Page 8 of Manufacturing a Duchess

Into the room stepped Marjorie, properly coiffed, neatly dressed and with a demure expression on a carefully innocent face. She was a small child, elfin even, with delicate features, dark brown eyes, and hair which was transitioning from the light blonde of toddlerhood to a light brown, and which would likely end up as dark as her father’s by the time she was fully grown. It was not in her features that she resembled Alec, more so in the way she held herself, unconsciously imitating her father’s soldier’s posture. Finn could see that she retained her favorite pose, which was the despair of each governess who attempted to mold her: legs firmly planted in a good wide stance, and with her arms held behind her back, ostensibly waiting for the coming command. She was clearly completely uninterested in carrying herself the way a young lady of her rank should. It made him want to both sigh and demand that she never change. As she had told them the last time they met, such a secure footing was good practice for serving on board ships. And, as she declared to him that said opportunity to go to sea might come upon her at any time, “It is best to be prepared, Uncle Finn.”

He came to himself with a start, as the object of his reflections had begun to address him, accompanied by a rather determined look. “Good morning, Uncle. Papa has told me I have kept you waiting. I am so terribly sorry.” She briefly scrunched up her face, eyes wandering up and to the left as she attempted to recollect the remainder of her precisely prepared phrase. “It was most … remiss of me.”

Finn attempted to receive the message with the same carefully cultivated air in which it had been delivered, but his eyes gave him away, prompting Marjorie to launch herself at him. “I did try. I did! You must tell Papa!”

“I will, my poppet. I will! Ow! Leave off! I must say, you look very nice.”

Hearing this prompted Marjorie to cease her assault. She stood up straight and bobbed a little curtsy. “Thank you ever so much, Uncle Finn.”

“Now, remember, when we are out in public in London, you are to refer to me as Uncle Henry.”

At that, Marjorie blinked a couple of times and then asked, “Isn’t your name Finlay?”

“Yes, it is. Well, one of my names.”

“How ever many do you have?”

“Several. Too many to mention. A ridiculous number. Suffice it to say, Finlay, or Finn, is how I am known among m’intimates, such as yourself. And Henry is how I am known down here in London, among all these Normans, err, English. Henry is a Norman name. Came over with the Conqueror himself.”

“Why must you use a different name?”

“Well, it allows me to be two people. I’m Finlay at home, and Henry in Town. Besides, I wish to be viewed as a Nonpareil here in London. And one cannot be such a personage with a name like Finlay. Won’t do. Won’t do at all. Anyway, history. Now, you know my mother, the Dowager Duchess, and your grandmother, both sisters of the finest water, were English. Well, are in m’mother’s case.”

“Yes.”

“When I was born, she insisted at least one of my names be properly English and Henry is a frequently appearing one in her family tree. Very old and distinguished family. Generations of stuffy old men in plum-colored waistcoats, don’t you know.”

Marjorie giggled.

“I gather they wrangled over it for a bit. That is, my revered parents did. M’mother is very stubborn when she wishes, and m’father, not wishing to have to repair to another of his estates and bring about an estrangement, eventually acquiesced. Additionally, I rather think he had a soft spot for her. Oh, hang it—completely besotted, head over heels. So, Henry.”

“Finlay in Scotland and Henry in Town.”

“Absolutely. Tip-top. You have it right. Don’t forget now, mind!”

“What does my papa say?”

Finn rolled his eyes. “What do you think he says, Marjorie? When I remind him, only bear-like growling ensues. And speaking of bear-like, are you ready to go meet these fine animals?”

“Most decidedly! Oh! Should we bring them something to eat? They must eat meat, yes? Their jaws are so big. And is this meat to be raw, or cooked? And, if raw, how bloody should it be?”

“You possess a most violent imagination, young lady. No, we do not need to bring meat with us to feed the bears, bloody or cooked. Do you have your guidebook at the ready?”

In response, Marjorie reached into the pocket of her pinafore and extracted the volume in question.

“Excellent! Then all we need is your Papa and Peg, and we shall be off.”

“Oh, do let’s leave Peg behind. Please? Would it be improper if we did? You see, I think she has a bit of a headache at the moment, and I believe she could use some time away from me.”

“Time away from you? That sounds like a very grown person type of thing to say.”

“Well, that is what Papa said when he came upon Peg getting me ready for our outing. She was a bit red in the face and beginning to look like a thunderstorm, you know, when her hair is coming out of her cap and her eyes look as if they would give off sparks. Like that.”

“Hmmm. Well, this means your father and I will need to manage. On your best behavior, then, miss?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Sailor’s honor?”