Page 36 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘It’s not aboutmore. It’s about legacy. His father wanted the appointment, as his grandfather held it, but died before he could achieve it. At some point, Arley took it on as his mission. Legacy doesn’t weigh men like Arley or his father, it sustains them.’ Lorelei turned to Vivianne. ‘And you will be his counter. The lightness that brings important connections to dinners. The modest beauty that is described in the press as his steady keel. The gentle elegance that softens his hard edges. You can help him in his ambitions. That is what a duchess does. We are far more important than men realise.’
‘But he’s a duke. They don’t just give him what he wants?’ Vivianne asked.
‘He is not the only duke, and that is not how the house works. Certain privileges are available to him, but not everything. He’s too reserved for the shoes he’s intent on filling. His father was more… sociable.’ The air turned stiff, and Vivianne wasn’t sure what emotion edged Lorelei’s words—pride or resentment. ‘People expect a performance from a duchess.’ She gestured at the archway that her son had just vacated. ‘This world will be your stage. And when the audience is gone, you will be his retreat.’
This Exchequer was for Arley what the prima ballerina was for herself. It needed more than hard work, or commitment. It needed influence. Ambition. Opportunity. The pang of the lost dream still bit, but now, she could help Arley achieve his dream. He could have his heart’s desire, which she had not been able to grasp for herself.
‘I think you are ready.’ Lorelei’s brisk tone broke Vivianne’s thoughts.
‘To be a duchess?’ Vivianne asked.
‘Gracious, no. For an outing. Gather your things. We are going to the stationer. You need invitations.’
‘For what?’
Lorelei smiled. ‘For the most talked about wedding of the season, of course.’
They should be elegant. No, ostentatious. No, demure. White, and innocent? Pastel and bright? Or dark and serious, edged in black, to show the importance of Arley’s title.
‘My lady, those are for funerals,’ the assistant said as he turned the page in the sample book. ‘May I suggest ivory and gold? It’s a classic combination.’
The assortment of papers spread before Vivianne shimmered like stained glass in afternoon light. Lorelei, seated beside Vivianne on the chaise in the private room that the staff had ushered them into, gave no hint of preference or direction. Only watched, her sharp eyes following Vivianne’s gloved fingers as she touched each little sample.
Parchment, vellum, heavy, light, embossed, hand painted, machine pressed. And then, what typeface? She had to focus hard to read, especially English, which she had learnt by ear, and so preferred the simpler letters. But should she request the more ornate style because it was more… well, more?
She recited Lorelei’s mantra in her mind—people, presence, persuasion. Which one of these would impress people she did not know and convince them she was worthy of being a duchess?
‘I think I like…’ She tapped her finger between two samples, before pausing on a heavy parchment, with slightly rough, rustic yet beautiful edges, and the lightest gold fleck through the texture. ‘This one. It is beautiful, no? And I would like the letters with all the curls.’
When Vivianne looked to Lorelei, she was trying to hide the faintest of smiles. She’d done it. She’d made a good choice. Despite its simplicity, her heart beamed. Her first success. Today, invitations. Tomorrow, she’d be running the household.
Perhaps nottomorrow. But soon.
The stationer opened a large ledger and folded over the pages. He took up a pen and began scratching out the order.
‘What is the charge?’ Vivianne asked. Lorelei had told her she’d need to watch the economy of the household. She could begin now.
‘The… charge?’ asked the attendant.
‘For the paper, and envelopes. The printing. How many pounds?’
Beside her on the chaise, Lorelei shifted, and gave a subtle cough.
The attendant pulled out a sheet of paper and made some notes.
‘I reckon it at £37. M’lady.’ A slight gruffness edged his tone.
‘Non, non, non, that is too much!’
‘You are asking us to rush the work. Other orders may need to be delayed,’ he said, defensive.
‘I know this work, and the people who do it. Even for premium paper it should not be more than £10. Maybe even less.’
Vivianne squared her shoulders like she was on stage, frowned, just a little, and stared him down. He blinked fast, his mouth opening and closing as he looked from her, to Lorelei, and then down at his sums. ‘I suppose we could reckon it at…’ He scratched out a few more numbers. ‘How does £7/6 sound? Better?’
‘Bien. Much better,’ Vivianne said.
Lorelei furnished the stationer with the details of the church, the date, and the numbers to be printed. Vivianne moved to the door and peered into the shop. It was full of activity—a man inspected small bottles of ink, young ladies giggled over pink sheafs of paper, a matron discussed fountain pens with an assistant. Vivianne took half a step into the space and inhaled. Dry parchment, the heavy aniseed like scent of ink, and the hubbub of people, city dust, soot and energy filled the air. For the first time since she arrived, Vivianne felt close to the people, their daily lives and grievances, their sorrow and joy. Perhaps she could stroll through the shop and brush shoulders with them. Maybe start a conversation. She could buy Arley a new fountain pen. Surely, that was something he would need.
