An Ideal Duchess (25 page)

             
“May I see him, Amanda?”

             
“Of course you may, you are, after all, his aunt,” She bent slightly as Beryl stood on her toes to look at her nephew.

             
Anthony joined them with a grin, holding his hat in his hands. “I don’t know, they look more like Bron to me—not the red hair, but their scrunched, displeased-to-be-interrupted expressions.”

             
Amanda laughed and looked at the babies. “They do look rather like him when he is irritated by something.”

             
Her smile slipped a bit at Bron’s approach and she lifted a brow in challenge. His expression remained impassive.

             
“We ought to be off,” He pressed his hand to the curve of her back to guide her towards the door.

             
They were to be driven to the chapel in Bledington village in the new motorcar Bron had purchased in Town at her behest. Maggie’s brother Jacky Wilcox stood beside the exposed chauffeur’s seat of the deep blue Hooper Limousine, and moved to open the door of the enclosed section of the motor. To her dismay, Bron plucked her son from her arms and handed him to Nanny Tester before pressing her inside the motor. The Dowager Duchess came next, and then Beryl, before Bron swung inside to sit beside his sister in the quilted leather seat facing the rear. Her knees bumped his as the chauffeur pressed the accelerator and the motor advanced down the courtyard.

             
Amanda twisted in her seat to look out of the window behind her, where her parents and Anthony stepped into her father’s Daimler, Lord Charlie and his wife and sons in their own motorcar, a few other family members, and then Viola, Nanny Tester and the nursemaid, who were to follow in a carriage. She fell back when the motor turned out of the gate, wedging her into the corner. Bron abruptly reached over to help her straighten in her seat, but lowered his hands the moment she sat upright. He refused to meet her eyes, and she turned away, grateful for the swath of veiling over her high-brimmed hat that hid her painful swallow and the prickle of tears in her eyes at his indifference.

             
“The children shall be safer in a carriage, not in this dread contraption,” Her mother-in-law said, absently patting Amanda’s knee. “I don’t know why you had to purchase one Malvern, when we have a stable of perfectly suitable carriages.”

             
“You will grow accustomed to it, Mother,” Bron said dryly, crossing his arms. “Just as you grew accustomed to the telephone and modern plumbing.”

             
Amanda balled her hands in her lap in mounting anger as Bron and his mother’s conversation turned to desultory topics, as though they we not en route to the christening of their sons, a moment that should be excited and engrossing and nerve-wracking. But the boys appeared to be of no more interest when compared to the latest gossip or news of the tenants. The estate rolled by outside of the window, and turned into the quaint, stone-roofed, golden-slate village of Bledington. They soon reached the parish church, a large but plain building made of the same weathered molten yellow stone as the rest of the village. There was a tall, broad fifteenth-century cross in the churchyard, which, per the Dowager Duchess’s sudden interjection, was given to the church in memorial of the death of the seventh duke’s brother in Khartoum with General Gordon.

             
Reverend Newton, a tall, bespectacled man, stood in his plain black vestments and white stole beside the fleshy Bishop of Wirrall, whose vestments were decidedly unplain. The Bishop’s presence had been another bone of contention between she and Bron—she saw nothing wrong with the man who resided in Bledington’s living to conduct the christening, but to Bron, it was of the utmost importance to have their family friend, His Grace the Bishop of Wirrall, baptize the heirs to the Duke of Malvern. The Bishop’s effulgent, obsequious greeting of her mother-in-law, and then her and Malvern, grated on her nerves, but she smiled tightly at him in response.

             
She made sure to take one of the boys in her arms, pointedly routing Bron’s attempt to take her arm, as they entered the church and filed into the ornate pews designated for the Townsends at the end of the nave, nearest the equally ornate marble chancel. The Bishop, with Reverend Newton acting as his server, began the service, which contained a number of prayers and hymns before the actual baptism of the boys. She turned to peer over her shoulder at the muffled sounds from the rear of the nave, and saw the servants, who had come by foot, file into the back pews at Fowler and Mrs. Finch’s direction. Her son, the younger twin, gurgled in her arms, and she brought him closer to her chest. She caught Bron’s look of bewilderment as he stared down at the child in her arms, and felt a moment of pained amusement over his continued chariness over the physical manifestation of their coupling. Her heart sunk even further when he shook his head when she extended the baby to him, and shifted away, as though their son were plagued.

             
She stood when the time came for the Bishop to baptize her sons, distracted from Bron’s lack of grace by the excitement of the ceremony, and handed the one in her arms to her father and watched carefully as Nanny Tester handed the elder twin to Anthony. Anthony and her father approached the Bishop, who began another Latin prayer and dipped his hand into the bowl of water, making the sign of the cross in the air. He took the baby from Anthony’s arms.

             
“Name this child,” The Bishop of Wirrall intoned.

             
Anthony looked back at her with a comically helpless expression, and she moved to the chancel before anyone could stop her, and replied firmly, “Anthony Alexander James.”

             
Anthony looked surprised, but repeated the name in full. The Bishop of Wirrall then gathered the second boy, and she prompted her father, “Cornelius Auberon Frederick.”

             
The Bishop sprinkled water on both babies’ heads and handed each back to his sponsor before pronouncing the final blessing.  She took baby Anthony—or rather, the Marquess of Rodborough, as was his courtesy title—and turned to rejoin the family who now gathered in the aisle. Her mother was teary-eyed as she approached, and everyone remarked on how very well-behaved the boys were.

             
“Alexander, eh?” Lord Charles’ eldest son, Elliot squinted down at the boy.

             
“That was Bron’s brother,” She said. “I thought it a fitting memorial.”

             
“I’ll bet Bron don’t think so,” Elliot said cryptically, and wheeled around at the sound of his name.

