Page 3 of My Own True Duchess
“Mrs. Haviland,” he said, “I hope you haven’t presumed upon the trust—”
The look she sent him was complicated—humorous, disgusted, incredulous, and, most of all, exasperated. Jonathan fell silent.
She went to the door and opened it only wide enough to accept a tray. “Others must dodge unwanted attentions too, Mr. Tresham. Care to join me?”
Jonathan was hungry. He was tired. He was irritable, which was not only a function of fatigue and lack of sustenance, but also his general nature since returning to England. By day, his schedule was littered with business meetings, by night he dodged medusas and matchmakers.
“I’m sorry for my earlier comment,” he said. “My trust in the fairer sex lately has been tarnished by unfortunate experience.”
“Eat,” Mrs. Haviland replied, resuming her seat. “Life isn’t half so daunting when we’re rested and well fed.”
Who was she? Jonathan’s commercial endeavors had kept him mostly away from England for the past ten years, as had a hearty disgust for so-called polite society. Lady Della had instructed him on the list of Diamonds of the First Dew, or whatever the term was, and other men’s wives were absolutely incapable of capturing Jonathan’s intimate interest for any reason.
He was at a loss with Mrs. Haviland. “Have we been introduced?”
She speared a bite of peach. “No, we have not. I’m the lady who makes up the numbers or chaperones the daughters of friends when the friend has more interesting things to do. I’m not of your ilk.”
“I beg to differ,” Jonathan said, helping himself to a cheese-laden pastry. “You don’t put on airs, you don’t hold with coerced marriages, and you know how to procure good food and privacy when a man’s much in need of same. Mr. Haviland is a very lucky fellow.”
“Mr. Haviland was a lucky fellow, from some perspectives,” she replied, passing Jonathan the next forkful of peach. “His luck ran out five years ago, when he ignored a lung fever despite all warnings to the contrary. Try that fruit. It’s exquisite. I don’t even know what it is.”
The gesture was friendly—take a bite of this, why don’t you?—but nobody wore gloves to eat, and thus a brush of hands was involved. The brush of hands should have been awkward, as the entire exchange should have been awkward.
Though it wasn’t.
“This is a peach,” Jonathan said. “The Americans have taken to them, because the southern climes are suited to their cultivation. Peaches come from the Orient, and Bellefonte’s older brother has found that they do well in walled gardens and sheltered arbors even here in England.”
Not only were peaches generally good fruit, this peach in particular was luscious. Sweet, subtly spicy, juicy without being messy.
Jonathan passed the fork back empty. “Tell me about Dora Louise.”
“Don’t judge her,” Mrs. Haviland said. “She’s been raised to believe that she has no consequence, no value at all, beyond the status of the husband she can attach. These young women are fighting for their lives, Mr. Tresham. You spoke to her of happiness, but happiness is a luxury she cannot afford.”
Mrs. Haviland tore one of the cheese pastries in half, letting the steam rise before she took a nibble.
“You speak from experience,” Jonathan said. “You were Dora Louise once upon a time.” She wasn’t Dora Louise now. Now she was a woman of supreme self-possession, but then, she was a widow. The only female in all of English Society who lived with a modicum of independence was the financially secure widow.
“They are all Dora Louise,” Mrs. Haviland said, glowering at her pastry. “They are taught that they are lucky—lucky—to be relegated to the status of broodmares and ornaments. A milkmaid has a skill, a trade, however humble, and she need not be pretty or risk having anybody’s babies to be compensated for her trade. Let her marry, though, and her wages belong to her spouse, even if he beats her, drinks himself into a stupor, gambles, and otherwise disgraces—”
She set down the uneaten portion of her pastry. “I apologize. The Season takes a toll on us all.”
Jonathan offered her the last of the peach. “I trust people whose anger is in plain view, Mrs. Haviland, and I removed myself from English society precisely because the hypocrisy of the peerage was beyond my tolerance. I gather Mr. Haviland was irresponsible with your settlements.”
She accepted the slice of peach and bit off one corner. “Nobody is supposed to gather that. I work very, very hard to maintain the appearance of a widow of comfortable means. What you and I do not eat, for example, will come home with me.”
The simple elegance of her dress and the single strand of pearls were apparently poverty disguised as good taste. How many other widows, matrons, and dowagers were engaged in the same fiction, and when would the reasons to detest polite society stop piling up?
Jonathan set down the last of the pastries without taking a bite. “You socialize to augment your larders?” A clever plan, if desperate.
“I socialize to keep my hand in. A widow who is perceived to have fallen upon hard times soon finds herself besieged with offers, many of which are dishonorable. I live a precarious life, Mr. Tresham, and the Countess of Bellefonte sets out a wonderful supper.”
She finished the peach, nibble by bite, and set down the silver fork.
“You could charge me for your silence regarding Dora Louise,” Jonathan said.
Mrs. Haviland’s hand paused mid-reach for her brandy. “Blackmail is a crime.”
Which apparently decided the matter for her. Alas, not so with the Parisian authorities.
