhaps you’d send a note around to MacGregor House on my behalf?”
Her smile didn’t falter, but she was without doubt noting Draper’s pallor, the wrinkled state of his suit, and perhaps even his bloodshot eyes. Maybe she also saw how grateful he was that Spathfoy’s London residence wasn’t so very far from the train station after all.
“The MacGregors all speak very highly of you, Mr. Draper. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to tarry for just a bit?”
He was muzzy-headed, not only with overimbibing, but also fatigue. More to the point, he lacked fare for a cab clear to the MacGregor town house. “Perhaps a cup of tea.”
“Of course. We’ll avail ourselves of his lordship’s study.”
She meant to take tea with him? Was there a saint for dealing with overly gracious, well-intended, wee countesses?
Like a prisoner approaching the dock for sentencing, Draper followed her through a spotless, well-appointed town house. The windows were sparkling even on this dreary day, the floors seemed to give off light so highly were they polished, and the entire house bore a slight scent of cedar.
The effect of all this domestic industry—even of the relatively fresh air—was that Draper’s eyeballs started pounding in counterpoint to his throbbing head. And of course, he had to use the necessary. How did one ask a countess for the use of the privy?
“Tell me, Mr. Draper, how does Baron Fenimore go on? I’m given to understand his health may still be troubling him?”
The baron was happily anticipating his own demise, though it didn’t seem to be troubling him. Perhaps the thought of rejoining his baroness consoled him. “He’s as well as may be, your ladyship. I bring his felicitations to the household, of course.”
Though if Fenimore knew Draper was reduced to calling on in-laws due to a lack of even cab fare, Fenimore would not be pleased.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Draper. I’ll be but a moment.”
She left him alone in a room for which many trees had given their lives. Paneling covered every surface, a warm blond oak that rose up the walls and erupted into ornate molding. The desk was of the same wood, as was the mantel over the fireplace. Compared to Fenimore’s cramped, camphor-scented office, this room was celestially airy, organized, and attractive.
A man could nap here in one of the big, well-padded chairs flanking the desk.
Because Draper had closed his eyes to contemplate such a possibility, the bang of the door startled him.
“Chamber pot’s under the sideboard. Her ladyship will be fussing the kitchen for a moment, if you’ve a need of privacy.”
The footman busied himself closing the curtains, shutting out a view of the back gardens and dimming the room somewhat. The fellow was sandy-haired, freckled, and spoke with a slight burr.
“You’re sure?”
“She said you looked like travel hadn’t agreed with you, and I wasn’t to slam the door for my own entertainment.” The fellow smiled and winked, for which Fenimore would likely have fired him.
Fenimore, who welcomed death.
When the countess reappeared some minutes later, the same footman was in tow, no smile in evidence. He set an enormous tea tray down on a table before the hearth. Draper looked away from all that gleaming silver and the sandwiches and fruit sitting upon it.
When the footman had withdrawn, the countess turned a dazzling smile on her guest. “Now, Mr. Draper, my every instinct tells me you’ve had an adventure. I shall be desolated if you don’t share it with me down to the last detail.”
Unlike the sunshine, the glaring floors, or the gleaming silver, the countess’s smile did not hurt Draper’s eyes. Her smile, so full of benevolence and good cheer, beckoned to him and offered a promise of comfort and consolation. She was the sister of two MacGregor spouses, after all, and cousin to Augusta, Baroness of Gribboney, who was married to a third MacGregor.
The countess’s smile was the smile of a family member welcoming a prodigal home. Draper glanced up at a corner of the room, where a fat cherub swaddled in oaken clouds was wielding a wooden bow aimed directly at the tea set.
St. Louis had not deserted the weary traveler after all.
“Well, your ladyship, there was a card game, you see. On the train. In the convivial spirit of the impromptu gathering, my flask made its usual appearance.”
Her gaze filled with commiseration. She poured a steaming cup of tea, added a dash of sugar and a dollop of cream. “Do go on, Mr. Draper.”
By the time he’d downed three cups of very fine oolong, and even managed a nibble of buttered scone, he reached the part about arriving in Manchester, of all the godforsaken destinations, without the very flask given to him by his own dear granny, and without his wallet either.
“The flask, of course, was the greater loss,” he observed.
“Of course it was, you poor man.”
Whereupon the Earl of Spathfoy joined them, forcing Draper to start the whole miserable tale all over again, though this time he began his story from the point where he’d come upon Theobald MacDuie’s smallholding north of Berwick-Upon-Tweed.