The Double Duchess
THE STATIONMASTER’S STIFF COLLAR WAS DIGGING into the back of his neck. It was new and so full of starch that he could only move his head by turning his whole body. He tried to put his finger between the hard fabric and his skin but the extra pressure only made the collar even more like a garrotte. He gave up and tried to stand as still as possible. He could only look straight ahead but he could hear the distant whistle of the train. He lowered his eyes to the red carpet that lay across the platform – a little threadbare in parts but he knew that the Duchess would be pleased with the attention. The red carpet had last been taken out when the Prince of Wales had come for the old Duke’s funeral. The stationmaster wondered if the Duchess would remember; perhaps the red carpet had not been such a good idea after all. Was it too late to remove it? Yes, the train was seconds away from pulling in. The stationmaster turned ninety degrees so that he could face his former mistress.
Duchess Fanny looked out of the compartment window as the familiar gingerbread-house fretwork of Lulworth Halt slid into view. She had thought it might be amusing to make the station a little more orné, perhaps an Oriental pavilion or something with shells, but the Directors of the South Dorset Railway had been firm: stations were of a standard design and not subject to the whims even of duchesses. She had been quite put out, even mentioning it to the Prince. This had been a mistake. Bertie had looked bored, his heavy eyelids drooping and the corners of his mouth beginning to sag. Fanny had changed the subject swiftly; she could not afford to be tiresome.
Duchess Fanny had always known, even as a little girl, the importance of not being tiresome. She was the second oldest of four sisters, daughters of a bad-tempered Somerset squire whose moods were as terrifying as they were unpredictable. Fanny was her father’s favourite. She, alone of her sisters, had noticed that when her father was growing irritable, he would start to twist the buttons of his waistcoat. As soon as she saw his fat red fingers pulling at the straining mother-of-pearl discs, she would shoo her sisters away and make a point of asking her father if she could bring him something from the kitchen – a hot toddy perhaps, with cinnamon, just the way he liked it. Her father had appreciated her tact, and so when his rich widowed sister had offered to bring out one of his girls in London, he had sent Fanny.
Before she left, Fanny had considered telling Amelia, the third sister, the secret of the buttons, but decided against it. If, heaven forbid, her debut was not the success she hoped for and she was forced to return, unmarried, then it would be as well to keep this precious lever to herself. Indeed, it was only after her wedding to Lord Maltravers, the heir to the Duke of Wareham, a match that had astonished everyone that season (everyone, that is, except Fanny herself), that she felt she could afford to impart this precious piece of information to her sister. Amelia had been helping Fanny to change into her going-away outfit. Amelia’s transparent envy at Fanny’s good fortune, the titled husband, the beautiful clothes and jewels, the great house and position that would all be hers, had been most gratifying to Fanny. She had whispered to her sister that she wanted to give her a present. Amelia leant in eagerly, hoping for some jewelled cast-off from her sister’s new magnificence and when she received her ‘gift’, she had laughed a little bitterly. Fanny had tried to explain to her sister the importance of being able to manage their father, but Amelia was too glassy-eyed with covetousness to understand the significance of the buttons.
Amelia never had learnt to manage men, thought Fanny. It was inevitable, perhaps, that her husband Sholto would take a mistress, but Amelia should never have allowed him to be so publicly besotted. If Amelia had ignored Sholto’s infatuation with Lady Eskdale, it would have passed – no one could stand Pamela Eskdale for more than a season – but to allow herself to look wounded and reproachful had only prolonged the affair. Amelia had been tiresome; it was lucky for her that the Eskdale was even more tiresome and even Sholto had grown tired of her. She really must invite Amelia and Sholto to Conyers. To one of the larger parties, of course.
The carriage jolted and came to a stop. The Duchess smiled when she saw Weld, the stationmaster. Such a handsome man, he had been quite her favourite footman – his calves had been spectacular. She rarely took lovers outside her class – the risk of blackmail was too great – but Weld had proved as discreet as he was muscular. When he had announced he was marrying one of the housemaids, it seemed entirely appropriate that he should be nominated to the South Dorset Railway as a stationmaster. It was necessary, of course, that the stationmaster should understand the needs of the house. Weld had been quite satisfactory. The brass buttons on his tunic were always shiny and he even looked handsome in that cap (such a shame that the uniform was, like the station, standard issue).
