The Emerald Duchess (23 page)

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By the end of January, Emily could only be glad to be left alone, for her figure was becoming just as heavy and awkward as she had predicted it would.

She was sitting in the newly redecorated gold salon one afternoon, embroidering a small blanket for the baby, when Wilkins came to announce that Lord and Lady Staunton had called. At first she was tempted to deny them, and her expression of distaste for her condition made the butler add in his fatherly way, “It is only the duke’s aunt and uncle, your Grace. They are on their way to London and beg to break their journey here overnight.”

At that, Emily nodded and folded up her work with suddenly cold and nervous hands. So, she was to meet some of the duke’s family at last! A moment later she rose as the middle-aged couple were bowed into the drawing room.

“How do you do?” she asked, coming toward them with a welcoming smile on her lips. “Unfortunately, Charles is not here, but I am delighted to welcome you in his place.”

Lady Staunton sniffed and raised her pince-nez to inspect her new niece more closely. “Of
course
you are delighted, my girl!” she exclaimed in an insulting tone of voice.

Emily stiffened. How dare she speak to me like that, she thought, and where was the curtsy that convention insisted the older woman give her in deference to her rank? She could see Lord Staunton all but wringing his hands, his mouth opening and closing at his wife’s rudeness, and it gave her the courage to say in a cold, proud voice that Lady Staunton could hardly have bettered, “I fear you have been misinformed,
ma’am. I am not ‘your girl’—I am Emily Saint Allyn, Duchess of Wrotherham.”

She paused, staring at Charles’ unpleasant aunt until the lady was forced to drop her pince-nez and a shallow curtsy as well. “Your Grace,” she said grudgingly.

“Won’t you be seated?” Emily asked next as if nothing untoward had happened. “I will order some wine for you. Such
a raw day, is it not?”

They all spent an uncomfortable half-hour together until Lady Staunton said she would like to go to her room and rest before dinner. Emily escorted them to the hall, where she was delighted to turn them over to Wilkins and the housekeeper.

As she returned to the gold salon, she thought she had seldom met a more impossible woman. Her husband had had very little to say for himself, and when he did respond to one of Emily’s direct questions, he kept darting his popping little eyes in his wife’s direction. It was obvious that Lady Staunton ruled that roost, that she was less than ecstatic about this newest member of the family, and that she was very proud and formal as well. It was exactly the kind of reaction that Emily had expected from the duke’s family, but instead of acknowledging that the lady had a valid point in disliking her and the circumstances, she found herself indignant and angry. Very well, she was Althea Wyndham’s daughter, but now she was also the Duchess of Wrotherham, and she expected to be treated as such. In fact, she promised herself as she paced the floor, I demand it. Lady Staunton had better beware.

Dinner, although delicious as always, had seldom seemed to last longer. Thanks to Charles’ anecdotes about town, Emily was able to hold her own, and because of the presence of the servants, Lady Staunton’s guns were spiked. When, however, the two ladies adjourned to the drawing room, leaving Lord Staunton to his port, she wasted no time in rectifying this error. The fact that Emily was the perfect embodiment of a duchess and filled the role with such grace and dignity she found offensive, and she was especially angry when she saw with what care and respect all the servants treated this shameless chit of a notorious mother, who, according to Charles’ own account, had lately been one of them. And yet there was Wilkins smiling as he seated her so carefully at the table, and the footmen hovering behind her, attentive to her every wish. Lady Staunton found the entire situation revolting.

“I see you are with child,” she remarked coldly as soon as she was seated. “When do you expect to be confined?”

“Sometime in March, m’lady,” Emily replied as she took out her embroidery.

“Or perhaps even February? I am sure no one in society would be at all surprised at a very premature birth,” Lady Staunton said bitterly. “Now I know why Charles buried you down here in the country, but how does he expect us to live this down, along with everything else we have had to bear? It is disgraceful!”

Emily threaded her needle calmly. “May I remind you, madam, that that is Charles’ and my business? I fail to see that it is any business of yours.”

The older lady gasped and Emily looked straight into her eyes and continued, “Since we are now family, no matter how each one of us may regret it, may I suggest at least a semblance of goodwill between us? I am perfectly willing to receive any of the duke’s relatives as long as they behave in a correct manner, but as duchess here, I will not tolerate rudeness or insults. Do I make myself clear, Lady Staunton?” She stared until the lady flushed and nodded.

