Chapter Six
Happiness is no laughing matter.
(Richard Whately, Archbishop of Dublin, 1787–1863)
Surely ’twas impossible for a person to be still living if they hadn’t breathed for twelve hours.
To be sure, she’d not breathed last night when bundled upstairs, or when put to bed by her maid, or whilst sleeping, and she quite definitely hadn’t breathed since waking at dawn.
Whenever she tried, her throat contracted.
And another entirely new development in the life of Aideen Maura Kathleen Quinlan was that she appeared to have been struck dumb.
Uncle Seamus said she’d been born to the world jabbering, tongue running twelve score to the dozen, and yet… She opened her mouth.
Nothing.
Not that she needed to say anything. Mrs Beckford was more than making up for Aideen’s muteness.
At this very moment, she chattered over the breakfast table about how well-mannered the duke was and how honoured Aideen should be.
Honoured?
Certainly, she was aware it had been a grand gesture on his part to save her reputation from ruin, although she’d an inkling it had also been to save his own pompous hide.
The duke had not suddenly developed a tendre for her, and if she’d been in any doubt, his tight lips and angry eyes on the stalk back from the fountain would have soon un-doubted her.
He’d probably regretted the words as soon as they’d been uttered, but what else could a priggish duke do when confronted with such a reproachful threesome?
Well, not kiss her in the first place, of course, but the milk had already been spilt. Indeed, it had copiously flooded until they were chin-high and drowning.
Aideen scowled as Mrs Beckford babbled on about trousseaus and wedding fruit cakes. But what no one seemed to have taken into account were the very words the duke had so coldly drawled: “It was to choose my wife.”
Conceited, puffed-up, overconfident, egotistical, self-important…
The more she thought upon it, the more incensed she became. There were so many ways he could have worded it:
“I was about to ask the beautiful Aideen to be my treasured wife.” Perfect.
“I am hopeful Miss Quinlan would honour me by consenting to be my duchess.” Very Rakecombe but acceptable.
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” From her favourite book, so unlikely.
“You don’t have to marry him, you realise.”
Aideen frowned. An odd thought, until she realised it wasn’t in her head but the astute Mr Beckford.
Peering up, she found warm brandy eyes twinkling at her over a fork full of bacon. “Just saying, Aideen dear, you need not marry the young buck if you don’t wish to. Duke or no duke.”
His wife’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Of cours–”
“No,” Mr Beckford said mildly. “What is most important for our girls, Edwina?” He reached to twine his fingers with his wife’s, their gazes meeting.
A moment of jealousy engulfed Aideen. They looked so…affectionate. Mr Beckford was rather a quiet man but over her time spent with the family, Aideen had realised he was no hen-pecked husband. He radiated silent strength.
“Happiness.” Mrs Beckford sighed.
“Exactly so,” responded her husband. “The duke sent a message earlier. He will be here on the hour of eleven, so I suggest you think carefully, Aideen. But no one is forcing you. We will support whatever decision you adopt. Yes, it might cause a disruption if you decide otherwise, but we are not of the higher echelons of society. We will survive and having Sophie as a countess will help.”
The words brought tears to Aideen’s eyes and she hastily dashed them away. Her own father would have demanded she obey, brandishing his fury with harsh curses. He’d probably have called her a harlot.
Perhaps she was. She’d hardly fought off the duke’s impudence but instead relished his touch.
Pushing her unfinished breakfast to one side, she stood. “Thank you. I do not deserve your kindness after the events of last night–”
“Aideen,” Mrs Beckford interrupted, holding up a palm, “you are not to blame in any way. The duke has a decade over you in both years and experience. Blame lies solely in his hands. Take a rest in the morning room and I’ll bring you a cup of chocolate.”
“And, Aideen,” Mr Beckford added as she turned. “You are as a daughter to us in every way, so if you require me to call him out, I will. I’m a dab shot, eh, wife of mine?”
That wife of his blushed, and another time Aideen would have stayed and inveigled that entire story, but nodding gratefully, she wandered out.
Mrs Beckford’s words had given her pause to think. Rakecombe’s years did not detract but doubtless added to his appeal. Men like the young Lord Sherburn behaved so young, more concerned with gambling and carriage racing.
And then there was chocolate.
Some men smelled of horse, sweat or liver, but scrumptious chocolate?
Certainly not a reason to marry but one to add to the cauldron of consideration.
After plunking herself on the mahogany floral ottoman, she flicked through a tatty old copy of La Belle Assemblée.
Why, when one needed to think, did one’s idea pot empty?
