The Emerald Duchess Read online

  “My dear child,” her uncle said. “I trust you slept well?” He made as if to embrace her, and for the first time she stiffened and drew away. Lord Wyndham looked at her searchingly, but he made no comment as he introduced her to the lawyer, Mr. Brown.

  The interview was just as difficult as she had imagined, and made more so by the searing realization after not too many moments that outside of the cottage, heavily mortgaged to Lord Wyndham, and the empty jewel case, she was penniless.

  Lord Wyndham begged her to forget the mortgage, and Emily, sure the lawyer knew why he was so generous, felt her color rise. Thinking quickly, she asked Mr. Brown to sell the cottage so she could pay the servant’s wages and have some money of her own, and he agreed to do so.

  At last, everything was settled, and the lawyer bowed himself away. Her uncle saw him out, and then he returned to the parlor where Emily had retreated to the window in some confusion. Somehow she had thought he would go as well; now it appeared he intended to speak to her alone.

  “Emily, I must talk to you, my dear. I wish with all my heart that I could take you up to the hall with me this very afternoon, and assure you you will never have to worry about money, or a roof over your head ever again, but ... but it is not possible.” He glanced at her stern profile and continued more slowly. “I am sure you are aware, puss, that your aunt took an unreasonable dislike to your mother and yourself as well, and there is nothing I can do to change that, I am afraid. Besides, and although I should not be telling you this, she is in what you ladies call ‘an interesting condition.’ You see, I am sure, how I cannot upset her at this time.”

  He paused, and Emily swallowed. She could not speak, but she nodded her head a little, and taking that as a sign of her acquiescence, he continued, eager now to be done. “There is no need to be precipitate, however. Probably it will be some time before the cottage can be sold, and you will need some money. Here, take this...”

  Emily turned and stared at him unsmilingly as he held out a heavy purse, and for a moment, there was a deathly silence in the parlor. His good-looking florid face, framed with thick gray hair, turned pale. Then he whispered, “You know, don’t you? How did you find out?”

  “Yes, I know,” Emily said quietly. “I found your letters to Mama last evening.” She moved to a chair by the fireplace, wondering why, in spite of the cheerful blaze, she felt so cold. “There is no need to offer me money. I could not accept it, especially from you.”

  He had the goodness to flush. “Emily, my dear, do not be hasty. You must have something to live on until the cottage is sold—and then what will you do? Where will you go? I demand to know, for the love I had for your mother.”

  Emily stiffened, but as she looked into his anguished face, she felt a sudden pity for the man. He looked years older than he was, his face twisted with feeling. He had loved her mother through all the years, and he had not deserted her in her final illness, when many another man would have looked conveniently the other way.

  “Sit down, Uncle,” she said calmly. “Very well, I will accept this money, but it must be the last, and it will be repaid somehow, as well as the mortgage on the cottage. As to what I am going to do, I do not know. I only found out about my mother yesterday. It is still a shock to me, but you may be sure that I will not ask you for any more help.”

  He shook his head. “I could not offer it, in any case. My wife, well—”

  Emily put out her hand. “I understand, and I do thank you for your kindness. Your letters shall be returned; no one else will see them. But if I had only known! All those needless lessons in deportment, the piano and dancing masters—what a waste!”

  Her uncle thought for a moment, and then he said, “You are right, of course. It would be useless for you to make your bow to society. Too many fathers would remember the ravishing Mrs. Wyndham to permit their sons to court her daughter, she was much too well known. But what else can you possibly do? As a young lady of quality, marriage is the only thing you are trained for.”

  “I do not know, but I shall think of something,” Emily said with more assurance than she felt. She rose, to terminate this painful interview, and her uncle followed her reluctantly to the hall.

  As he stood at the door, he said with regret, “I wish so much that I could do more for you, my dear. You are so like your mother when I first fell in love with her—those same beautiful emerald-green eyes, her lovely mouth...”

  Suddenly he dropped the hat and cane she had given him, and before she knew what he was about, he drew her into his arms. “Dearest Emily, little sweetheart,” he said in a husky voice, and she felt a great faintness come over her as he bent his head and kissed her. Did he think he could exchange Althea Wyndham for the younger version? she wondered. Perhaps he thought she was like her mother and would welcome his attentions. She felt a roaring in her ears, and with a strength she did not know she possessed, she pulled away from him.

  “Get out of this house,” she said in a shaken whisper. “Do not ever let me see your face again.”

  “But ... but, I did not mean...” he stammered.

  “Did you not, sir?” she asked, looking at him with cold loathing, and he could not restrain a guilty flush as he picked up his hat and cane and almost ran past her stern, accusing face, her rigid back.

  When he was gone, she closed the door quickly and leaned against it until she could control her trembling. She wished she might return his money immediately, but a small voice in her head advised caution. “You may need that money, m’dear,” it said, and she nodded.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, I’m sure,” came the maid’s voice from the back of the hall, and Emily looked up, astounded by her sarcasm.

  “Yes?” she asked coolly. “Was there something you wanted, Betty?”

