Page 10 of His Extraordinary Duchess

Chapter Ten

V iolette stepped out of the shadows of the church into the sunlight, along with the other servants from Tyneham Manor. With it being a half-day off, most of them were heading into the village or nearby farms to visit family. She had never been sure what to do with herself. She couldn’t reach London and return in time, even if she’d been willing to visit her family or had money to pay the fare for the mail coach.

“Why don’t you come with us today?” Maisy offered, linking arms with her. “We’re going to visit Charlie’s family this Sunday.”

Both Maisy and her husband had been raised in the village. They took turns visiting their respective families every Sunday. It was not the first time Violette had been invited to join them, but again she hesitated. What would she say when they asked her about her family, a subject that would inevitably come up? Her mother had unbent sufficiently to wish her well before Violette left for Tyneham Manor, but neither her father nor her brother would even meet her gaze. By going into service, she had slipped beneath them in their opinion.

“Miss Collier!”

She and Maisy both turned at the sound of the warm voice. Roland Atkins hurried up to them, greatcoat swirling about his trousers.

“It seems I didn’t have to wait until Tuesday after all,” he said, smile wide.

Maisy gave Violette the eye.

“Madame Kinsle,” Violette said, “allow me to present Monsieur Atkins.”

Maisy bobbed a curtsey. “Sir.”

“Mrs. Kinsle,” he said with a nod.

Maisy nudged Violette. “If you decide to join us, it’s the third cottage past the bridge.” She strolled off to join her husband, who was waiting at the edge of the churchyard.

“It seems I’ve disturbed your plans,” Roland said, rubbing his chin with the back of his gloved hand. “Allow me to make it up to you. Join me for something to eat at the inn?”

Heat flushed up her, and Violette stiffened. “ Je suis une vraie dame, monsieur ! I am a lady! I do not eat with strange men at inns!”

He flamed. Truly. She had never seen a man turn such a florid shade of red. His green eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Please, you must forgive me. I didn’t mean… I would never…”

As quickly as it had come, her anger fled. She put out a hand to him. “ Non, monsieur . Allow me to apologize. I can see that you did not mean to give offense. But you must understand. A lady’s reputation is priceless, particularly when she is maid to so important a person as a duchess. I must be above reproach in all things.”

“Of course. Yes, of course. Forgive me for asking. I should have thought.”

He looked so downcast she had pity on him. “But,” she said carefully, “if you are willing to buy food and bring it out to me, I would be willing to meet you at the bridge. We could dine outside. It is a chilly day, but if we eat quickly…”

His smile blossomed. “Give me a few moments.” He strode off toward the inn.

As they had talked, the churchyard had emptied. Violette wandered toward the bridge, but her thoughts moved faster. It wasn’t wise to encourage him. Nothing could come of this. And yet she could not bear to see him so sad. Surely he would only paint sad portraits if she did not raise his spirits!

Besides, with everyone in the village occupied with family matters, who would notice the two of them by the stream?

She stopped in the center arch of the stone span. The portion of the rocky bank below that was still in shadow sported frost. She drew her pelisse a little closer.

In the distance, smoke rose from the Tyneham Manor chimneys, as if signaling her to return. Surely there was work she could do—pressing lace, sorting ribbons.

Dreaming of a handsome man with a warm voice.

She straightened as he came into sight, sack in hand and plaid blanket thrown over one shoulder.

“Behold your feast, milady,” he proclaimed. “Perhaps a picnic on the shore?”

On the other side of the bridge, the grass sloped gently down to the stream. Violette followed him to a spot, then took the sack so he could spread the blanket. The scent of roasted meat rose up.

A moment later, they were settled side by side on the blanket, shoulders not quite touching, watching the amber-colored waters skip past.

“Shall we dispense with comments about the weather and my horses?” he suggested, handing her a brown paper-wrapped parcel.

“Is that what the English talk about over dinner?” Violette asked, unwrapping the paper to reveal the flaky golden crust of a hand pie.

“So my mother taught me,” he told her, pulling battered tin cups from the sack. “I don’t get invited to many dinners, mind you, so I cannot be certain.”

Violette frowned as he poured water from a metal flask into the cups. “Why would a famous artist not be invited to dine? I would think a gentleman with such a ready address would be most welcome at table.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself famous,” he said, handing her one of the cups with a smile. “And there are those who would not call me a gentleman.”

This again. Violette scowled. “Who are they, and what must I to do correct their misunderstanding?”

“You haven’t heard the story?” His dark brows went up. “I was certain it was still spoken of in drawing rooms about the area.”

“I do not frequent drawing rooms,” she reminded him.

“Ah, yes. But just as you persist in seeing me as a gentleman, I insist on seeing you as a lady.” He cocked his head as if studying her. “You were once. I’m certain of it.”

“You know nothing about me,” she said tartly before taking a bite of the pie. The rich sauce dribbled down her chin.

Before she could look for a napkin, the cloth touched her skin. His gaze met hers as he wiped the gravy away.

“I’d like to,” he murmured.

