The Duchess War

Her whole form tensed.

“I’m feeling generous. I shall answer one question for every month you spent in my company as a child.”

He looked over at her. Her lips thinned. Her fingers tapped an angry rhythm against her saucer.

Robert stood up. “As you are no doubt aware,” he said, “that leaves you with no questions at all. This interview is done.”

And so saying, he stood and left the room.

A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE, MINNIE REALIZED, shouldn’t make her feel ill. Especially when she actually liked the man. But she couldn’t argue with the truth of her body. Her stomach cramped just thinking about what marriage to him would mean. It wasn’t a falsehood when she told her great-aunts the next morning that she needed to lie down.

She’d promised to consider the advantages of his proposal, but all attempts to do so were swept away by visions of angry faces surrounding her. “Fraud!” they yelled, and “Devil’s spawn!” Duchesses attracted crowds. Duchesses attended parties. Duchesses didn’t faint when too many people looked at them. If they did, they’d always be collapsing.

She could imagine the private portion of their relationship all too well. Her skin burned with the hope of that. They had too many kisses between them now for her to pretend she didn’t want him. But while she might have done well as Robert’s lover, the thought of being a duke’s wife made her feel ill. And eventually, any private understanding they might have would be overshadowed by the inevitable public disaster.

Her reverie was interrupted in the afternoon by the clatter of wheels on the drive. She propped herself up on one elbow so that she could see out the window and watched in bemusement as four matching dark horses drew up in front of her great-aunts’ cottage. A servant jumped off the back, opening the carriage door, setting down a stool upholstered in bright colors. And the Duchess of Clermont stepped out. She looked around in every direction, her nose upturned. No doubt taking in the cabbage fields beyond the house, the paint peeling off the barn to the left, the rust on the hinges…all the signs of poverty waiting just on the edge of vision.

She wore a pale pink gown, frothed with lace at the cuffs and hems as if she were a fancy cake in a baker’s window. The duchess shook her head as if to dispel the commonplace sight of the house before her and swept up the walk. One of her servants glided before her and sounded the knocker.

It was starting already. The crowds. The dubious looks. The recrimination.

Minnie was hardly surprised when Great-Aunt Caro came to see her a few minutes later.

“Minnie,” she said in awed tones, “I know you’re feeling poorly, but the Duchess of Clermont most particularly wishes to see you. Shall I send her away?”

Obviously, the duchess had heard the news from her son.

“No,” Minnie said. “I had better see her.”

Caro helped her lace her dress and smoothed her hair into a bun. She didn’t say anything as she worked. She didn’t ask why the Duchess of Clermont would call, nor did she question Minnie’s illness. Minnie could fault her great-aunts for a great many things, but they let her be and trusted her to make her own decisions.

“Minnie,” she finally said, when she’d put down the brush and pronounced her gown presentable, “if you needed anything—anything at all—you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Her great-aunt was wearing a dress she’d turned for the fifth time. Half the lines in her face were likely Minnie’s fault. If anything happened to Eliza, Caro would have nowhere to go. And still she trusted Minnie.

It didn’t matter what would happen if Minnie became a duchess. It didn’t matter that she would be terrible at the endeavor. The choices had all been whittled away, one by one, and there were worse things than feeling obligated to marry a man that she liked.

“No,” Minnie said. “I wouldn’t tell you. It’s long past the time when I should be depending on you. You should be able to trust in me.”

Her great-aunt’s eyes grew shadowed.

“Oh, Minnie,” she said in a choked voice.

Minnie squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry about me.” She drew a deep breath and went down to do battle.

Up close, the duchess’s gown was even more stunning. Four layers of the finest lace ringed her hands. The fabric was a print of delicate flowers, tucked and embroidered and layered upon itself with cunning stitchery far beyond Minnie’s own skill. She could see no hint of Robert in the woman’s face. Her nose was small and turned up, and her mouth seemed set in an eternal grimace.

Minnie ducked her head and curtseyed low in the doorway, all too conscious of her own well-worn frock: a plain, serviceable gray with black cuffs that had been turned once to hide the fraying. The duchess surveyed her in silence, no doubt cataloging her every deficiency. She didn’t need to say a word. That raised eyebrow, that slight widening of the eyes in surprise—they all said the same thing. How dare you think you can marry my son?

No matter what Minnie’s decision might be, she wouldn’t cower before this woman. She met the other woman’s gaze straight on, refusing to look away.

“Well,” the duchess finally said. “I understand what he sees in you.”

The words were so surprising that Minnie forgot her resolve. “You do?”

The duchess stood up and strode over to Minnie. “Poor,” she said, tapping the worn cuffs of Minnie’s sleeves. “Scarred.” She indicated her cheek. “No bearing, no deportment, no sense of proper manners. You’re his charity project.”

After the turmoil of the past day, it was a relief to feel cold, simple anger. Minnie’s chin lifted. “And yet he has not offered me a single pound.”

“Marriage to him would be worth more than a few guineas.”

Minnie set one hand on her hip. “If you think your son’s interest in me extends to mere charity, you don’t know him very well. There are surely more deserving victims than I.”

The duchess shook her head. “I know my son,” she said with a low growl. “He looks so much like his father that it took me years to realize the truth. He’s far too much like me.”

“Like you?” Minnie looked at the woman again. Other than the pale color of her hair, there was nothing of her in her son. She could not have been more than fifty years of age, but already frowns had burrowed harsh lines in her forehead. Her mouth was set in an expression of permanent dislike. “He’s nothing like you.”