Page 21 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Fourteen

“ N ow,” Hermia said to Phoebe while they were in the sunroom. “Have you ever written a thank-you note?”

The girl shook her head, those big, curious eyes of hers fixed on Hermia in wonder. “No.”

“Your papa has never had you send a letter to thank a relative for… perhaps a gift?”

“No,” she answered again. “He always takes care of everything, but I know it is because he does not trust me to say the right thing.”

“Then, if I show you how to say the right thing, do you promise to write them well? No pranks.”

“No pranks,” Phoebe promised.

“All right. Take a seat.”

Hermia patted the chair that she had pulled up to the table.

Really, she ought to do this in the parlor or her chamber. But they had just returned from a walk through the woods surrounding Branmere Hall, and she wasn’t quite ready to brave the parlor, where she’d kissed Charles a week ago—or the chamber where dreams of him still haunted her.

For now, the sunroom felt safe enough from any reminders. Enough that she could at least teach Phoebe something else.

Once Phoebe sat down, Hermia took out a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Now, as a lady, you will be expected to thank people. From guests who attended your ball to an affluent acquaintance who has gifted you something thoughtful. You will be expected to maintain polite, efficient correspondence briefly. Does that sound agreeable?”

“No.” Phoebe shook her head. “Why do I have to thank them? I am a duke’s daughter. Am I not better than them?”

“Yes.” Hermia laughed. “Although it is not proper to voice such a thought so boldly. You must be… demure about it. In fact, being better than them makes your thank-you note more likely to be received, so it must be crafted well. This gains you social favor, in fact.”

“Should they not thank me?” Phoebe frowned. “If I am higher than them in rank and invite them to my balls, they should thank me !”

Hermia stifled another snicker behind her hand. “Indeed, they will, I am sure. But it is customary to exchange these things. Here, I will show you. Let me pretend that my mother sent me a wedding gift. I would begin to write my note as follows.”

She ignored the pang in her heart.

Since her wedding day, she had not received anything from her parents. Except for the warning to be a good wife, of course.

But instead of dwelling on it, she dipped her quill in the inkpot and began to write.

Dear Mama.

“This, of course, is more informal,” she said. “If she were not my mama, I would address it to Lady Wickleby. Yes?”

“Yes,” Phoebe affirmed, nodding.

Hermia continued to write.

It is ever so lovely of you to send me the gift of…

“And then you would state the gift, so the recipient knows you have seen their gift and acknowledged it enough to distinguish it from other presents.”

“This seems like a lot of effort for a gift I just want to enjoy.” Phoebe frowned, sighing, as if it were the most burdensome thing of all.

Hermia pressed her lips tightly together and drew her attention back to the note.

In fact, I find myself admiring it most days! It was ever so kind of you to think of giving me this gift. I hope you are well, and I invite you to Branmere Hall to admire your gift in its new home.

Sincerely,

Hermia Thorne, the Duchess of Branmere.

Phoebe made an intrigued noise in the back of her throat. “That is all?”

“That is all. Of course, depending on your relationship, you may enquire about how they are doing, add an anecdote, or share something about yourself. It also depends on the gift. If you received… let us say tickets to the opera, you might invite the person who gifted you such a thing for tea to discuss the opera. Would you like to try one?”

Phoebe looked reluctant, but she nodded eventually, knowing this was what a proper lady would do.

“I will write one to Miss Tarnen,” she announced.

As she began to scribble on a fresh card, she looked at Hermia.

“What did your mama get you for your wedding to my papa?”

“She…” Hermia trailed off.

She could lie and make something up, but it felt too dishonest. She could tell the truth, but that would no doubt prompt more questions from the inquisitive little girl.

“I have not yet received anything from her,” she finally answered, “but I am certain it is only because she is acquiring something worthy of a duchess.”

“Oh, I hope so!” Phoebe’s tongue poked out as she became engrossed in her thank-you note.

Her dark waves spilled over the table, and Hermia couldn’t help but wonder, not for the first time, if she was a younger version of her mother.

She tamped down her curiosity. Enough doors were already closed to her in this house. She didn’t need to make metaphorical ones close, too, by asking the wrong questions.

“How does this sound?” Phoebe asked, picking up her card with a proud smile.

“ Dear Miss Tarnen, I would like to say thank you. I hope you know that whenever you go… away from the library, I smile, but only for a while, because you are not there to tell me what to do. Please do not shout, or I might pout! And then you will be cross, and I will be sad .”

Hermia’s smile widened at the adorable way the girl had rhymed her note, just to bluntly end it on an unrhyming note.

She clapped her hands together. “Bravo. Well done, Clever Phoebe. Would you like to try another?”

Phoebe pursed her lips before shrugging. “I think I have rhymed every word I can think of. So, no, thank you.”

Oh, how simple and straightforward a child’s mind can be.

“Well, how about not rhyming the words? For example, you could write your papa a thank-you note for the fairytale book he bought you—the one you told me about.”

Phoebe was already frowning, her soft young features marred by her displeasure as she shook her head.

“No. He will likely only smile at me before putting it in a drawer and forgetting about it. He has too many important things to read, like that contract I ruined! Oh! But—wait, I want to…” she trailed off as she began writing furiously.

Soon, she held up her card to Hermia, and she read it, her heart swelling with adoration.

