Her Grace's Passion Read online

  No sooner had the duke and the rest of the gentlemen entered the room than Mary loudly announced her intention of singing. She demanded an accompanist. Matilda, who had just risen from the piano, sat down again with a resigned air. “What have you?” demanded Mary, leaning over her shoulder. She smelled strongly of brandy, and of the liquorice smell of arrak. Matilda wrinkled her nose. There had been no arrak served at dinner.

  She spread out the sheets of music on her lap.

  “That’ll do,” said Mary, pointing to “Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms.”

  Matilda’s fingers rippled expertly over the introductory bars. And then Mary began to sing.

  Matilda’s fingers faltered on the keys as she heard that voice and then she rallied.

  Mary’s voice cackled and shrieked, murdering the lovely ballad Thomas More had written for the marriage of the Duke of Wellington. What had the Duke of Wellington said when he had seen his future bride at the altar after so many years? “By George! She has grown ugly.” Was that, wondered Matilda, what her fastidious husband was thinking?

  At last Mary finished singing. There was a polite spattering of applause from all except the duke.

  The Duke of Hadshire sat as if turned to stone. Only his eyes seemed alive with malignancy as he looked at Mary.

  Mary met that stare and, tipsy as she was, she felt herself turning ice cold with dread. What had she done? She walked over to him and held out both hands to him. He turned away from her and said in a low voice, “Get to your room, madam. I shall speak to you later.”

  Tears started to Mary’s eyes. She blundered her way out of the drawing room. Her maid, Nancy, was waiting for her in her bedchamber. “You been at the bottle, mum?” said Nancy.

  “I drank lemonade at dinner,” said Mary, “and one brandy. Faith, one brandy, Nancy!”

  “You didn’t ought to have done that,” said the maid. “You said you was going to be ever so careful.”

  “Stop preaching, you bitch,” roared Mary. “How dare he look at me so? Who does he think he is?”

  There was a soft scratching at the door. Nancy opened it. Rougemont stood there with a bottle of white brandy on a tray and two glasses.

  “His Grace’s compliments,” said Rougemont, handing Nancy the tray, “and he will join Mrs. Hendry shortly.”

  Mary’s spirits soared dizzyingly. All was not lost. “Make yourself scarce, girl,” she said to Nancy.

  “Don’t you go drinking any more,” warned Nancy.

  “When he has sent me the best Nantes brandy? Off with you.”

  Nancy bobbed a curtsy and left. Perhaps it was for the best, thought the maid. When madam was in her cups, it was easy to steal a few trinkets and take a few gowns and persuade madam the next day that she had given them away. Like many lady’s maids, Nancy was very vain and coveted her mistress’s clothes and jewels.

  Mary drank several full glasses of brandy while she waited. He did not come. The great palace fell silent. A huge moon shone outside. She drank another glass and decided to go to his room, persuading herself that was what he had meant.

  He was lying in his great bed as calm and as still as an ivory statue. Behind the great four-poster bed crouched Rougemont, waiting and listening.

  Mary swayed toward the bed. “Wake, sweeting,” she cried. “I am come!”

  The duke’s eyes snapped open. Moonlight streamed into the room. He saw Mary standing there and experienced such a feeling of revulsion, he thought he was going to be sick. He struggled up against the pillows and said in an even voice, “Get out of my room, nay, get out of my home. You nauseate me.”

  Momentarily sobered by the venom in his voice, Mary stepped back a pace. The duke lighted the candle beside the bed. Looking more composed, he faced his mistress. “I have no more interest in you,” he said. “I expect you to be gone by the time I rise in the morning. You may find your way on foot. I am not going to have one of my carriages soiled by your low and common body. For you are low and common, are you not? Dear God, when I think of that performance in my own drawing room this evening—caterwauling and screaming like an alley cat.”

