Fran turned her attention back to the woman she had been talking to earlier, but the woman had moved on. Fran discovered she was facing an empty corner of the room, and took comfort in the temporary reprieve.
“Are you enjoying your party?”
Currents raced about her rib cage; why did his voice, and his alone, affect her in such a manner? In a sense, his British accent reminded her of the sweet and innocent fairy tales from foreign lands that she sought to translate. Yet when she turned to face him, she recognized there was nothing sweet or innocent about the man before her. The fact that he’d just married a stranger only proved the ruthless means he’d take for money alone. She stiffened her resolve to resist the allure of his voice.
“This is not for my benefit,” she reminded him. “It is for Maman. She has finally gotten her wish.” They both glanced toward the mother of the bride, dressed as if for a coronation.
“I’m sure she wished for her daughter’s happiness,” William offered. “What mother wouldn’t?”
That was the least of her mother’s concerns, Fran knew. Such minor considerations as happiness meant nothing compared to obtaining a duke as a son-in-law. Such a social coup had already launched her into the company of the cream of society, the Four Hundred. She recognized several of the guests as members of that valued group. But Fran said nothing. They were, after all, in a public venue, and her mother’s lessons of concealing one’s thoughts, even from a husband, had been well learned.
“Are you ready to depart?” he asked. “The amenities have been served. We should be on our way.”
Oh, yes!
She wanted to cry.
Take me away from here.
But then she remembered the reason why newlyweds were permitted to leave before the rest of the guests and she shook her head. She was in no hurry to face the humiliation that was bound to come when a man claimed his wife.
His gaze skittered across her face, before resting on her lips. “I’m not a monster. I promise, I will not hurt you.”
He seemed so sincere, she was tempted to believe him. But she knew better. Who else but a monster would bind her in matrimonial ties, then carry her off to live among strangers?
She knew that tonight would involve pain. Madame Aglionby had warned her that a certain amount was natural on the first coupling. She knew eventually she would have to fore-bear additional pain in order to produce a child, but surely that long path could wait to commence for an hour or two.
“A little longer, Your Grace?” she asked, pleased that her mother’s training kept the desperation from her voice.
She saw a slight flinch, again barely perceivable. The thought that he suppressed his emotions almost as well as she pleased her. At least they had that in common. But then he looked down his rather long, noble nose at her, and all thoughts of commonality vanished.
“No,” he said, lifting her gloved hand to his lips. “Procrastination will serve no purpose. We’ll leave now.” He grasped her elbow, then walked her toward her parents to extend their farewells.
Her throat constricted, making speech difficult. For all her arguments with her mother, she discovered a sudden hesitancy to leave. After all, her mother had been her only companion for years on end. She kissed her father’s cheek, feeling tears burn in her eyes. He held her at arm’s length for a moment, seeming to have a similar difficulty for words.
“Remember,” he managed, then attempted a smile. “I trust you will have news for us when next we meet. As soon as possible, Franny. Don’t disappoint me.”
She understood his meaning. He expected news that she was with child. If only she could accomplish that goal without Bedford’s assistance.
Her father shook Bedford’s hand, then turned away with a glimmer of a tear on his cheek. Bedford quickly guided her toward the carriage waiting to whisk them to the grand suite of the Ocean View.
Once seated in the cabriolet, Fran pulled her skirts away from him, lest he get the impression that she wanted to share more than satin and lace. “That quick departure, sir, was un-called for.”
“Good heavens, woman, you were talking to walls. It was time.” He settled into his seat. “As my wife and duchess, you must learn to appropriately carry on your end of the conversation. We’ll be in England soon and proprieties must be maintained. I’d be more inclined to lock you in the attic than allow you to be observed talking to the furniture.”
“You’d lock me in an attic?” She stared at him, appalled, though the expression was wasted. The Duke watched the passing providence with more interest than he appeared to afford his new wife.
“You’d not
allow
me to talk to furniture?” The latter appalled her more than the suggestion of the attic. Her mother had frequently locked her in her dismal bedroom. Why should an attic be different? Still, it carried an ominous tone.
