departure, Dorothea was once again left to her own devices.
She had offended him with her comments about their wedding night. Offended, angered, and possibly wounded him. Well, wounded his pride. His feelings she barely understood, but his pride was obvious.
The harmony of their relationship was now strained and she worried it would not be easily restored. Married but one day and already facing a crisis. This was not what she had imagined when she agreed to be his wife.
A shuffling noise at the drawing room doorway startled her, and Dorothea wondered if Carter had returned. She turned, struggling to swallow, half hoping, half dreading his appearance. But instead it was Mrs. Simpson who stood hesitantly in the doorway, inquiring if this was a good time to consult her ladyship on the daily menus for the rest of the week.
Thinking it terribly bad manners to take out her peculiar mood on the hapless housekeeper, Dorothea dutifully agreed. She read through the splendid meals Cook had temptingly created for their pleasure, murmuring her approval in what she hoped was an authoritative manner. This was an unfamiliar task, made all the more challenging since she had no notion of what foods her husband preferred. But she trusted that his staff would be aware of his lordship’s likes and dislikes.
Mrs. Simpson’s grin of approval when she finished eased some of Dorothea’s nerves. She might have gotten off on the wrong foot with her husband, yet miraculously she had managed to make a favorable impression on the staff.
“Please convey my thanks to Cook for devising such an ambitious menu,” Dorothea told the housekeeper as Mrs. Simpson handed over the menus. “And compliment her on the lovely dinner she served us last evening. Lord Atwood and I enjoyed every bite.”
Another nod and smile of approval was soon forthcoming. Mrs. Simpson turned to leave, but paused a moment before departing. “Would you like to see the rest of the house today, my lady? I am at your disposal.”
“Why not?” Dorothea replied, decided it was as good a way as any to spend her day. Perhaps it might even distract her mind from her matrimonial dilemma and chase away some of her gloomy thoughts.
They started on the top floor of the mansion. The domestic quarters were clean, neat, and in good repair. Though they were simple and plain, Dorothea was impressed by the quality of furnishings, linen, and blankets given to the staff, along with the ample piles of fuel for their fireplaces.
The third floor contained two distinct wings of bedchambers. The east wing was reserved for family members, including the suites for the lord and lady of the manor. Thankfully Mrs. Simpson strolled by those closed doors and negligently waved her hand in their general direction, knowing full well that Dorothea had been inside both sets of rooms.
Dorothea clenched her thumb and forefinger on the bridge of her nose tightly to hold back her reaction as she scuttled past those doors. Highly doubting she could have entered Carter’s rooms, seen that bed, and kept her emotions level, she asked several pointed questions about the furnishings in the opulent suite reserved for the duke as they entered those chambers.
“It has by far the prettiest view of the gardens,” Mrs. Simpson declared. She pulled back the heavy gold velvet draperies to emphasize her point. “’Tis such a shame that the duke so seldom visits the estate. Why, it’s going on five years since we have last seen him.”
“I imagine he has other estates to attend,” Dorothea replied.
“To be sure. But none so fine as Ravenswood,” Mrs. Simpson said proudly.
They continued on to the west wing of the third floor, which also boasted an abundance of elegant, comfortable bedchambers. These were the rooms chosen for close friends and houseguests during house parties, Mrs. Simpson explained, and thus always kept at the ready.
“Is there a great deal of entertaining done here?” Dorothea asked.
“There was, back when the duchess was alive. We are all hoping with Lord Atwood married, the house will once again ring with laughter and good cheer. The staff does not mind the extra work involved and appreciates the opportunity to showcase their skills and dedication.”
Dorothea silently wondered if the rest of the servants truly were as eager to tackle the heavy workload of keeping guests happy. Back home, their cook and two housemaids complained mightily on the rare occasions there was a dinner party. Dorothea could only imagine the tasks involved when a dwelling of this size was filled with spoiled aristocrats and their servants making demands of the staff.
