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“As you know, Lady Coleman, I do not take spirits, but please do, as the duke no doubt has only the finest on offer.”
“I am not enamoured of sherry,” Jemima said. “I would prove myself to be lowly bred did I avail of anything else.”
“Your refinement cannot be taken into question, my lady,” said the duke, who nodded at his butler.
Mr. Coburn offered the lady a short glass, which she sniffed with interest. “It is whisky, my lady,” he told her.
Jemima sipped. “It is rather like my great-great-uncle’s own brew, yielded by his estate since the eleventh century. It was due to his superior malt that the family was elevated.”
“Such is often the way,” the duke concurred.
“And how did your title come into being?” Felicity inquired.
“The usual favors done to the Crown,” he replied. He was having difficulty keeping his gaze above her chin. “Well before the eleventh century, however, if it is no insult to Lady Coleman.”
“Oh, heavens, no.” The lady took another delicate sip. “This would be from just over the border, I suspect. It’s the heathery midtones that give it away.”
“Well spotted. Or tasted,” he commended her. Felicity and Jemima exchanged a glance; the duke was positively ebullient this evening. “It derives from our distillery in Kircudbright and can be vouched for by Mr. Bates.”
“Will he join us this evening?” Felicity inquired.
“He is away, on matters of ducal importance.”
“It cannot be right, having him to and fro at all hours.”
“This is a special case.”
“Lowell Hall is a repository of special cases, Lady Coleman. Has that gone down the wrong way?” Felicity asked, concerned as Jem choked on her drink.
“It has, but I am well now,” her friend assured her. “I understand you enjoyed a tour of the estate, Miss Templeton.”
“I did. I thank you again, Your Grace, for the outing this day,” Felicity said to the duke. “I did wonder if you have neighbors who are of the gentry?”
“Keen to mix with the better sorts, as you did at home, perhaps?”
“I have no love lost for the inhabitants of Edenbridge. My mother did her best to inspire them to warm to her, and they were ever cold and distant. And when she died, they made no pretense about cutting us directly.”
“Humans—humanity is at its worst when it assumes that one’s birth conveys special treatment.”
“Who is the radical now, Alf—Your Grace?” Felicity teased.
Jemima said, “I believe that speaks to the duke’s integrity, Miss Templeton, that he would believe so. And an admirable degree of tolerance.”
“Oh, indeed, Lady Coleman,” she replied. “One learns more from the way a man treats his so-called inferiors than from his dealings with his peers.”
“So-called peers.” The duke began to slouch but pulled himself up at Felicity’s wide-eyed glance of opprobrium.
“We cared not so much for class in Ireland,” O’Mara, all out of character, chimed in with a personal observation. “But it was perhaps more insidious for feigning its lack of import, when in fact, all were aware of where they stood.”
“Well said, Miss O’Mara.” Felicity was warming to the topic. “If only one was accepted despite one’s status or the perceived societal role to which they have been born, beyond false limitations and outdated notions of what is acceptable. As regards the sexes, for example. I can think of no one more nurturing than a vicar, and yet women are not permitted to serve in that way, despite being naturals in that role. Or, as another example, the strength of a woman in the instance of childbirth. And yet many would not deem this to be strength, merely an animalistic instinct.”
“I am all that is admiration for your wide world view, Miss Templeton,” said Alfred. “I do not believe in reducing anyone to the perceived societal role they have been born to and in fact refuse to allow any in my care to fail to achieve their goals.”
“Hence, Lowell Close,” O’Mara said.
“Oh, Jem—Lady Coleman, I did not tell you about the village!” Felicity cried. “It is a hive of industry, of fine art and trade. It is in want of a vicar, though.”
“My brother is in holy orders,” Jemima offered and then looked as though she wished she hadn’t.
