Page 21 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

F reddie studied her reflection in the looking glass, wondering what Plimpton would think when he came to collect her in less than an hour.

A glowing bride, she was not.

Freddie sighed and opened the bottom drawer of her dressing table and extracted a small bag of cosmetics she had only ever used in emergencies.

“This is an emergency,” she told her reflection.

A light dusting of rice powder beneath her eyes concealed the worst of the dark rings.

Before she could think better of it, she put a dab of rouge high on each cheekbone and rubbed until only a faint, healthy shadow remained.

There. That was all she would do.

Worry about the future was only part of what had put dark smudges beneath her eyes. Yesterday had been the first day she had been able to keep down her breakfast of plain toast, tea, and half an apple.

“If you have one good day, you’ll have more,” Mrs. Brinkley had assured her. “Those who are sick all the way through don’t usually have a reprieve, my lady.”

Freddie had eagerly grasped at the older woman’s prediction, praying it was true. Being ill every day for the next six months did not sound pleasant under the best circumstances. Vomiting every day while trying to adjust to marriage and a new husband who now hated her would be a nightmare.

As haggard as she looked, at least her clothing was smart and fashionable. It had pained her to use so much of her tiny nest egg on a gown when she would much rather give it to the Morrison’s for Mirand, but she had rebelled against the idea of going to Plimpton dressed like a beggar.

Besides, her small savings hardly signified now that she was to be married. Wareham—who was, thankfully—recovered but not so much that he had insisted on making the journey to attend what was likely to be a grim wedding ceremony, had written to congratulate her on her nuptials. His joy in the marriage of his only sister to his best friend had fairly leapt off the page.

Freddie had written to him, but Plimpton had reached him even before her letter. Evidently the duke had set off the same day he’d collected her in Spenham. He had gone to negotiate the details of the wedding contract. Judging by her brother’s ebullient letter, the duke had not shared the reason for the speedy nuptials. Freddie had been relieved Plimpton had not told anyone else she was enceinte. She should have known he would not broadcast such a private piece of information.

She still had not decided whether or not to tell her closest friends about her condition. A good part of her reticence was pride. Freddie had always been the calm, practical, and sensible one in her group of seven. She had already relinquished all claim to those characteristics around Plimpton, but that did not mean she was in a hurry to admit that to her nearest and dearest.

Right now, every ounce of her strength was devoted to facing the man who would be her lord and master.

She looked away from her reflection, glancing at her two trunks and two valises. Astoundingly, this was all Freddie had to show for the last eight years of life: some clothing, a few books, personal treasures that were valuable to nobody but Freddie—paintings Miranda had given her, letters from her friends, a carving of a swan Miles had made for her last birthday—and other sentimental bits and bats.

The house and all its furniture belonged to her friend Honey, who had first been her roommate and then her generous, absentee landlady.

Honey had been the first person she had written about her impending wedding. It had been a difficult letter as she’d needed to announce not only her intention of vacating the house, but also her betrothal to Honey’s own brother-in-law.

Honey’s response had come by courier and had rivaled that of Wareham when it came to excitement and enthusiasm.

She assured Freddie that the house would continue the way it was, the four servants—Mrs. Brinkley, Una, Sarah, and John Bowman—would remain in Honey’s employ after Freddie paid their wages the last time. Even though she would never again occupy the charming but humble house, Honey would not sell it.

“ It is all I have left of my father,” she had explained in her letter. “ I will keep it for friends to occupy when they visit London. I might even use my father’s old studio when Simon and I begin to spend Seasons in the City. Do not worry about anything house-related, my dearest friend, I am sure you have plenty on your mind to occupy you.

As for your choice of Plimpton? What can I say? You are perfect for each other. Simon is so thrilled you would think it is OUR marriage he is celebrating. I wish you were having a grand wedding ceremony for us all to attend, but I am delighted that you and Plimpton are so eager for marriage you do not wish to wait.”

Freddie had laughed out loud at that part.

She had been touched that the replies from her other friends—Portia, Serena, Annis, Miles, and Lori—had also reached her before today, the last one, from Annis, arriving yesterday. Their letters had brimmed with congratulations and pleasure that Freddie, the last of their number, would not be alone. And if there was an undercurrent of confusion and many questions unasked in each letter, Freddie knew her friends were far too polite, not to mention too accustomed to her intense privacy, to plague her on her unexpected marriage.

