Chapter 7

The next morning, Marianne's appetite had taken an impressive turn. It was a gorgeous late summer day, and the duchess had requested they take their breakfast outside on the terrace.

It was the first time Marianne had set foot in the gardens of Moorhaven Manor, and like the rest of the house, the grounds had been expertly designed and manicured. The brick terrace stretched the length of the building under a colonnade, providing shade against the bright morning sun.

She admired the gardens from their table, absently plucking a strawberry from her plate and bringing it to her mouth. A hand reached out from beside her, where the duchess had leaned over to tuck a strand of hair behind Marianne's ear.

"I laid all those clothes out for you, and yet I completely forgot about ordering a bonnet," Catherine said, still stroking Marianne's hair. "Would you like to go into town sometime soon with Frida and visit the shops? They have some fantastic milliners on the high street. She knows all the best hatmakers, our Frida. I'll write it down in your diary for next week."

Marianne had to remind herself who Frida was. Miss Barclay didn't share the duchess' preference for informality among the guests. She had taken to calling her ‘Lady Marianne' in the mornings, which might have been the worst way to start the day. Lady or not, she didn't feel comfortable correcting her just yet. At the thought, the duke's comments about her lack of confidence rang in her mind.

Suddenly, Miss Barclay appeared at the French doors carrying the duchess' letters. To Marianne's surprise, she had chosen a dove blue dress that morning—just like Marianne had suggested in the carriage. As predicted, Miss Barclay's complexion glowed against the light, muted fabric.

"Perfect timing, dear," Catherine said, scooting back in her seat to begin reviewing her correspondence. When Miss Barclay turned to leave, she stopped her. "Oh, don't be silly. Come and sit with us. It's a marvellous day. Have some breakfast—there's plenty left."

With a nod, Miss Barclay selected the seat beside Patrick. He looked up from his newspaper and gave her a warm smile, reading spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He seemed to freeze at the sight of her. Perhaps, like Marianne, he had noticed how radiant she looked that morning. Blushing, he returned to his broadsheet, and Miss Barclay was soon distracted by Catherine, handing her a letter from a charity that needed answering.

"Is that a common thing?" Marianne asked, watching as Miss Barclay dashed back inside the manor for her writing set. "I'm not sure most people I know would trust someone else to go through their mail, let alone answer their letters for them."

Catherine smiled, eyes fixed on her next letter. "Absolutely, darling. I would be sat at an escritoire all day if not for dear Frida. A lady's maid does much more than pick out shoes, you realize. It's a common misconception that gentlemen do nothing and their wives do even less, but there is no end to the tasks that come with a title.

I think our role in society is often overlooked. Just like our parish vicar—though I would never equate myself to a servant of God—we have a social duty, especially to our neighbours. And when you are a duchess, your neighbours are not determined by geographical proximity. Take this for example."

She placed a letter on the table, tapping the address.

"The Princess Augusta College of Music in Bath is an organization close to my heart. They're the only school in all of England that caters to aspiring female musicians. If not for the support of women like me, who have far more leeway than the vocalists and pianists of this world, it simply would not exist."

Marianne hummed in agreement, leaning away as the duchess continued reading her letter with a satisfied smile. She could understand why the duchess thought it was a worthy pursuit. There were much worse things the Colline family could be doing with their wealth and influence than inspiring young women to chase their dreams.

But Marianne couldn't help wondering where else that attention could have gone. The rookeries in London were an open wound. Some of their neighbours in Lambeth had family members who had starved to death. Children were living in squalor not ten miles from where men just like the Duke of Westden convened to discuss politics that didn't help those who needed help the most.

Her strawberry tasted suddenly bitter in her mouth. She swallowed, and it was like glass down her throat, washed down by an inconceivably expensive blend of tea that Marianne still didn't really like.

"Are you all right?" Patrick asked from opposite her. He cocked his head to the side. "You've blanched the shade of snow."

