Chapter 2

When asked, Miss Barclay estimated it would take six hours to reach Moorhaven Manor. For the first four hours of their trip, the woman barely said a word to Marianne. She had plowed through half a novel during that time, completely expressionless while she read. Marianne had tried to read the name on the spine, albeit in vain.

The title had been written in what she guessed was French. Marianne had a decent grip on the English language—her mother had encouraged her to read as much as was possible, even though their library counted a grand total of five books—but French was out of the question.

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 in anything." 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 Barclay was a 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 I don't know 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 say Her Grace. It is impolite to say she in 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 he should 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.

She set aside the thought for now, returning to the window. The view beyond the carriage was a far cry from Lambeth town. Fields of wheat stretched out for miles, rolling uninterrupted towards the horizon. The sky was a sheet of heavy blue. The carriage had passed through Newmarket twenty minutes ago, continuing down the toll road towards Thetford—according to Miss Barclay.

Marianne knew nothing about Norfolk, least of all whether all the roads in the area were as narrow, uneven, and empty as the ones they had travelled so far.

Just as she thought it, the carriage drove over a rut in the road. The entire carriage careened, making an ungodly sound as Marianne's trunks jostled in the storage dock beneath them. Her hands darted out, seeking purchase wherever they could, while her stomach flipped. Miss Barclay's book went flying from her lap, falling into the footwell. The carriage continued bumpily for a few metres until the vehicle stopped.

"This is just our luck," Miss Barclay groused. She picked up her book and put it beside her, then swung open the carriage door, letting in a burst of fresh air. "What happened?" she cried to the driver.

Letting her arms fall to her side, Marianne craned her neck to look at the footman through the window. He had descended his perch and was circling the carriage. Marianne knew nothing about carriages—she had walked almost everywhere in London—but she guessed something had to be broken.

When Miss Barclay exited the carriage, Marianne decided to follow. Her boots hit the road hard, and she felt her shoulders slump in relief to be on solid ground again. It was the first time she had ever been in the countryside. The air was warm and humid against her skin, and she wished she could take off her bonnet and shoes and relish a moment in the sunlight, though she doubted Miss Barclay would have approved.

Placing her hands on her hips, she left Mr Plym at the mercy of Miss Barclay, joining the footman on the other side of the vehicle. He had dropped into a crouch, inspecting the spokes of one of the back wheels.

"Blasted thing," he groaned, sticking his hand through the wheel to fiddle with something beneath the carriage. "I can't even reach the … Oh, bugger."

"I'm assuming this doesn't usually happen." Marianne peered over his shoulder, ready to roll up her sleeves and get to work. "My hands are smaller than yours. Perhaps if I try—"

Before she could finish her question, Miss Barclay shouted at her from across the carriage. "Miss Buller, get out of the road and come back here this instant!"

With an apologetic smile at the footman, Marianne returned to Miss Barclay. The woman had gone red in the face, pinching the bridge of her nose as she continued to assault the driver. Marianne settled beneath the shade of one of the tall hedges lining the road, pretending not to listen.

"I don't know what you want me to say. Either you or James will have to walk the road up to Thetford and find someone to help." Miss Barclay pointed towards the horizon. "There must be a whole horde of farmers in the area willing to assist us. You just need to find one, Plym. Now. Go now."

Mr Plym said nothing, stomping past them to announce the news to the footman. Miss Barclay turned to Marianne, sighing.

"He believes something came loose beneath the left back wheel, but he doesn't have the proper equipment to inspect the damage, let alone fix it." She threw her hands in the air in defeat. "We have six hours until sundown. Her Grace will be worried sick if we do not return before then."

Marianne placed a hand on Miss Barclay's shoulder, and the woman looked up at her in shock.

"Everything will be fine," she assured her, not really believing it herself but just wanting to help Miss Barclay feel better. "If they fail to find help, it will only be a matter of time before a kind soul drives by and stops to lend us a hand."

"And if our saviour reveals himself to be a highwayman?" Miss Barclay asked, rolling her eyes. "How do you propose we handle that? These roads aren't safe, Miss Buller."

Marianne glanced towards the horses. They looked no worse for wear despite the accident. "We could take the horses and ride ourselves to safety," she joked.