Well, all except Lori, whose letter—an ironically brief scrawl from a woman who happened to be a novelist—promised, or threatened rather, to pry all the juicy details out of Freddie when they met at her house party. “ Now it is a party to celebrate not just my own marriage, but yours as well, dearest Freddie.”

Freddie had groaned at the thought of contending with all of her friends at once, but finally decided that baptism by fire was probably the best approach. Besides, she could hardly cry off the party when she had been the one to advise Lori on the date.

Writing letters and packing was not all she had done over the last week. She had also made an unscheduled visit to Miranda.

The Morrisons had been embarrassingly grateful for the money she brought with her.

“But you already paid for this next quarter, Mrs. Torrance,” Mrs. Morrison had said.

“This is something extra—for all three, er, girls.”

Mr. Morrison had taken the packet, his eyes widening at the thickness of it. And then widening even more when he had opened it and looked inside. “This is too generous, Mrs. Torrance. Far too generous,” he’d protested.

“No, it is not,” she had assured him. “Nor is it going to be the last of the money. From now on, there will be enough to command not just the bare minimum, but enough to afford all of you more comfort.”

“But—and please forgive me if I am encroaching—how is all this possible?”

She had hated to do it, but it would be impossible to keep her identity secret in the future. Perhaps if Plimpton had not known…but he did know.

“A countess !” The color had drained from Mrs. Morrison’s face after Freddie had confessed her identity.

“Perhaps you should sit down for this next part,” Freddie said, terrified the woman would go into a swoon.

“There’s more ?” she’d shrieked, leaning heavily on her husband who led her to a chair.

Both the Morrison’s had been well beyond awed and deeply alarmed at her next news.”

“A duchess ?” Mrs. Morrison had whispered, as if the word was somehow holy.

Freddie supposed that it was to common folk. There were dukes and then there was the king. It was like the firmament and the stars, and all were equally out of reach to most people.

“I am not sure how often I will be able to visit,” she had confessed.

“No, of course you cannot come here,” Mrs. Morrison had agreed.

“You misunderstand, Mrs. Morrison. I will not stop coming completely.” At least she hoped Plimpton would not forbid the visits. She had been stupid not to insist on it when he had asked to discuss their marriage, but it was too late for that now. “However, I do not know when and how often.”

“But…a duchess , visiting here? Is—surely your husband, er, the duke, will not permit it?” Mr. Morrison had asked.

Freddie had bristled at the old man’s question but could not deny it. “Right now, I cannot make any firm promises. And I know that will upset Miranda.” Just coming on a day that wasn’t Wednesday had already alarmed the girl, who was up in her bed resting after the confusing surprise.

“No, she will not care for such a change,” Mrs. Morrison agreed, dubious. “Perhaps—” she broke off, biting her lip.

Freddie had felt a heaviness at the other woman’s expression. “Go ahead, Mrs. Morrison—speak plainly, please.”

Mrs. Morrison glanced at her husband. He had nodded, the two communicating without words the way some long-married couples seemed to do. “What my wife was going to suggest is that it might be better if you do not, er, come visit.”

Freddie had been angry—no, furious—and it must have shown.

“Only for a while,” he hastily added.

“It is just a suggestion,” Mrs. Morrison hurried to assure her, now pale and terrified.

A few deep breaths and a moment of reflection had convinced her they were right. “What will you say to her?”

“Nothing right away. We will not tell her until Wednesday. You know how it is difficult to talk to her about matters that are not directly before her.”

Freddie had nodded because Mrs. Morrison was correct. For Miranda there was the first Wednesday and the third Wednesday. And there were other days—laundry day was every Monday and market day Thursday—and changing those days in her mind would be a Herculean undertaking.

But there was no helping it. Not only would the duke not wish to live in London during the summer but she doubted that he would want her to come to town next Season now that she was increasing.

No, she could not make plans for first and third Wednesdays. Not anymore.

A hot streak down one side of her face pulled Freddie from her unhappy thoughts. A glance in the mirror confirmed that she was well on the way to red-rimmed eyes and a swollen nose.

“Drat,” she muttered, quickly extracting the small bag again and repairing the damage as best as she could.

Freddie was inspecting the results when there was a light knock on the door. She hastily shoved the rice powder back into the bag as if it were the vilest of contraband before saying, “Come in.”

