Chapter 12

Twelve

I t was two days before Ruth could convince the Duchess to take off the wedding dress and put on an average day gown. It took some doing — the Duchess was most attached, and kept protesting that her Scott would not know who she was if he arrived and found her in anything other than her wedding gown. Ruth had to use the Duchess’ own reasoning to convince her to take off the dress, pleading, “But my lady, it is not as though you courted the gentleman in your wedding gown. I’m sure he recognizes you well enough in all garb. Surely you ought to take it off, so he does not think you too attached.”

In the end, the woman relented. Ruth would not have minded at all if it had not been for the whole affair reminding her of the woman’s tenuous health. It seemed that her mind was not as sound as they had at first hoped, or at least Lady Cecelia was still clinging to something devastating from her past.

Ruth helped Lady Cecelia change into a plain day dress, adjusting her curls and reassuring her the whole time that, “your groom will surely recognize you.”

When they finished, the Duchess gestured out the wide window at the end of the room.

“I’m going on a walk,” she said. “Down to the pond and back.”

Ruth smiled at her. “I’ll get my cloak,” she said.

“No,” the Duchess frowned, offended. “I don’t need you accompanying me everywhere I go, Miss Selwyn. I’m bringing my paints with me, and I intend to spend some time alone and lost in thought.”

Ruth was secretly quite delighted by this. It showed some improvement that the older woman was expanding her activity and vision with paints and a stroll in the garden rather than limiting herself to her drawing room. She still thought the Duchess needed more companionship, but constant companionship could be wearying too. She curtsied.

“Very well, my Lady,” she said. “I’ll send for your cloak instead.”

When the Duchess had descended to the garden, her paint set in hand, Ruth set about tidying her room. It was the maid’s job, usually, but Ruth felt a pang of guilt at the state the Duchess’ chambers were in. All the pleading regarding the wardrobe and wedding dress had resulted in a floor crowded with discarded clothes, as well as a set of stationaries that had been knocked over into a pile by the fireplace.

She worked systematically, picking up the gowns first and brushing them carefully off before folding each in turn and putting them back into the wardrobe. Afterwards, she took care of the stationary, studying the winding designs on the surface and thinking of her mother. She had loved pretty things like this.

She was tucking these cards into the roll-top desk when she caught sight of something heavy and dark hidden away in a back compartment. She hesitated a moment, not wanting to pry. It went against everything she had learned as a governess to look into matters that were not her business. After all, if she had been discovered rifling through her employers’ things at Lisa’s home she would have been suspected of theft — as many governesses were — and dismissed immediately. The Duchess was a different sort of employer, however. Her life and difficulties were a mystery to Ruth, and the investigation into the reason behind her sadness had only just begun.

Ruth reached into the compartment and pulled out the object before she could second guess herself further. It was a heavy wooden box, embossed with a gold-leaf design and wrapped in a red velvet cloth. Ruth smoothed her hand along the ridged surface, reverently. It was a stunning gift, the sort of thing one was given under the most auspicious of circumstances — or the most romantic.

She unlatched the lid and pulled it back. The first thing she noticed were a handful of dried roses, almost purple after all these years, that had been trimmed so that the stems would fit in the box. She lifted these carefully, imagining how they would have looked when they were fresh and alive, first handed over to the Duchess as a token of love.

I have never been given a gift such as these, she thought wistfully. It was not entirely true. She had received flowers before as tokens of love, but only from those suitors that she did not desire — the sort of young lads too arrogant to know they needed maturity before fighting for a woman’s hand. For her, roses and other posies had always been an invasive thing: a demand upon her heart and time that required a response. Most often, the response had been an unpleasant thing indeed. These roses were different. They had been carefully trimmed and treasured away for what looked like decades. She loved him. That, Ruth could not understand. She had never loved someone like that. She could not imagine it.

She set the flowers reverently aside.

Below them was another velvet cloth, and within this a delicate necklace. It was a pearl pendant, very simple and unassuming, but beautiful all the same. She held it up, careful not to mar the pearl, and then set it aside as well. These must be from James, s he determined.

The final thing in the box was a small, leather-bound book. She opened it, expecting a book of verse to accompany the other romantic gestures, but found instead pages upon pages of handwritten prose. It was a diary. Ruth’s first instinct was to shut the book as quickly as she’d opened it and she did so, pausing a moment and holding the book uncertainly in both hands. A diary might have the answers I’m looking for, she thought. It could be the key to understanding why the Duchess is the way she is — and what we can do to stop it.

She cracked open the cover and read the first page. Just as she’d guessed, the name inscribed there was “Cecelia.” The diary belonged to the Duchess.

There was a knock at the door. Ruth started guiltily and, looking around her frantically, tipped the roses and necklace back into place and slid the box back where she’d found it. She hesitated again with the diary, but in the end she slipped it into the folds of her skirt and went to open the door, her heart pounding in her chest. Mr. Tylor was just outside.

“Miss Selwyn,” he said, “Your presence is requested in the drawing room.”

The diary was a dainty book, but it suddenly felt enormous in her hand. She kept it out of sight, trying to seem more at ease than she was.