  “Only two’s due me, that’s all, but wot I wants to know is am I goin’ to get it?” She advanced toward Emily, folding her arms insolently. Lounging against the stairs, she added, “Wot’s that lawyer chappie to say about me wages? I tells you clear, if there’s no pay, I leave. You can wait on yourself, for you ain’t no better than me now, no, you ain’t, me foine lady.”

  “You forget yourself.” Emily was horrified that a servant should take that disrespectful tone with her, especially Betty, who had always been so meek, waiting on her with downcast eyes and many a dropped curtsy, and always with a “Yes, miss, right away, miss,” in her soft voice. Before she could go on, Mrs. Abbott spoke up behind the maid.

  “ ’Tis only to be expected, Miss Wyndham. And what did Mr. Brown have to say? I have as much interest as Betty here.”

  Emily was stunned. Betty, after all, was only a common scullery maid, but here was the housekeeper questioning her as well.

  “As soon as the cottage has been sold, you shall be paid in full,” she managed to get out before she turned and almost ran up the stairs. It was too much, first the scene with her uncle and now the servants. She had planned to order hot water so she might scrub away his hateful embrace, but she did not dare. The maid might refuse to bring it. All the evils of her situation burst upon her as suddenly as if she had been struck a mighty blow, and it was all she could do not to wail in agony.

  For the next few days, she seemed to move in a vacuum, almost as if she stood outside herself and observed the behavior of a stranger. She received the few lady callers with dignity, but although she was polite, they were made aware by her stern direct gaze that their false sympathy and eagerness for gossip were clearly understood, and no one ever called back again.

  In the evenings, she sat by the fire in her mother’s room, and as coldly as possible tried to think what she might do and where she might go. She was too young to be a governess, even with such education as she had, and the thought of dealing with a large number of unruly, mischievous children filled her with terror. As an only child, she had no experience with them. No, that would not do at all.

  Neither did the possibility that she might find a post as a companion to some sick, cross old
lady interest her. She was only twenty-two and she had had enough of sickness for a while.

  But what other possibilities were there for a girl in 1812? Since she could not marry, she could only become a governess, a companion, or a servant, or she could sell herself as her mother had.

  She jumped to her feet and began to pace the room. “I will never follow Mama’s example, never,” she exclaimed aloud. “No, not even if I starve.”

  “Well, starve you may, dearie,” the little voice in her head said. “How will you get on? The money Lord Wyndham left you will not last long.”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said crossly. Suddenly she caught sight of herself in the glass over the dressing table. In the black dress, with her hair pulled back so severely, she did not look at all like Althea Wyndham. Why, she thought, I look almost like Withers did when she was Mama’s maid. All I need is an apron and cap!

  Abruptly, she sat down on the little satin stool and stared at her reflection, her eyes wide. The answer to her problem stared back at her. With growing excitement she thought of this new solution. Was she not, by training, a most superior dresser, experienced in all matters to do with caring for a lady of quality? Had she not learned all the tricks of presenting her mother at her best, from creating her elaborate hairdos to coordinating her outfits and jewels, as well as mending and laundering her clothes? And then, because she had been such a solitary child, there had been all those hours spent watching Withers: the way she spoke and acted and conducted herself with the other servants. Of course it was ridiculous that a Wyndham of Berks should ever lower herself by going into service, but there was nothing else she could do. And surely even being a servant was more comfortable than starving and less demeaning than becoming a Cyprian like her mother.

  Emily got up to pace the room again. I shall not be Emily Wyndham, she thought, for that would never do. As her uncle had pointed out, there were too many people who would remember the dashing bark of frailty who had brought to the name of Wyndham such infamy and shame. No, not a Wyndham at all. She would take her mother’s maiden name and her own middle name as well. Yes, Margaret Nelson, that sounded prosaic enough. Or should she be Maggie or Meg? She reminded herself she was about to become the most-sought-after, most superior dresser in all London: Margaret it would be, or perhaps just Nelson.

  Suddenly she bent and stared at her reflection in the glass again. She knew it was the perfect solution, so why did she feel this terrible sense of unease, of doubt? She did not think it was because she was afraid of hard work, although she knew that she had never really done much of it until the last few months of her mother’s life, and even then she had always summoned Betty to carry the slops and chamberpots and change the soiled sheets. And she knew that taking care of her mother had not really prepared her for serving as a stranger’s maid, forced to live in close proximity and involved in all the intimate details of her life. She would have to help her mistress from her bath, dry her, clip her toenails, and pluck her eyebrows, as well as wash her soiled linen and care for her when she was ill. And perhaps her mistress would have rotting teeth and bad breath, or a foul body odor. Ladies of quality were not all sweet young things, not all beautiful, fastidious Lady Wyndhams. She shook her head and swallowed. She would just have to adjust, she had no other choice, and if a situation became too unpleasant, she could always hand in her notice. Besides, this was the only solution that made any sense at all; the days when Miss Emily Wyndham could pick and choose were gone forever. No, Margaret Nelson it would have to be.

  “I don’t think it’s that easy, m’dear,” the little voice warned. “How will you get a position? You can’t just knock on imposing doors and bid the butler present you to the lady of the house.”