If he insisted he had authority over the small matter of choosing the object of her conversations, then certainly he would exercise it in other areas as well. The tight ball of discord expanded, building more pressure under her too-tightly laced corset. She had no more freedom than her mother’s Pomeranians, all that had effectively changed was the holder of the leash.
“Come now.” He turned toward her. “I was merely trying to say that in the future you’ll have a responsibility to talk to people. Don’t try to tell me that you haven’t avoided doing just that. I’ve been watching you.”
“Watching me?” She pretended to be surprised. She’d felt the strange tingling that signaled his gaze too often not to know the truth of his words.
“You’re skittish, like a new filly. That might be well and good for this colonial province but the British aristocracy requires maturity, worldliness.” He regarded her as one might a child. “Have you memorized the volume of lineage that I supplied?”
She recalled a thick, dusty old tome that listed family after family with all their respective connections. The book had been delivered shortly after their announced engagement. She had barely glanced at it, given the immediacy of the wedding and all that entailed.
“I had thought you meant the book to be used for reference purposes, Your Grace,” she said quietly, still reeling from his insult of her maturity. “I used it to properly place the wedding gifts according to which family—”
“Good heavens, woman! Don’t you understand the necessity of knowing the society amongst whom you will be expected to circulate?” His pointed words stabbed at her pride. “Why, an English schoolgirl learns this at her mother’s knee.”
“I’m not British, sir. I’m American,” she said with bravado.
“Please. There’s no need to remind me.” His lips quirked a moment before he sighed. “I suppose we shall have to review some of the more important families tonight.”
“Tonight? But tonight is our wedding night. I was not expecting to receive an education on my wedding night.”
“An education?” He glanced to her midriff, his eyes narrowed slightly. “No, I suppose you weren’t. More’s the pity.”
She felt insulted, though she wasn’t exactly sure why. Certainly, his misguided allusions as to her intelligence or sanity, for that matter, would be insult enough, but there was something else. Something that made her both indignant and overheated at the same moment.
“I assure you, sir, that I’m a most able student. I believe I shall have plenty of time to study the lineages once we board the SS
Republic
.” She neglected to mention that she would never be able to concentrate on such a detail-laden memorization exercise tonight. This, after all, was
that
night.
Already her rib cage felt aflutter as if bees had taken residence and were frustrated by their confinement. Every unanticipated bump beneath the carriage wheel, every accidental touch, every uncertain glance seemed magnified in importance, an uncomfortable sensation that she imagined would only increase until the awkward moment of consummation. Her voice squeaked in a higher tone than normal. “Must we study the volume tonight?”
She thought she noticed a hesitation in his manner, as if he was giving her plea serious contemplation. However, she must have been mistaken. His brow lowered in displeasure.
“I see no reason why we should postpone what you should have already accomplished. The sooner you begin, the less the likelihood you will fumble when presented to society upon our return.”
She stared at him, confused. What had happened to cause his displeasure? A cold foreboding slipped down her spine intensifying her anxiety about the evening ritual a hundredfold. She shifted to face forward, mirroring his staunch expression. While a part of her sobbed, her mother’s voice echoed in her head, never
show your fear
.
The ride to the hotel was mercifully short. They arrived and hastily retreated to their suites. Only the garments they would need for that evening and the morning’s departure for New York were available. Everything else had already been shipped overseas, or packed by the servants to accompany their passage.
“Your Grace.” Mary curtsied the moment Fran entered the room that tonight would serve as her private quarters. “It was a beautiful wedding and you looked so lovely in your gown. I think you looked just like one of those fairy princesses you’ve told me about from your stories.”
Fran very much doubted that. All those fairy princesses were happy with their prince. She on the other hand had the distinct impression she’d been given in wedlock to the devil himself.
“I’ll be happy to shed this dress,” Fran replied as Mary began to unfasten the back. “I never realized satin could be so heavy.” Or perhaps it was her nervous expectations that weighed heavily on her mind. Certainly her spirits weren’t lifted as the multiple layers slipped from her frame.
