The dowager went on stoic and near silent for some days, but after riding alone for hours during the day and then being assaulted by Juliet’s odes after dinner, she one evening found the earl’s offer of a game of piquet to be appealing.
This seemed to break the ice between them. After some further forays into civility, the earl began to fret that it was not seemly for the poor dowager to ride alone when so many others had conversation. He took to riding part of the day in her carriage, so that she might have company.
What they talked about, nobody knew, but the dowager’s sharp edges began to soften and round out.
When Juliet had finished reciting her odes of an evening, Miss Mayton continued on reading aloud fromThe Harrowing Homecoming at Harrowbridge Hall.
It seemed that the duel between Duke One and Duke Two did not come off. Unlike Lord Baderston’s duels, in which all parties fired into the air, the two dukes found they had nothing to fire.
The gentle governess had hidden all their weapons so there would not be bloodshed on the lawn. She took the further precaution of hiding all the knives in the kitchens, swords on the walls, and anything else that might be a likely weapon.
As they had nothing to kill each other with, the two dukes ended up rolling around the lawn in hand-to-hand combat. Who got the worst of it was hard to tell—they both came out of it with scratched up faces.
The real duke would eventually be revealed as Duke Two. Duke One made the mistake of leaving a bit of correspondence laying on a table. That letter was addressed to Martin Tinglewink and sent from Mrs. Peggy Tinglewink, wishing to know when her husband was coming home and pointing out that the family farm was falling to ruin.
The earl was pleased as anything to discover that the real duke had prevailed, the false one had been run off, and the duke and his gentle governess were wed and lived happily ever after.
As was inevitable when the Benningtons were on the move, a new creature somehow made its way into their carriages. Just as they were passing through Weatherby, Chester had another of his fits of dizziness.
The carriages stopped and a footman brought the cage outdoors for the parrot to take in some fresh air. Juliet and Cordelia rushed to his side to say soothing and kind words.
In the usual circumstances when Chester was dizzy from the rocking of the carriage, he was very quiet. Sometimes nearly lifeless. This time, however, he started screeching, “Charming Chester! Murder!”
A faint voice shrieked back. “Shut it, old man! Shut it!”
Juliet and Cordelia instantly noted that the order to shut it came from a bird in a cage in a shop window. They determined that Chester was eager to go inside and say hello, in his own interesting fashion.
It surprised nobody that they emerged from the shop carrying Chester’s cage, and another one housing the small, green parrot. The bird had only cost them one pound, as the shopkeeper said her customers were getting tired of being told to shut it. The parrot’s name was purported to be Jemima.
How the footmen made out under the barrage of parrot conversation that was had in that carriage all the way to Scotland and back was not at all known.
As for Viola and Baderston, all these hiccups passed by largely unnoticed. Miss Mayton proved herself to be a most genial chaperone, as she was asleep most of the time. When she was awake, she entertained Lord Baderston with stories of her tragic youth spent on the continent, losing one love interest after the next.
Roland, for his part, was alarmed to discover that Count Tulerstein had gone over the side of a cliff and then very surprised at how much he was able to say regarding his love for Miss Mayton as he hurtled down the mountain. He was perhaps even more than alarmed when he heard about some of the other tragedies—a hanging, a deadly blow, and an unfortunate impalement.
At least Miss Mayton’s recounts of her bad luck in love were only short interludes. Mostly she snored and they were left to themselves.
What they did when left to themselves was probably not something they would advertise. Viola would later tell her sisters that every time the carriage stopped or Miss Mayton awoke, there was a mad scramble to locate her hairpins and straighten her clothes.
As the carriages trundled north, leaving Leeds behind, Viola said, “I have not settled on what I shall call you.”
Roland said, “You can call me anything you prefer.”
Viola leaned back into the crook of his arm. “I think I like Baderston. Bea calls her viscount Van Doren and Rosalind naturally calls her duke Conbatten—I do not suppose anybody calls Conbatten by his given. It’s Balthazar and Rosalind says he does not like it. Also, your mother calls you Baderston.”
“Baderston it is then.”
“However,” Viola continued, “I ought to have something all my own. Something only your dear wife calls you.”
“My dear wife,” Baderston said, seeming to like the sound of that.
“Roland, hmm. No, I will call you Rolly. You will be Rolly when we are alone and I am delighted with you.”
“And what will you call me when we are alone and you are not delighted with me?” Baderston said, laughing.
“I will always be delighted with you,” Viola said.
“I will make sure you are, as I will deny you nothing.”