“Of course, I suppose it must be as you say,” she agreed reluctantly, and then took another tack. “I am not surprised to find that dear Charles is not here, for I have it from all the tittle-tattles in London that he seldom visits Wrotherham Park these days.” In her voice was the conviction that her nephew was regretting his hasty marriage already. “I am told on good authority that he was seen escorting Lady Ackroyd again, only last week. Charles is such a favorite with the ladies.”

“I know Charles is the type of man women find hard to ignore,” Emily agreed sweetly, as if so secure in her position this did not worry her in the slightest.

“Yes, Helena Ackroyd was quite distraught when she learned of his marriage. However, since she is out of black gloves for her late husband now, she has become quite the gay widow,” Lady Staunton persisted, adding yet another barb to Emily’s quivering flesh. “How beautiful she is! She was called the Incomparable of Incomparables the year she came out. Perhaps, since you never entered society’s ranks yourself, you are not acquainted with the lady? A tall, handsome brunette, the type Charles has always favored. But then, one can hardly expect the duke to allow the act of marriage to reform him.
I
fear you have married a rake, madam.”

At this point, Lord Staunton slipped into the room and Emily smiled a welcome to him even as she rose. “I must ask you both to excuse me,” she said. “The doctor decrees an early bedtime for me these days. May I ask when you have called for your coach in the morning?”

“We plan to leave at ten, niece,” Lord Staunton said, coming to take her hand and bid her good night.

“How unfortunate that I will not be able to see you off! I am never belowstairs before eleven. Allow me to wish you a safe journey, and let me assure you, you will always be welcome at Wrotherham Park.”

On this note she bowed and left her guests to fend for themselves. As she went up the stairs on one of the footmen’s arm, she berated herself for her cowardice, but she did not feel she could remain in the same room with that horrible woman for another moment without losing both her temper and her dignity.

In the days that followed the Stauntons’ visit, Emily found herself in a state of unhappiness that even surpassed her misery at Charles’ initial defection. He had never mentioned his aunt and uncle to her, of course, so she had no way of knowing how he regarded them, but could he care for such a woman as Lady Staunton? Surely he would not be influenced by her opinion of his duchess, would he? And this beautiful Lady Ackroyd
...
who was she? Could it be possible that Charles was setting up a mistress already? She clenched her hands as the baby moved within her, and then she looked down at her unshapely form and could not help weeping a little with her frustration. Several times she began a letter to Charles, hoping to hea
r
that none of what she feared was true, but the letter proved impossible to write, and outside of using up a lot of time and wasting several sheets of hot
-
pressed paper, nothing came of this endeavor, for she found she could not send it.

At last, instead, she wrote only to tell him that the steward had found a large leak in one of the roofs of the west wing. What did Charles wish her to do about it? she inquired. And then she added, as if it was an afterthought, that Lord and
Lady Staunton had stayed this past week and she hoped they had arrived in town safely. After assuring him of her continued good health, she signed the letter as was now her custom, “Emily, Duchess of Wrotherham.”

There was no immediate reply, and she found herself suddenly so restless that she could not sit still, and she continually paced the floor until her aching legs and tired back could stand no more. She was not sleeping well either. There seemed to be no position that was comfortable in bed, and the baby was very active, often waking her from a light sleep with his kicking and turning. It must be a boy, she told Darty, for no girl would ever behave so rudely to her mama!

One morning, after an especially restless night, she found herself awake very early, and unable to remain in bed, she went to the window to watch the sun rise. The weather had cleared at last after a week of fog and rain, and it appeared that it was going to be a beautiful day. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. It was only a hard day’s riding to Wantage, and if the coach went slowly and she was well wrapped up, with a hot brick to her feet, and broke her journey somewhere overnight, no harm would come to her or the baby. Yes, she thought, excited by her plans, I will go and visit my mother’s grave. I am ashamed I have not done so long before this.

Not only her maid, but Darty and Mrs. Turner as well tried to convince her that taking such a journey was a reckless decision on her part, with the birth only a month or so away, but Emily would not listen to them. She was so determined to go that it was only two days later that she left Reynolds in the carriage at the churchyard in Wantage and walked alone across the small graveyard, holding her sable cloak tightly around her against the chill of the wind. She was glad there was no one else abroad on this blustery winter day, and when she reached her mother’s grave, she stood quietly for a moment, her eyes closed in prayer. And then, tired from the jolting of the carriage, she sank down on an olden fallen tombstone nearby to rest.

