Page 27 of My Own True Duchess
“He’s a bay—red coat, black mane and tail. The name fits him.” The gelding also alternated between angelic and diabolical moods, much like the roulette wheel.
“Tell me more about Quimbey Hall. I take it you have fond memories there?”
She was good at this. Jonathan was forming an answer—an honest answer—before he realized how good.
“My uncle cherishes that property, and when he saw what a naughty boy I was becoming, he sent me there. I thought I’d perish of fury, to be ripped away from my parents, but Uncle was right. I needed the peace and spacious surrounds, and even then, I suspect he knew I’d eventually be responsible for the place.”
She offered him more tea. He accepted to be polite, though he longed for strong coffee or frothy chocolate.
“Were you angry to leave your parents?” she asked, “or angry that they’d let you go?”
Jonathan set his cup on his saucer carefully. “Both, I suppose.” A silence sprang up, carrying a fraught sliver of vulnerability. Jonathan rallied before Mrs. Haviland could launch another soft-spoken rocket at his self-possession.
“What of you?” he asked. “Do you hold fond memories of a rural girlhood, and is that why you’d even consider a remove to Hampshire?”
The conversation wound on through the second cup of tea and several spoonfuls of the peach concoction, lest Mrs. Haviland scold Jonathan for wasting food. She knew when to press, when to retreat, when to offer up a small insight into her own situation—very small, which was doubtless another schoolgirl strategy about which nobody warned an unsuspecting bachelor.
At the end of an hour that had gone both quickly and slowly, Jonathan was on his feet, once again studying the trio of doves on Mrs. Haviland’s wall.
“Will I do, Mrs. Haviland? Will I suffice as a husband as well as a duke?” He’d tried for a light tone and to his own ears sounded like a gambler asking for just a little more credit.
She considered him while he considered the pretty, docile birds so lifelike he could almost hear them coo.
“You have to try, Mr. Tresham. All those young women longing to be your duchess have been training for years to earn your notice. They care very much what sort of impression they make on you and the other bachelors. If you can’t muster any regard for their opinion, then no, you will not do.”
She was telling him no, telling him to take his bank draft and tear it into tiny pieces, despite the worn carpet and the empty candleholders. Unease Jonathan had been ignoring for the whole of this audition—for that was what it had been—coalesced into dread.
I must take a bride—the right bride—and I cannot find her on my own.
Mrs. Haviland’s gaze held not anger, not even rejection, but sadness, and that made Jonathan even more uneasy. She could be hired, she could not be bought. She had an unerring social instinct and knew everybody. She was dignified but didn’t put on airs, and integrity radiated from her every word and glance.
And she doubted his worthiness to speak vows with even the likes of Dora Louise. Genuinely doubted his ability to be a decent husband—and she might be right. Hadn’t Jonathan said as much to Dora Louise himself?
The doves looked out at him from the painting, their little bird eyes at once calm and interested. He needed to be like the doves, settled, happy, sure of his life. He needed…
Mrs. Haviland was helping herself to his serving of the peach dessert, her expression as she slid the spoon from her mouth a mixture of bliss and guilt.
“You want me to be happy,” Jonathan said, the truth of that insight lifting all manner of clouds. “You want me to find not merely an acceptable duchess, but the right duchess for me.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Haviland set his unfinished treat to one side on the tea tray. “Marriage is a partnership. If you aren’t happy, your duchess will have a difficult time being content, and conversely. I understand that you seek a cordial union, but if you marry some fanciful girl and break her heart, if you marry a woman without scruples who appeals to your vanity, if you marry—”
“I understand,” Jonathan said. “I must try. I must risk allowing the ladies to see the man they’ll marry, not merely the tiara in his hands, and I must honestly assess their reactions to him. I comprehend.” He must try, as he’d sworn in adolescence to never again try, to win somebody’s notice and attention.
“Yes. This is not a pointless game of chance, Mr. Tresham. Finding your bride should come as close to a solemn quest as any undertaking you can imagine.”
Next, she’d insist he trade in Roulette for a prancing white charger, and to secure her good offices, he might even do it.
“I do take the matter seriously, madam, else I’d not have retained your services, would I? Will I see you at the Gillingham musicale on Tuesday?” Will you abandon me before our adventure even begins?
“Call upon me Tuesday afternoon,” she said, rising. “I will have a list of names to discuss with you.”
“My Tuesday afternoon is already full of business meetings, none of which I can avoid. Might we reconvene Tuesday morning?”
Her brows rose, as if the notion that Jonathan had commercial interests surprised her. “If you prefer.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan meant those words. “Until Tuesday, and I will look forward to reviewing your list.”
He bowed, and Mrs. Haviland escorted him personally to the front door, perhaps to assure herself of his departure.