  Emily sank down before the fire and pondered this new problem. Of course, she would need references, very, very good references. But where on earth could she get them? She supposed she could write them herself, but what if her employer checked up and discovered that Lady So-and-So and Countess Such-and-Such did not exist? What, then?

  Suddenly, a picture of Lady Wyndham’s fat, disagreeable face came to mind, and she knew she had her answer. Interesting condition or no, Aunt Mathilda was going to come to her aid by fair means or foul. Somehow she knew instinctively that the lady would be delighted to assist in whatever was necessary to remove her, and the memory of her mother, from Berks forever.

  As if fate had relented at last, everything went smoothly from then on. With a great deal of relief, Lady Wyndham wrote a glowing reference, and to it Emily added another she wrote herself from a fictional Mrs. Salisbury-Jones, who, she claimed, was about to sail to India.

  As she waited to hear from the lawyer, Emily kept busy making over some of her mother’s more sober clothes, and stitching aprons and caps from some white muslin gowns.

  The news that the cottage had been sold came at last, and Emily went to the churchyard one showery October afternoon to say a final good-bye to her mother. Already the pain of her death and the betrayal she had felt at first at her mother’s way of life had faded: now she just felt sadness that such a beautiful woman had had to resort to such tactics in order to live in luxury , and regret that she had not been strong enough to try to survive some other way.

  As she stared down at the grave with its simple headstone, Emily made a silent promise, clenching her hands in the pockets of her cape. “No matter what it takes, I will survive, Mama, you may be sure of that. And I will do it without stooping to the role you played.”

  She raised her chin and stared with unseeing eyes at the rooks who were circling the stone church tower, crying to each other. She did not feel the chill wind that rustled the dying grass and stirred the leaves at her feet. Somehow, from somewhere, she felt a deep sense of peace, almost as if what she had planned was the right path for her, after all.

  1

  In November, in the year 1814, as Margaret Nelson, lady’s maid, made her way to Number Twelve Charles Street, Mayfair, she suddenly recalled the promise she had made to herself in the churchyard by her mother’s grave, and her lips twisted in a wry smile.

  It was true she had survived, but at a cost it was just as well she had not known would be required of her at the time. As she recalled the young innocent she had been, so sure of herself and so determined to make her own way in the world, she had to shake her head. Since that day she had been hungry, overworked, reviled by her employers, and ridiculed by her fellow servants. She had also been pursued, and it had taken more character than she had known she possessed not to give in to despair and take the easy way out.

  Heaven knows she had had plenty of opportunities. She had expected that she might have trouble with the male servants she encountered, but she had not thought the nobility—the sons and brothers and even the husbands of her mistresses—might also consider her fair game. Indeed, it was because of the younger son of the family in Yorkshire that she had left her latest post. Not, she told herself as she avoided a crossing sweeper, that she was sorry to leave Oak Park. Her attic room, shared with three other maids, had been unheated in winter and stifling in summer, and the poor, scanty food left her constantly hungry. Her mistress, a young lady about to make her bow to society, had been spoiled and ill-tempered, and given to temper tantrums if she had to wait even a minute for her maid’s services. The nights Emily had dragged herself up to bed, her feet and ankles so swollen from fourteen or fifteen hours of work that she could barely remove her shoes, were more than she cared to remember.

  Emily paused in a doorway to consult the piece of paper in her hand. She hoped that this Lady Quentin she was going to be interviewed by was a kinder woman, and that she would get the job. She had made too many trips to the Free Registry for the Placement of Faithful Servants already, and her money was running low. If she did not get the position, she would have to look for cheaper lodgings. Bradley’s Hotel on Davies Street would be far from her touch.

  At Number Twelve, an elderly butler showed her into a cheerful mor
ning room to wait until Lady Quentin was ready to see her. It seemed a very long time before he reappeared to take her upstairs, a time Emily spent in fervent prayer.

  She curtsied to the lady still reclining in bed, sipping her morning chocolate, and tried to take her measure in the brief second that was all she had before she had to lower her eyes in servility.

  What she saw was a young woman with a slight, immature figure. She had light-brown hair that curled charmingly under her cap and a pretty if not a beautiful face. You would never have called her an Incomparable, and in the company of other more dashing ladies, she was sure to go unnoticed, but there was a great deal of sweetness in her expression and her large gray eyes were kind.

  “How young you are,” she exclaimed, although she was not far from girlhood herself. “I am not perfectly sure—but then, of course—well, you may sit down. I do not have much time. How could I forget?”

  After presenting her references, Emily took a straight chair near the fireplace, realizing that the question was not addressed to her. She hoped that the lady did not always speak in fragments, for it made it difficult to follow her. As Lady Quentin read her letters, Emily had a chance to inspect the dainty bedroom. It was decorated in shades of pink and rose, with deeper rose accents, from the hangings of the large four-poster, to the draperies and rug, the ruffled pillows and the striped upholstery of the chairs. Idly, she wondered what the lady’s husband was like. She could not imagine a man in this powder puff of a room.

  Lady Quentin reread the letters before she put them down, then, with a slight smile, she asked Emily how old she was. “For, Miss Nelson, you seem very young to have so many accomplishments. And I am used to an older maid—dear, dear Daffy!”