The Duchess smiled when she saw the red carpet laid out on the platform. She guessed that this had been the stationmaster’s idea, rather than her son’s. This was her first visit to Lulworth since her marriage to Buckingham, it was only fitting that it should be marked out as a special occasion. The Lulworth staff had always worshipped her. She beckoned to Sybil, her stepdaughter, to follow her.
‘Weld, how splendid everything looks.’
‘Welcome back, Your Grace.’ Weld attempted his best footman bow but the collar defeated him. The Duchess was smiling, she was gliding across the red carpet, the fur trim of her pelisse brown and rich against the faded pile.
‘Is the train early, Weld? I can’t see the Duke.’
‘No, the train is on time, Your Grace. I believe that is the Lulworth carriage drawing up now.’
The Duchess knew that the late arrival of the carriage was a declaration. She was not entirely surprised to see that the man getting out was not her son but his friend Reggie Greatorex. She turned to her stepdaughter.
‘Sybil darling, look how popular you are.’
She was rewarded by the sight of Sybil blushing. There was nothing artful about Sybil. If the girl had been the Duchess’s own daughter she would, by now, have learnt to blush entirely at her own volition; but by the time Sybil had come into her care it was too late to teach her even the most basic strategies. There had been moments when the Duchess had thought that Sybil might do for Ivo, but as Ivo had quite refused to come to Conyers or to Belgrave Square, there had never been the chance to put them together. She really must give the girl some powder, that blush against the red hair was so unbecoming.
‘But where is Ivo, Mama? I thought he would be here to meet us.’
Fortunately Reggie had reached them before the Duchess was forced to answer Sybil’s tactless question.
‘Duchess, Lady Sybil, what a magnificent sight on such a grey morning. You must forgive me for taking Ivo’s place but I begged him to let me come. Life at Lulworth is positively dull without you. Ivo has not inherited your genius for entertaining. I just couldn’t wait to bask in some feminine company.’ Reggie’s beam embraced both women.
The Duchess looked at him, her pale blue eyes open wide with disbelief. ‘But Reggie, from what I hear, there is no shortage of female companionship at Lulworth.’
‘Oh, you mean the Americans. Well, the mother is unspeakably dignified and the daughter is pretty enough but such a modern girl. Not restful, either of them. I want to sink into female company, I want to be soothed and indulged, not buffeted about by opinions.’
For a moment Reggie thought he might have gone too far, but then the Duchess smiled and allowed him to help her into the carriage. As he helped Sybil up, he squeezed her hand and was rewarded by an almost imperceptible wink.
The Duchess settled her furs around her and nodded to Weld, who still stood to attention by the red carpet. Then she leant forward to Reggie and asked him in her most intimate tone, ‘Do we know anything about the Americans? Charlotte wrote to tell me that the girl had fallen off her horse and that Ivo discovered her unconscious in Paradise Wood. Can she really have had such a convenient accident?’
Reggie understood now why Ivo had begged him to go to the station in his place. The Duchess was quite relentless in the pursuit of information. Nothing would infuriate her more than her son entertaining two Americans whom she couldn’t quite place.
‘From what I hear, she is quite the heiress. They came over to Britain on their own yacht. I don’t think she is the sort of girl who would throw herself in anyone’s way. I would imagine her approach to be a good deal more direct. My impression is that Miss Cash usually gets what she wants.’
‘She sounds quite…terrifying,’ said the Duchess, mollified by the mention of the steam yacht. ‘How lucky for Ivo that Sybil and I were able to come to his aid. Direct Americans! My poor boy.’ She rolled her beautiful eyes in mock sympathy.
‘Is Miss Cash very elegant?’ asked Sybil anxiously. ‘My dressmaker says that she never gets any work from the American ladies as they go straight to Paris for their clothes.
‘Such an affectation,’ said the Duchess. ‘Paris does not have the monopoly on fashion. London is full of beautifully dressed women.’ She smoothed the grey broadcloth of her travelling dress with one white beringed hand.
Reggie searched for the right answer. ‘She certainly looks very smart. But how would I know, since until you came I had no one to compare her to.’ He smiled at Sybil. The Duchess was looking out of the window and tutting at the state of the lodge as they turned through the gates to Lulworth. Reggie hoped that Ivo would be there to welcome his mother.
The staff of Lulworth were lined up on the grey stone steps as the carriage drew up, the male servants on the left, the female servants on the right, from the butler and housekeeper right down to the scullery maid and knife boy. Reggie looked for Ivo in vain, but fortunately the Duchess was too busy composing herself for her triumphal return to notice her son’s absence.