No reasoning or conclusions arose; instead, there lay a gaping hole of indecision and befuddlement.
How she wished Sophie was here for some sound advice. She could send a message for Cordelia to call, but felt her friend was also in the dark concerning men, if not more so. Oakdean was markedly monosyllabic – or brooding as Aideen would label it.
An article caught her eye: “Maxims and Rules for the Conduct of Women” by Countess de Boufflers.
Idly, she studied the list.
1. In the exterior, decency and cleanliness. Well, she could accomplish the second.
4. In language, truth and perspicuity. She did sometimes fib but thought she could manage to be articulate…or long-winded, depending on how one viewed it.
5. In domestic life, rectitude and kindness, without familiarity. Oh dear.
Her father had always bemoaned she should’ve been a boy and perhaps, after all, he was right. Life was certainly less formal for them, and her manners would have been better suited to a male of the species.
But damn them all – she liked being a girl, and she liked being Aideen Quinlan. She peered at the list again.
“I don’t think you need that old twaddle, Aideen love,” said Mrs Beckford, arriving with the promised cup of chocolate and placing it by her. “The duke seems to admire you exactly as you are from what I spied last night.”
Cursing the redness which coursed beneath her pale Celtic skin, she nevertheless smiled. “I don’t know. We always…argue.”
Mrs Beckford sat on the dainty chaise, and Aideen wasn’t quite sure what to expect after her defence of the duke at breakfast. Certainly not a furious reprimand but maybe some gentle persuasion.
“Have you any common ground?”
“Erm.” Furiously, she thought over the time she’d known him. “We both like books. I remember him saying he was a prodigious reader.”
“A most pleasant pastime for husband and wife. If you decide to marry, you have to work on what pleases you both and be patient but, Aideen…friction is not always a harmful element to marriage.”
Aideen’s eyes widened as redness now travelled up Mrs Beckford’s neck, tinting her like a rose.
“Is it not? But we fight and bicker. Nothing like your Sophie and the Earl of Kelmarsh.”
“That is their character. Those two enjoy tranquillity, but… I know you will not believe it now, but when my husband was young, he had quite the temper and I was no namby-pamby miss either.” She coughed gracefully.
“Really?”
Mrs Beckford flicked open a fan, which lay on the chaise, and wafted it vigorously. “We had some skirmishes, but I knew, deep down, he was the only man for me. And the making up can be most…agreeable.”
Aideen coughed ungracefully.
The fan snapped shut and earnest eyes shifted to her. Despite having difficulty following Mrs Beckford’s etiquette guidance this Season, Aideen had great respect for her. And she so desperately needed advice.
“You have to search deep down, Aideen. Not on the superficial surface but within. Do you want this man for the rest of your life?” Mrs Beckford patted a cushion nervously. “I will not say this again as ’tis a dash indecorous, and dukes may sleep differently, but…well, do you want to see his face across your pillow every morning?”
Yes, yes, yes, Aideen’s heart screamed, but so many inner concerns yelled no, no, no.
“I can’t be a duchess,” she wailed. “All the formality! I have no manners and should’ve been a boy like m’da always–”
“Anyone can learn manners and social graces.” Mrs Beckford hastened over and jostled up on the ottoman, leaning close. “What cannot be learned is kindness and humour and understanding, and you have those in abundance. As for your father… Did you know I visited Waterford before your birth?”
Aideen shook her head.
“Your mother was sure you would be a girl. So excited, she was.”
“Didn’t she want a boy? Like Da.”
“No, she didn’t. And your father couldn’t have cared less at the time either – anything to make her happy. But when she died… Well, he lost himself and I’m afraid you were lost too. He turned his focus not to you, his daughter, but inwards, and anger consumed him. It still does. I thank God for your Uncle Seamus, even though he did teach you some highly inappropriate conduct.”
“Oh.”
“And I also doubt you know that your father was the one to name you.”
“What?” She gasped.
“Hmm. Said any girl of his was bound to be fiery and stubborn.”
Lips parted but Aideen was once again unable to speak.
“I shall leave you to think,” said Mrs Beckford, patting her knee. “But one other matter to ponder on.” She pursed her lips. “I talked of the duke being a man of years and experience. A man that should know better. So, the only reason for him to make such a grave impropriety is because you must call to him in some way. He does not appear to be a man controlled by lust. Far from it, his reputation is somewhat priggish.” Mrs Beckford stood. “So, to make such a severe slip demonstrates profound…emotion.”
Aideen’s lips snapped shut.
Bejabbers.