Marianne glanced quickly at the duchess, thankful that she was still busy. She nodded at Patrick. "I'm perfectly fine," she lied, overwhelmed by her sudden realization. "I think Her Grace is right, and the sun is getting to me."

He didn't look convinced but returned to his newspaper all the same. Marianne breathed a quiet sigh of relief, tapping her fingers against the iron armrest of her chair. Her legs ached for want of something to do. She had spent the last two days doing nothing but lounging around and thinking about where her life was headed. Her body was yearning for some sort of exercise, needing to work her hands.

Just as she was about to request an embroidery hoop, she heard footsteps ascending the nearby steps. The duke appeared atop them, raking back his dark hair. He was no longer wearing mourning clothes, like he had been at dinner the night before, instead sporting a dove grey vest and matching britches.

His leather boots were flecked with mud. Marianne soon forgot about her dreams of needlework, tensing as he pulled up the chair beside her and greeted the rest of them.

"I do wish you would wear proper attire when you go walking," Catherine scolded, barely looking up from her next letter. "What would your tenants think to see you in such a state?"

"They would likely think I was hot—and I am." He served himself a cup of coffee then plucked the last strawberry from the dish. "You're an enigma, Mother. You encourage us to abandon titles and decorum at dinner, yet you worry what the local smallholders will say at seeing me without a jacket."

The duchess raised her brows and ignored her son. That was a universal deflection tactic—Marianne's mother had given her that same look more times than she could count—and the thought made her smile.

"Was the walk everything you dreamed?" Patrick asked from across the table, having closed his newspaper halfway. He engaged Marianne. "You would not believe the number of times I heard Anthony long for flat old Norfolk while exploring the most impressive locales known to man. You can take the duke out of England, alas …" He left the second half of the expression unsaid.

"It was fine." The duke's smile hinted that it was more than just fine. He looked restored. "My professors at Oxford encouraged us to take a walk every morning before our lectures. They insisted that it was necessary to cultivate a functioning body and mind." When Marianne looked interested, he continued, "I expect your father studied there, too, or somewhere similar, and likely the Chambers men before him as well. I suppose you've heard of Oxford?"

"Of course. Many gentlewomen used to come into the shop. The mothers, in particular, would discuss their sons, comparing their progress and that sort of thing," Marianne replied. "My neighbour was actually a governess, and one of her former employers sponsored her son's entrance into Oxford. But I never learned what one actually studied there."

"All sorts," the duke replied. "History, law, theology, literature … But really, the focus is on civility and forming lasting relationships."

Marianne looked down at her lap, thinking. "So … it's like a private club where you pretend to learn, but really you pass the time making friends and perfecting your good manners to impress them? A strange sort of school, indeed."

The table fell silent. Marianne glanced up to find Miss Barclay staring at her in horror while the men looked like they were desperately trying not to laugh. Catherine gave her the same look she had granted her son not moments before. And Marianne, despite promising the duke that she was perfectly confident enough already, felt like a perfect fool.

"That's one way to summarize it," the duke replied after their collective stunned silence had passed. He cleared his throat, straightening in his seat. "If you like, I could show you my notebooks from my time there. I'm certain we'll find something to interest you."

She smiled sheepishly, touched that he would even offer. "I could try to read through them and tell you my thoughts. Perhaps I might learn to make a few friends of my own."

The duke nodded, and the rest took up innocent chatter around them. Marianne reached for her tea, expecting their conversation to end there.

"I think you are rather good at making friends already," the duke murmured so quietly that Marianne almost didn't hear him. She turned to him, blushing madly, and found the duke blushing too. He glanced over her towards his mother.

"I questioned my mother's preference for some rules of etiquette over others earlier. But on my walk, I was thinking … With everyone else calling each other by their Christian names, I see no reason why you should continue to address me as though we are strangers. You may call me Anthony, and I should like to call you by your name."

"Marianne," she said, fighting a smile. "Had you forgotten it? Was this a painfully convoluted way of you asking me for it again?"

"I could not have forgotten if I had tried." The duke—Anthony—smiled a little wider. "It's a … fine name. It suits you. I was thinking about that on my walk as well."

