Bertrice Small: The Duchess

"Certainly as pale as yours," Lady Abbott replied sharply. "I think a duke and a duchess for grandparents certainly equals an earl and a countess for parents." She arose before her red-faced daughter-in-law could respond, saying, "Sirena dearest, come. We must begin to pack, although you shall certainly need little. Just enough to tide you over until Madame Paul has your new wardrobe ready." She swept from the room, her young daughter in her wake.

"Why does your mama hate me so?" Charlotte wailed to her husband when they had gone.

Augustus put a comforting arm about his wife. "Perhaps, m'dear, if you did not try to be so superior with her it might be better for you. You are surely no match for Mama. She is older, wiser, and a duke's daughter. She is also most fond of Lord Morgan and Allegra. When you denigrate them, she feels bound to defend them. I hope that in the future you will learn to keep your own counsel, for you see, I, too, have a fondness for my uncle and my cousin. My inheritance was not a great one monetarily, but Uncle Septimius took it, and in the few years since my father died, has tripled it with his cleverness. Many of the furbelows and geegaws so dear to your heart, that I so generously bestow upon you, are provided thanks to my uncle. We are debt free, and will have the school fees for our sons when we need them one day." He kissed her cheek tenderly.

"I do dislike it when you scold me, Gussie," Charlotte pouted.

"Then amend your behavior, my darling, and I shall not have to do so," her wise spouse replied, and gave her another kiss.

"I shall be glad when we are finally alone," Charlotte told him. "I will enjoy these next few weeks before we go up to town, with just you for company, Gussie. And if we are fortunate your sister, Sirena, will find a proper husband, and not return to Rowley Hall at all." She sighed. "Of course we shall still have your mama in the dower house."

The marquess laughed. Had he not found the sparring between his mother and his wife so damned amusing, he might have been annoyed. They were, however, quite entertaining; his mother trying to adjust to being a dowager; his wife so eager to be lady of the manor. He was concerned that Charlotte had not conceived yet, but the Duchess of Devonshire had been a slow breeder, too. Only the presence of a son and a daughter among his cottagers reassured him that he, himself, was capable of siring children. When his wife was more secure she would certainly give him children.

Lord Morgan's coach appeared at Rowley Hall exactly one week later, just after first light. It was a magnificent vehicle, shiny black with silver fittings, and Lord Morgan's coat of arms-a gold sailing ship upon an azure background, three gold stars and a silver crescent moon above it-painted upon each of the carriage doors. Inside, the seats were fashioned of fawn-colored leather and pale blue velvet. There were crystal and gold oil lamps set on either side of the comfortably padded benches, and small silver floral vases filled with daffodils, fern, and white heather. The coachmen and two grooms wore elegant black and silver livery. Even Charlotte was impressed, if not just a trifle envious.

The luggage was carefully loaded by the grooms. The coachman remained in his place atop the box controlling the four dappled gray horses with the black manes who danced and snorted, obviously impatient to get going again. Lady Abbott and Sirena exited the house, accompanied by their personal maids. Both were garbed in fine fur-collared wool mantles over their gowns.

"Good-bye, my dear," Lady Abbott said to her son, kissing him.

"I shall look forward to seeing you in London, Mama," the young marquess said with a twinkle.

"Do some serious ploughing with Charlotte while you are alone, and have the time," she advised him pithily. "It is past time the wench did her duty by Rowley, Gussie." She kissed him again, and then allowed one of the grooms to help her into the vehicle.

Actually blushing, the marquess quickly turned to his sister, who having heard their mother's remark was hard-pressed not to giggle. "Good-bye, little one," he told her. "Good hunting!"

"Oh, Gussie, you make it sound so… so… so common!" she replied.

"It will be fun, I promise, but take Charlotte's advice and trust no other maiden except Allegra. The husband hunt is not for the faint of heart, sister." He kissed her on both cheeks, then helped her into the carriage where her mother and the two maids were already seated. "Good-bye! Good-bye!" the Marquess of Rowley called to his female relations as the vehicle pulled away, and the horses trotted quite smartly down the drive.

"Good-bye! Good-bye!" Sirena called, leaning out the window until her outraged mother yanked her back inside.

"Behave yourself, girl!" the dowager said sharply. "Your hoyden-ish days are over now, and you must grow up."

"Yes, Mama," Sirena replied, just slightly chastened.

They traveled the twenty miles separating Rowley Hall and Morgan Court, arriving by midday. As their carriage drew to a stop the two grooms jumped down from their outside seat behind the coach, and hurried to open the door and lower the step, allowing the passengers to descend. Charles Trent, Lord Morgan's steward, hurried from the house to welcome them. He was a distinguished gentleman of indeterminate years with a serious demeanor and quietly graying brown hair. He kissed Lady Abbott's hand as he bowed, and then Lady Sirena's.

"Welcome to Morgan Court. His lordship has already returned to London, but he left me behind to see to your comfort. Let us go into the house. I know that Miss Allegra is eagerly awaiting her cousin."

They had no sooner entered the building when Allegra Morgan appeared and threw herself into her cousin's arms with a shriek of delight. "Wait until I tell you!" she said excitedly. "Madame Paul has sent down her chief assistant, Mademoiselle Francine, to take our measurements and show us fabric samples!" Then remembering her manners she detached herself from Sirena's embrace, and curtsied to Lady Abbott. "Good day, Aunt," she said. "I am most pleased to see you have arrived. Papa has asked me to tender his greetings, and say he looks forward to seeing you in London." She kissed the older woman upon the cheek.

"Thank you, m'dear," Lady Abbott said, feeling a warmth in her cheeks, and wondering if the others had noticed.

"Luncheon is served, m'lady," Pearson, the butler, came to announce as the travelers' cloaks were taken away.

"Will you join us, Mr. Trent?" Lady Abbott asked. She knew that such was the steward's high position that he frequently came to table with the family while they were in the country.

"Thank you, madame, but I do have work to be completed today. I will, however, join you at supper. When the young ladies are ready they may go upstairs where Mademoiselle Francine is awaiting them in the Primrose chamber." He bowed politely, and hurried off.

"Such a lovely man," Lady Abbott said. "What a pity he is the fourth son. His parents are the Earl and Countess of Chamberlain, y'know. The eldest son, Francis Trent, will inherit, of course." She allowed Pearson to seat her, and then lowering her voice said, "He gambles, I'm sorry to say. The Earl of Chamberlain is constantly paying off his debts. The second son is out in India with the army, a colonel, I believe I heard. The third has an excellent pulpit in Nottingham. Both of them have married heiresses as they should have and consequently give their parents no trouble. The eldest has such an unsavory reputation that they cannot even find a wife for him. Imagine!

"And then there is Charles Trent. Beautifully educated at Harrow, and at Cambridge; a man with exquisite manners, and an instinctive sense of what is correct. Fortunately your father found him twelve years ago, and employed him. Being steward to Septimius Morgan is an honorable profession for a man of Charles Trent's superior breeding. I do not know what Septimius would do without him. He manages both the London house and this one. He handles the household accounts, engages any new staff, pays the wages, is responsible in fact for the entire staff. And he is your father's personal secretary as well. How he does it, I do not know. A lovely man," she repeated. Then Lady Abbott dipped her spoon into the turtle soup that had just been ladled into her plate, and began to eat.