Page 5 of His Extraordinary Duchess

Chapter Five

C ook was chopping scorzoneras as Claudia and Mr. Warden entered, the long, black tubers dark against the scarred worktable. The kitchen, housekeeper’s parlor, and butler’s room were in some of the oldest parts of the house, tucked into the bottom of the east wing and flanking the formal gardens. The floor was flagstone. The wide hearth along one wall was made of the golden, locally quarried stone. Dark wood cabinets lined the walls, with a large worktable in the center and another at the end of the room for the staff.

Cook immediately handed the work off to one of her helpers and bobbed a curtsey, wiping her hands on her apron. “Your Grace. Sir. Is something wrong?”

Was Claudia so distant that her staff assumed her only reason for visiting was to complain? She did her best to smile as she explained Mr. Warden’s purpose. Then she looked to him.

“Mrs.?” he asked politely.

“Cook,” she said.

“Mrs. Cook…”

“Just Cook, sir. That’s what they all call me.”

Claudia nearly cringed. Was the woman not even allowed a name? She’d been cooking at the manor since before Claudia had arrived. What had Joseph called her? Beasley? Bestwick?

“Mrs. Bettleton has been with us for many years,” Claudia said, and the woman brightened with pleasure.

“What do you like best about the manor, Mrs. Bettleton?” Mr. Warden asked.

“My kitchen.” She beamed with pride, then pointed to the red cast-iron door set into the hearth. “You see that? It’s an oven. The French court doesn’t have better.”

Claudia couldn’t help smiling at that. Joseph had insisted on installing the oven after reading about them in The Times .

“You certainly know how to use it to effect,” Mr. Warden told the cook. “Those pastries you sent down for breakfast were absolutely delicious.”

She pinked. “Thank you, sir.”

“And what would you change, if you could?” he asked.

She glanced at Claudia, dropped her gaze, and fiddled with the folds of her apron. “Oh, that’s not for me to say, sir.”

“I would like you to say,” Claudia put in. “If there is something more you need here in the kitchen, you shall have it.”

Mrs. Bettleton glanced up shyly. “Well, Your Grace, since you ask.” She took a deep breath that expanded the already impressive chest of her dark cotton gown. “There’s no good place to store the pots and pans. We shove them all under the worktable or in any little nook and cranny, and every time I need one, I have to hunt it down. It would be ever so much easier to have them hanging ready to grab when needed.” She nodded at the thick beams crossing the low ceiling.

“An excellent suggestion,” Mr. Warden told her, making a note on his pad. “And the very reason I like to consult those who are most familiar with the house. Thank you.”

She bobbed a curtsey. “You’re very welcome, I’m sure.”

Mr. Warden followed Claudia out into the corridor.

“You must think me a monster or a fool,” she said with a shake of her head. “I had no idea we had such issues in the manor.”

“Not issues, opportunities for improvement,” he said. “And I can see the care you’ve taken, Your Grace. I’ve been in houses where the floors are so uneven, the ceilings so low, the staff have to bend to perform the least duty. I’ve seen kitchens so blackened by smoke you could not guess the colors of the walls. Your home is tidy and obviously well run. And that, I find, is a credit to the person in charge. You.”

Warmth spread up her. How long had it been since she’d heard a compliment or a word of thanks? Even Georgie and Sophia had come to expect the management of the house to be her responsibility, particularly since the housekeeper had left them at Christmas.

“Thank you, Mr. Warden,” she said. “And thank you for opening my eyes to what more is possible. What else can I do to support you?”

His smile broadened. “Tomorrow, we will speak to some of your villagers. You said this manor is the mainstay of the area. Let’s see what they think of it.”

* * *

The haberdasher was alone in his shop when Violette entered, but the grey-haired, dapper fellow gave her a respectful nod from behind his counter that ran the back of the room. As a servant from Tyneham Manor, she was already both recognized in the little village and able to move about without a chaperone.

“Come back for those ribbons?” he asked hopefully, gaze going to where a rack held spools of various shades, like a captured rainbow.

“You know me so well,” she said with a smile. “But of course I must look to see if you have anything new.”

“Of course.” He nodded toward the wall on her right, which held bolt after bolt of fabric, from crisp cottons to soft wools and slick satin, though she knew that last was mostly stocked for the women of the great houses in the area. In so small a village, he must not only sell notions but the fabric as well.

The door chimed behind her, but she didn’t turn. It was none of her affair who else shopped the wonderful material and notions on this side of the room or the gentlemen’s hats and fabrics on the other. She breathed in the dry scent of fabric, imagining all the gowns she could construct if she had only the funds and time. Her fingers brushed a bolt of fine muslin. Paired with the right trim and her paisley shawl, she would look… not like a lady’s maid. Her fingers fell.

“A worthy choice,” a warm male voice said behind her. “Though with your coloring, I might suggest scarlet or emerald.”

She turned to frown at the upstart who had dared to speak so familiarly to her, and her breath caught. Brown hair peeked out from under a top hat, and his gaze was greener than the grass of summer and lit with an appreciation she had seldom seen since she’d become a maid. That spruce-colored coat must have been tailored for him, for it outlined broad shoulders and a narrow waist, though his brown breeches were of more common wool.