As she got out of the carriage, there was a rustle like wind blowing autumn leaves as the female servants sank into their deepest curtsy. Bertha, who was observing the scene from Cora’s bedroom on the second floor, wondered if the servants here knew automatically which step they were meant to stand on to form a perfectly symmetrical inverted V, or whether they had had to be told. Did the scullery maid assume that her place was at the bottommost right-hand step, or had she settled herself a few steps higher and then been sent down to her correct station? In America there would have been all kinds of jostling for position; as a lady’s maid her own position was at the top, just below the housekeeper, but that wouldn’t stop the Irish housemaids from pushing themselves to the front. In England everyone knew their place.
She heard the door open and Cora’s voice, high with excitement, calling her.
‘Bertha, I need you now! The Duchess is here and I must be ready!’
Bertha turned from the spectacle at the window to see that her mistress had succeeded in getting out of her bodice and was tugging at the strings at her waist.
‘I want the blue costume, the one with the high neck. Please hurry, I don’t want to be late for lunch. Damn, these petticoats are muddy. I will have to change completely.’
Bertha went to the armoire and took out the blue costume. She had to use both arms to lift it as the skirt was a heavy broadcloth with an elaborate frogged border. Bertha looked at the row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons on the back of the blouse and sighed. This was not a dress that could be hurried.
Her mistress was standing in a foamy sea of cotton and lace, pouting at herself in the cheval mirror. She wriggled into the petticoats that Bertha held out. At least the blue dress was in the very latest style and did not have a full bustle; there was only a small horsehair pad to hold the skirt out at the back. Arranging a bustle, Bertha knew from experience, could take half an hour. This dress had the new sleeves that ballooned out from the shoulder to be caught into a tight sleeve at the forearm. The skirt was gored, flowing out to a wide hem. The proportions were designed to narrow the waist, but Cora was tugging at the belt unsatisfied.
‘Bertha, can you lace me a little tighter? I think I could go down an inch.’
‘Not if you want to be ready in time for lunch, let alone eat anything.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to eat…Oh Bertha, can’t you guess what’s happened?’
The maid looked at Cora steadily. The girl’s colour was up and there was a certain bruised quality to her mouth as if she had been eating raspberries.
‘Can’t you guess? The Duke, Ivo, has proposed! We were in the chapel and all of a sudden it happened.’
‘And how did you answer?’ Bertha fastened the nineteenth button.
‘What do you think I said? Yes, of course.’
Bertha found her knees buckling beneath her and fell to the floor rather heavily. She had not fainted, rather the ground beneath her feet had simply seemed to give way.
‘What are you doing, Bertha? Are you all right? Shall I fetch my smelling salts?’ Cora was genuinely anxious, Bertha was her confidante and, moreoever, the only person capable of confecting the hairstyle she had determined to wear that night at dinner.
Bertha looked about her blankly and then pulled herself up on to Cora’s bed where she sat down heavily.
‘I’m fine, Miss Cora, it was just a turn, that’s all. I guess if you’re going to be a duchess and all, you’ll be needing a fancy French mamselle not a Carolina foundling.’
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic. When I am Duchess I shall have whoever I like. I’m not going to change just because I’m getting married, except that Mother won’t be able to nag me all the time. Are you feeling better now? I really must go downstairs and meet my future mother-in-law.’
Bertha rose slowly to her feet and with clumsy, unresponsive fingers fastened the last buttons at the back of Cora’s high-necked blue silk blouse. She freed a couple of chestnut tendrils from the stiff boned collar. She knew why Cora had chosen this costume, she could feel the red flush of her skin under the thin silk. As she finished, Cora squirmed away from her and rushed to the cheval glass to inspect herself. No need to bite her lips or pinch her cheeks, she looked vivid enough. Bertha watched as she leant forward and kissed her reflection in the speckled mirror. Cora saw Bertha looking at her in the mirror and she laughed a little foolishly.
‘Wish me luck, Bertha. It’s all beginning now, everything,’ and Cora swept out of the room to her future. Bertha watched her go and then moved to the window where she pressed her face against the cold glass. A mist was rolling in from the sea, shrouding the view. She watched her warm breath turn the glass cloudy and without thinking she pressed the black pearl lying close to her heart.