  It was a wonder that the ghost of Mary’s late husband did not rise from the grave to caution him, to warn him of what Mary was like in her cups. Her beautiful eyes narrowed to an angry glitter. “Oh, no, my fine duke,” she said, “you are not going to turn me out. We have been lovers and so I shall tell your little wife.”

  “She knows,” he said. “And now that I have endured enough of your sickening and low and vile presence, I shall ring for Rougemont to send you packing.”

  He pulled himself up and reached for the bell rope.

  Mary saw a thin stiletto lying on the bedside table. The duke used it as a letter opener. Quick as a flash she caught it up and held it to his throat. “No, you don’t,” she said softly.

  Unaware of what was happening and maliciously enjoying her downfall, Rougemont stayed where he was. The duke did not cry out for help. He did not think for a minute she would use the knife. His eyes glinted maliciously in the candlelight. “I ignored the gossip about your low background,” he said, “for I could not believe it true. But you revealed yourself in your true colors this evening. You, my darling, are as common as the barber’s chair.”

  He smiled at her, slowly, mockingly, and reached for the bell rope.

  She plunged the dagger straight into his throat.

  “Take that!” hissed Mary.

  Rougemont stiffened. He felt in his pocket for the pistol he kept ready primed on his master’s instructions. He moved slowly round the bed. Mary was backing away, a hand across her mouth, her eyes dilated. Rougemont looked down at the bed, one quick agonized look, and then he raised the pistol and fired, hitting Mary in the heart. The shot echoed out of the room and along the corridors.

  The servants came running, first one, then another, then the guests and then Matilda. All clustered around the door of the room. Rougemont was on his knees beside the bed, tears streaming down his face, holding one of his master’s lifeless hands. The duke lay, a knife sticking out of his throat, his nightgown and the coverlet stained red with his blood.

  For the first time in her life, Matilda, the resolute and practical Matilda, fainted dead away.

  The week before the duke’s funeral was like a nightmare. Matilda moved numbly through all the duties she had to do—getting rooms ready for the duke’s heir, his cousin, Jeffrey Manson, and his family, interviewing the bishop about the funeral service, accepting calls from the local gentry, and beginning to answer letters of condolence that arrived by every post.

  There was a letter each from Annabelle, the Countess of Darkwood, and Emma, Lady Saint-Juste. They begged Matilda to stay with one or other of them. They said they had written to her frequently but had received no reply. The duke, Matilda realized for the first time, must have collected the letters himself and destroyed them. She could not mourn her husband; in fact, the relief that he was dead made her feel acutely guilty.

  And then Sir James and Lady Frobisher came to call. They asked, as so many asked, if there was anything they could do to help, and Matilda answered, as she had answered the other sympathizers, that she had all the help she needed from a large staff of servants. They stayed only fifteen minutes and when they were rising to leave, Matilda found herself asking in a strained voice, “Are the Earl and Countess of Torridon still residing with you?”

  “No,” said Sir James. “They left yesterday afternoon, quite suddenly. Lady Torridon is with child and they are understandably in high alt. They have gone on to London.”

  For the first time since her husband’s death, tears stood out in Matilda’s eyes. Misreading her distress, the Frobishers pressed her to come live with them once the funeral was over, but Matilda rallied with an effort and said it was her duty to see the new duke and his family settled before retiring to the dower house.

  After they had left, she sat listlessly, feeling she could not go on. But the new duke ar
rived and she rose to welcome him. He was in sharp contrast to her late husband. He was a large, coarse, beefy man with a squat ugly wife and a noisy brood of seven children of various ages who immediately began to run through the long rooms playing hide and seek.

  “Like a mausoleum, this place is,” said the new duke. “All those fiddly things in glass cases! I’ll soon cheer it up. You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish, Duchess.”

  A resounding crash echoed down from the Long Gallery. Matilda wondered which of her husband’s prize objets d’art had been smashed by the rowdy children.

  “You are very kind, Hadshire,” she said, “but I shall be comfortably off in the dower house. It is already being aired and fired. I shall move there immediately after the funeral.”