“I do not recall asking for your suggestion, sir,” she said.

He held up both leather-gloved hands. “My apologies. As an artist, I tend to think in colors. Forgive my intrusion.” He tipped his hat to her and turned for the counter.

And some of the light left the room.

She shook herself. Her response to his comment was entirely justified. If he was a gentleman, he would surely feel chagrined when he realized he’d been flirting with a lady’s maid. If he was not a gentleman, she should not encourage him. Still, she couldn’t help casting a glance or two his way as he spoke in low tones with the haberdasher. Such a manly figure. Such presence.

Such a perfect excuse to keep from achieving her purpose!

She marched to the rack of ribbons and pulled down a spool. The gentleman had made his way to the other side of the room, where he stood as if studying the materials available for cravats. His had been cream-colored, simply tied, and she wrinkled her nose as he fingered a length of orange fabric speckled with yellow.

He looked her way just then, and she hastily cleared her face and dropped her gaze. But he must have seen her distaste, for he chuckled. “Apparently, you would prefer I not copy old Jem Belcher, the pugilist,” he said. “You have a dislike of colored cravats?”

“ Mais oui ,” she said before she thought better of it. “A gentleman wears white, cream, grey, or black, because only he can afford to keep such colors clean. It is a sign of his prosperity.”

“Then perhaps I should adopt brown,” he said, moving to join her as she approached the counter. “Easier to hide the paint.”

Was he saying he was no gentleman? Mr. Pierce, the haberdasher, certainly thought he was, for he was already bobbing his head. “No, Mr. Atkins. A gentleman like yourself can wear any color he likes.” He looked to Violette as if in warning.

So, Mr. Atkins was a gentleman. And she was no lady. Violette kept her head down as she slid her spool of ribbon onto the counter and waited her turn.

“Thank you, Mr. Pierce,” Mr. Atkins said. “But we both know I shan’t be gracing any withdrawing rooms this Season unless it is to paint one of our lovely young ladies, her prestigious family, or their fine estate.”

“And lucky they would be to have you do so, sir,” Mr. Pierce told him.

Mr. Atkins leaned his elbows on the counter, which put him a little closer to Violette, and she caught the scent of sandalwood. “I approve of the ribbons, by the way. They will match your eyes.”

She stared at the spool, heat flushing up her. She’d picked the wrong one! She shot him a glance. “They are not supposed to match my eyes.”

“No, indeed,” Mr. Pierce said, offering no help whatsoever. “I believe you wanted the paler blue.”

Violette hurried to exchange the ribbons, fingers trembling. What must the haberdasher think of her? Would he tell Her Grace she had been presumptuous to a gentleman? Would she lose her position?

She returned to the counter, where both men still waited. “This is for Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Tyneham,” she said, gaze on the handsome stranger instead of the merchant. “My mistress.” There! If he had any question as to what position she held in life, he would doubt no more.

“I’ll put it on Tyneham Manor’s ledger,” Mr. Pierce said, taking up the spool. “Two lengths?”

Violette nodded, waiting for the gentleman to turn away. Instead, his gaze moved beyond her to scan the fabrics on the far wall.

“I imagine Her Grace could do with a new gown for spring,” he mused. “Several lengths of that cotton patterned with peacock feathers should do the trick.”

Mr. Pierce looked up as Violette gaped at Mr. Atkins.

“Oh, excellent choice, sir,” the merchant warbled. “You might mention it to Her Grace, miss.”

Mr. Atkins smiled, gaze coming back to hers. “Perhaps she’ll come shopping herself, or at least send you. Tuesday next, mid-morning?” He tipped his hat to her again, then sauntered out of the shop, leaving Violette still staring.

* * *

The ribbons that fluttered on Her Grace’s tall bonnet were an icy blue, just like the narrowed eyes that regarded Ben thoughtfully as they set off for the village the next day. He had spent the rest of the afternoon with Mr. Kinsle, reviewing the staff quarters against the list of positions. His impression from the Duke of Tyneham was that every one of those positions would shortly be filled. More space was clearly needed.

Today, though the afternoon was chill and damp, she’d requested an open carriage drawn by matched bays. Either the other dowagers were too occupied with their own affairs to chaperone her or they did not share her passion for his process. Instead, her lady’s maid—a dark-hair, blue-eyed beauty—had accompanied Ben and the duchess.

Ben had hoped his questioning of the staff had lowered Her Grace’s defenses. She had certainly been receptive to the idea of more comfortable quarters and greater efficiency. And he could not forget how the color had risen in her cheeks as he’d complimented her management skills. She’d looked happier, more carefree.

More compelling.

But he could not afford to be so attracted to her. To notice how her countenance brightened when she seized on an idea. To enjoy her quick wit. To wonder how well her fingers would feel against his if he reached out to hold her hand.

She was a duchess, albeit widowed. He had nothing to offer her.