Mrs. Brinkley opened the door a crack and then a bit wider when she saw Freddie was dressed and waiting. “You look lovely, my lady,” she said, the flattering expression on her face bearing out her compliment.

Ah, the wonder of cosmetics.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brinkley.”

“A carriage and footman have arrived to collect your things, my lady. His Grace will be along in a quarter of an hour.”

Freddie nodded, her heartbeat speeding at the thought of seeing him again. She was such a besotted fool. She could only hope he never guessed that.”

“This is from the four of us, my lady.” The housekeeper gave Freddie an uncharacteristically shy smile as she held out a prettily wrapped package.

Freddie felt the telltale burning in her eyes that always heralded tears. Why was she such a watering pot? “Oh, Mrs. Brinkley, you shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense. You have been a lovely mistress, and we will miss you dearly. I hope you will visit us.”

“Of course I will.” She glanced at the package. “Should I open it now?”

“Yes, it is for today.”

Freddie unwrapped the box and smiled when she looked inside. “These are lovely,” she said, picking up the fine linen and lightly rubbing a finger over the blue horseshoe embroidered in one corner.

“It isn’t nearly as nice as the work you do, but I am accounted no mean hand.”

“The are beautiful,” she assured the other woman, touched.

“Look beneath,” Mrs. Brinkley ordered, dashing a tear from her cheek.

Freddie’s eyes widened when she saw the filigree cross on the bed of cotton wool. “This is much too nice! I could never—”

Mrs. Brinkley chuckled. “Never you worry, Una is only loaning it to you.”

“Er—”

“ Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue, A Sixpence in your Shoe .”

Freddie laughed. “Ah yes, of course. Please tell Una I will return it in good order.”

“Of course, my lady. But there is something more—sandwiched between the two pieces of wool to protect it.”

Freddie gasped when she saw the tiny blue egg. “Why, that is the smallest egg I have ever seen.”

“It is a dunnock egg, my lady. Sarah made it.”

“She made it?”

“Aye, you see the colorful floss? Pick it up.”

Freddie gingerly picked up the bright red embroidery floss and saw it went through the egg, which had been cleverly hollowed out. She felt sad for the bird that had given its life for the bauble, but it was pretty.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Sarah said to tell you the eggs were left to rot in the nest, my lady. She said, I know my lady loves all creatures—be sure to tell her naught were harmed, Mrs. Brinkley. ”

“Well, thank her for that. It does make me happier.”

“You cannot wear it, of course, but you have the handkerchief to satisfy the blue.”

Freddie laughed. “Ah.”

“There’s one more thing under that piece of wool.”

Beneath the last piece, resting on the bottom of the little box, was a shiny new sixpence.

Freddie chuckled.

Mrs. Brinkley rolled her eyes. “That is from John Bowman. Lazy bugger. Er, begging your pardon my lady.”

“You tell them thank you for me.”

“They would have given it themselves if you hadn’t been so kind as to allow them the day off.”

“I gave it to you, too, Mrs. Brinkley.”

“Tisn’t right for you to be readying yourself alone on your wedding day, my lady.”

Before Freddie could answer, there was a tap on the door.

Mrs. Brinkley opened it and one of His Grace’s footmen—Freddie recalled his name was William—bowed and said, “Begging your pardon, my lady, but His Grace is below.”

Freddie opened her mouth, but the older woman spoke first. “You take your new mistress’s bags below. The countess will be down when she is good and ready.”

Humor glinted in the young man’s eyes, but he inclined his head respectfully to the older woman and said, “Of course, madam. Are these all?” he asked, easily picking up the four bags in two hands, making her life’s possessions seem even more paltry.

“Aye,” Mrs. Brinkley said. “Get on with you.”

Once the servant had gone, she turned to Freddie, her expression expectant.

“Er, yes?”

The housekeeper gestured to the box. “I’ll help you with the necklace and sixpence, my lady.”

Freddie laughed at the other woman’s adherence to superstition but handed her the box and sat.

“It never harms a man to be kept waiting,” Mrs. Brinkley muttered, clasping the pretty cross around Freddie’s neck. “Even if that man be a duke.”

***

On the morning of his second wedding Plimpton found himself wishing for his brother Simon’s counsel. Plimpton rarely engaged in confidences, preferring to rely on his own judgment when it came to making important decisions. Only now, faced with something that would change his life by several magnitudes, did he admit how much he would have liked to confide in another man—one he trusted.

