My Dear Duchess (12 page)

They experienced some difficulty as they settled themselves in the carriage. Mr. Pellington-James proved to be so tightly laced that he could not sit down. Cushions were produced from the house and he lay back against them, staring up at the quilted roof of the coach. No woman could suffer more for beauty, reflected Frederica.

There was more difficulty when they arrived at the opera house. Two footmen had to push and pull the large gentleman out of the coach and then heave him upright in the forecourt of the theater. Puffing and panting, he shook out the lace at his wrists, seized his long be-ribboned cane in one hand and then offered Frederica his arm with a great flourish. But as they swept towards the entrance, Frederica felt a wrench at her arm which nearly overset her. To her horror her large companion went hurtling off backwards into the crowd. His long cane had stuck firmly between two cobbles and catapulted him out of view into a mass of grinning Hogarthian faces. The servants moved like lightning and in no time at all Mr. Pellington-James had been plucked from the crowd. But he was in a sorry mess. His lace had gone from his throat and wrists, along with his diamond stick pin. His shoes were minus buckles and his wig was on sideways.

“So sorry,” he gasped, “My dear Duchess, do proceed into the opera. I shall join you later after I have changed. Here, fellow!” he snapped his chubby fingers.

“Escort Her Grace to her box,” he commanded one of the footmen. “Apologies. Sincere apologies, dear Duchess.” He turned to the crowd. “Murderers! Robbers!
Canaille!
” he yelled.

They cheered back, “Go it, fat ‘un. That’s a great barrel o’lard ye’ve got along o’ ye, missus!” and various other insults in mercifully too broad a cant for Frederica to understand. The harsh warning rattle of the watch sounded at the end of the street and the crowd dispersed as if by magic.

Feeling shaken and very unprotected, Frederica had a sudden stab of longing for the powerful escort of her husband.

The opera had already begun when she took her seat. Glad that she had not invited any guest other than the unfortunate Mr. Pellington-James, she was able to let the world of society slip away and lose herself thankfully in the music. When the house lights went up she was still caught in the opera’s magic spell and focussed dimly on the magnificent entry of the refurbished Mr. Pellington-James into her box. She pulled herself together to cry out desperately, “Oh, please don’t!” as he bent over her hand. But it was too late. His treacherous corsets locked again and with the slow, inexorable movement of a vast avalanche, he toppled headlong over the edge of the box and crashed into the pit below.

Frederica stumbled to the door of her box to rush to his aid and ran into the arms of Clarissa and her escort. “Pray be seated, my dear Duchess,” said a tall, very handsome man with a faint French accent. “I will attend to all.”

Still she would have followed but Clarissa held her back. Both women peered over the edge of the box.

The handsome Frenchman shortly appeared below, quickly reaching the injured man’s side despite scores of angrily shouting men and fainting women. Two attendants appeared and the great body was heaved onto a make-shift stretcher.

Gallant to the last, Mr. Pellington-James raised his eyes to Frederica as he was borne away and kissed his plump, be-ringed hand to her.

Clarissa was unusually solicitous. “My dear Frederica,” she cried. “Pray be seated and relax. The Comte will take care of everything.” She hesitated for a minute, wondering whether to rush her fences and tell her stepsister that the Comte was vastly enamored of her, but decided against it, knowing that Frederica met all unsubtle approaches with dignified disdain.

The Comte returned to the box just as the house lights were dimming for the second act. Clarissa whispered that they would stay with her in case of further mishap.

But Frederica was no longer able to concentrate on the music. She was aware of a new and powerful personality beside her. She was also aware that the Comte was studying her in the darkness.

When the lights went up for the second time, Frederica was able to see the Comte clearly. He was dressed with tasteful and quiet elegance. His most startling feature was a pair of emerald green eyes, framed by heavy lashes, which glittered oddly in his thin, handsome, white face. His jet black hair, as black as Frederica’s own, was dressed in the style known as Windswept—a miracle of the hairdresser’s art. When he smiled, his whole face lit up with an irresistible charm. Frederica realized that if she were not so completely in love with her husband, her heart would indeed be in danger.