  The new duke and his wife looked relieved, particularly his wife. She longed to transform the place into something “more cheery,” as she described it to herself, without interference from another woman. Matilda pleaded the headache and went up to her bedchamber. Betty appeared as usual and stood waiting.

  Matilda picked up a sealed letter from the toilet table and handed it to the maid. “You will find, Betty,” she said, “that I have given you an excellent reference.”

  “Never say you are getting rid of me,” cried Betty.

  “I am giving you your marching orders,” said Matilda in a flat voice. “I shall hire my own servants from now on. You may apply to the new duchess for employment if you wish. I want you to leave by the end of the week. You were my husband’s creature, Betty, and you enjoyed spying on me and reporting my movements to him. From now until you leave, do not come near me again. I am well able to dress myself.”

  Betty burst into noisy tears, pleading she had been loyal and devoted. Matilda remained unmoved. She rang the bell and when the butler answered its summons, she told him to take the maid away.

  Then her eye fell on another little posy of flowers. There was no note this time. Matilda, despite her misery, wished she could find out the identity of this one person who cared for her welfare.

  She rose early the next morning, and instead of going downstairs for breakfast, she hid in the secret passage and waited.

  She was just about to give up her vigil when from the garden end of the secret way she heard the sound of the door being opened. She stood in the darkness and waited. There was a light patter of feet. She pressed herself against the wall. Then the door to her bedchamber grated open and a small figure darted in. Matilda slowly followed and stood watching.

  A little boy with a mop of fair hair was bending over the toilet table with a nosegay of flowers.

  “Who are you?” asked Matilda.

  He swung about with a gasp of fear.

  “Do not worry,” said Matilda gently. “I will not harm you. I repeat, who are you?”

  “Peter Bennet,” said the boy, standing with his head bowed. “I am the lamp boy, Your Grace.”

  Matilda remembered him. He normally wore a plain dark livery. It was his job to fill and trim all the lamps in the great house.

  “Well, Peter,” said Matilda, “I am indebted to you for the knowledge of the secret entrance to my room. But you need not creep about any longer. I am moving to the dower house after the funeral. I wish you to come with me when I leave. Would you like to be my page?”

  The boy’s gray eyes glowed with adoration. He bent on one knee. “Oh, yes, Your Grace.”

  “Then be off with you. Say nothing to the other servants in case they harm you. You may rise.”

  “But they was talking in the servants’ hall about which ones would be going with you,” said Peter.

  “None except yourself,” said Matilda grimly. “Go about your duties.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The boy made for the door.

  “Not that way,” said Matilda. “You may use the secret way for the last time.”

  She watched his slight figure disappear and smiled slightly. She would begin a new life, new servants, new home. But her spirits plunged again. All her guilt over her husband’s death came flooding back. She should have tried to love him. She should not have wished for his death.

  There came a scratching at the door and Rougemont walked in. “What do you want?” demanded Matilda harshly.

  “I have come to say good-bye,” said the valet, hanging his head.

  “It is of no concern,” said Matilda, turning away.

  “Not to you, Your Grace,” he said in a low voice. “I treated you cruel. But I cannot rest. I have the master’s death on my conscience.”

  “It had nothing to do with you!”

  “Yes, it had, Your Grace. I saw that Mrs. Hendry only drank water, and I knew it odd for one of her kind so I put arrak in her lemonade at dinner to make her tipsy. I knew if the duke could see her as she really was, then he would take a dislike to her. I never meant such a terrible end. I thought perhaps we could go back to our old life. We used to travel a lot and have great larks. I was devoted to His Grace.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Matilda.

  “Probably to sea, Your Grace. My life is ruined.”

  He did indeed look a broken man but Matilda could feel no pity for him.

  “Then get you hence,” she said. “Have you been paid?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the master two days before he died.”

  “Then there is nothing to keep you here.”

  “No, nothing,” said Rougemont sadly.