“I understand a meal is to be delivered, Your Grace, or directly for—”
“Don’t call me that,” Fran snapped.
“I can’t very well call you ‘Miss Winthrop’ anymore,” Mary said, her head lowered in contrition. The sight added guilt to the long list of Fran’s overflowing emotions. She suspected the local papers reflected Mary’s sentiments that marriage to a duke signified a romance worthy of a fairy tale. Perhaps it did, she thought despondently, recalling a French fairy tale she had translated, although some might not consider the Duke’s handsome features those of a beast.
“No, I suppose you can’t.” Fran softened her tone and glanced at the gold ring on her left hand. “Duchess doesn’t suit either. It sounds like the name of one of Maman’s Pomeranians.”
Mary, working on the petticoat fastenings at the small of Fran’s back, tried to hide her smile, but the mirror reflected the pull of her cheeks and Fran knew she had been forgiven her earlier display of annoyance.
“I suppose Mrs. Chambers would be correct here in America,” she continued, “but that doesn’t feel correct either.”
“Perhaps it will after tonight,” Mary said, a knowing smile tilting her lips.
Her words brought a shiver to Fran’s spine, and fear leapt anew to her throat. She glanced quickly at the closed door that adjoined her suite to that of her new husband. Her mother had described with a shudder the physical sacrifices Fran would be expected to make as a wife. That singular act frightened her more than any of the duties she’d be expected to perform as a duchess.
“Nevertheless, when we’re alone, would you continue to call me Miss Winthrop? I’m losing my home, my parents . . .” She raised her eyes in a silent plea to Mary’s reflection in the mirror. “I don’t want to lose my name as well . . . not yet.”
“Yes, miss.” Mary’s curt response held a sad note. She cast a worried glance toward the mirror, then bent to the silent task of unfastening the numerous hooks and buttons that were the basis for the resplendent gown.
“What is this?” Fran asked, noting a small beribboned box resting on a vanity cluttered with orange blossoms and snippets of lace.
“A late gift I suppose,” Mary said. “It arrived during your luncheon.”
“I wonder who sent it. Was there a card?” She pushed aside the lace.
“No, ma’am. This is all there was.”
Fran quickly dispensed with the ribbon, opened the box, and discovered a gold pin shaped in the form of a honeybee.
Her eyes rounded with wonder. “It’s lovely,” she said. “I wonder who sent it? It must be from someone who knows of my passion for bees.”
“I imagine it’s from your new husband, miss.”
Fran’s mouth tightened. “I don’t think so. Any gift from him would be ungainly large and covered with heraldry, just to remind me that his is a glorious line, while mine is just . . . American.”
She held the pin closer for inspection. It was indeed excellent craftsmanship, with intricate lines.
“Your mother?” Mary suggested, squinting herself at the pin.
“Maman would never give something so plain as to not have a single gemstone. No, a gift from Maman would be large enough to proclaim wealth, not small and elegant.”
“That only leaves your father,” Mary said.
“Hmm.” Her father might have sent this as a reminder, that like bees in a hive, she must do her duty and bear children. However, she had another person in mind—Randolph. Only someone with the sensibility of a poet, like Randolph, would understand the symbolism and significance of a honeybee. No other wedding gift had arrived from him. Obviously, the law office had kept him abreast of developments concerning her father, their client, and thus her wedding. Perhaps this was Randolph’s way of saying he understood that she had to follow her parent’s wishes. A deep sadness built within.
“Would you like to wear the pin on your nightgown?” Mary asked. “Or perhaps the wrapper?”
“No,” Fran replied, replacing the pin in the box. “I don’t think that would do.”
As Randolph had never written informing her of his marriage, she had not felt the need to advise him of her engagement. Guilt tinged her sadness. Now that the deed was done, she should acknowledge her changed marital status and thank him for the gift. She slipped the box into her toiletry case. It would only be good manners to write him a note, the sooner the better.