Page 37 of Manufacturing a Duchess

They all looked up when he came in. Marjorie put down her book, exclaimed, “Papa!” and jumped up from her chair, coming toward him to be embraced. He gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head.

“Imp, you and I need to have a serious discussion. Archibald? Peg? Would you please leave us?”

His two employees immediately complied and whisked themselves out of the room. He supposed they should have been sitting in the kitchen doing what they were doing, and perhaps Miss Hardcastle would put that sort of thing to rights, but, frankly, he did not care. He looked down at his daughter, took her hand, and led her over to the small sofa. He patted the cushion next to him. “Sit down, Marjorie.”

Marjorie’s eyes had become very large. Regardless, she did as she was told. As he took a couple of minutes to settle his thoughts, he felt a soft hand on his knee and heard a quiet, “Have I been very bad, Papa?”

“Oh, no, imp. Not at all. It is simply that I have a decision to make. Well, I’ve made it. Err, well, I need to finally make it. Well, that is, I need to discuss it with you.”

He watched his daughter process his scrambled words, trying to guess their meaning. Then she sat up straight, pressed her hands together in her lap, and said quietly and steadily, “Then you must tell me, Papa. I am old enough now.”

“Yes, you are, sweetheart, yes you are.”

He cleared his throat again.

“Marjorie, I know we have been happy, the two of us, yes? It has been several years since we lost your Mama. Though I know I am not her, it hasn’t been too terrible with only your grouchy old Papa as your parent?”

Marjorie emphatically shook her head. “Oh, no, Papa. You can be a bear, but you are my bear. I don’t think anyone else has a Papa as wonderful as you are.”

Alec gave a rueful chuckle. “I am far from wonderful, my daughter. And you put up with quite a lot from me.”

Marjorie swallowed, pulled herself even straighter, and said, “So are you sending me away, Papa? Arabella at the park yesterday said she was being sent away because she was too much of a burden on her parents. Am I to be sent away, too?”

“Oh, no, imp. Decidedly not. No, I am not ready to let you go yet.”

“Then what, Papa?”

“Damnation! You would think a man would be able to—all right, Marjorie, here it is: It is time you had a mother. A proper mother. She would not take the place of your Mama, I know, but you need a mother. A girl needs a mother. Well, truth to tell, any child needs a mother. And I need a wife. You and I, it is—well, it is time to come out of our bearish cave and become more civilized. Now, what do you think of that?”

“A mother?”

“Yes, a mother.”

“What kind of a mother?”

“What do you mean, what kind of a mother? A mother-mother.”

“No, Papa. I mean, a fine lady who will make me dress just so and learn French and dancing and how not to ruin my petticoats?”

“Well, those are not bad things, Marjorie. You will need to learn French. You are the daughter of a duke, after all.”

“Yes, Papa.” She looked warily at him.

“It will be a disruption in our routine. We will have to change the way we go about our daily lives.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Will it be so very terrible, though?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“Well, if she is like the wicked stepmother in one of Charles Perrault’s tales. And hates me and makes me wear rags and scrub the floor.”

“No wicked stepmothers, imp.”

“How do you know? If it is someone like the Beautiful Lady, I don’t think I should like it.”