Page 8 of Her Summer Duke

Phoebe sat with her hands folded in her lap. Lady Mantrell’s words had shocked her, almost as much Margaret’s to the Duke at the table had done.

Did this mean that His Grace of Saltonbury was now at least in potential, a man unpromised?

She withdrew her handkerchief from her sleeve and coughed into it politely. Oh, how the game did change so suddenly. Hugh Fortnum, Duke of Saltonbury, who had been off the marriageable market for eight years, by everyone’s accounting, as a result of that promise to Margaret’s father, might now, by Lady Mantrell’s intervention, and Margaret’s choice, suddenly be free to be pursued by others, if Margaret did as it seemed she might, and cried off from the promise.

Of course, he could never have broken the promise himself, without having his reputation tarnished dreadfully, that had been locked in stone years ago, but if Margaret was to end that not quite betrothal, as Shakespeare had so aptly penned, now that was a horse of a different colour.

Phoebe spent the rest of the evening contemplating all of the possibilities, and, once they had retreated to Margaret’s private parlour, listening to Margaret ramble on about her confused feelings. Phoebe simply nodded when required, for her own thoughts were almost as confused.

After a restless night’s sleep, she returned to her own home the next morning, the clear cool air refreshing as she rode, but her thoughts no more settled.

Later that day, she sat at her desk penning a letter to her friend Julia, in Canada. The two girls had been dearest friends since early childhood, until, when Julia had just turned nineteen, her father had decided to move his wife, two sons, and his daughter to Canada. Both Julia and Phoebe had been direly crushed, as the move would tear their friendship in half. They had vowed to write diligently to each other until the day that they expired, at least once each month.

My dearest friend, Julia,

I am writing today to tell you the most amusing, no, the most enlightening of news. You will remember that my sweet cousin, Lady Margaret Caulfield, has been promised to the Duke of Saltonbury since he saved her so heroically from the River Avon when she was ten? Well, now, Lady Margaret has fallen in love with an Ensign.

Yes! An Ensign.

She has professed this to me in secret, and I am sure that you will divulge it to no one, by your honour as my friend. This, of course, may leave His Grace of Saltonbury open for marriage, if she does as she is thinking of, and cries off. He would then, undoubtedly, be one of the most eligible men in England. The thought intrigues me, ne’er mind that I am betrothed to Lord Montpelier. My betrothal is not a matter of the heart on my part, but one of practicality, as arranged by my father, and I can easily consider dismissing it, even though it would do my reputation no good.

That Lady Margaret can be brave enough to consider crying off leaves me wondering if I might have the courage to do the same.

Besides, dare I divulge this to you? Lord Montpelier has the hands of a corpse! They are made of ice and I cannot even imagine being married to a walking corpse with hands of ice - nor could you, I dare say.

Lady Margaret states that poverty is romantic. Romantic? I am sure that you would disagree with her quite vehemently, especially since your father left England with most limited funds to start your new life in Canada, after those investments failed. Had it not been for your father’s grave decision to take you away from England, I do not know what would have become of you and your family. Things are quite dire here for families who find themselves without. I do wish you well in the new land of Canada. Perchance I shall even visit there one day. Though now perhaps, with your father’s business there a success, and your fortunes on the up, if you were here, you would be able to pay the ten guineas to attend the weekly Wednesday balls and supper and find yourself a fine Duke or an Earl.

I am sure that you would have enjoyed the title of Duchess of this or that. It does roll off the tongue so nicely - Julia, Duchess of Somerset, or the like. I would have been pleased to be able to call you as such. The pool of eligible men for me did seem quite small, when my betrothal to Lord Montpelier was arranged.

Now, I must consider – if I cried off, what would my choices be like?

Other than Lord Montpelier, to whom I am bonded by my existing betrothal, there are few likely possibilities at present. There is the hawk-nosed Lord Percy Harrington, though I think that he, given the chance, will also pursue Margaret- of- the- cat eyes! Oh, please refrain from repetition of my words, dear Julia, please! I write them in haste and with no thought to consequence should they be found out. Truly, I do not believe that my cousin acts with any ill will – she is simply changeable in her feelings. And I cannot leave His Grace of Saltonbury off the list. If Margaret does indeed cry off, with the intent of moving on to her Ensign, however penniless, then His Grace is once again available, a most interesting possibility. I shall let you know immediately if Margaret decides to play the fool and marry an Ensign.

Oh, dear Julia, if only you were here to pay your guineas and have your chance at circulating amongst the ton. Together we could have sampled life’s delights in so many wonderful ways and then discussed them for hours. I await your letters of the news in your life. I hope you are well, my dearest, Julia. If by some chance of providence, you are able to return and pursue your future husband in the land of your birth, my home is always open as yours.

With fondness,

Phoebe.

Phoebe folded the parchment carefully before she sealed and addressed it.

Canada was so very, very far away, as if in another world, a world that had become somewhat enchanted in her imagination. Perhaps, if she was not married by next spring to His Grace of Saltonbury, or even Lord Percy Harrington, she might even sail off to Canada herself in pursuit of true love.

The one thing that was absolutely clear in her mind was that she must cry off her betrothal to the walking corpse, Lord Montpelier, and be damned to the disapproval of her parents, and of society.

Although… Lord Montpelier had so many positive features… If only his hands were not so cold… perhaps she would wait, before crying off, a little longer, to be truly sure of her decision.

~~~~~

Across the River Avon Valley, Lord Percy Harrington stood at the door of the Bradbury Crescent house, with his hat in hand. He had come to call on the daughter of the Marquess of Fieldhurst, Lady Margaret Caulfield. Behind him, his barouche stood waiting. His plan was to take Lady Margaret on a long drive out into the countryside, to Bathampton Down, where the Mendip Hills take the rain water through the limestone aquifers down deep, and heat the waters used for the baths. She undoubtedly would require a chaperone, but hopefully her maid would suffice.

Lady Mantrell met him in the foyer. Her face was stern and, dare he think, a bit harsh?

“Good day Lady Mantrell. After your positive response to my letter, I am here in the hope of taking Lady Margaret for a drive in my carriage, with a chaperone of course.”

Lady Mantrell sniffed, regarding him with a rather cynical eye.

“Yes, my Lord. Assuming that she wishes to go for a drive with you, of course, I suppose that chaperone will be me, Lord Percy.”

“I see. Lovely. Lovely indeed.”

“Do take a seat in the parlour, Lord Percy. I will go and discuss the matter with Lady Margaret now. You may have a bit of a wait.”

She waved him through a set of double doors. He found the first chair and sat immediately. The room was ordinary, with nothing to catch his attention, so he allowed his thoughts to wander to pleasant, warm, delicious thoughts of Lady Margaret’s green eyes, and her rippling reddish-brown curls coiled up on her head, with just a few delicate tendrils falling over her shoulder. He almost clapped his hands with glee that he was now able to court her.

As soon as he had heard the rumours of her almost betrothal to Saltonbury having been, potentially, broken off, he had sent a ceremonious note to Lady Mantrell, Lady Margaret’s guardian, petitioning for the opportunity to call upon Lady Margaret and take her for the drive. Lady Mantrell had sent her formal agreement to him at least asking Lady Margaret if she wished to undertake such an entertainment, but now her countenance did not appear so agreeable… was that an indicator of Lady Margaret’s mood on the matter?

He pushed the worry aside – he would deal with it later, once he had spoken to Lady Margaret in person.