Page 8 of Destined to be a Duchess
“And from there,” he was saying, “Westden and I made the journey from Crete to Cyprus. Despite the horror stories you may have heard about the Turks, they were extremely accommodating and principled people. It just goes to show—one cannot trust everything one reads in those travel logs.”
Mr Bowers smiled, and it was easy to see why he made friends wherever he went. “Of course, there wasn’t much art to interestthis one.” He pointed towards the duke with his thumb. “But we had our fill in Greece, didn’t we?”
By that point, the duke had fallen silent. He looked up when the carriage grew quiet in anticipation of his answer, like he hadn’t been listening at all. Instead, he looked nervous. Marianne glanced through the window he’d focused on. A young man was prying open the tall iron gates to the manor, and she could hear them groaning under their own weight through the carriage walls.
Up until that point, she had been so distracted by their travel stories that she had forgotten all about her anxiety. It would not be long until she was introduced to the duchess. Of the two of them, she wondered whether she or the duke was more frightened to meet his mother. From the poorly concealed horror warping his handsome features, she guessed it was probably him.
They were strangers, yet they were both grieving the recent deaths of parents. She couldn’t help feeling some measure of sympathy for the duke—and Marianne felt it in full force, wishing she could put a hand on his knee and tell him that everything would be fine.
Moorhaven Manor came into view at the end of a long gravel drive lined by perfectly manicured trees on either side. Even from a distance, the building was massive. A huge, rounded portico braced the front of the house, with thick columns the same shade of pale ochre as the rest of the facade.
Two gargoyles watched the carriage approach from their stone perches by the front steps. Even the roof was impressive with an ornate balustrade and chimneys, which rose against the saturated evening sky like little soldiers in a line.
Marianne was awed by the sight. The Westden seat could not have been more different than her old apartment in Lambeth. As she stepped out of the carriage, she was completely dwarfed by the manor, wondering how many dukes had lived there and how many commoners had been given the privilege of seeing Moorhaven up close.
All four of them had exited the carriage with the driver by the time the grand doors finally opened. Marianne turned towards the yawning sound they made, her heart leaping into her throat. Servants exited the house in a tight formation, swarming the carriage and collecting their combined travelling trunks before Marianne could even introduce herself.
Perhaps that wasn’t the done thing. The servants barely looked at her. Miss Barclay took her by the arm, leading her towards the house. The duke paused at the base of the steps, staring up at the open doors.
It wasn’t long before a woman appeared. Marianne’s breath hitched at the sight of her. She had expected the Duchess of Westden to look like the illustrations of Queen Charlotte that were sometimes displayed by newsagents around Lambeth.While the duchess was dressed in a lavish black mourning gown, she wasn’t wearing a wig, and she had a natural beauty that Marianne had never seen depicted in satires of the royal family.
Her hair was the same dark brown shade as her son’s, streaked with grey above her ears where it had been pulled away into a high chignon. Wrinkles contorted the skin around her eyes and mouth, but her cheeks were ripe and full of colour, blooming as she hurried down the steps to greet her son.
Marianne felt Miss Barclay turn away out of politeness as the duchess seized the duke’s hands and began to cry. The duke kept his composure, speaking to her hurriedly, too quietly for Marianne to hear.
“The last time I saw my mother, she also cried—but I doubt it was for joy,” Mr Bowers said, coming up beside Marianne and trying to alleviate some of the tension.
It didn’t work, especially not when both the duke and his mother turned to look at the rest of them at last. The duchess’ eyes widened as she saw Marianne, immediately bursting into a smile. She left the duke by the steps and approached, seizing Marianne in a hug that knocked the breath out of her lungs.
“I don’t even have to ask to know who you are,” the duchess said through a sob, pulling back to inspect Marianne. “Oh, merciful heavens … You’re the picture of Anne. I should not be surprised. You have half her name—and all her beauty.” Her gloved handssnaked down Marianne’s arms until they gripped her hands, fingers trembling against her skin. “Welcome, dearest Marianne. How glad I am to see you after all these years.”
Tears smarted behind Marianne’s eyes. She could see the duchess’ fresh grief written all over her face. It was impossible not to think about her own mother in response, remembering how much she missed her.
“Your Grace,” Marianne just about managed to whisper. “I am so … I have so many …”
She shook her head, and the duchess finished the sentence for her. “Questions. Yes, of course. I imagine you must be sick with questions. Everything will be explained in due time. But pray, let me see you inside first.”
The duchess stepped back with a comforting smile, greeting Miss Barclay and Mr Bowers in turn. Marianne’s head was spinning. She couldn’t have listened even if she had wanted to. She clenched her fists for something to hold onto. When eventually she dared to look up again, the duchess was inviting them inside the manor …
And the duke was already gone.
She soon found herself in the drawing room, where she sat alone for a few minutes, vaguely listening to the duchess order Miss Barclay to put her feet up in her quarters. Mr Bowers wentafter his friend, the duke, leaving Marianne at the mercy of the duchess when she returned to her.
A tea service had been set up in the time it had taken them all to go inside. As expected, the sheer number and beauty of the offered cakes made Marianne’s eyes pop out of her head. Steam rose from the teapot in front of her, smelling much more fragrant, richer than the black tea she had taken her whole life.
The duchess closed the drawing room door behind her, coming over to serve Marianne tea. That felt wrong, but Marianne was in no position to question the duchess’ manners.
“We have a few moments at least to ourselves,” the duchess spoke through a motherly smile. She handed Marianne her teacup, placing the sugar dish and milk within her reach. “Miss Barclay is an indefatigable, loyal friend to me, but the two of us should be left to discuss your arrival alone.”
“The duke …” Marianne paused, the rose-patterned china searing against her hands. She set the teacup down, feeling like a child before the duchess in all her gentility and grace. “I assume you heard about our chance meeting on the road … Your Grace.”
“Please,” the duchess stressed. She sat in the armchair beside Marianne and took her hand. “I insist that you call me Catherine. I have known of your existence even before you were born, and I consider you something of a niece to me. I prayed that the letter would find you well despite the circumstances.You seem to be in good health and so bright and beautiful at that.”
She cupped Marianne’s face, then leaned back.
“But yes, your drive with Anthony … I am glad that the two of you were able to meet before his return. I fear we will see little of him in the meantime. You have heard …” Her neck bobbed, and she forced a smile. “Of course, you will have heard that my husband recently passed away. This has been a summer of death for the both of us, sweet Marianne, which is why I am so glad that we can weather at least a portion of our joint tragedy together.”
She was an eloquent speaker, and it only exacerbated Marianne’s feelings of inferiority. Given how kind the duchess was being with her, it shamed her to feel that way. She felt undeserving of being in the woman’s company, like a stain on her beautiful beige drawing room.
