Naturally, the utter ridiculousness of the complaint—imagine chafing at the notion of too much ease!—struck her forcefully, and as she submitted to the maid’s ministrations, Bea resolved to confront her fate with unwavering stoicism. The elevation in her station warranted adjustment, to be sure, but ultimately the changes would be superficial, for it was not her innermost self that had to alter. She had earned Kesgrave’s ardent regard by simply being herself, and it would be illogical of him to wish she were someone else now.
No, all he required was that she grow accustomed to the unmatched grandeur of his existence. It was an attainable goal, easily accomplished with only a small amount of effort, unlike earning her aunt’s and uncle’s approval, a difficult task made impossible by the prejudices the pair had borne against her and her parents for decades. For the vast majority of her life, she had striven to make herself worthy of their love, shrinking deeper and deeper into herself in the hopes of one day becoming so inoffensive she would please them.
In comparison, learning to tread lightly on rose petals was a stroll through Hyde Park on a spring afternoon.
Bea felt truly reassured by the thought, and yet when the maid finished dressing her hair and said, “I am done, your grace,” she cringed.
She simply could not help it.
And when she looked at her image in the mirror—at her plain brown hair arranged in elaborate curls that framed her narrow face—she felt a wild compulsion to tear out the pins one by one and stamp on them with all her might until they were dust on the floor.
It was too much, the incongruity of her appearance, her cheeks suddenly flushed, her curls suddenly shiny, her eyes suddenly bright. It was almost as if she were staring at a stranger, and to experience that sensation on this morning, when she had woken up already feeling slightly altered, made Bea feel as though she had been supplanted by someone else: a bride, a wife, a duchess.
’Twas a dismaying sensation, as unanticipated as it was unwelcome. If anything, she had worried it would be Kesgrave who would be vaguely transformed by their union. With the obligatory courtesies of courtship behind him and the manifold privileges of a husband before him, it would not be wholly inexplicable if he began to perceive her as something of a possession, as one more thing he owned like the lavish house in Berkeley Square or the many estates that dotted the countryside.
The insidious idea had wormed its way into her consciousness late in the night after the last candle had flickered out and her eyes had fluttered shut. Reasonably, she knew the fear was unfounded, and yet her exhausted mind could find no way to reconcile feeling so possessed with not actually being possessed.
But it was morning now and Kesgrave was as familiar as ever—even the curled lock of blond hair had fallen perfectly into place on his forehead—while she looked a little bit like someone else.
Throwing a tantrum over her slightly altered appearance would do nothing to alleviate her disquiet. Indeed, it would only exacerbate it, for what a fine picture it would make, the new duchess indulging a fit of temper as her first official act. What a flurry of gossip it would cause in the servants’ hall and rightly so. Poor, beleaguered Kesgrave, tethered to an irrational termagant who could not glance into a looking glass without kicking up a fuss and venting her spleen on an innocent assortment of hairpins that had been in the family for generations.
How quickly the once great name had been corrupted by an unsuitable bride.
It would never have happened if he had adhered to the original plan and brought home the beautiful and unbearably elegant Lady Victoria.
Oh, but the humiliation would not end there, with the officious and appalled chatter of the domestic staff. There would be other consequences, for the maid—Dolly, her name was Dolly—would find the exhibition deeply agitating and assume she was somehow responsible for the outburst. Determinedly, Bea would assure her that she had done nothing wrong, but the girl, trained in deference from the cradle, would be unconvinced by the truth. The housekeeper, equally unmoved, would terminate the girl’s employment unceremoniously, and now Bea, on her very first morning of her very first day as a duchess, would be responsible for the penury and inevitable life of privation of one perfectly lovely young maid who had the misfortune to perform her duties with slightly more skill than her new employer could handle with equanimity.
Bea realized she was being absurd again, for if there was one advantage to her new station if was the ability to override housekeepers. As the Duchess of Kesgrave it was her prerogative to keep on her staff all the egregiously competent maids she wanted. All the same, it was a salutary reminder of how drastically her situation had changed. Miss Hyde-Clare could stamp on as many hairpins as she’d like to no effect. Not even Aunt Vera would raise an eyebrow, except perhaps to note the impropriety of a young lady jumping in response of anything other than the bidding of her betters and bemoan the frightful cost of hairpins.
Imagining her relative’s familiar disapprobation soothed Bea’s nerves considerably, and she managed to contain her apprehension long enough to thank Dolly for her efforts. She even congratulated the maid on her enviable proficiency without mentioning sow’s ears and silk purses.
Pleased with the compliment, Dolly tilted her eyes down as she curtsied. “My pleasure, your grace.”
Bea flinched.
Bristling with apprehension, she nevertheless straightened her shoulders and stiffened her spine with a resolution she was far from feeling. In the adjoining dressing room, the clock struck eleven, and although it was foolhardy to ascribe malevolence to an inanimate object, she felt quite convinced the timepiece was mocking her timidity. The morning was half gone, and she had
