“There you are, Nellie,” her mother said. “Where have you been?”
“I went for a walk, Mama. The spring gardens are simply glorious.”
Beverly smiled. “The park is magnificent.”
“I hope to see more of the estate tomorrow.” Nellie sat beside her. “Charles tells me you are returning soon to Dorset?”
Beverly’s warm smile settled on her husband. “I am eager to go home. We are very snug and happy there.”
Jason gazed fondly at this wife. “It is considered the back of beyond by some.”
“You were telling me about your home farm,” her father prompted Jason.
“Pardon us for a moment, ladies,” Jason said. “Yes, sir, I am adopting the new systems of cropping, with turnips and clover…”
The gentlemen were soon engaged in earnest conversation.
Beverly laughed. “I fear they are lost to us. Nellie, you asked about the dressmaker who made my gown with the Brussels lace? Should you have need of her, I can give you Madam Ambre’s London address. She dresses the Countess of Lambert, who is always the first stare.”
“How good of you to remember. I shall certainly consult her. I have a dress in mind for her to make for me.” Nellie turned to her mother. “Mama? We have such a big order that we might need Madam Ambre for my trousseau.”
Her mother presided over the tea tray. She poured Nellie a cup of tea from the large silver teapot. “I should like to hear more about her.”
As they discussed the current styles, Nellie became lost to her thoughts. She wondered if Beverly rode to hounds. She was relieved that Charles had chosen to support her. But the thought nagged at her that he might be disappointed in her. She still considered it a thorny problem to face in the first year of her marriage. His aunt would be one of a number of neighbors who were members of the hunt and would value tradition as she did.
Nellie took the cup and saucer from her mother and sipped her tea, still unsettled. Charles’s Aunt Frances was a formidable lady, indeed.
That evening, the tall, dark-haired duchess entered the drawing room dressed in a deep violet, half-mourning gown. With a smile, Charles brought her to Nellie and introduced them.
Nellie curtsied low.
“Lady Cornelia, how very nice to meet you at last,” she said, taking her hands. “We must have a quiet talk before you return to London. I want to hear all about you.”
Charles’s mother must have been lovely in her youth and still was with blue eyes and black hair only lightly threaded with silver. Pale and slender, there was something elusive about her. “I plan to move into the dower house after the wedding,” she explained. “It has been empty for some years and needs extensive renovation.” She patted Nellie’s hand. “But I look forward to welcoming you to Shewsbury Park, my dear.”
She was effortlessly charming, but Nellie had the impression her mind was elsewhere. Pleased that her future mama-in-law showed no antagonism toward her, Nellie began to wonder if the duchess was happy to leave this beautiful house. To relinquish all that one was accustomed to and held dear, to be relegated to the dowager set, must be hard, no matter how accustomed one was to its inevitability. Her sons doted on her, Charles bringing her a glass of madeira and Jason arranging a cushion at her back, but Nellie had the strangest feeling that in her mind, Charles’s mother had already left.
*
At the dinner table, Charles watched Nellie converse with Squire Harrowsmith’s son, Blake. How natural was her manner. It pleased him to discover she was not a woman who looked down her nose at those on a lower rung of society and was keen to introduce her to his tenant farmers after they married.
Charles watched his mother, alarmed at the change in her, with purple shadows beneath her eyes. He met Jason’s concerned look when she retired early, apologizing for being tired after a demanding day. In the short time since he’d last been here, she appeared to have grown thinner.
After dinner, Charles partnered Bullen for whist, while twenty-year-old Blake was Nellie’s partner, having claimed the honor before anyone else could. Impudent young buck! At the table, Nellie charmed his neighbor’s son, who watched her with undisguised admiration in his eyes. And while it pleased him, Charles felt a surprising sense of ownership and wished he could whisk her away to bed at the conclusion of the evening. But he must wait patiently until they married for that pleasure.
In the morning, he entered his mother’s apartment. Jane, his mother’s maid of some years, admitted him. She curtsied. “Your mother is still abed, Your Grace.”
He crossed the crimson and blue carpet of her bedchamber. His mother appeared smaller in the massive carved, four-poster bed. Swathes of crimson bed curtains hung from the ducal coronet, falling from beneath the lofty ceiling, and held back with gold cords and tassels.
“Charles! Come and kiss me.” She held out her arms.
He pressed a kiss to her soft cheek. “You were not here to welcome me when I came down from London last night,” he half scolded, alarmed again at her pallor. “Have you been doing too much, Mama?”
“Heavens no. I enjoy being busy. You know that.”
He sat beside her. “You don’t get enough rest.”
“I promise, I will today. Where are you and Nellie planning to ride?”
“I thought we might picnic by the river.”
She smiled. “I like her, Charles. Lady Cornelia is a thoughtful girl. She reminds me a bit of myself when I was young.”
“Does she? In what way?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders in the lacy wrap. “She espouses an interest in philosophical thought and poetry. She may wish to take up some cause or other beyond those required of her. You must respect that.”
“Yes. I believe she will.”
“And why does that make you frown?”
He wished he had some idea of what Nellie might do. Women were expected to obey their husbands, but he rather doubted his