He was introduced as Le Comte Duchesne and like many French
emigrés
had a sad tale to relate of lost lands, lost fortunes, and degrading flight from the land of his birth.

He then began to tease Frederica gently over the downfall of her escort, establishing a subtle atmosphere of intimacy between them with his laughing eyes and charming smile. He was delightful, he was witty, and he was extraordinarily handsome. Frederica felt very young and breathless, somehow a little of the lonely aching of her heart lessened, and by the end of the evening she heard herself agreeing to ride with the Comte in the park next morning.

It was only when she had left him that she realized with some amusement that the handsome Comte had so bewitched her that she had forgotten to inform him that she hardly knew one end of a horse from the other. But why worry! She had observed many ladies riding staid mounts in the Row.

There was nothing to it, surely, for all that horsy people talked and talked. One simply found a quiet animal from the stables, one sat on top, the animal moved, and that was that.

She did not feel quite so optimistic in the morning despite all the glory of a blue velvet riding dress which had hung unused in the wardrobe since her marriage. It was unfortunate for Frederica that the town servants were
so
correct, for although the head groom wished to ask Her Grace whether she had ridden before or not, he did not dare for fear of seeming impertinent. He contented himself with selecting the most docile animal from the stables instead. Since there were no suitable mounts for a lady, he chose a large hunter which should have been put out to grass months ago.

Frederica smiled nervously at her companion from what seemed to be an enormous way from the ground. The Comte looked even more handsome than she had remembered in his snowy cravat, black velvet coat and shining hessians. His huge black steed snorted and cantered and pawed the ground and made Frederica’s knees shake with terror. To her relief, he set off at a slow walk with Frederica’s large hunter following amiably behind.

As they reached the park gates, she began to feel more confident. Very few riders were abroad at that early hour. The grass gleamed like green glass under its coating of dew. A faint breeze moved the leaves of the trees and the hum and bustle of London fell away behind her. A nervous quiver ran through the great beast beneath her as it tossed its head to smell the air of freedom. The head groom had elected to escort her himself and he eyed her hunter with an anxious eye. There was undoubtedly something in the lax way Her Grace held the reins which made him fear that she had had little experience in riding.

“Will you forgive me, Duchess, if I give my mount his head,” called the Comte. “He is fresh and restless.” And indeed he was, having changed masters over the card table the night before. Frederica waved her hand in assent and the Count galloped off headlong down the path. Before Frederica’s groom could grab her bridle, her horse had tossed up its head and followed suit.

Her mouth open in fright to form the scream that never came, Frederica clutched the pommell for dear life as she hurtled past trees and bushes. Finally the horse slowed to a canter and she was thrown helplessly up and down on the sidesaddle. Trees and sky whirled round for a few crazy seconds, then there was a sickening thud and Frederica felt herself lying on the ground, stunned and shaken, but miraculously unhurt.

Hooves thudding, the Comte galloped to the scene. He sprang from his horse and gathered Frederica in his arms, murmuring endearments in French, which Frederica did not understand, Mrs. Sayers having considered any education for females to be an utter waste of money. “There is nothing more charming to a gentleman,” she was wont to say, “as a completely uninformed mind.”

But something in his tone of voice rang alarm bells somewhere in Frederica’s brain and she detached herself from his embrace and struggled dizzily to her feet. Still she could not bring herself to confess that she had never ridden before, and luckily her groom stepped forward, saying that Her Grace was obviously too shaken to remount and that he would ride and fetch the carriage.

The shrewd Comte had sensed her withdrawal and immediately began to chat to her, walking along by her side, until she obviously felt reassured. He must not rush his fences, he decided, if he were to earn his salary from Jack Ferrand. He looked down at her animated little face and felt a slight twinge of misgiving. But to draw back now would mean to return to the hand to mouth existence of picking up what he could at the card tables. Luck had been with him last night and it had amused him to play for the horse instead of money. Thanks to Jack Ferrand’s munificence, it was a whim he could afford.

“Move quickly,” Jack Ferrand had cautioned, “before people become too curious and some nosy French aristocrat decides to enquire into the lineage of the Comte Duchesne.”

He had already asked after the Duke’s health and hearing (as he already knew) that he was absent in Scotland, said teasingly that she must miss him. “Yes, very much,” Frederica had answered simply.

