Page 5 of Manufacturing a Duchess

It had been after she returned home from finishing school, right before Christmas, that Aurora learned she would be accompanying the Wentworths to London. They would be going down early, prior to the Season as it began to launch in April, so that she and the Wentworths’ daughter, Millicent, could be fitted out properly for their launch on Society. They had to have the latest styles in walking dresses, ball gowns, riding habits, morning dresses, and even their night clothes and underclothing were to be of the finest fabrics and cuts.

“Why can I not come with you and Mama?” she had asked her father, trying to choke back tears. He had called her to his study to break the news not long after the conclusion of her finishing school education.

“Because, my dear, your mother and I are not Society folk. And we want to ensure you look like you belong, not like you are trying to belong. Your mother and I will arrive in time, goosey,” and he had reached over and stroked her cheek. “We want what is best for you. Lord and Lady Wentworth can make that happen. He is a baron, after all, from an old family. And they know the ways of the Ton.”

“But I’m not ashamed of you, Papa!” She had buried her face in his waistcoat, clinging to the last scraps of childhood.

He had held her for a moment, rubbing her back with the gentlest of touches, as he had ever since she was a little girl and needed comforting, and then had released her. “Aurora, your mother and I are very proud of you. You have exceeded our expectations; you continue to delight us.” He paused and cleared his throat. “You have always been obedient, goosey. I need you to go and do this. Why else have I sent you to that overpriced school for the last several years? You are a young lady now and suited for far greater society than our little town has to offer. You go with our love. And we will see you soon.”

With this final admonition, he had kissed her on the forehead and studiedly turned to peruse some papers on his desk. Aurora had returned to her room, thrown herself on her bed, and sobbed.

And then she sat up and dried her tears with the back of her hands. This was the end of childhood, then. Her father was serious. He had not even spared a few minutes to share some tales of the workshop floor, of a new type of machinery, of any other innovation he was either eager to try or had been experimenting with. He had closed the door on that part of her life. If this was adulthood, she would find a way to bear it. Still, it felt empty and hollow, and the purpose had no center to it, no heft. She knew marriage was supposed to be a woman’s highest calling, along with bringing children into the world. Nevertheless, if she closed her eyes, she could hear the clack of the looms and see the bits of fluff hanging in the air as the manufactory did its work.

Her father’s carriage deposited her at the Wentworth estate in mid-January, where she was to join them before proceeding to London. Though happy to see Missie again so soon, she found herself staring gloomily out the window as her friend spoke with eagerness about the upcoming trip to London. Aurora had so been looking forward to going home and reclaiming her life there, with her familiar walks and rides; taking Ares out for a proper gallop across St. Peter’s Meadow when the spring came; curling up with Aristotle, Plutarch, or her beloved Homer in the inglenook; coaxing Cook to bake an apple pie and then rolling out the dough and chopping up the apples herself; and, above all, joining her father as he went to meet with Mr. Ambleside.

“Are you sorry to be going to London with me, Aurora?” Missie had finally broken her friend’s muteness and asked her.

“Oh, no, Missie. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see London with. I just⁠—”

“Oh, you are missing home, I expect,” came the reply.

The two girls looked at each other, and, impulsively, Missie reached her hand out for Aurora to clasp. “I’m glad it’s you, Rorie. I’m so glad it’s you.” That warmth fortified Aurora so she could travel in contented silence for most of the bumpy ride to London on roads frequently covered in snow.

A slight sound at the door brought Aurora up to the present. Her oh-so-elegant lady’s maid, Hyacinth, entered with the chocolate. While a few years older than Aurora, nevertheless she held herself as if she were decidedly more comme il faut and knowledgeable about the world. The severe lines of her gown were worn with a quiet elegance, her dark hair tucked expertly under a demure cap. Therefore, it was unsurprising she managed to convey disapproval of Aurora in every gesture as she went about her duties. Hyacinth sniffed at the sight of the tea things but swiftly exchanged them with the chocolate while somehow also managing to cross to the window and throw open the draperies to let in the actual sunshine of a non-rainy morning.

“I will be up directly to help you dress, Miss Aurora.” She whisked her way out of the room. Hyacinth did not think she had very good material to work with and let her charge know this without bothering to hide it, realizing quite early on Aurora would say nothing.

Today, however, Aurora Hardcastle, heiress to a manufacturing fortune and prime bait for the Marriage Mart, let it roll right off her. The sun was shining: “Now, when the rosy-finger’d Morn arose,” she crowed to herself. They could go out.

“Oh, the Honorable Millicent Wentworth, we are going to see the bears!” she whispered. Humming quietly, she reached for the cup of chocolate to officially begin her day.

Four

After a none-too-restful night, Alec sat up in bed and rang for his man. He was still tired but knew he couldn’t get back to sleep. His thoughts were already circling round and round in his head. “Like carrion birds,” he muttered to himself. Time to get up and screw his courage to the sticking place, or whatever the phrase was. As in, news from home. There was likely a letter arrived in the post this morning from his steward, as there hadn’t been one yesterday.

“No use in running and hiding, Raeburn.”

It took only a few moments for Archibald to enter, bearing a steaming cup of something in one hand (one of his latest cures for distemper, no doubt), and a letter in the other.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Archibald. I value your promptness, though it is also a sign of how thin the walls and how small these rooms are that you can hear the slightest creak.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Alec laughed quietly. “Archibald, you are far too good to me. Hand over this morning’s latest concoction. It won’t work, you know, they never do—my general dyspepsia beats all comers. Yes, and the letter, too. Perhaps your potion will help to counter the news inside.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The slim, slight manservant gave his employer a keen look and then approached the bed warily, first handing him the mug, then setting the letter on the bedside table. “I recommend a gulp or two of the tonic first, Your Grace.”

“Why, have you read it?”

“Of course not, Your Grace.” Archibald drew himself up to his full height, which meant he was still only as tall as his employer’s armpit, if one were to stand them back-to-back. He forgot himself enough to smooth down his already smooth head, receding hairline and all. “It’s just it always is, Your Grace.”

That earned him a wry smile. “It is. You have me there. Be off with you, then. I will read and grump and then ring when I am ready to get dressed.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”