Chapter 9

Nine

T he next morning, Ruth woke up later than usual. The sherry, or the later night before, had lulled her into sleeping longer than she ought. She got out of bed quickly and dressed with fumbling fingers, shaking her hair out of the braid and pinning it up with the usual simplicity before slipping on her shoes and walking over to Lady Cecelia’s room. She knocked on the door, her thoughts clouded with memories of the night before.

At first there was silence but then she heard Lady Cecelia’s voice inside.

“Go on down, dear. I’m already dressed. I’ll meet you in the breakfast room.”

Ruth paused a moment and then tried the handle. It was locked. “I can help you with your final touches,” she said through the door. “Please let me in.”

She heard the old woman’s footsteps near her position, and then the Duchess’ voice came through much clearer, just on the other side of the oak.

“Not at present,” she chirped. “I don’t want to give away the secret.”

This made Ruth uneasy, but after gaining another promise that the Duchess would appear at breakfast, she walked downstairs and into the breakfast room. Lord Darnley was already there, standing by the kitchen and giving some sort of direction to a young footman. He dismissed the man and turned to greet her with a warm smile.

“Good morning, Miss Selwyn. I trust you rested well.”

Her heart leaped at the sight of him. She forced a neutral expression and found her place at the table. “I did. Your aunt assures me she will be coming down shortly — she did not want me to accompany her this morning.”

“She is becoming more independent,” he said. “Perhaps that is a good sign.”

She poured herself some tea. “I’m not so sure,” she said. “After all, she was very ‘independent’ before you came. Being alone, and making shift alone, are not necessarily behaviors we should encourage.” She looked up, realizing how forward and direct she had been. You are letting the events of last night encourage unprofessionalism, she chided herself quietly. “Pardon me,” she said, backtracking. “I was making an observation, and perhaps I was too forward.”

“Of course not, Miss Selwyn,” he said lightly. “I think you might be right about the independence.”

There was a bustle in the hall, and they turned to look at the door. A servant, one of the young girls, could be heard protesting in muffled tones. Mr. Tylor, too, was saying something in the hall outside. Lord Darnley stood, as did Ruth, but before they could go ins search of the commotion, the commotion came to them. The door burst open, and in walked Lady Cecelia. She was not in the white shift, but she was not in proper morning attire either. Instead, she was dressed head to toe in a heavy cream gown edged with intricate pearls and spirals of ribbon. The sleeves were monstrous and old-fashioned, and the waist only loosely laced.

Ruth would have known it was a wedding dress even if she hadn’t seen the veil, a long and gorgeous affair that was stained from years of unuse and bundled up in one of Lady Cecelia’s arms. The entire ridiculous affair was topped with a lop-sided flower crown. The flowers in it had been fresh once but were now dried and decaying. Petals flaked off even as Lady Cecelia stood before them with her face turned up in innocent anticipation.

Ruth felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach. So last night was not such a great victory after all. There is still far to go. Aloud, she forced a smile, unwilling to look at Lord Darnley lest she encounter disappointment there on his face.

“Lady Cecelia,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and coming to the woman’s side. “How lovely of you to join us.” She reached out her hands for the veil. “Might I take your veil? It seems a heavy affair, and not easy to manage at the breakfast table.”

The old woman clung to the veil and looked at Ruth with worry in her eyes. “No,” she said. “If you take my veil, nobody will know that I am a bride.”

Ruth let her hands drop to reassure the woman. “You may wear it, of course,” she said, showing the woman to her seat at the table. Then, carefully, she added, “and you are right — I would not have known you were a bride without it. Is your…” she looked up at Lord Darnley and saw the worry in his eyes. “…is your wedding today?”

“My wedding has already happened, dear girl,” Lady Cecelia chirped, rolling her eyes prettily. “Why else would I be at my wedding breakfast if I hadn’t already been married?”

“Indisputable logic.” Ruth shrugged and sat down beside the woman, helping to prepare her plate.