Violette leaned away from him, and he lowered his hand. “Very well,” she said, heart starting to beat faster. “But be warned this may be the last time you invite me to dine.”

“I am warned,” he promised her. “Tell me all.”

And so she did. About how her father had once been a highly regarded courtier to an aristocratic family. About fleeing France in terror during the Revolution. About the many years of hoping and waiting, income dwindling but pride only growing. About the insistence that they were too good to work even then.

“I could abide it no longer,” she finished. “What sort of life was that, never one thing or the other? Better to choose and move forward. My parents did not agree. So long as I work, I am beneath their regard.”

His eyes dipped down at the corners, as if he heard sorrow in her voice. “That is to their shame, not yours.”

Her father would never see it that way. Sometimes she struggled to see it that way. She shrugged. “They have made their choice. I have made mine.”

“And how did you end up here, of all places?” he asked, gaze going off toward the trees.

“My first interview was with the Duke of Tyneham. He is hiring many staff for the manor. He chose me to see to the dowager duchess.” There, it seemed she still had some pride left. She could hear it ringing in her voice.

“An honor indeed,” he agreed. He had finished his pie as she spoke and now tucked the wrapping away in his sack.

“You did not tell me the story of why you are not considered a gentleman,” she pointed out, offering the wrapping from her finished pie to put away as well.

“Perhaps another time.” He rose and held out his hand to her.

She gazed up at him. The sun gilded his hair, making it appear as if he wore a halo. “That is not satisfactory.”

He barked a laugh. “Are you this imperious with the duchess?”

“More so,” she admitted. But she took his hand and allowed him to pull her up until she was standing at his side. “Tell me, mon ami . You did not run screaming from me when I told you my story. I will not do so to you.”

He bent to retrieve the blanket, which he slung once more across one shoulder like a cape, then held out his hand to her again. “Allow me to escort you home.”

She should insist, but if he didn’t wish to speak of it, there was little she could do to force the truth from him. Still, it troubled her that he would so readily listen to her tale of woe and refuse to confide his own.

He tucked her hand into his arm, and they set off down the track for the manor. Fields stretched away on either side, brown and brittle. A bird circled overhead, then dove over the edge of the hill. In the quiet, she fancied she heard the distant sound of the Channel waves that lapped the foot of the plateau.

“You are in truth a highwayman,” she guessed. “You steal gold pocket watches from the gentlemen and kisses from the ladies.”

Again he laughed. “Alas, my life is far from that interesting.”

Violette wiggled her jaw, thinking. “You are a foreign prince in disguise, hiding from his enemies.”

He arched a brow. “I see you read Mrs. Radcliffe.”

“I have not had the pleasure,” she said with a sniff. “But if you do not tell me the truth, I will continue to build stories.” She stopped as a thought hit, pulling her hand from his arm. “You are not an émigré too!”

“ Non, mon ami ,” he answered in her language. “Though I have been taught a little about your country and its culture. I will tell you my story in time. Please allow me the joy of basking in your approval for a little while longer.”

She understood. She had been afraid to tell him about her family for the same reason. “Very well,” she said. “But I hope you will tell me soon. I too would like to know you better.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips to press a kiss against her knuckles that had the oddest effect on her knees. “You cannot know how you honor me. I look forward to our continued discussion on Tuesday.”

* * *

Ben found himself in a difficult position as they entered Tyneham Manor after services that day. Why did Claudia have to be so perfect? He cast a covert glance at her profile as she pulled the pelisse from her shoulders. No one could argue her beauty and poise. Now he knew the kind heart that beat beneath those rich trappings.

And her quick mind as well. He’d always enjoyed talking through important matters with Jane. Missing that was part and parcel with her passing. He had friends he could discuss ideas with, and his parents were always willing to lend an ear. But for that intimate conversation about heartfelt matters, he truly had no one.

Yet he shouldn’t rely on Claudia, much as it felt right and good to do so. He would never be numbered among her peers. At best, he might catch a glimpse of her at the theatre in her private box while he sat in the pit, or watch her carriage pass while he was out surveying land for a new bank or church. It seemed a far stretch to imagine he’d be a welcome guest in the manor he was about to remodel.

Yet he could not seem to stop himself from flying closer to her flame.

“I can take Oliver with me to the library while I work,” he told her now as the other dowagers started up the stairs and his son looked wistfully after them.

“The good Lord rested on Sunday,” Claudia said with an arch look. “I see no reason why you should not.”

He glanced down the corridor toward the door to the kitchen. “That would not appear to apply to the rest of your staff.”

“You are not staff,” she said. “And they all have the rest of the afternoon off. That has become tradition at Tyneham Manor. Mrs. Bettleton’s pot girl and one of the footmen will return early to attend to the dishes.”

Ben winked at her. “Then I suppose I should add a larger larder to the plans to store all the food they must prepare in advance.”

“Very wise,” she agreed.

So, he and Oliver joined her and the other ladies in the sitting room. Her Grace the Third soon had her head buried in a book. Her Grace the Second settled behind the grand piano and began playing Mozart. Oliver had his sketchbook in his lap, tongue out one side of his mouth, as he drew. Anastasia alternated between jouncing up and down in front of him and resting at his feet, tail twitching.