Cora stood at the top of the stairs; she caught sight of her reflection in a gilt mirrored sconce. Almost perfect, but…she looked to see if anyone was about and then adjusted her bosom under the blue silk blouse. She was squaring her shoulders for the descent when she heard a voice that sliced through the dusty calm of the house so confidently that Cora knew that it could only belong to the Double Duchess.
‘Darling Ivo, it is so lovely to be back at Lulworth. I had almost forgotten how thrilling that view of the sea is when you first come over the hill from the station. But you look pale, darling. I hope you aren’t taking your responsibilities too seriously. You’ve been buried away down here for so long.’
‘Well, now I have you to entertain me, Mother.’ Ivo’s voice was flat.
‘And your Americans, of course,’ the Duchess cooed. ‘I can’t wait to meet them. Charlotte says that Miss Cash is quite the thing.’ She paused for a second and then said in a lower tone, ‘Dear boy, I realise how lonely you must have been. I wish you had come to see me at Conyers. I could have made things more comfortable for you.’
‘And how is your husband?’ Ivo replied.
‘Oh darling, there’s no need to be like that. Buckingham was saying only the other day how much he looked forward to your maiden speech in the House. He is a great admirer of yours, you know.’
Ivo said nothing.
The Duchess tried again. ‘I think you might have told me that Reggie was here. I should hardly have brought Sybil with me if I’d known.’
‘I don’t remember asking you to come, Mother,’ Ivo said without emphasis.
There was a pause and Cora wondered what would happen next. Was Ivo going to tell his mother about their engagement? They had only come back an hour ago and yet that scene in the chapel already seemed unreal. Had Ivo really proposed or had she somehow imagined it? Was there some kind of secret English code that she had missed? It was all so unlikely – that sudden connection, as if from nowhere. She heard footsteps coming down the gallery; she must go or be discovered eavesdropping.
‘I came because I thought you might need me, darling.’ The Duchess’s voice was soft but Ivo did not yield.
‘I’m touched by your concern, Mother, especially when I know how busy you are with all your new duties. I’m surprised Buckingham can spare you.’ He looked up and saw Cora coming down the stairs. ‘But here comes Miss Cash now. Miss Cash, please come and meet my mother, she wants to inspect you.’
Cora saw a blonde woman, younger and more chic than she had expected. This was not the dowager in dirty diamonds that she had vaguely imagined but a beauty who hardly looked old enough to be Ivo’s mother. Only as she got closer did she see the web of lines around the eyes and the faint weathering of the skin that betrayed the Duchess’s real age.
‘My dear Miss Cash, Ivo is so uncouth.’ The Duchess’s voice had dropped into a thrilling coo like a seductive wood pigeon. ‘I want to assure myself that you have been looked after. Such an unfortunate accident…All alone in a strange country. I dread to think what might have happened if Ivo had not happened to be riding through Paradise Wood that morning. And now forced to put up in my son’s bachelor establishment. I feel for you. Ivo really has no idea of comfort. His tastes are positively Spartan.’
Cora found that she had the advantage of at least two inches over the Duchess. Normally her height was a cause for self-consciousness but here she was glad of it.
‘Oh, Your Grace, I could not have been better looked after. Your son has been the most attentive host.’ Cora gave her best American smile and her eyes flickered over to Ivo.
The Duchess looked at her carefully. The girl was certainly presentable. Tall, with chestnut hair and greenish eyes, she had the carriage and the neck to carry off the fashionable silhouette of the season. Some women looked puny and cowed in those enormous sleeves. Reggie had been right, she was used to getting her own way; this was not a girl whose future had depended on the close observation of waistcoat buttons. She saw her glance at Ivo. They smiled at each other. The Duchess wondered if her son realised what sort of girl she was. All the prospective brides Ivo had encountered, that she had placed in his way, had known the rules, had been inducted from birth in the rituals of their world. But this American miss was from a different world entirely.
‘And I believe your mother is here also? How fortunate that she was able to join you. But like all mothers she knew that her place was with her child at the hour of need.’ The Duchess looked meaningfully at Ivo.
Cora caught the look and felt the colour rising to her face. Was the Duchess hinting that she had come to save her son from an unfortunate marriage?
But the Duchess smiled sadly and continued, ‘It was three years ago that Guy, my eldest son, died.’ She placed her hand on Ivo’s arm briefly. He made no answering movement.
They heard voices coming down the hall
‘And how did you get here, Lady Sybil? At home we always take our own train to Newport. Even with two separate establishments, there is still so much stuff to be carried back and forth. My husband had to buy the railway in the end so that there would be no difficulties with the timetable.’ Mrs Cash entered the hall with Sybil at her side.