Lord Darnley sat too, and Ruth could see he was uncertain what to do. She wanted to reassure him — to tell him that progress was rarely linear and this could be just a momentary setback — but she didn’t know how to speak with Lady Cecelia there. Instead, she tried to show him by playing along.

“It is a pity your groom has not yet appeared at breakfast,” she said, spooning jam onto a scone. “I do not imagine you two like to be apart.”

The Duchess smiled patiently. “He is a bit consumed with business,” she said, shrugging. “But I expected as much when I married him.”

The serving girl they’d heard in the hall outside appeared at last, panting and nervous, the butler at her elbow. It was a girl from the kitchens who had recently been promoted into a maid position, and she was bright red with embarrassment. She gave a quick curtsy and then, nudged along by the sober butler, choked out an explanation.

“I’m so sorry, my Lord,” she said. “I went up to her room to lay her fire and she insisted I help her with the dress. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but she was so persistent. She is my employer, after all — I’m so dreadfully sorry. It is a travesty that I have brought upon this house.”

There was a moment of pause, during which Ruth prayed Lord Darnley would have mercy on the poor girl. He surprised them all by smiling and then, after a moment, laughing.

“Betsy,” he assured her, “I’m not sure a single one of us could have done differently. Thank you for showing Lady Cecelia the deference and respect she deserves.”

All the anxiety seemed to drain from Betsy, and she sighed with relief. “Right then,” she said, curtsying and making her exit with obvious eagerness. “I’ll be off, then.”

The butler made certain there was no other needs, after which point he too left the three alone with their meal. Ruth turned back to Lady Cecelia, picking up where the conversation had dwindled before. She wanted to know as much about the old woman’s imaginings as she could — hoping to better understand the game she was playing along with.

“I’m most apologetic,” she began carefully, “but it seems I have been in your life too short a time to know the name of the groom. Who did you marry this morning?”

Lady Cecelia took a piece of cold ham and cut it carefully; precisely, looking for all the world like a little girl pretending to be a grown woman.

“Scott, of course,” she chirped. Then, looking up at Ruth with an expression of endearing forgiveness, she added, “but you would not be expected to know such a thing. If you were more in society, my dear, you would benefit. I fear you do not know people as you ought.”

Ruth hid a smile and nodded gravely. “I believe you are right,” she said. “I could use an education in more ways than one.”

Lord Darnley frowned and turned to his aunt. “Scott?” he asked. “It was my understanding that your late husband, the Duke, was named James.”

Lady Cecelia looked at him with a confused smile. “He was. What of it?”

“You mentioned a ‘Scott.’”

“Aye,” she said, slipping into an old-fashioned affirmation. “Are you implying that I should only marry men called ‘James’ from here on out? It is a preposterous thought, my dear. I have already married a James, and though I made shift with the arrangement as best I could, I do not care to repeat the activity.” She leaned forward, a light of mocking in her pale eyes. “Unless, dear nephew, you were implying that I ought to dig up my late husband and marry him all over again.”

Ruth laughed despite herself, and then, seeing the shock on Lord Darnley’s face, covered her mouth with a napkin. He shot her a withering glance, and then looked back at his aunt.

“So, this groom is a man you know by the name of Scott,” he pressed. “Where did you meet him?”

Ruth wondered if he was pushing too hard and too fast, and this thought was confirmed by Lady Cecelia’s reaction. She paused, and a shadow crossed her face. It was as it had been in the garden when she saw the doctor. She seemed suddenly sober, and the pleasant happiness from earlier faded away. She plucked at the veil with her fingers.

“It is nothing,” she said, giving a sad little laugh. “It was only a joke, I suppose. I was playing a joke on you both.”

Ruth reached out and touched her hand gently. “My Lady, I do not believe it is just a joke. There seems to be some substance in the matter.”

The old woman set down her scone and pulled back, standing up awkwardly from her chair. “I asked you to call me ‘Duchess,’” she said. “It is my name, after all. I made a choice to be Duchess, and now I must live with that choice.”

She turned and left, the veil, too heavy for the fragile flower crown, breaking off and pooling in a forgotten pile of organza behind her.