Page 3 of Destined to be a Duchess
She spent some time contemplating the woman’s attire. Marianne knew a quality garment when she saw one, and Miss Barclay’s outfit was exceptionally well-made. There was nothing frilly about her frock, comprised of dark red cotton, but the stitching was immaculate.
The raised buttons were made of bronze, the same metal used for her floral earrings and a band of similarly red fabric decorated Miss Barclay’s bonnet. If this was how a lady’s maid dressed at Moorhaven Manor, Marianne could only imagine the sort of luxury that the duchess herself enjoyed.
By comparison, Marianne felt like she was wearing a potato sack. She thumbed the puce-coloured linen of her own gown, inspecting the pleats just below the waistline for errant threads.
“Her Grace mentioned that you were a seamstress,” Miss Barclay suddenly declared, spooking Marianne. She wore a tight smile, having closed her book halfway. “It must be highly fulfilling to make one’s own clothes.”
“Yes, I am. And yes, it is. But I can’t take credit for this dress. My mother made it. It’s years old now. My figure hasn’t changed much since I was young.” Marianne smiled. She was grateful for the chance to talk, even though her mouth felt like cotton after so long in silence.
“She chose the colour because she thought it intensified the green in my eyes. That was her specialty. She always considered a woman’s colouring when selecting the fabrics for their clothes, which made a world of difference.”
Miss Barclay nodded. She initially returned to her reading before closing the book with a loud snap. Her eyes lit up with curiosity. “What colour would you suggest for me?”
“Not red,” Marianne let slip. She quickly sought to correct herself. “That’s not to say you don’t look lovely in your current attire. You do, Miss Barclay. I think you would look lovely inanything.” She chewed her lip, avoiding the woman’s horrified gaze.
“But if I were choosing fabrics for you, I’d first consider the softness of your hair and eyes.” They were a dull blue, like an indecisive sky. “Something like a sage green or a pale mauve would look wonderful against your skin.”
“I shall keep that in mind when next I visit my modiste.” After a moment, Miss Barclay smiled. For the first time that day, the expression seemed genuine. Perhaps she had liked Marianne’s honesty. “I expect you and Her Grace will have much to discuss. She adores fashion and always has. It is part of my job to advise her on her outfits, and we can spend entire afternoons discussing cuts and colours. I expect you know twice as much about tailoring than I do.”
So, Miss Barclaywasa lady’s maid. Marianne shrugged one-shouldered. “We all have our talents.” She motioned towards Miss Barclay’s book. “I certainly can’t read French.”
“For now.” Miss Barclay’s smile twisted mischievously. “Should you decide to remain at Moorhaven Manor, Her Grace will likely seek to rectify that.”
“Is that so?” Marianne felt her chest constrict. She hadn’t spent any time considering what the duchess would ask of her or how long she would stay. “The duchess wrote nothing about that in her letter.”
“I cannot claim to know Her Grace’s most intimate thoughts, of course. Whatever conditions come with the stay are far beyond my knowledge.” Miss Barclay’s tone indicated that she knew more than she was letting on. “There will be rules for you to follow, most naturally. If you feel any gaps in your understanding of etiquette, you may ask me to teach you what I can before we arrive.”
Marianne smiled sheepishly. She had learned a few things through Sarah, newspapers, and chatter between the young aristocratic ladies who had come into their shop, but definitely not enough to impress a duchess.
“I fear we’d need more than a few hours to cover everything Idon’tknow about proper etiquette. I haven’t spent a tremendous amount of time with … aristocrats.” She whispered the word like it was blasphemy, not knowing whether even it was poor form to call the rich what they were. “What should I say when I meet the duchess?”
“You should greet her most formally, with a curtsy.” Miss Barclay couldn’t keep the surprise—or panic—out of her voice. “Miss Buller, you must know how to curtsy.”
“Erm ...” Marianne looked heavenward, thinking. “I have a … vague idea.”
“In the same way one has a vague idea of swimming until they are thrown into the water and drown, I imagine …” Miss Barclay widened her eyes, leaning forward. “When next we stop to stretch our legs, I will show you. For your own sake, you must learn now. Her Grace is a well-tempered woman who may find your unintentional churlishness endearing. His Grace, however, will not suffer such disrespect.”
“His Grace?” Marianne reeled back, sinking into the back of the bench. “I had no idea that the duchess had a husband.”
“Well, yes, she was married.” Miss Barclay winced, making Marianne feel like a perfect idiot. “But her husband passed away three months ago. I was referring to her son, Anthony, the Duke of Westden.”
She may as well have been speaking French. “I didn’t know she had a son either.”
“Her Grace,” Miss Barclay corrected, losing her patience. “When referring to the dowager duchess, you must sayHer Grace. It is impolite to sayshein that manner.” She shook her head.
“The duke has been abroad for the last two years. He is an artist and left on a cultural tour when he reached adulthood. He is returning to England as we speak following the death of his father—may His Grace rest in peace. It’s estimated that heshould arrive in the next few days. That will give you plenty of time to brush up on your manners before you meet him.”
“This is all quite overwhelming.” Marianne pressed her fingers to her temples. “When I accepted Her Grace’s offer, I hadn’t considered what it all meant. Honestly, I thought she’d be keeping me in the stables with the horses—if she kept me at all.”
“There will be no need for that,” Miss Barclay replied. Marianne could hear the unspoken ‘yet’ in the proceeding silence. “My, my ... You really are out of your depth, aren’t you? Do try not to worry. From what little I understand of this ordeal, Her Grace loved your mother dearly, and now she wishes to help you in turn. I should say nothing more than that. She will explain everything to you once we arrive in Norwich.”
Marianne forced a smile, immediately dropping it when Miss Barclay opened her book again. Bile tickled the back of her throat, and she turned towards the window, hoping the view would distract her from being sick all over Miss Barclay’s pretty crimson slippers.
The question that had plagued her since the letter’s arrival surged into her mind. How could her mother have been friends with the Duchess of Westden, and Marianne had never known about it? Marianne recalled her childhood, hoping to find clues in her memories. But nothing about her childhood had been out of the ordinary. Her mind flashed with images.
Her mother, smiling at beautiful debutantes as she took their measurements. Her mother, grinning as she wrapped a young Marianne in leftover chiffon. Her mother, doing everything she could from Marianne’s earliest memory to ensure they were safe and happy.
Anne Buller had been many things, but she had never been a liar. If the duchess’ story were true, Anne must have had a good reason to keep the truth from Marianne.