Cora noted the way the Duchess’s eyes lit upon the brooch her mother wore pinned to hold down her veil; it was a huge ruby in a nest of diamonds. Perhaps for the first time in her life, Cora was grateful for her mother’s sense of her own magnificence. She looked at Ivo and thought she saw his lips twitch, but before she could catch his eye properly there was a flurry of introductions and they were being ushered into the dining room.
The Duchess made a great display of hesitating before she took the seat that had once been hers at the opposite end of the table to her son. Cora saw that this uncertainty was aimed at Ivo but he refused to rise to the bait. When, in desperation, the Duchess said, with a quaver in her voice, ‘How charming to find myself once more at Lulworth at my end of the table, and yet of course how poignant it is when I remember how things were,’ Ivo simply nodded and without looking at his mother asked Mrs Cash whether her private train had loose boxes.
Cora was seated between Reggie and Father Oliver, with the Duchess on Reggie’s other side. She could see that Reggie was to be monopolised by the Duchess so she began to ask Father Oliver about the history of the Lulworth chapel. As the priest recounted in detail the various vicissitudes of Catholicism at Lulworth, Cora was able to watch the Duchess talk intimately to Reggie and the effect this was having on her stepdaughter Lady Sybil. Cora thought that Sybil was quite good-looking for an English girl, despite her dowdy clothes and miserable hair. They must be about the same age. Cora wondered how the girl liked having the Duchess for a stepmother.
At the end of the meal Cora observed a curious ritual which had puzzled her the night before. One of the footmen was scraping all the contents of the serving dishes into a series of tins. This was quite indiscriminate: fish, eggs in aspic and trifle were all piled into the same receptacles which were then stacked on top of one another in a wicker basket. She turned to Reggie and asked him where the food was going.
‘Oh, I suspect it must be for the poor and infirm of Lulworth. Is that right, Duchess?’
The Duchess turned her blond head. ‘Yes, there is such a tradition of charity at Lulworth, the poor man at the gate and so forth. Really quite a lot of work for the servants, but it is so counted upon…’
Cora looked at the Duchess. ‘But is there any reason why all the food is jumbled together? I just saw the remains of a raspberry soufflé being thrown into the same dish as the mutton. Surely it would be no trouble to put the food into separate dishes?’
Duchess Fanny put down the spoon she had been holding with a clatter. At the other end of the table her son looked up.
‘My dear Miss Cash, the villagers at Lulworth are not gourmets. They are quite happy to have a meal even if it isn’t as cooked by Escoffier.’ The Duchess’s tone was light and there was a hint of a laugh in her voice, but her eyes were cold.
‘But it would take so little to make the food more palatable,’ Cora protested. ‘There is no reason why charity should be indigestible.’
Before the Duchess could reply, Ivo spoke.
‘Indeed there isn’t, and when you are chatelaine of this house, Cora, I suspect that we will have the most contented parishioners anywhere in the kingdom.’
The table fell silent. Mrs Cash, who was raising a glass to her lips, froze. Ivo rose to his feet.
‘Mother, Mrs Cash, I apologise for the scant ceremony, but this morning I asked Cora to marry me and I am delighted to say that she accepted.’
There was a pause. Even the servants stopped weaving around the table.
Then the Duchess put her head on one side and smiled at her son. ‘Ivo darling, how perfectly romantic. Dear Mrs Cash, you must forgive my impulsive son. He, of course, needs to consult with Mr Cash.’ Then her blue eyes opened wide and she said in mock dismay, ‘Oh, I hope there is a Mr Cash?’
Mrs Cash moved her head by a fraction. She could find no words to express her feelings; shock, pleasure, outrage mingled in equal measure. ‘My husband is in New York.’
‘Then, Ivo, you must telegraph at once.’ With a great swish of satin, the Duchess rose to her feet. A footman scurried to pull back her chair. She ignored her son and looked at Mrs Cash. ‘Ladies, shall we?’ And with her blond head held high, she moved towards the door. As she walked the length of the table, the ladies got up one by one to follow her; even Cora was pulled to her feet. Only when she reached the door did the Duchess stop and look back at her son.
He stood up and opened it for her.
As she walked past him, she laid one gloved finger against his cheek. ‘Dearest Ivo, I should have come sooner. I never realised how much you minded.’
It was much later before Cora realised what she meant.