“I’m tidying Lady Cecelia’s rooms,” she said. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

He nodded and was gone as quickly as he’d come. She waited a few moments at the door until she was sure he was gone and then walked quickly down the hall to her own rooms. She slipped the diary under her pillow and then walked quickly downstairs to the drawing room, pausing a moment in the hall to compose herself before going inside.

She stopped just inside the door, surprised that only Lord Darnley was sitting there. He looked up when she came in and smiled.

“Miss Selwyn?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It is just that someone sent for me, and I assumed it was the Duchess.”

“I believe she is out on a stroll through the gardens.” Lord Darnley looked outside. “It is I that requested your presence.”

“Oh?” Ruth dismissed the feeling of delight that rose in her at the thought of him requesting her.

“Yes,” he said, standing and walking over to a pile of paperwork on the desk. “I’ve been going through my aunt’s business records, trying to be certain of her agent’s legitimacy, and found a rather tedious pile of society papers — announcements, invitations, and the like. It seems she has been lax in her responses. In your spare time, could you read through them and determine which require correspondence?”

The warm feeling of being wanted vanished as quickly as it had come. Of course, she thought wryly. He was only speaking about a work matter. What other reason would he have to send for me? She blushed, thinking how foolish she had been to imagine more. The past few days she had begun to imagine an attraction there — a sort of companionship and respect. She was embarrassed to think of it; embarrassed at how na?ve she could be at times.

She took the papers and flipped through them, keeping her tone even.

“I’ll go through them right now,” she said.

She turned to go, but he stopped her.

“Feel free to use the desk,” he said. “Just push aside my mess. I’m going to take the earnings pages over by the fireside and work there.”

She nodded and sat, clearing a space for her own pages, and setting her quill at the ready with a page of clean paper to take notes. Lord Darnley went to sit down across the room, his head down, his fingers leafing through the papers in his lap. Ruth looked at the line of his jaw, strong and steady; the soft red hair curling against his shoulders; the set of his shoulders under his morning coat — she shook her head to clear it and focused on her own work, blushing again.

You know better than this, she scolded herself. You are not a child to be swooning over a prince and dreaming impossible dreams. She opened the first letter in the stack, a birth announcement of the son of a duke. She read over the note carefully, then noted the date at the bottom. It had been four years since the announcement. At this point, any response of congratulation would be considered rude. She set the letter aside and picked up another.

The words, an exhausting explanation of the latest fashion dated two years prior, blurred together. Ruth brushed her eyes, realizing with mild surprise that she was crying. Her chest felt tight. Over the years she had learned that her lot and life was not a glamorous one: she would have to work hard for her bread, she would likely fend off a few undesirable matches until her age and beauty began to fade. It would be at this point that she would have to choose between a life of spinsterhood and some half-hearted marriage of convenience.

It was unlike Ruth to give way to her emotions, and she was frustrated at her tears. She drove them from her eyes, fixated on the letter in front of her. What is wrong with you, Ruth? She thought of the roses and the necklace she’d found. A few sentimental objects and you’re wasting tears on your lot in life, she thought drily. She took a deep breath and regained her composure, working through the rest of the correspondence in short order.

Just as she was finishing the last few letters, the Duchess returned from her walk and swept into the room in a glow of delight.

“I painted the pond,” she chirped cheerfully.

Her bright voice broke through the silence and concentration in the room. Both Ruth and Lord Darnley looked up with interest.

“I would love to see your work,” Ruth said kindly.

“That will be entirely impossible,” the Duchess said, sitting down primly at the pianoforte and smoothing her skirts out around her. She ran her fingers along the keys, touching so lightly that no sound came out.

Lord Darnley raised his eyebrows. “Are you a private artist?” he asked. “No one is allowed to see your paintings excepting yourself?”

“Hardly,” she said. “When I paint on a canvas you may see my work and congratulate me on my superior style. It is permanent, that way. Today, I painted the pond.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Ruth laughed.

“You mean you quite literally painted the pond,” she said. “How did you manage that? I imagine the water washed away your work even as you painted.”

“True,” the Duchess retorted, her eyes taking on a faraway look of delight. “It was more catharsis than art, but swirling the color about on the rocks lining the shore was as pleasant as any finished painting could have been.”

Ruth couldn’t resist looking over to see Lord Darnley’s response. His eyes were alight with amusement. “Aunt,” he said with mock severity. “I believe the way you phrased it — that you’d ‘painted the pond’ — was deliberately misleading.”

“That is a lady’s prerogative,” she retorted. She waved her hand in Ruth’s direction. “Now, dear, please dance. ”

Ruth was confused.

“I think I misunderstand you, my Lady.”

“I cannot imagine how,” the Duchess responded. “It’s a rather simple concept, dancing.”

Ruth shook her head. “I might not be a duchess,” she said gently, “but I know it improper for a lady to dance alone.”

“You will not be dancing alone,” the Dowager Duchess said. “You have a partner, after all.” She nodded significantly at Lord Darnley.