  Matilda watched her former persecutor leave the room.

  All at once she wanted to get out into the fresh air. No one followed her and she knew no curious eyes were staring down from the windows. She walked through the grounds until she came to the dower house, which was a mile away. It was a square box of a place containing all the pieces of furniture, ornaments, and paintings that had displeased the duke’s fastidious eye. We have all failed him, thought Matilda ruefully as she looked around. He must have longed to put me here with the rest of the stuff which offended him.

  The house consisted of a square hall on the left of which was a saloon and on the right, a library. On the first floor was a square light drawing room, a dining room, and another saloon. On the second floor were four bedchambers and above them the attics. There was much to do, she thought. She would need to drive into Hadsborough and engage servants, buy a carriage, engage a gardener. She knew she would have a generous allowance under the duke’s will, for his lawyers had already discussed it with her. One more stepping-stone and that was the funeral.

  The day of the funeral was gray and a fine drizzle fell on the leaning headstones and springy turf of the churchyard. In the center of the churchyard stood a large ugly marble vault, last resting place of the Dukes of Hadshire. Numbly Matilda stood as the coffin was placed in the vault and the marble door grated shut with a final sound. People spoke to her in murmurs, faces came and went, but what they said or what she said she could not remember.

  After the funeral and the reception, she went straight to the dower house. The new duke and his wife were so delighted that she was leaving so promptly that they had ordered carriages to convey her belongings there. They also begged her to take servants from the palace until she found others, but Matilda refused, asking them only for the use of a small gig and pony, which she could drive herself.

  In the evening Peter appeared, carrying a small bundle of clothes. “You will attend me in the morning. I am going to Hadsborough to engage staff,” said Matilda. “Supper has been sent down from the palace and there is more than enough. You will find the hamper in the kitchen. Take anything you want. I cannot, myself, eat anything.”

  She was sitting in the drawing room. Peter looked about the dark room and then began to move about, lighting the candles, then he stooped and lighted the fire. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking at her, tongue-tied. He longed to say that life went on, that that brute she had been married to was better off in the family vault, but could not b
ring himself to say anything for fear of being accused of impertinence. He bowed and went down to the kitchen.

  Chapter Four

  That summer was unusually hot for England. While Matilda lived the life of a semirecluse at the dower house, the Earl of Torridon was back on his estates in Scotland, after a brief visit to Brighton in the south. He had not wanted to go to Brighton but had done so to please his wife, who craved elegant company, as she put it. She appeared to increase in size every day, and although she still threw frequent scenes and tantrums, he put it down to the troubles caused by pregnancy. To his suprise, she refused point blank to have a physician attend her. She had enjoyed Brighton as much as she could enjoy anything, and he had had difficulty in persuading her to move north. He had pointed out the climate would be cooler and less taxing on her nerves, but the unusual sultry heat followed them to Scotland.

  His countess stood at the window of Torridon Castle and watched him ride out. Then, with a sigh of relief, she rang for her French maid, Clarisse. Clarisse was often mistaken for her mistress, so grand was her dress and so haughty her air. She had a longing for pretty things, and lately a great many of the countess’s finest gowns had come her way.

  “Help me get rid of the child,” snapped the countess when Clarisse entered the room. “It is too hot for such nonsense.”

  “Very good, my lady,” said Clarisse in a colorless voice. She unfastened the tapes on her mistress’s gown and helped her out of it and then proceeded to unfasten more tapes that held a cushion tied to the countess’s stomach.

  The Countess of Torridon was not pregnant. She had not bribed the doctor in Hadsborough to say so but had merely put on a convincing act. She had been obliged to take Clarisse into her confidence, and the clever and avaricious French maid had made the most of it, using the countess’s masquerade to gain more pretty clothes for herself. “What shall I do today?” asked the countess, walking up and down the small castle bedchamber in her shift. “Why could we have not stayed in Brighton? The Scotch weary me—heathen savages.”