"You seem to do a great deal of thinking about me while I'm not around," Marianne teased. She couldn't help it. Speaking with Anthony was effortless despite the world of differences between them. "I'm sorry I occupy so many of your thoughts."

"Now you are pushing your luck." His tone was light, merely pretending to be cross with her. His smile brightened, and her heart skipped a beat. Was the duke … flirting with her? It wasn't possible, especially not with his mother sitting a foot away from them. "Do not make me regret breaking this rule. I am usually so good at abiding them."

Before she could test him more despite his warning, Catherine stirred beside her. Marianne promptly leaned away from Anthony, pressing her palms against her cheeks to cool herself off. It was unseasonably warm for late August—made all the warmer for the duke's company.

When she dared a look in his direction, he seemed completely unaffected, sipping languidly from his coffee while asking Patrick for the newspaper he had finished reading.

Anthony paused across the table as his mother called his name. Marianne snuck a peek over her shoulder, wondering whether something in the letter had caused the interruption.

"Warren has written, and he has included a note for you from Eliana," Catherine announced, passing a sealed note to her son. Anthony took it, his expression changing immediately.

Marianne's heart lodged in her throat. To her relief, Patrick asked the question she didn't dare ask herself. "Warren? Eliana?" He shook his head, grinning, as Anthony levelled him with a serious look. "I'm an insatiable gossip—shoot me. I presume these are friends of yours?"

"They are more like family to us now." Catherine placed her letter down, having developed a seemingly keen interest in Anthony's reaction to his own note. "He is the Marquess of Hindborough, and Lady Eliana Webb is his only daughter.

They sit not too far from here at Hagram Park, on the other side of Norwich. His family has been in the area longer than even we have. I think they gained their title in the twelfth century—something along those lines."

"Hindborough, of course," Patrick said, snapping his fingers. "He joined us for the Florentine leg of our journey. He didn't mention a daughter, nor did you," he directed at Anthony.

For his part, the duke set the letter down unopened and returned to his coffee. "I found no reason to speak of her. Eliana is a friend. Sort of. We have many friends."

Marianne stared at the note almost as intently as Catherine. Something more was afoot between them, regardless of whether or not Anthony was willing to admit as much at the breakfast table. She imagined him tearing into the letter as soon as he was alone, where he could be his real self. She imagined him smiling at whatever was written inside—and she felt the blood drain from her face again.

"Be that as it may," Catherine said, pursing her lips, "these friends, in particular, have invited us to a house party with them. The marquess hosts a yearly hunting party at the beginning of the season, and Edward—my husband—was a diligent attendee. Naturally, I cannot be present this year, but you should." She rapped the table softly, calling for Anthony's attention.

"I may be in London by then," he replied, quick as a whippet. "And I could hardly attend a party there when we are hosting guests at Moorhaven."

"I see no reason why you should not bring Marianne and Patrick with you. London may have been a stretch, I admit." Catherine patted Marianne's hand, rousing her from her thoughts. "We should start small, should Marianne ultimately decide to accept her heritage. The Webbs are of the most accommodating, kind-hearted stock in all of England. I can think of no better people to facilitate one Lady Marianne's entrance into society."

Marianne's head was spinning. She shuffled in her seat, mustering the courage to say something, when Anthony spoke for her.

"The beginning of the season is a few weeks away, and I suspect this party starts sooner than that. It is not for you to decide whether Marianne will be ready by then to change the course of her life indelibly."

Her eyes smarted at his defence. She looked up, thanking him wordlessly for his intervention. Anthony nodded softly, turning to face his mother again. Catherine looked between them before ultimately conceding her defeat.

"So be it." The duchess rose out of her seat, forcing a smile. For all her kindness, it was obvious that Catherine did not like being defied twice in a row. "There are a few days left before we must grant Hagram Park an answer. In that time, I think you will both come to see what I know to be true: There is only a brief window of time before waiting becomes evading. You cannot avoid the truth forever—either of you."