Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

A bigail soon found that the tour of the estate left her with quite the appetite and she was glad when they returned to the house to find that dinner was all but ready.

Charles too, looked relieved when Mrs. Morgan announced that dinner was to be served shortly and he looked at Abigail with a smile. "Shall we dine in the small dining room this evening?" he suggested as they entered the house. "I often find that the formal dining room is far too cold and lifeless."

Abigail nodded, grateful for the less imposing setting. Hugh and Harriet rarely used their formal dining room unless they were entertaining.

"That sounds lovely," Abigail breathed with a sigh of relief, and she followed her husband to the smaller dining hall with a soft smile. As soon as they'd settled at the table, a footman appeared silently to pour wine and serve the first course.

Abigail fidgeted with her napkin, stealing glances at Charles when his attention was captured by the food. Her husband seemed overly focused on cutting his meat into perfectly uniform pieces.

"Do you have a favorite color?" Abigail blurted out suddenly, unable to bear the silence any longer. Charles looked up, seemingly startled by the sudden question.

"I… what?"

Abigail felt her cheeks flush. "Sorry," she said quickly. "I know that was a silly thing to ask. I just… I just realized that I do not know the simplest things about you, and we are married. So I suppose I ought to know… what your favorite color… is…" she trailed off lamely.

Charles set down his fork and a small smile tugged at his lips. "It is not silly," he said reassuringly. "And I must admit that I haven't given it much thought. I suppose blue. What about you?"

Abigail's cheeks flushed and she looked at her plate for a few seconds before returning her gaze to him.

"I cannot choose," she admitted softly. "I… I feel too bad for the other colors if I should choose a favorite."

Charles laughed softly at this and he leaned forward a bit, looking at her teasingly.

"Suppose you had to only wear one color dress for the rest of your life," he suggested. "What would it be?"

Abigail closed her eyes and scrunched up her face in thought. She could feel Charles's gaze on her and her cheeks grew hot.

"Green, I suppose," she said at last and Charles laughed softly. "That does explain your reaction to my garden," he teased. "I was half expecting you to move into the willow."

Abigail grinned, emboldened by his amusement. "Do not tempt me," she warned. "I am sure it could be a lovely home."

"Ah, yes, I can see it now," Charles teased. "The Duchess of Grouton, holding court from her leafy palace. We'd be the talk of London!"

"Oh, please, no," Abigail groaned and she covered her face with her hands. "Could you imagine the scandal? Scottish duchess abandons mansion for tree house."

Charles laughed softly at this and it was not long before Abigail joined in, the earlier awkwardness slowly dissipating. As their mirth subsided, Abigail found herself studying her husband's face.

With his guard down as he laughed, he looked far less intimidating — in fact, he looked quite a bit younger and rather handsome. Her face flushed at the thought and she returned her gaze to her plate.

"What about food?" she asked now. "Do you have a favorite meal?"

Charles's brow furrowed in thought. "I am quite partial to a good beef Wellington," he admitted. "Though I must admit I have a rather embarrassing weakness for treacle tart."

Abigail's brows shot up at this and she giggled softly. "Treacle tart? I would not have expected that from you."

A grin settled on Charles's lips as he looked at her. "And why not?" he asked, feigning offense — though he did not manage to keep the humor out of his tone.

Abigail shrugged. "I do not know," she muttered. "You just seem so… proper. I would imagine you having quail eggs or caviar for a treat."

Charles let out a laugh at this. "Heavens, no!" he exclaimed. "I assure you, I am quite capable of enjoying simple pleasures. What about you? Which dishes delight your palate?"

Abigail bit her lip, suddenly self-conscious. "You'll think it is silly," she muttered and he shook his head, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. "I promise, I will not," he said solemnly and Abigail laughed.

"Well, fine," she said at last. "I do quite miss — and enjoy — black pudding."

Charles looked at her, surprised. "Black pudding? Really?"

"I know I was technically born here in England," she admitted with a sigh, "and it is silly to be so attached to something Scottish, but…"

"I understand," Charles said softly. "It makes you feel connected to your roots."

"Yes," she said, her heart filling with gratitude. "Exactly."

Dinner came to an end far too quickly for Abigail who had, to her own mild surprise, started enjoying her husband's company. As she made her way to her bedchamber, however, her mind whirled with the events of the day. She frowned as she climbed into the bed, sinking into the plush mattress.

Being a duchess, she knew, consisted of far more than tours of the estate and tea in the garden. She had to choose a charity to support — and she had no idea where to start. She had to throw lavish parties with no idea whom she should invite and she had to help manage the household. She didn't even want to think about bearing an heir.

All she could do, she thought lazily as she drifted off to sleep, was hope that she'd do a good job and make her husband proud.

The sun was high up in the sky when Abigail awoke the next morning. She dressed quickly, foregoing Maria's assistance, and made her way downstairs. The house was already bustling with activity, servants working with certainty on their chores.

The kitchen, she decided. Mrs. Morgan would probably be there. As she'd expected, Mrs. Morgan was in the kitchen, and the housekeeper looked up in surprise when Abigail entered.

"Your Grace," she exclaimed. "Is everything alright? Do you need something?"

Abigail smiled, trying to appear more confident than she felt. "Good morning, Mrs. Morgan. I… I was hoping you had some knowledge of charitable organizations I could support. His Grace mentioned it and I thought you…"

She trailed off and Mrs. Morgan's brow furrowed slightly, her hands never ceasing their work as she kneaded dough.