             
She reluctantly allowed her mother to carry the baby as everyone began down the aisle to return to Bledington for the christening party. The church had emptied before she realized that Bron remained in the pew, gripping the front pew, his head bowed.

             
“Bron?”

             
He turned to face her, his mouth set in a thin line. “Why Alexander?”

             
She flinched at the vehemence in his tone. “You refused any other name I chose, and did not offer any alternatives, so I decided to name our son after your brother.”

             
“God help us. I hope you have not made a grievous mistake in shaking the ghosts of the family,” Bron said flatly, pushing away from the front pew and stepping into the aisle.

             
She was shocked into silence, and took the arm he coolly offered to her, before following him down the nave and out of the church.

De
cember 1904

             
Maggie joined the other housemaids as they peered through the partially open servants’ door to watch the family decorate the Christmas tree in the Saloon. It almost reached the ceiling and the gardeners—who rarely saw the inside of Bledington— trimmed its branches to form a neat conical shape. It was their boasting in the servants’ hall over Mrs. Alcock’s spiced mull, of managing to find the tallest, grandest tree in England, which prompted the housemaids to rush for the door to see this mighty tree. Fowler was distracted by the preparations for the family hunting party and Christmas, and the kinder Mrs. Finch turned a blind eye to their doings so long as any member of the family did not catch them.

             
She oohed and ahhed with her fellow housemaids as Lady Beryl and His Grace unpacked the delicate ornaments stored most of the year ‘round in the attic above the nursery wing, and Her Grace, Lady Charles, and her sons, the duke’s cousins, added them to the shiny tinsel and garland already wound around the tree’s circumference. Doris closed the door slightly when the Dowager Duchess came into view, followed by Miss Townsend, as they descended the staircase, but the dowager’s sharp eye did not detect their watching and at Maggie’s urging, Doris opened the door to its normal width. Maggie wanted to dance on her toes at the festivity that seemed to crackle in the air. She loved Christmases at Bledington Park, and relished describing them to her equally fascinated Mum and Da when she and Jacky were given a holiday on Boxing Day.              Maggie froze at the sound of someone clearing his or her throat behind her, and turned, fully expecting to see Mr. Fowler staring coldly down his nose at her. He had never forgotten her brief moment of working for Her Grace, and seemed to consider her desire for a better position as putting on airs and aspiring above her station. Her shoulders sagged with relief when it was only Jacky, who looked grand in his blue chauffeur’s uniform and peaked cap.

             
“You scared us, Jacky! We thought you were Mr. Fowler.”

             
“Serves you right,” Her brother scanned the other housemaids’ faces. “Spying on them when we’ve all got work to do.”

             
“We weren’t spying, Mr. Wilcox,” Annie, one of the more flirtatious housemaids, batted her eyes at her brother. “Merely observing.”

             
“And we’ve a right to look at the tree—we’re going to be cleaning up after it,” Doris placed her hands on her hips. “Unlike some who’ve got nowt else to do but scold hard-working girls having a small lark.”

             
A flash of chagrin shifted the expression on Jacky’s usual immobile face. “You’re right, Miss Beecham, I’m sorry.”

             
To Maggie’s surprise, the rather belligerent Doris blushed a rosy red. She rolled her eyes when the housemaids flocked to his side, and began flirting with her brother as they turned to walk back to the servants’ hall. That was her brother, whom the housemaids found inexplicably charming in spite of his reserve. She turned to give the family and the marvelous Christmas tree one last longing look before shutting the door firmly and following after them.

*          *          *

              A proper hunt began just after dawn, and Bron strode into his wife’s bedroom at a quarter past seven, his spurs jingling with his steps, as he tapped his riding crop impatiently against his boots. He frowned at the sudden darkness. The bedroom was devoid of light, save for the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, and when he approached Amanda’s bed, he saw that she still lay there on her side, entangled in her bedclothes, one leg and one arm having wormed free of the heavy blue blankets. Her skin was lush and velvet soft, flushed lightly with the pink of heavy sleep, and he used his crop to lift more of the nightdress twisted around her thighs, his breath caught in his throat as he stared greedily at the newly exposed expanse of skin.

             
He had not touched her in weeks and was exasperated that this unexpected moment gave him pleasure. He hated leaving her in the aftermath of spent passion, but tradition drilled into his head and his own embarrassment over being caught by a housemaid, or worse, Pettingell, in bed with his wife prevailed. What he hated even more was her resignation and later, indifference, to his sliding out of the bed and returning to his room, as though she tolerated his visits. It left him confused and offended, and he could only assume she considered her duty done now that she presented him with two heirs. He supposed it was his fault for remaining irritated with her presumptuous naming of their eldest son after his blasted brother, but she did not ask him about anything, though he was loath to pick at that old wound.

             
He traced the delicate blue veins just bruising the surface of her translucent skin, pausing when she shifted slightly with an unintelligible murmur and turned beneath the bedclothes to her back, legs outstretched and free of the blanket. He flicked a glance to her face, which was turned away from him, half-hidden in the shadows, but he could see the puckering of her brow into a frown, an expression—much to his bafflement—he found on her face more often than her smiles. From a moment, he wondered if she were…unhappy, or lonely. This couldn’t be so, since she spent what he considered an unhealthy amount of time in the nursery when she was not out with his mother on tenant visits. It was merely a funk, he assured himself, a funk that she would shake off once she got into the thick of her first hunt. .

             
He lifted his riding crop from its illicit exploration of her skin and walked to her windows to yank open the curtains, flooding the bedroom with light. He stared in satisfaction at the filmy silver mist covering the cold, hard-packed earth; this was excellent hunting weather. He then strode back to Amanda’s four-poster bed and pulled the tasseled cord hanging from the wall before sitting in the space beside her on the bed and shaking her awake.