Page 1 of Destined to be a Duchess
Chapter 1
London, August 1815
“It’s simply not possible,” Marianne murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. “Please, read the letter again. There has to be something we’ve missed.”
“I can read it until we both go deaf, child. It’s not going to change what it says. But, as you wish.” Sarah gave a matronly sigh. “From Catherine Colline, Duchess of Westden. To the attention of Miss Marianne Buller …”
Marianne blinked at Sarah from across the creaking wooden table. The older woman recited the words Marianne had read a hundred times since the letter had arrived the day before. She had tried to smooth out the creases in the paper before handing it to Sarah for inspection, now squinting at the elegant script through the tarnished parchment as Sarah held it up to her old, tired eyes.
What Marianne presumed to be the Westden crest—if by some miracle any of this was even real—stared back at her through the letter. A deep crease cut the legs of the horse rearing proudly atop a shield. Marianne related to that poor horse, feeling like someone’s carelessness had also pulled the rug from under her feet.
“Darling Marianne,”Sarah read aloud.“My name will not be one you recognize, but yours is known to me with the greatest affection. For as long as you have lived, I have delighted in reading about you in letters sent to me by your mother—our dearest, departed Anne …”
A lump formed in Marianne’s throat. It didn’t matter how many times someone said that her mother was dead. The news refused to sink in. Anne had only been gone for a month, and it had been one misery after the next since she had been buried in the Lambeth churchyard. Her mother’s consumption hadn’t come cheap, and as it turned out, her death hadn’t either. It had cost a small fortune just to bury her with some dignity.
That was the only acceptable end for a woman as well-liked as Anne Buller. She had been fiercely loved by all their neighbours—like Sarah, the octogenarian who had lived next door to the Buller girls, as they were known, for as long as Marianne had lived.
Everyone had chipped in to cover funeral costs, but it had still left Marianne destitute. She had been hosting grievers in their little tailoring shop for the last month. Everyone had come with their questions. Chief of all: What the devil was Marianne going to do now?
As if Marianne had a clue. She was twenty-one, with no husband and no children. Despite being a talented seamstress, shecouldn’t afford to run her mother’s business alone. In the small shop below their apartment, namedBuller’s Stitch, Marianne had worked under Anne since she had been old enough to tell the difference between satin and taffeta.
And then it had takenyearsfor her to be trusted with a garment, having accumulated enough knowledge at nine years old not to ruin either fabric with a clumsy stitch.
From that point on, she and her mother had performed alterations for all sorts of gentlewomen and their daughters over the years. They had scraped by together off their own backs like they always had.
But none of their customers had been duchesses, not least of all, duchesses who claimed to have known Marianne’s now-dead mother in another life.
Sarah read on. “Long before your birth, Anne and I became acquainted through a most curious twist of fate. She was my greatest and most secret friend, and I, your greatest and most secret admirer. I have experienced her passing in necessary privacy until now, and it has been a trial beyond compare …”
Sarah paused, glancing at Marianne over the top of the letter. Her fine white hair danced in the gentle breeze from the open window behind her. Sarah’s apartment had always been a comfort to Marianne. Even now.
“We could send this to the fire and think no more of it,” Sarah suggested, waving the fragile parchment in the air. “We’ve no guarantee this isn’t one of the village boys trying to torment you or have you sending them money.”
“It’s not a prank,” Marianne murmured, collapsing on the table. She pressed her forehead against the cool wood, squeezing her eyes shut. “I ran after the mail coach when the letter slipped under the door, thinking the same thing.” She sighed. “It’s real. The delivery was paid for in full from Norwich. It has to be from that duchess. I just don’t understand why.”
Sarah’s lips formed a hard line. She had been a governess until five years ago, and Marianne could all too easily imagine her punishing a young nobleman’s daughter with that same hard look. She continued reading regardless.
“I extend to you both my deepest sympathies and an invitation to Moorhaven Manor in Norfolk, where I currently reside. We must discuss much—many truths that have remained hidden from you for too long. It is with Anne’s blessing that I bid you to me, sweet Marianne. Enclosed, you will find a letter penned by her. I hope it will provide sufficient evidence for these claims that could otherwise seem wild and unfathomable …”
“It’s at home,” Marianne explained, raising her head and waving vaguely toward her house.
“And yes, before you ask, I checked the handwriting to confirm Mama had written it. It was definitely her. There was nothing important in the other letter. She’d composed it when I was eleven, with Mama telling the duchess how I was doing and then asking about the duchess’ recent trip to Brittany.” She scoffed. “Keep going. We’re almost at the most important part.”
“If you wish to accept my offer, I will have a vehicle sent to your home in London in the morning of Friday the 5thof August. You only need to let the driver know your decision. He will leave gracefully if you choose to remain where you are—though I implore you to take a chance on yourself, Marianne, and to venture to Norfolk to discover who you really are and who you can become.”
With the letter concluded Sarah laid it down in the space between them. She reached over to serve Marianne another cup of water, pushing it into her hand.
“Mama never mentioned—”
“No. She never said anything about a duchess,” Sarah chided as though Marianne had been a fool to ask. “If she had, I wouldn’t have hidden it from you.” She steepled her fingers in front of her mouth, gazing absently into the space behind Marianne. “Our Anne in Norfolk … friends with a duchess … I suppose shecouldhave worked as a lady’s maid. But what’s all that about, you and those secrets?”
“Why are you asking me?” Marianne corrected her tone. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault this was happening. She straightened in her seat, grabbed the letter, and scowled. “I’m sorry … This is the last thing I expected my mother to leave behind for me. Most people get heirlooms or debt. And I get this bloody mystery.”
“What do you want to do, Marianne?” Sarah asked, looking at her gravely.
“In an ideal world, I would resurrect my mother and continue as we were.” She swallowed hard, berating herself for being so childish. “I’d like to go home and keep running the shop, but I can’t. Mother’s illness cost us everything. I could try and find work around here, and yet if I take too long or don’t findanything…”
She couldn’t even bring herself to say the rest out loud. It would be the rookeries for her. The slums welcomed all sorts of unfortunate souls. Marianne hated that people could be allowed to live in such squalor. She and her mother had taken food there sometimes. It was a drop in the bucket of what needed to be done.
