Duchess By Night

“Yet leave a kiss but in the cup, and I’ll not ask for wine.”



“How do you leave a kiss in a cup?”



“Good question,” Harriet said. But she didn’t answer, just kept singing. “The kiss that from the soul doth rise, requires a draught divine. Yet might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.”



“Isn’t nectar what bees eat?”



“I believe so.”



“I wouldn’t trade any of that for a kiss either. What’s a draught?”



But Harriet finally heard feet coming up the stairs and jumped to her feet. It was a footman, so tired that his face was white.



“Fire!” Harriet bellowed. “There’s a fire in the west wing and Miss Eugenia is alone in there.”



He stared at her for a second and then wheeled and tore down the stairs.



“Harry?” Eugenia said, through the door.



“Yes, sweetheart.”



“Did you say fire?”



“Don’t worry,” Harriet said firmly. “He’s bringing the key and I shall have you out of there in exactly one minute. You’re going to be fine, Eugenia. We’ll get the fire out, and then we’ll find your father and murder him.”



He must be in the wrong bed, she realized. Of course he was. A man like that had a mistress, though she hadn’t realized it, with her monumental naïveté. He was snug in a bed, likely with one of the Graces.



“But Harry,” Eugenia was saying, “the fire is in my room.”



“I know,” she said. “Don’t worry.”



“I’m not worrying about that,” Eugenia said. “Do you know, Harry, you sound like a girl when you sing?”



Harriet cleared her throat. The whole subterfuge was ridiculous. She opened her mouth, but just then there was the sound of pounding footsteps and a crowd of footmen burst up the last flight of stairs, led by Povy, carrying a great brass key.



“Give it to me!” Harriet demanded.



Povy handed her the key.



She stuck the key in the lock, threw open the door, scooped up the small huddled figure in her arms and threw herself backwards, holding Eugenia.



“Thank God,” Povy was saying. “Thank—” His voice died. He was looking down the corridor. There it was, dim in the light of one lamp burning by the door. There wasn’t a wisp of smoke. There wasn’t even a—



“Eugenia,” Harriet said, putting the girl on her feet. “Didn’t you tell me that there was a fire?”



Eugenia sniffed. “There was,” she said. “There’s always a fire in my room.”



Doors were opening down the corridor behind her. She could hear little squeaks of dismay.



“A fire,” the walrus gentleman suddenly roared at Harriet’s shoulder. “In the other wing.” He gave the impression of having too many teeth.



There was an answering little shriek from the assembled company in the corridor. Povy jerked his head and a footman ran into the west wing.



Harriet knelt down in front of Eugenia. “You were crying. You were afraid.”



Eugenia sniffed again and tears welled up in her eyes.



“Was your bedchamber on fire?”



“No,” Eugenia said. “But I—I woke up alone.”



Harriet looked up at Povy. She felt as if she were learning to breathe all over again. “Where is the footman who is stationed here? And where is Miss Eugenia’s governess or maid? Who sleeps with her?”



“I will certainly inquire in the morning,” Povy said. “I will inquire as to—”



“You will inquire now,” Harriet snapped, standing up. Every inch of her had transmuted from being genial Harry Cope to being a duchess, a woman who had run the duchy estate, not to mention Judge Truder’s court, for years. “I suggest you discover the whereabouts of these people immediately, Povy. And you might—” her tone was withering “—you might wish to inform Lord Strange, if you can find where he bedded himself, what happened tonight.”



Povy pulled himself upright. “I will do that, sir,” he said. “Immediately.”



“I shall take Miss Eugenia to my chamber.” She looked down the corridor at the huddled folk. They looked a great deal less glamorous this late at night. “There is no fire,” she stated. “Go back to bed, if you please. We are sorry to have disturbed your rest.”



“Tea?” Povy asked rather desperately. “Buttered eggs?”



“Enough buttered eggs,” Harriet said, at precisely the same moment that Eugenia said, “Yes, please.”



“All right, buttered eggs,” Harriet said. She took Eugenia’s hand. “I’d like to know exactly what frightened you, but let’s wait until we wash your face.”



They went down the stairs in silence. Harriet’s heart was still racing. She felt ill, an aftermath of shock and excitement.



They walked into Harriet’s chamber and she looked with some disbelief at the chair still pushed to the side, at her boots and rapier.



“I’m sorry you thought there was a fire,” Eugenia said, perching on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t mean to give you that impression.”



“It’s not your fault,” Harriet said. “Did you have a bad dream?”



“Oh no,” Eugenia said. “That wouldn’t bother me. I’m not a baby, you know. I would go back to sleep. It was the rat.”



“Rat!”



“Yes,” Eugenia said, nodding. “It ran across my bed and I woke up and there it was, looking at me. Right in the face. It was all black with a horrid pink tail.”



“It must have been a dream,” Harriet said. “A rat would never do such a thing. They’re afraid of people. You were dreaming.”



“I know the difference between a dream and a rat, Harry. The rat bit me. A dream would never do that.”



“The rat bit you? Where?”



“Right here.” She held out her right hand. Sure enough, just above her thumb there were four sharp puncture marks, the skin swelling around them.



“Oh, no,” Harriet breathed. She scooped Eugenia up and ran over to the water basin, poured some water from the pitcher and thrust Eugenia’s hand into the water. “Soap,” she said. “Soap.” Her heart was thumping again.



“Right there,” Eugenia said, pointing to the ball of soap.



Harriet soaped and soaped.



“He wasn’t a very dirty rat,” Eugenia said. “I mean, he frightened me. And I didn’t want to stay in the room with him. But he had a nice white spot on his stomach, as if he had a fancy waistcoat on. He was a clean rat, as rats go.”



Harriet groaned and scrubbed harder. “How many rats have you seen?”



There was a knock on the door and Harriet swung around, ready to scream at Jem. But apparently they hadn’t been able to root him out of whatever bed he was nesting in, because it was Povy with yet more buttered eggs. He set them down on the little table next to the armchair. A footman carried in another armchair.



“Yum!” Eugenia said, slipping her hand out from Harriet’s and shaking water drops all over the floor. “I’m so hungry.”



“I gather Lord Strange is nowhere to be found,” Harriet stated.

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