Ruth winced. He will think I was searching for an invitation with my comment, she thought miserably. “That is unnecessary,” she said quickly.

Lord Darnley, however, stood and walked over to Ruth, a twinkle in his eyes. “I think we had better humor my aunt,” he said, bowing and extending one hand. “Will you dance, Miss Selwyn?”

She swallowed hard and, in a low voice that Lady Cecelia would not be able to hear, tried to assure him, “You really don’t have to, my Lord.”

He wrinkled his forehead in mock confusion. “Miss Selwyn, as you so aptly pointed out on multiple occasions, as a duke I don’t have to do anything. Please, dance with me.”

There was something in the firmness of his manner and the assurance of his glance that brought a blush once again to Ruth’s cheeks. She dropped her eyes, curtsying quickly and reaching out take his proffered hand. He led her to the center of the room and nodded to his aunt to begin.

Lady Cecelia flipped through a few pages in front of her and began playing an elegant, pleasant Allemande. Ruth was thankful for this, for even though the tune was rather old-fashioned, she had been schooled in some of the baroque dances as a child. Lord Darnley raised his eyebrows at the choice, and then extended a hand.

“I imagine,” he said softly, “that this is one of the dances our aunt enjoyed when she was a girl.”

Perhaps it reminds her of her lost love, Ruth thought, thinking of the diary hidden away in her room upstairs.

“It is a pretty air,” she answered simply, holding up her hand to begin the steps.

There was a good deal of light footwork involved, and the occasional wide turn to increase the grandeur of the movements. After a few measures, they raised their hands gracefully above their heads and Lord Darnley spun Ruth into the closed position, his arm behind her back, the other raised and clasping hers overhead. It was an intimate pose, and Ruth felt her heart stumble in her chest and his nearness.

“What are you thinking of, Miss Selwyn?” he asked.

She looked up at him, forcing herself to meet his gaze. If I keep my eyes averted the entire dance, he will surely guess that something is amiss. He smiled down at her, and it was only with effort that she kept her tone light and disinterested.

“I’m unacquainted with court dances,” she answered, spinning away from him as the dance required, and falling back into step an arm’s length away. “What is it that a fine lady of London would respond to such a question?”

“I would never ask a fine lady of London such a question,” he answered immediately. “I have learned that the answers are all politeness — a smattering of frivolous nonsense that appeals to me not at all.”

“You do your previous partners a disservice,” she said with a smile. “I imagine they were only nervous to be dancing in your presence, and likely bound by societal requirements as to what was proper to discuss in a ballroom.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he conceded. “But you will not be so tethered. You are neither in a ballroom, nor a slave to society.”

She couldn’t help raising her eyebrows at this remark. “My Lord, we are all slaves to society in some manner or another. I was not brought out properly in a London Season, but I still know what society requires of me in my current station.”

“I asked you what you were thinking of,” he insisted, drawing her near again in the steps of the dance and lowering his voice insistently, “because I want to know.”

She loved that about him. He always dignified her thoughts and opinions with genuine consideration, never relegating her because of her status. Does he really want to know what I am thinking? She thought, realizing with a dark amusement how impossible it would have been to tell him the thoughts she’d been having when they began the dance. I was thinking, Lord Garnley, that I can hardly stand to be close to you. I was thinking that your kindness and utter gentility have undone me. I was thinking that I…

She halted her thoughts. No, not even in my mind will I allow myself to talk of love.

“You have yet to answer, Miss Selwyn,” he interjected into her thoughts.

“I was thinking of you,” she blurted.

He raised his eyebrows. Was that a smile lurking behind his eyes? Or is he appalled.

She hurriedly covered her tracks. “I was thinking about all the business that you’ve taken on since coming to your aunt’s house,” she said. “It must be most tasking.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and Ruth had a sinking feeling that she had given away more than she intended. Then he said, “I find very little tasking here. Even business has an air of purpose to it that I was formerly lacking.”

“That is fortunate for you,” she said.

He pulled her close, his hand sliding around her waist as the song drew to a close, he turned her in a slow circle, his hand guiding her the entire time, and then brought her to a stop just in front of him. Their feet ceased moving, but he held her arm aloft and looked down at her for a long moment, his eyes holding hers in a firm grasp.

There was something intense in those eyes. Ruth could not understand what he was thinking. Does he look at all women like this? She couldn’t parse out what he wanted, nor what he was thinking. All she knew was that her own heart was falling for him — a miserable truth, for it could only lead to heartbreak. He leaned down ever so slightly.

“I am fortunate,” he said softly.

Then he let her go. She stepped back and sank into deep curtsy to match his bow, her heart thudding in her chest .

“Thank you, Lady Cecelia,” she said, turning to the old woman to mask her feelings. “That was most lovely. A proper dance.”

“Another?” the Duchess asked brightly.

“Not tonight,” Ruth said quickly. “I’m afraid I’m a bit too tired for dancing at present. Let me come turn the pages for you.”

She risked one last glance at Lord Darnley before she left. He was still standing where the dance had ended, and his eyes were still watching her with that unreadable intensity.