Pushing back a lock of hair the same blonde hue as the children’s, the duchess shook her head. “By the by, I must reassure you that I’m not usually to be found up a ladder. I know I shouldn’t really.” She patted the heaviness she was carrying before her. “There’s still three months to go, would you believe. I’m convinced it’s triplets; at the very least, robust twins. And, it’s absolutely the last time I allow Lord Studborne to go leaping over the gardener’s bonfire.”
Her accent bore only the slightest trace of her American origins but, in that moment, as the woman’s eyes creased in laughter, Cornelia recognized her as the young lady who’d sat with her aunts on the beach a lifetime of summers ago.
Across the room, the children giggled, then looked at Cornelia shyly.
“Give your mama a kiss, then run upstairs for a while my twinkles.” The duchess eased herself into one of the fireside chairs, and indicated for Cornelia to do the same.
She wrapped her arms around her son and daughter as they embraced her. “I’ll be up soon to play a hand of Snip-Snap.” Once the door had closed, she rolled her eyes. “Melinda is more precocious by the day, but I don’t like to squash her.” The duchess gave a rueful sigh. “She’s destined to blaze her own trail, and I fear it may not be an easy one.”
Cornelia nodded. She knew only too well what it meant to diverge from the expected path.
“Would you mind pulling the bell?” Lady Studborne indicated the rope hanging to one side of the mantel. “We’ll have some tea brought in, and some drop scones I think. It’s one English custom I’ve had no trouble embracing—the endless drinking of tea—although I’m on the fence about a few other habits; the eating of black pudding for one.”
The duchess pulled a face. “As well as all these seasons for gunning things down. Fortunately, Benedict’s eyesight makes him a terrible shot. He prefers to fish on the lake, which seems a slightly more humane way of catching supper.”
Cornelia couldn’t help but notice how the dogs, of which there were five in all, had shifted a little closer to the duchess since she’d seated herself. The smallest of the pack, a wiry border terrier with a mischievous glint in its eye, had laid claim to her left foot while the overweight spaniel had its head on the other. The remaining three—all Labradors—looked on with obvious jealousy.
The door opened a moment later, the elusive Betsy appearing—and swiftly given a list of cakes and fancies to seek out for her ladyship.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet again after all these years. As soon as your aunts are up and about, I intend to monopolize them. They were marvellous company for myself and my mother that summer.” The duchess’s gaze drifted to the window, through which the snow could still be seen falling. “Such an age, yet it seems almost like yesterday. Everything was so different then, of course, but I think of those times fondly.” Absentmindedly, the duchess picked up a few sprigs of holly laying on the side table and began tying them with ribbon.
“You won’t be disappointed. My aunts are just as eccentric as they ever were—except they apologize far less these days.”
“The very thing we should all aspire to.” The duchess gave a warm smile which made her look much younger, so that Cornelia was reminded of that long-ago time again. She hadn’t paid much attention to Ethan’s sister, since she’d always sat decorously with the adults, but her brother’s mouth pulled in the same shape when he was amused.
“I don’t remember much, I’m afraid. Except Ethan playing with me, and then he wasn’t there, and my aunts soon after returned me to London, where there was a governess newly installed.” Cornelia hesitated, biting her lip. “We didn’t get on awfully well. For ages, I asked my mother to put me on the train to Dorset again. It had turned autumnal but I was convinced that if I returned to the beach, it would still be sunny there.”
Cornelia wasn’t accustomed to sharing personal details with strangers, but the duchess was so warm and open, like an old friend she hadn’t known was waiting for her. Something about her manner invited confidences. Nevertheless, the outpouring left Cornelia feeling self-conscious. “Sorry. Rambling on! Funny what stays with us, isn’t it?”
Lady Studborne looked up from the holly in her lap. “I know just what you mean. It was rather an usual summer for me, too—or the beginning of something unusual, I ought to say.” She gave a sudden, stifled cry, uttered a rather unladylike curse, and popped her finger into her mouth. Drawing it out, she grimaced. “So pretty, but I always forget the thorns.”
Seeing the blood beading red, Cornelia offered the small linen handkerchief from her pocket and, at the duchess’s nod, folded it neatly, tying the ends tight.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mortmain.”
“Please do call me Cornelia, your Grace.”
“But, of course.” She smiled again. “And, when we’re alone, I’d welcome your calling me Rosamund, especially as I hope we shall soon be more intimately connected. I must say, I’d no idea you’d kept in touch with my brother all these years, or that an attachment had formed between you. It was a great surprise to receive Ethan’s telegram, explaining his intention of bringing you as his guest, but a wonderful surprise, naturally. I’m immensely pleased you’re here.”
Cornelia’s chest constricted. What exactly had he been telling his sister? They hadn’t even discussed his plan until the day before—and she now had every intention of breaking it. She felt herself blushing. “Really, your Grace—I mean Rosamund. I must tell you that there’s no formal arrangement between your brother and I. In truth, we’re only very recently reacquainted.”
“Your unassuming manner does you credit, Cornelia, but there’s no need to be shy. Truly, we couldn’t be happier. I’ve been telling my brother to settle down for years. To see him finally thinking of doing so is such a relief.” She held up her finger as Cornelia made to protest. “Even to have him considering the matrimonial state is an achievement, so I congratulate you.”
Cornelia found she didn’t know what to say. Rosamund would surely have heard what everyone else knew about her mother, and the embarrassing circumstances of Oswald’s death, yet she spoke so sincerely, and so very kindly.
A knock on the door announced Betsy’s return and the next few minutes were taken with the ritual of tea pouring and the duchess recommending one sort of pastry over another, while taking one of everything for her own plate.
“I’m not usually such a fiend for sweet things but, lately, I can’t help myself.” She licked some iced-sugar from her fingers. “Binky understands me, don’t you?” She reached down to scratch the ears of the spaniel. “She’s due to deliver any time now and has been ravenous for weeks. We’re expecting a bumper litter, which is just as well, as Benedict has promised a puppy to almost everyone we know—though I do rather fear how they may turn out. Benedict arranged for his cousin’s pedigree champion to do the deed, with the promise that Lord Fairlea could have first choice, but naughty Hercules got to her first.”
On cue, the border terrier looked up, pressing his head to the duchess’s skirts. “He really is a terror. Being too short-legged to mount her, he climbed onto my embroidery box to have his way.” Her eyes flashed with wicked humour. “Mind you, Binky was hardly putting up a struggle, so they’re equally culpable. I’m hoping the pups will be such a muddle of the two breeds that we’ll be obliged to keep them all.”