Plimpton had always valued his brother’s opinions where women were concerned. Once upon a time, when Simon had been young, single, and carefree, Plimpton had greatly envied him. And then Simon had returned from the War a husk of his former self and he had been reminded why it was never wise to envy another man.

He did not envy Simon now; he was glad that his brother had found happiness. In the process, however, their relationship had become less important to Simon. Plimpton saw him less and less now that he had a wife and child. It had been a long time since he had spent time with only his brother, just the two of them together.

There was Wareham, of course, but Plimpton could hardly tell Winifred’s brother how he had debauched his sister under his roof, impregnated her, and then threatened her into accepting his offer of marriage.

Plimpton grimaced. Hell, it hadn’t been an offer, it had been a demand of marriage. An order. A command .

“Damnation,” he muttered. He ought to have done better. He ought to have controlled his temper.

Digby paused, the razor slightly above Plimpton’s chin. “Your Grace?”

“It is nothing,” he said, feeling like a fool for muttering like a madman.

His valet bit back a yawn as he deftly finished shaving him and placed a steaming towel around Plimpton’s race.

The poor man was exhausted and so was Plimpton. And yet the day had scarcely begun.

The two of them had spent the last six and a half days on the road, traveling very briefly to Whitcombe to inform his mother and daughter of his news, and then to Torrance Park, arriving back in London late last night.

He’d only had time to see his mother and daughter at Whitcombe—both had been pleased, albeit startled, by his announcement—leaving them to share the news with Simon and Honoria.

Wareham had been delighted by his surprise visit, his delight reaching near unbearable levels when Plimpton confessed the reason behind it.

“Marrying Winny?” Wareham had bellowed, his healthy but still too-thin face wreathed in smiles. “By God, I knew you could charm her, Plimpton. If any man could talk my stubborn sister around, it would be you.”

Plimpton had been darkly amused by his friend’s optimistic assessment. He knew that he and Winifred could not hide the truth behind their sudden marriage forever, but by the time the child came, nobody would comment that the baby was two months early.

At least they would not dare comment to Plimpton or his wife.

He had worried that Wareham might cavil at the haste with which the marriage was taking place. He should have known better.

“Good God, Plimpton! Don’t wait for me—or anyone else—drag my obstinate sister to the alter with all possible haste,” Wareham had commanded when Plimpton had apologized that they were not waiting until the earl was ready to travel. “It is a second marriage for both of you, I can understand why you would not wish to engage in all the frippery and foolishness.”

The gentle clearing of a throat pulled Plimpton back to the present.

“What is it, Digby?” Plimpton asked, buttoning his waistcoat.

“I believe Your Grace had decided to wear the cerulean and silver waistcoat to match her ladyship’s gown.”

Plimpton blinked at his valet. “What are you babbling about?”

Digby held up a blue and gray waistcoat. “I think Your Grace will prefer this waistcoat.”

“Will I?” he asked dangerously.

Digby held his ground. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Plimpton snorted and began un buttoning his waistcoat. He did not care if Digby radiated smugness at his easy capitulation. Arguing with his valet was like arguing with the tide.

“I presume you have arranged for Lady Sedgewick’s maid?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at his servant when the other man looked like he was going to adjust Plimpton’s cravat. He might give in on the subject of waistcoat choice, but he’d be damned if he’d allow his servant to tie his cravat as if he were still in leading strings.

“I have, Your Grace. I interviewed ten prospects from the agency but, in the end, decided Mary Compton was the best choice.”

Plimpton frowned as Digby helped him into his coat. “Compton? Frank Compton’s daughter?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She is the youngest of his eight daughters.”

A grunt of amazement slipped from Plimpton. He’d known the tenant farmer had a large number of daughters, but not that many. “The youngest, you say. Is she not a bit young?”

“She is eight-and-ten, Your Grace, but she has ably filled the position of parlor maid for two years now. I am impressed with her maturity and dedication.”

“Well, if she impresses you, I am sure she is an excellent choice.”

“I am gratified by your faith in me, Your Grace.”

Plimpton snorted and selected a pearl cravat pin from those Digby held out on a tray.

His valet cleared his throat.

“Oh, for pity’s sake. What is wrong with this?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Her ladyship is wearing silver, Your Grace.”