She had already seen many of the manor’s second-and first-floor rooms, but lacking anything specific to do with her day, Dorothea asked to see them again. The rooms were numerous and splendidly furnished, and Mrs. Simpson a knowledgeable guide. Dorothea’s mind could barely absorb the details.
There were two drawing rooms, both cavernous, though one was larger than the other, a music room filled with all manner of instruments, the majority of which Dorothea could not, nor ever hope to, play with any level of proficiency. A formal ballroom, a library, a study, a den, a morning room, a breakfast parlor, a private salon designed exclusively for the lady of the house.
She could barely absorb all the layout, let alone all the details Mrs. Simpson so easily imparted, but somehow Dorothea made all the appropriate responses to the housekeeper’s comments. Yet when they entered the long portrait gallery, Dorothea fell silent. Generations of noble ancestors seemed to stare down their noses as she paraded past them. Disapprovingly, Dorothea mused gloomily, glaring back up at the canvases.
How could she ever measure up to these proud, haughty aristocrats? What had she been thinking when she agreed to be Carter’s marchioness and, someday, his duchess?
Dorothea paused and stared up into the stern countenance of a Tudor lord, the first Duke of Hansborough. Henry VIII used to chop off his wives’ heads if they displeased him. Had that been the kinder decision? A swift end to the constant battle and bickering?
She let out a pathetic sigh. Preferring death to marriage? Oh dear, her gloomy mood truly had gone too far. Silently commanding herself to cease this foolishness immediately, Dorothea narrowed her eyes and glared at the portrait.
She was a resourceful woman. A determined female. This messy beginning to her marriage would work itself out. It simply had to, and she would accept nothing less than tranquility along with a dose of happiness in her life.
Bolstered by her determination not to be so easily discouraged, Dorothea invited Mrs. Simpson to take tea with her. They settled into the private salon reserved for the lady of the house, nibbling on crustless sandwiches and sipping strong, hot tea. It was the first meal since her wedding ceremony that Dorothea actually tasted.
“If I may be so bold as to ask, is there a Mr. Simpson?” Dorothea inquired, knowing the title of missus was often used as a courtesy with a housekeeper.
“Oh, yes, my lady. I was married for thirty years. Mr. Simpson died of the fever back in ’07.”
“I am sorry for your loss.” Dorothea cleared her throat. “Though I confess to being interested in hearing any wisdom you would care to impart on coping with a husband.”
The housekeeper looked startled and Dorothea knew she had blundered. Badly. The nobility did not share confidences with their servants. She tried a dismissing smile, hoping to drop the matter, but Mrs. Simpson surprised her by speaking.
“There is no simple answer when it comes to men. Husbands or otherwise.” Mrs. Simpson smiled fondly. “But I can tell you a bit about Lord Atwood. I was here when he was growing up. You couldn’t find a more thoughtful, considerate boy if you tried. He was always kind to everyone, even the servants, and there are not many aristocrats of any age who show consideration to those they deem inferior.”
Dorothea knew that remark was aimed squarely at the duke, a proud and haughty man. Fortunately, his son had not taken on the same superior manner. Her heart gentled when she imagined Carter as a young boy. Mischievous and smiling, always ready for an adventure. “Lord Atwood was an only child?”
“Yes, to his regret. He often expressed the desire for siblings, but it was not to be.” Mrs. Simpson took a dainty bite of her sandwich. “Though he would say he wanted a brother, not a sister. I believe having to endure the antics of the Alderton girls, who were spoiled rotten and always demanding the impossible, prompted that attitude. I daresay, one would need to search far and wide to find two bolder little girls. And they grew into a pair of high- spirited, forward-thinking young ladies,” she added in a lowered, confiding tone.
“Alderton? As in Lord and Lady Alderton?”
“Yes. They are the estate’s nearest neighbors. The families were close friends for many years. For a time there was even talk of Lord Atwood marrying the youngest daughter, but the two families had some sort of falling-out and
