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Sarah stared atthe note Harris had delivered to her bedchamber, where she had been at her escritoire working on the household accounts. It had arrived, unsealed, and Harris now stood outside her door, quite pale. In her dressing room, she heard Reid rustling about.
“She is already on her way. The duchess.” The words emerged from her throat on a gravelly hiss.
“I believe that is what it means.” Harris’s voice likewise grated.
“Which means we have scant minutes.”
“Tea, my lady?”
Sarah blinked up at him as it took a moment for her to register what he meant. “Oh! Yes, of course! Please go tell Mrs. Gilpin. With apologies. I know it is early.” As Harris started away, she called after him. “And I’ll receive her in the parlor. The duchess, not Mrs. Gilpin. Make sure it’s tidy.” He gave her a quick nod and continued in his rush down the stairs. “And biscuits, if she has any!”
“My lady?”
Sarah spun to find Reid holding up a dark blue silk day gown. It was from a season or two ago but would do nicely. Matthew had asked her to put aside her mourning clothes—enough time had passed—but she had no other clothes that fit or were in season. Her first appointment with her modiste was not until Wednesday.
“That will do.” Sarah closed her bedchamber door and motioned for Reid to help her. Sarah was still in her night rail and dressing gown, as she often was when she did not plan to go out to the Lyon’s Den. No one called—ever—and if her day was oriented around the house, she often did not dress. At all. She had no need for stays and silks if she planned to remain in her bedchamber most of the day.
That luxury, she knew, was about to cease. Duchesses—however discounted by Society—did not lie around all day in their nightclothes.
“Fetch my stays.” Sarah stripped as Reid retrieved her chemise and stays, and they hurriedly dressed her. The gown lay loosely over her frame—she had lost weight in the last two years—but Reid was able to tighten the waist with an extra black ribbon, which would match her veil. She then sat at the dressing table for Reid to updo her hair in a quick chignon, held in place with blue and black feathered pins.
Sarah gripped the edge of the table to keep her fingers from shaking. “Do you think she heard about yesterday?”
“She must have, my lady.”
“I do hope he told her before that.”
“I suspect His Grace holds things quite close to his chest.”
Sarah looked at Reid in the mirror. “Why would you think that?”
Reid paused. “He is a soldier, my lady. The good ones—and he is from what I hear—keep themselves to themselves. They keep secrets.”
“From what you hear? What, pray tell, have you heard?”
Reid’s cheeks pinked.
“Reid?”
The maid shrugged one shoulder. “You know the servants talk.”
“I do. So what are they saying?” When Reid did not answer right away, Sarah’s eyes widened. “Have you been talking to his household? Reid!”
Reid slipped another pin into place. “Not me, my lady. Um... Mrs. Gilpin. Cook to cook, so to speak.” Reid checked both sides of the chignon to make sure it was even, then stepped away.
Sarah turned on the stool. “And what are they saying? Am I walking into a devil’s den or not?”
Reid chewed her lower lip. “No. They don’t think that. But they mostly knew the old duke and his ways. The new duke was not around much. Not since he was a boy. He went off to school, and he has been in the army quite some time. He is strict but fair. Not cruel, but he is stern.”
“I could see that much.”
“He is not happy with his new position. He and his brothers are still grieving their father.”
“And how many brothers does he have?”
“Eight.”
“Eight!”