Plimpton grunted, displeased that Winifred had nothing but paste pearls and silver jewelry. He returned the pearl pin to the tray. “Well?” he said when Digby merely stood silent and unmoving like a totem. “Which is it to be?”

“I believe the sapphire pin would be best, Your Grace.”

Plimpton tucked the sapphire pin into the folds of his cravat and slipped on his signet ring before turning to inspect his appearance in the glass. He saw the same average-looking, bland-featured man he had seen his entire life. The only differences between his reflection at twenty and almost three-and-forty were the deeper lines around his dull, slate-colored eyes and the amount of gray in his boring brown hair.

He met Digby’s gaze in the looking glass. “I trust you have made arrangements at the Bird in Hand for this evening?” he asked, naming the inn where he would spend his first night with his new wife.

“I reserved their best chambers as well as adjacent rooms for Compton and myself.”

Plimpton nodded and reached for the gloves and hat Digby was holding. “I will see you there.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Ten minutes later Plimpton hopped out of his travelling coach—the one that had the escutcheon emblazoned on the doors rather than the unmarked carriage that he normally used—in front of Winifred’s house. His baggage coach was already there and waiting. In fact, the front door of the house was opened by one of his very own footmen, William.

“Where are the servants?” he asked the younger man.

“The housekeeper said her ladyship gave them the day off, Your Grace.”

“Where is the housekeeper?”

“Upstairs with her ladyship.”

“Please notify them I have arrived.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Plimpton examined the small foyer as he waited, recalling well the last time he had been in this house.

As he paced, he wondered, not for the first time, if he should have spoken to Winifred before today and consulted her opinion on matters, even though she had asked him to make those decisions himself. If not the place and time of the ceremony, then perhaps the bridal journey.

He shrugged off the thought; it was too late to change things now. If she did not like Sweet Clover Manor, they could rest a few days and go someplace she would like.

Do you think there is such a place if you will be there with her?

Plimpton snorted; probably not.

He turned at the sound of footsteps to see William descending the stairs with two bags beneath his arms and another two in his hands.

“Her ladyship will be down directly, Your Grace.”

Plimpton jerked a nod. “Perhaps you should bring help on your next trip,” he suggested wryly as the man fumbled with the bags.

“Er, this is the only trip, sir.”

“That is all the countess’s luggage?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He nodded his dismissal and waited, once again alone with his thoughts. His mind wandered to the letters he had received from his family upon returning to Plimpton House yesterday.

His brief visit to Whitcombe had taken his mother and daughter by surprise so that neither of them had asked many questions. But they’d had five days to collect their wits and their letters had, with varying degrees of subtlety, expressed their curiosity.

He’d received one from Honoria—with a postscript from Simon declaring Plimpton a sly dog —a much longer letter from his mother, and a brief missive from Rebecca.

His lips twitched as he thought about his daughter’s letter, which had begun with the cheeky question: “ Are you marrying Lady Sedgewick to avoid the expense of paying her to sponsor me, Papa?” But his smile drained away when he thought of her regret at not being involved in the wedding.

His mother’s letter had said much the same thing—not the jest about the expense, of course—but that she regretted the hurried nature of the marriage. Although she did not put it in such direct words. He knew what she was thinking—that he was marrying in haste and would repent at leisure. She would be worrying he had chosen another wife based solely on her appearance. What might have begun that way, had altered greatly along the way. While it was true Winifred would make a perfect duchess, it was no longer those qualities he appreciated most in her.

But he did not tell his mother that. She would discover when she met Winifred that he had not fallen into the same trap twice. Plimpton felt certain that both his mother and daughter would like his new wife exceedingly.

He turned at the sound of footsteps and could not help smiling at the sight that met his gaze. No wonder Digby had been so bloody insistent on his waistcoat. Winifred’s blue gown was an exact match to the subtle stripes in his own garment. What color had Digby called it? Celestial? No, that wasn’t it. Cerulean.

Plimpton thought celestial was a better word for his betrothed, who with her delicate blonde beauty looked exactly like the sort of being one would expect to find reclining on a cloud plucking a harp. Yes, she looked like an angel, at least Plimpton’s idea of what one should look like.

“You look lovely, Winifred,” he said as she came to halt in front of him.

Her cheeks, already bearing an attractive rosy blush, darkened even more and she gave him a deep, graceful curtsey. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Plimpton stared down into her magnificent but veiled eyes. “Are you ready?”

She swallowed, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes, I am ready.”