“She wants to play,” Claudia pointed out.

Oliver looked up with a frown. “Dogs play games?”

Her Grace the Second ceased her playing. “Anastasia does. Watch.” She rose from the bench and went to stand in front of her pet, who eagerly hopped to her feet.

“Sit,” Her Grace commanded.

The pug set her plump rear on the carpet.

“Stay.” Her Grace hurried from the room.

Anastasia wiggled, but she didn’t get up.

“Find me!” The young dowager’s voice echoed down the corridor.

The pug popped to her feet and rushed out the door.

Oliver glanced between Ben and Claudia. “May I go too?”

Claudia spread her hands. “I did not hear Georgie tell you to stay.”

He set aside his sketchbook and hurried after the dog.

“And Anastasia will find her mistress?” Ben asked Claudia.

He must have sounded more skeptical than he thought, for she laughed. “Every time.”

“Though, mind you,” the other duchess put in, “Georgie does tend to hide in one of three spots.”

From down the corridor came the sound of laughter. “Oh, good girl!”

Her Grace the Second returned with the pug on one side and Oliver on the other, gaze alight.

“May I try?” he begged her.

“You have only just met her,” Ben reminded him. “I’m not sure she’d be able to find you.”

Oliver’s face fell.

“But the attempt would be good for her,” the second dowager insisted.

“Good for Oliver too, I think,” Claudia murmured to Ben.

He drew in a breath. “Very well. But don’t be disappointed, Oliver, if she doesn’t do it on the first try.”

“She’s very smart,” Oliver insisted.

He stood still as Her Grace the Second explained the process. Then his son darted out the door to hide.

Anastasia wiggled on the carpet, gaze veering between her mistress and the door. From somewhere in the distance, a thin, reedy voice called, “Find me!”

The pug bolted, her mistress at her heels.

The youngest dowager shut her book. “This I must see. Excuse me.”

And Ben was suddenly alone with Claudia.

He adjusted his cravat, shifted in his seat, and cast about for something witty to say. What, was he a lad on his first Season? He knew how to speak to a lady!

Claudia appeared to have no such trouble being alone with him. “You might as well relax,” she said with a smile. “They could be at this for hours.”

At least she had taken his discomfort as concern for his son. He glanced at the sketchbook Oliver had left behind, then pulled it closer. Once again, he could only marvel at his son’s talent.

“What is it?” Claudia asked, as if she had seen his smile.

Ben pivoted the book to show her. “Her Grace the Third. A very good likeness.”

“Very good?” Claudia shook her head. “He’s captured that pensive quality she has. I’d say it’s excellent!”

She sounded like a proud mother. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

As if she too realized her reaction was not in keeping in her role as his client, she rose and went to take her place at the piano. She hadn’t the fluid ease of Her Grace the Second, but the notes flowed smoothly enough. And talk about pensive looks. He would have given much to know what was on her mind.

He flipped the page on Oliver’s sketchbook, took up the charcoal his son had abandoned, and began drawing. A curve of the cheek here. The sweep of lashes there. And that smile that beckoned him closer.

He was so focused on his work that he hadn’t noticed when the music shut off until a shadow crossed the page.

“And what are you drawing, sir?”

He hastily turned the page back to Oliver’s drawing before he stood. “Just something for my own edification. It’s good to keep my hand in.” He glanced toward the door, listening for his son.

“You cannot stand it, can you?” she said with a shake of her head. “Go and work on your plans. We’ll keep Oliver entertained. But we will expect you at six for a cold collation.”

With a smile he hoped would serve as apology, Ben bowed and headed for the library.

He had all the measurements before him, so he began sketching the floor plan of the manor as it currently existed. The template would give him a better idea on how to remove those portions that were no longer serving a useful function and where to add the new pieces. The west wing and center block of the ground floor were relatively simple, containing as they did the sculpture gallery, game room, and front and rear entry halls, with some storage rooms at the back. The east side of the manor was a bit more complicated, with the sitting room, dining room, and library in addition to the maze of kitchen, storage rooms, and upper staff rooms.

He was partway through the first floor when he began to have difficulties. The placement of the walls and his notations did not match. Had he mismeasured?

He went over his work again, comparing numbers against what he had drawn. Everything seemed accurate.

Yet the rooms did not align properly.

Starting from the main stair, he carefully outlined the withdrawing room, breakfast room, servants stair, and each bedchamber and dressing room. The northern side of the corridor lined up with what he had measured. The southern side did not. Claudia had measured her bedchamber, but he could not imagine she could have been off by this much.

He could not imagine his orderly duchess being off by so much as an inch.

He tried again, starting from the outer wall of the east wing and working toward the main stairs this time. His measurements came out a good twelve feet short on width for the rooms that overlooked the gardens.

Somewhere between the eastern wall and the main staircase, there was an extra room.

Why had no one shown it to him? Or didn’t they know?

Just as importantly, who had placed it there and why?