Dear Lady Hermia,

Thank you for coming into my life,

As my papa’s wife.

I was ever so lonely and sad,

And I always made Papa mad,

But now you are here to make him smile!

Please stay with us for a while.

“By Jove,” she whispered, before realizing her vision was slightly blurred with tears that she hurriedly blinked away.

Phoebe was staring up at her with those inquisitive eyes, and Hermia nodded, unable to speak for a moment.

“Of course, I will stay,” she said eventually. “I will stay forever.”

“Good,” Phoebe almost huffed, as if she had been prepared to pout. “Because my mama did not stay forever, but I would like you to.”

Hermia went still.

Phoebe didn’t seem to notice, but Hermia wasn’t sure how to navigate a conversation about her mother. She didn’t know where the boundaries were drawn, and she didn’t want to risk upsetting Charles if he heard about it.

Her eyes swept the sunroom. A maid stood to attention nearby, on hand to serve tea if called for.

Hermia considered changing the topic, but Phoebe spoke again.

“Did you know my mama?”

The question caught her off guard. Her tongue grew heavy, and she focused on the dust motes swirling above the table, caught in a small beam of sunlight. Her nails tapped the wood, played with the next thank-you note she hadn’t yet written.

It was all she could do to keep her hands busy and ease her worries as she thought of an answer.

“I did not know her,” Phoebe continued, when all she received was silence.

“And I would like to—I think. Papa never speaks about her, and I noticed that he took her portrait down from the hallway. I liked it. I used to look at it, because I think I look like her. Is that nasty to say to you? I am ever so sorry.”

“It is not nasty,” Hermia said quickly. “She is your mother, and you have a right to miss her. I am not—I am not your mother, so you do not have to worry about causing me offense if you miss looking at your real mother.”

“I do not really miss her,” Phoebe mumbled. “But I miss having reminders, I think. Papa never speaks about her, and I wish he would.”

“Have you… ever asked him?”

Phoebe nodded, writing away. “He just avoids the topic or tells me we will discuss it another time.”

“I see,” Hermia murmured.

“He avoids many topics I bring up,” Phoebe sighed.

Hermia panicked for a moment. She was very good with children, but this was uncharted territory. This was a little girl baring her vulnerabilities and putting her in a spot to listen, even if she could not say much in return.

“He never wants to speak about my future, or my mama, or you, or himself,” Phoebe went on. “No wonder we never dine together. I might ask him if the grass is green just to hear an answer.”

The mockery and bitterness should not have been so evident in a ten-year-old’s voice, yet hearing it broke Hermia’s heart a little.

Phoebe spoke so matter-of-factly, but there was a pain that she hid far too well for a girl so young.

Heavens, how lonely had Branmere Hall, as well as the townhouse, been for her?

Hermia already had an idea after finding out that the girl dined alone often, but Phoebe would have lost her mother only to watch her father slowly disappear, even if he was still right there.

Perhaps the worst grief was that of losing somebody one could still see. Somebody who was, effectively, choosing to melt into the background.

“Has your papa ever told you why he does not speak of your mother?” Hermia asked carefully.

Phoebe nodded. “He says I am too young. But he said that when I was younger, and now I am ten. Other girls my age already know about their mothers! Why can everybody else know, but not me?”

“I understand,” Hermia said softly. “Phoebe, I am certain that your mama was a wonderful lady. While I do not know why your father has not told you about her, I am certain there is a good reason. But I am more certain that she would be proud of the young lady you are growing into. Do you know how I know this?”

Phoebe pouted as she continued to write, but her eyes eventually rose to Hermia’s. “No.”

“Because I am proud of you, and I have not even known you for a month. So if I can feel this proud of you so soon, then I am certain your mama did.”

Hermia was not quite prepared for how much hope filled Phoebe’s eyes, or for how the little girl threw her arms around her before sitting back down.

“Thank you,” Phoebe mumbled. “I think I will have to write you another thank-you note.”

Hermia laughed, breaking the tension. “There is absolutely no need for that. Your first note is already very special. And… for what it is worth, Phoebe, I do not think your father will disregard your note if you write him one. He might even feel honored that you thought of him.”

Phoebe seemed to be considering that very seriously before she nodded, her lips pursed. “Maybe you are right. Will you help me write one for him?”

Hermia leaned over to help her, but in her mind, she wrote Charles her own thank-you note: a thank you for saving her from exile to France with her aunt, a thank you for saving her from her parents’ clutches, a thank you for allowing her to visit with her sisters, and a thank you for bringing her into his life when it seemed so highly coveted and intricately hidden away.

And as she and Phoebe finished writing the note before they headed to the library to read Phoebe’s book of fairytales, she thought she would thank him most of all for introducing her to Phoebe.

Whatever would happen between her and Charles, she was already getting to know his daughter as a spirited yet lonely girl who craved her father’s attention.

No matter what, Hermia was a part of Phoebe’s life now, and she silently vowed to see the two of them make amends. She would bring noise to Phoebe’s silent world, and she would find a way to bring companionship to Charles.

Why had he been hiding himself away? What did he do in that locked room not far from their chambers?

The thoughts haunted her as she read with Phoebe and tried to come up with the next part of her plan to reconcile the family.

If Branmere Hall was full of physical and emotional locked doors, Hermia would be the key, and she would let the light in every room.