He sensed a loneliness in the girl and quickly decided his best approach must be that of a friend. This idea was to be reinforced a few minutes later.

A heavy horse came wheezing and panting towards them carrying its equally wheezing and panting burden. Magnificent in a frogged coat complete with gold epaulettes and a curly-brimmed beaver hat came Mr. Pellington-James. Apart from a few purple marks which shone faintly through the white lead on his face, he seemed not to have suffered much from his fall of the night before. He ponderously dismounted, catching his high-heeled boot in the stirrup. He hopped up and down, cursing genteelly, as he tried to free himself while his uncaring horse cropped the grass. There was a terrific rending sound as his canary yellow inexpressibles cracked under the strain. Finally freeing himself, he turned with a much flushed face, keeping his back against his placid mount.

“My dear Duchess!” Chuffy bent his head by way of a bow so as not to reveal too much of his back.

To the Comte’s amazement, Frederica did not seem at all embarrassed by the sartorial collapse of her friend, merely exclaiming with relief, “Ah, here is my carriage, my dear Mr. Pellington-James. Allow my coachman to escort you home.”

Mr. Pellington-James stuttered his thanks and, clutching the remnants of his dignity about himself, climbed in. As the carriage rumbled off, he asked Frederica rather huffily who the demned Froggie was, waving his hand at the Comte who was riding outside. Frederica explained the little that she knew, and Mr. Pellington-James, eyeing the Comte’s slim muscular figure, felt and looked so miserable that it took all Frederica’s efforts to restore him to his customary good humor.

“What a quiz of a fellow,” remarked the Comte lightly as Frederica’s carriage rumbled off with Mr. Pellington-James wheezing and puffing inside and his horse wheezing and puffing outside as it trundled along at the rear, obviously resenting the unaccustomed pace.

Frederica looked at him with a little displeasure and then said coldly, “Mr. Pellington-James is indeed prone to accidents but he is truly a gentleman for all that. And I must be careful in my choice of escorts with my husband gone from home.”

“I hope you will consider me a… er… safe escort, my dear Duchess,” he said with his charming smile lighting up his face. “Come, we shall be friends, shall we not? We Frenchmen are
very convenable
… conventional… you know.”

He smiled at her so warmly and openly, and he
had
declared the innocence of his intentions. Frederica smiled back. “I shall be glad to be your friend, Monsieur Le Comte.”

He took her hand and bent over it, depositing a light kiss on her glove. “Perhaps you would care to drive with me to Richmond tomorrow? I have an open carriage so you will not need any escort.”

Frederica shook her head and experienced a little pang of disappointment. “I am engaged to take luncheon with the Jenningtons.”

“I shall engage you for another day,” he said looking into her eyes.
“Au revoir.”

Frederica tripped lightly into the house, her disastrous attempt at riding completely forgotten. It would be pleasant to have such a charming escort. She thought guiltily of Mr. Pellington-James.

So far, he had been the only gentleman of her acquaintance who was openly glad of her company and who could be relied on to
behave
like a gentleman in any circumstances. But his frequent accidents, although treated lightly by a society used to eccentric behaviour, did embarrass her, and maidenly modesty alone stopped her from begging him to find a new corsetiere.

At times she wished with a longing that was like a physical ache that she had gone to Scotland with her husband. But the memory of the way he had held Clarissa in his arms still hurt. She would not beg or plead for his love. But she could not help wondering if he ever thought of her.

At that precise moment, the Duke was indeed thinking of her. Another day’s hard riding and he would be home. He had been hurt and angry when Frederica refused to accompany him on his journey. Now, in a gentler frame of mind after his long absence, he realized that he had never tried to woo his wife. She was his property and he had somehow expected her to fall into his arms. Well, he would begin afresh as soon as he reached Grosvenor Square. Never once did he think that Frederica’s affections would stray elsewhere. He knew enough of his bride to know that she was honest and direct. But then, sometimes one fell in love most unsuitably, as he himself had done with Clarissa. The thought that London might be abounding in male versions of Clarissa suddenly made him swear under his breath and spring his horses.