But she had everything to offer her neighbors. That was never more apparent than when he handed her and her maid down next to the green. He’d noticed the village when he’d first ridden through in the carriage the Duke of Tyneham had sent to bring him to the estate. On the south and west sides around the center swatch of grass sat neat whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs and front gardens where flowers and vegetables would no doubt soon rouse themselves from their winter sleep. The east side of the village held various shops, some with wide front windows boasting their wares.

Her Grace nodded toward the church and vicarage, which, with the graveyard, took up the northern side of the village. “I would suggest starting with our vicar,” she said, adjusting her reticule about her gloved fingers, “but we are without one at present. Mr. Nash, from the next parish, comes in Sunday late to read the service for us.” Her rosy lips settled into a firm line again. “His Grace must appoint a new vicar, which he will do whenever it suits him, it seems.”

Ben looked to the single-story church built from limestone block and rubble, which had weathered to a soft grey. “Does it have sufficient space for all in the area to worship?”

She eyed him. “St. Mary’s requires no renovation, Mr. Warden.”

“I was merely making polite conversation, Your Grace,” Ben said with a chuckle. “Just because I’m an architect doesn’t mean I look for ways to improve every building.”

Her arched brow said she doubted that. But she turned resolutely toward the east side of the village. “Mr. Pritchard first, I think.” She picked up her skirts to sweep toward the shops, her maid following dutifully behind her.

Mr. Pritchard proved to be the wet grocer. A sturdy fellow who looked as if he had enjoyed a great deal of his own products, he was more than happy to speak about the excellent patronage he’d enjoyed by all the dukes over the thirty-some years he’d been keeping his shop. He suggested a larger wine cellar might be in order.

“That way, you won’t have to order quite so often, Your Grace,” he added.

“Very considerate of you, Mr. Pritchard,” she said. “And how is your granddaughter?”

His round face twisted. “Not quite herself yet, though I thank you for sending the physician from Grace-by-the-Sea. He says she’ll be up and about in a fortnight or so.”

“Good,” she said with a smile. “Please give your wife my regards.”

“You can be sure of it, Your Grace.” He bowed to her.

They stepped out onto the street. The maid glanced back and forth as if expecting someone, but Her Grace led them onward.

“Mr. Pritchard’s granddaughter took a fall while pruning the apple trees they use for their cider,” the duchess explained to Ben. “The least I could do was send for Dr. Bennett.”

Ben blinked as he reached to open the door to the next shop for them. “Dr. Linus Bennett, the physician at Grace-by-the-Sea?”

Her Grace smiled at him as she crossed into the shop. “The very one. I find his services excellent.”

Beyond excellent, as the man had to cater not only to the aristocracy in the area but all those who flocked to the noted spa town. But he was known for helping any who had need, regardless of their ability to pay, so coming to check the daughter of a wet grocer living three miles distant was not beyond the realm of possibility.

Particularly when summoned by the Dowager Duchess of Tyneham.

“Your Grace!” heralded the haberdasher, bowing so quickly he nearly smacked his head on the counter he stood behind. “Come for that fabric?”

“Fabric?” Her Grace asked, glancing at the maid who now stood to one side of the door.

Her maid curled in on herself a little. “I will explain later, if it pleases Your Grace.”

The duchess regarded her a moment before motioning Ben forward. “I came to see you, Mr. Pierce, because His Grace sent us an architect who intends to bring Tyneham Manor back to its former glory.”

Ben was so surprised by the positive description of his work that he nearly missed the introduction and had to hurriedly reach out to shake the haberdasher’s hand.

“Have you lived near Tyneham Manor long?” he asked as Her Grace went to speak with her maid, whose head remained downcast.

“My whole life,” he said proudly. “My father was haberdasher before me, and his father before him.”

“Then you’ve served the last few dukes,” Ben mused.

“All of them, though, mind you, it’s generally the duchesses who provide the custom.” He nodded his head toward Her Grace, who was now standing beside a row of fabric bolts examining some cotton prints. “Her Grace the First has been very generous over the years.”

“Her Grace the First?” Ben asked, mindful of the duchess just beyond them.

He made a face. “Forgive me, sir. It started with the staff at the manor, you see. With three duchesses in residence, they had to find a respectful way to tell which was which when speaking amongst themselves. The habit spilled over into the village. I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Ben assured him.

Mr. Pierce glanced at the duchess and leaned farther across the counter. “Still, best not to mention it, if you take my meaning.”

“I understand completely. Tell me, have you seen anything you think would improve the manor?”

“New finishings,” the haberdasher immediately supplied. “I have some lovely chintz that could be used for bed hangings or chair coverings. Would you care to look?”

“Perhaps when I have my plan further in hand,” Ben said as the duchess swept up to them.

“I am considering that cotton with the peacock feather print,” she told him. “But I have in mind the yellow muslin for my daughter-in-law. I’ll send Violette back when I’ve made my decision.”

“Perhaps on Tuesday next,” Mr. Pierce said with a grin to her maid.

Her Grace frowned, but the maid hurried toward the exit, and Ben had to lengthen his stride to catch the door before she did.

“A few more stops, I think,” Her Grace said, passing him. “Do try to keep up, Mr. Warden.”