Her eyes were somber as she stared at her mother’s grave. How much trouble Althea Wyndham has brought me, she thought. And yet, considering everything, how brave a woman she had been! Left alone with a small baby to support, she
had snapped her fingers at society, held up her head, and done exactly as she pleased. She was stronger than I am, even if what she did was wrong, Emily thought. I cannot approve of her life—in fact, I still deplore it—but even so, I have a reluctant admiration for a lady who went her own way and managed to laugh at all the consequences. She had never whined nor expected special treatment, and she had never railed against her fate. What would she think of a daughter who was so determined to be correct, and so cowardly to boot, that she had turned away a loving husband that she herself adored because of what society might say? Who
were
society, after all, that they were more important than her love for Charles, and his for her?

She seemed to hear her mother’s light, disbelieving laugh in the sighing of the wind.

“My dearest Emily, you have been a goose!” her breathless voice whispered in her ear. “It has been such a long time since you quarreled with your Charles. Ah, his father was not his equal, my dear. Charles
loves
you; he loves you so much he married you. And what do you do, all haughtiness and pride and superiority, but send him away? And it has been four months, Emily. A man like Charles! How long do you think it will be before he is taking up with one of my successors, if he has not done so already?”

“Oh, no,” Emily moaned, her hands to her hot cheeks. “He must not ... I could not bear it.”

Again the trill of laughter echoed in her head. “Nor can he, my dear. Do you know nothing of men at all? But come, you say you cannot bear it? Then you must do something about it at once, and pray you have not left it too late. Think, Emily! Is the title ‘duchess’ enough satisfaction for you that you will let him make love to this lady and that and ignore you? Do you really want to be his wife in name only? If you do not, you must make a push to get him back, my dear daughter. Oh, yes, a definite push. Lady Ackroyd is so very beautiful—and unconventional—even as
I
was. Can you do it? Have you the courage?”

“Yes, I can—I will!” Emily said through gritted teeth.

“My dear, how like your father you are, after all! He had just the same determination and faith in himself. And if you
can find it in your heart to forgive me and remember that the
life I led has nothing whatsoever to do with how you choose to live your life, you will win through. Remember, too, that as a Wyndham you are every bit the duke’s equal in birth and you can take your place beside him proudly with your head held high.”

Emily waited, but there was only the sound of the wind sighing in the elms, rustling the dead leaves that carpeted the graveyard, and far away, the cawing of the rooks. She sat perfectly still, holding her breath and waiting, and then, very faintly, she heard her mother’s voice once more.

“I shall pray for your success, my dearest daughter. Go now and make all right with your Charles, as only you can do. He is so proud, only your complete surrender will suffice. Swallow your own pride; it makes a poor bedfellow, believe me.
”

The wind swelled and died away, and then there was a heavy silence that told Emily she would not hear her mother’s voice again.

She rose stiffly, putting one hand on Althea Wyndham’s tombstone to steady herself, while her other hand supported her distended abdomen where her baby—Charles’ baby—slept and waited, and then she felt it move and kick her and it seemed to give her added strength. For
his
sake, too, she thought. Our child deserves to be
born
to a happy marriage. He will need both of us.

“Thank you, Mother,” she whispered, her hand caressing the rough tombstone. “I will not shame you or my father anymore, I promise.”

She made her way back to the gate where her carriage was waiting. “We will return toward home now, John,” she told the coachman. “I do not care to remain in Wantage. Make for the post road and the Green Man at Barret, where we will stay the night.”

“Aye, your Grace,” he said, touching his hat as one of the grooms helped her to her seat and Reynolds wrapped the fur rug around her. Emily smiled at them. She felt calm and serene and sure of herself and the course she planned to follow. She would write Charles as soon as she reached home and she would tell him how much she loved him and beg him to forgive her for making their marriage such a mockery. Somehow she knew that he would come to her at once, that all her imaginings had been simply that
silly illusions she made up in her head. He loves me, I know he loves me still, she told herself. Didn’t he promise he would come as soon as I relented?