"Of course, Your Grace. There are many places where your support would be appreciated… though perhaps later might be better? If we could arrange a meeting after our luncheon?"

"Oh," Abigail said, her cheeks hot. "Of course. I didn't mean to interrupt your work. I just thought… Well, never mind. Is there anything I can help with?"

Mrs. Morgan's eyes widened in alarm at this. "Help? Oh, no, Your Grace. That would not be proper at all. Please, do not trouble yourself. I am certain His Grace would not approve."

"Right," Abigail said, her shoulders slumping. "Of course. We will just talk later then."

She turned to leave, then paused, looking back. "Do… do you perhaps know where His Grace is?"

"In his study, Your Grace. I believe he mentioned having some paperwork to do."

Abigail nodded and left the kitchen, feeling utterly deflated as she wandered through the house. Everything was so grand — so perfectly in order. She ran her hand along a polished side table, half expecting that someone would jump out and scold her for smudging it.

At last, she made her way to the library where she carefully pushed open the heavy door. "He did say I could read anything in here," she muttered as her fingers trailed along the dusty jackets of the books.

She grabbed one without truly looking at the title before making her way to the willow. Still, despite the peace she'd felt the previous day when she'd looked at the tree, she could not stop feeling rather haunted.

She was a duchess now… but what on earth did that mean? What was she meant to do with her days? Surely there was more to life than throwing the odd party here and there, or attending dinners?

The book lay forgotten on her lap as she stared out in front of her unseeingly. Any lady of the ton, she knew, would know exactly which charity to support. She doubted that another woman would have asked the housekeeper's advice about this.

So lost in her thoughts, Abigail hardly noticed time passing. Only when the sun moved so much so that she knew dinner was approaching, did she hurry back to the house. Everything seemed as quiet as she'd left it and blood rushed to her cheeks when she realized she had completely missed her meeting with Mrs. Morgan.

To her surprise, her husband was still in his study and Abigail approached Mrs. Morgan hesitantly.

"I apologize for missing our meeting," she said immediately when she found the woman dusting in the drawing room. "I completely lost track of time."

Not for a second did it occur to her that it was not necessary for a duchess to make such apologies to a housekeeper. Mrs. Morgan looked at Abigail kindly. "Do not fret, Your Grace," she said simply. "You had questions about charities?"

Abigail nodded. "I do," she said softly. "I just… I never thought I would be in this position," she admitted and her face flushed when Mrs. Morgan's expression told her in no uncertain terms how improper that was.

"I mean… I know that it is noble to support a charity and I would love to help, but I do not know where to start."

Mrs. Morgan looked at her thoughtfully, tapped her finger against her chin and furrowed her brow. "There are a number of charities you could support. I know there are a few hospitals or infirmaries you could support — the Foundling Hospital takes care of abandoned children. There are orphanages, there is education, workhouses, almshouses, women's charities and of course relief for the poor…"

"But…" Abigail looked at the woman, wide-eyed. "They all need me. How do I choose?"

Mrs. Morgan looked at her gently and smiled. "Oh, Your Grace," she said, her voice soft. "You choose with your heart."

She glanced at the clock in the corner and then smiled. "Now, dinner is almost served. His Grace requested the smaller dining room again."

With that, the conversation was all but over and Abigail walked to the dining room, her mind filled with the different charities and people who needed patronage.

Charles was already at the table and he stood when she entered, flashing her a smile.

"I apologize for being so preoccupied today," he said at once. "I had a lot of work to do. I do hope you did not find the day awfully boring."

"It was fine," Abigail lied as she took her seat and her cheeks tinted pink when she looked at her husband whose gaze quite obviously showed that he did not believe a word.

Before he could say anything, however, the servants put food on the table and Abigail gasped when Charles lifted the last cover.

"Is that… is that black pudding?"

"Indeed it is," he announced quite proudly. "I had one of the servants go out to procure it today."

"Oh, thank you!" she burst out, elated. "Thank you so much, Charles!"

Impulsively she rose from her seat and before she knew exactly what was going on, she'd thrown her arms around him in a grateful hug. "Thank you so much," she said again, surprised when she drew back from him and his own cheeks were tinted a pinkish color.

"I didn't know you liked it that much," he said with a soft laugh. "But I am glad I could make you happy — though I have never seen someone so excited over something that looks so… well… awful."

Abigail threw her head back in laughter at this. "Oh, stop," she teased at once. "Have you ever tasted it?"

"Black pudding?" Charles grimaced and shook his head. "I have not — and I have little desire to try it."

"Do not be a baby," Abigail insisted, her eyes twinkling with delight. "Please do try it."

Charles grimaced, though he took her offered fork hesitantly. "You won't die, I promise," Abigail teased and he lifted a brow as he brought the fork to his lips.

Abigail watched eagerly as he chewed, waiting eagerly for his feedback. "Well," he said at last, "it is certainly… interesting."

"Interesting?" Abigail teased and Charles let out a laugh. "It's unexpected," he admitted, "but I do admit that I thought it'd be worse. It is rather delicate indeed."

Abigail took a bite of her own, closing her eyes and allowing the earthy, iron-rich taste to envelop her palate.

"My father called it Margag dhubh," she announced and sighed deeply. "And tonight… you brought my home to me. I can't thank you enough."