"Oh, what a marvellous plan," Miss Barclay replied sardonically. "Except I don't know the first thing about riding, and I doubt you do either."

"It can't be that difficult." When Miss Barclay finally smiled, so did Marianne. "We simply get on the horse and go. With any luck, we'll ride so poorly that the highwayman takes pity on us—or laughs so hard that he falls off his own horse in his pursuit."

Miss Barclay tutted, obviously trying to stifle a laugh. She stepped around Marianne to get a better look at the road. Marianne followed her, squinting down the lane towards Thetford. If nothing else, it was a wonderful day. Birdsong filled the air all around them. The chorus from nearby chaffinches was so loud that Marianne almost missed the sound of horses coming from the opposite direction.

The footman noticed first. He sprang into a stand, knocking his shoulder against the bottom of the carriage on his way up and cursing in a way that made Miss Barclay's face turn red again.

"Carriage coming!"

By that point, the driver had returned to his team. He puffed out his cheeks and adjusted his hat, joining the footman at the back of the carriage to wave down the approaching vehicle.

The horses leading the charge weren't nearly as impressive as Mr Plym's team. The carriage looked well-made, though it was unmarked, and it wasn't making any grating or creaking noises like their own carriage had been. It slowed to a stop behind Mr Plym's vehicle, parking a few inches shy of the ditch. The new driver stood up, shielding his eyes from the sun. He was a young man who, thankfully, didn't look much like a highwayman.

"We'll let the men handle this," Miss Barclay whispered beside Marianne. She hadn't even noticed her double back. Her hand slipped through Marianne's elbow, holding her close. "It looks like you were right."

The young driver hopped down from his carriage to approach Mr Plym and James. He scratched his chin as James gestured towards the guilty wheel, explaining what had happened.

Marianne watched quietly from a distance. She and Miss Buller were standing too far away to make out much from their conversation.

At least the accident had made her forget all about how unequipped she was to meet the duchess, and that was to say nothing of meeting her son. If Marianne knew anything about aristocrats—and frankly, she did not—the men were pompous, cruel, and lazy. It stood to reason that the duke would be, too.

Something flitted in the corner of her eye. The door to the newly arrived carriage had swung open. A man was leaning out of the vehicle to see what was happening. It was difficult to make out much of him in the strong sunlight.

From what little Marianne could see of his body, he looked tall and thin, likely young and confident, given how he held himself. He raked a hand through his tousled dark hair as he approached, marching confidently towards the men inspecting the wheel.

The sun shifted behind him as he walked, revealing more of his appearance to Marianne. He was absurdly handsome. Just looking at him made her feel weak in the knees. His nose was slightly aquiline, and his face was narrow in a way that complemented the rest of his features. When he slipped off his jacket and cast it over his shoulder, Marianne saw golden skin around his wrist and neck.

He obviously doesn't work the fields, she thought, observing him with bated breath, not with clothes as fine as those, yet it's obvious that he's spent his summer outdoors. Could he be a rogue aristocrat? A European?

She turned to Miss Barclay to see whether the stranger had a similar effect on her. Miss Barclay's mouth was hanging open in an extremely unladylike manner. Marianne smirked. Maybe they weren't so different after all.

"He hasn't ridden in on a white horse, but our knight in shining armor certainly looks the part," Marianne quipped, swaying gently into Miss Barclay. This time, the woman didn't laugh. She looked terrified, having intensified her grip on Marianne's arm. Marianne's tone changed immediately. "What's the matter?"

Miss Barclay snapped her mouth shut, gulping as she met Marianne's eye. "Perhaps we should practice your curtsy while they are distracted," she murmured, blanching as she returned her attention to the men.

Marianne furrowed her brow, looking back towards the handsome stranger—at the exact moment that he noticed her. He looked as confused as she felt, his scowl sending a shiver down Marianne's spine.

Suddenly, she realized what Miss Barclay had meant, and her blood turned to ice.

"You don't mean to say …" Marianne's question trailed off.

No. It didn't even warrant asking.

The stranger wasn't a highwayman, or a rogue, or even a European.

That was Anthony Colline, the Duke of Westden—the master of Moorhaven Manor.