Chapter 13
“W
ill you look at that. Do you think it’s for us?” Tillie stood, mouth agape, looking at a deep-red carriage with an impressive crest on the spotless door. Four matching black horses with matching red plumes stood patiently in front of the carriage, held in place by a footman wearing a uniform in gold and that same deep red.
“It can’t be,” Genny said, looking at the gilt trim and shining brass lamps at the front of the vehicle. They had cabled her grandparents to let them know approximately when they would arrive from Liverpool, but Genny had hardly expected them to send a carriage, never mind one so well appointed.
Mitch stepped forward and spoke with one of the uniformed men, nodded, then waved Genny and Tillie over. “Your carriage awaits, miss,” he said, sweeping a bow and making both women giggle. The footman immediately pulled down a step and motioned for another man to take their baggage and load it onto a smaller, less luxurious carriage behind theirs.
Genny stepped aboard with the assistance of the footman, who kept his eyes trained forward, never making eye contact, though he did move his head slightly when Genny thanked him, the way one would if one were pinched.
When Tillie made to climb aboard, the footman moved in front of the steps. “The other carriage for the two of you,” he said.
Already inside the carriage, Genny overheard and immediately went to the door. “No, they are to ride with me.”
The footman hesitated only slightly, then nodded and stepped aside, seeming unhappy with the situation.
“Oh,” Tillie said when she climbed in, drawing out the word. “This is far too nice for the likes of me.” She’d put on an exaggerated cockney accent and Genny had to laugh despite the fact she was more than a bit bothered that neither Tillie nor Mitch was expected to ride with her.
Quilted padded black leather lined the walls, and the roof was a rich dark wood that Genny suspected was mahogany, with an intricate inlaid pattern of a lighter wood. The floor was the same, shining wood, with more inlay. It was so fine, Genny hardly wanted to put her shoes down on it. The carriage rocked slightly when Mitch pulled himself aboard, and he sat down heavily across from the two women, looking too large for the small space.
“This isn’t half as nice as a New York City cab,” he said, laughing. He looked around and let out a low whistle. “If this is their carriage, I can’t wait to see their house.”
Genny was terribly nervous and could feel her hands sweating inside her infernal gloves. She wanted nothing more than to take the fine kid gloves off and wipe her hands on her skirt, and would have if she wasn’t worried about staining her peach-colored dress. Madame Brunelle called it a “travel costume” though to Genny it was like any of the other dresses she had in her trunks. The only difference was the smart little bolero jacket that went over her bodice, making it unbearably hot to wear. Mitch gave her a look that she suspected was meant to calm her, but he appeared none too calm himself, so it had the opposite effect.
“They’ll love you,” he said, shifting in his seat and looking out the window.
Genny did the same, marveling at how crowded the streets were. It seemed as if all of humanity was gathered around the Victoria train station.
The carriage moved forward and Genny gripped the seat, her stomach giving a little nervous flip. After months of longing and dreaming, she was about to meet her mother’s parents, the great duke and duchess, the authors of those heartfelt letters. It seemed as if they’d only traveled a few minutes before the carriage pulled into a circular drive, stopping before a huge building, precisely symmetrical, with marble steps leading to enormous, whitewashed double doors. Mullioned windows stretched along each side of the doors, perfectly matched by second floor windows. The only buildings Genny had seen that were this large were hotels. Surely this couldn’t be their house. Why, it nearly took up an entire city block and then some.
The steps were lowered and the same footman who had handed her up into the carriage stood at attention, one hand extended, as he waited for Genny to descend.
“Welcome to Glaston House, miss,” he said, giving a bow.
“This is the home of the duke and duchess of Glastonbury?” Genny asked.
“Yes, miss.”
Genny stepped down onto a drive paved with smooth stones laid in a circular pattern. Tillie came up beside her and said, “Time to get into character,” and Genny nearly laughed aloud. The front door swung open at that moment, and a man, his silver hair slicked back, his clothing impeccable, opened the door and stepped back. At first, Genny thought it must be her grandfather, but then realized the dignified gentleman was the butler.
Genny looked back at Mitch, giving him a small smile. She must look terrified, for he held out his hand and grasped hers tightly, going up the stairs with her; Tillie following meekly behind, as a good maid should.
As they passed through an entry so high two men standing upon one another wouldn’t have touched the top of the door, a sea of uniformed men and women emerged from a door off the massive, marbled foyer. With military precision, they entered the foyer, shoes pattering lightly on the floor, heads up, giving her curious glances before getting into a severely straight line and staring directly in front of them. It took Genny several moments before she realized she was looking at the staff of Glaston House. The women all wore gray dresses with white aprons and caps, and the men all wore deep red uniforms that had an almost military look. Finally, an older woman and the man Genny had presumed was the butler came forward, the woman wearing a fine dress of the deepest green and the man in a formal suit. Genny’s heart nearly beat out of her chest. Her grandparents. It must be—and to think she’d thought her grandfather was the butler.
She very nearly stepped forward to greet them, then Mitch tugged at her hand as the two of them stepped into line with the other servants, leaving Genny confused. She was still looking at the pair when a sound down what seemed an endless hallway drew her attention, and she knew immediately she was looking at her grandparents. The woman wore a gown that dripped opulence, her granite-gray hair swept up in an impossibly intricate style that must have taken her poor maid hours to create. The man, his nearly bald head shiny in the muted sunlight coming through the mullioned windows, held himself with military precision.
Genny watched, with a sense of anticipation, as the pair walked toward them before her grandmother stopped sharply, gave a quick intake of breath, then proceeded forward, stopping perhaps six feet in front of Genny. “Genevieve?”
“Yes. Ma’am.”
Her grandmother’s nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. “Your Grace.”
Genny felt her cheeks flush, for she had no idea what the older lady was saying to her. “Pardon?”
“You are to call us ‘your grace.’”
“Both of you?” She looked from one to the other.
Beside her stone-faced grandmother, her grandfather coughed, and Genny suspected he was trying not to laugh. He had a twinkle in his eye as he looked at her, though he didn’t do anything so gauche as to smile. Or speak a word.
“It is the proper address. I would have thought your parents would have instructed you on that at least,” the duchess said.
Genny ignored the unexpected criticism, swallowing down a retort. “I thought I might call you Grandmother and Grandfather, Your, um, Graces?” Genny said, trying to squelch the disappointment coursing through her. Though they were strangers, they were her relations, and she had envisioned a warmer welcome. She’d even thought her grandmother would open her arms and she would rush in for an embrace. But it was obvious such a display of emotion would never be tolerated, at least not with her grandmother.
Her grandfather’s mouth twitched, but he remained silent.
“And who is this?” her grandmother demanded, staring at Genny and Mitch’s still joined hands as if Genny were holding a dead animal.
“My name is Mitch Campbell.”
Genny looked up at him, sensing a small bit of hostility in his tone.
“Yes. Your name is not as important as the reason you are holding my granddaughter’s hand.”
He squeezed her hand and Genny got the distinct impression he was growing angry. “Ma’am,” he said, and she had a strong feeling he addressed her incorrectly on purpose, “your granddaughter has been through one hell of a journey to reach you. I think the lessons in decorum can wait until another time.”
Genny rushed to explain. “Mr. Campbell is my fiancé, Your Grace.”
“Your—” And then her grandmother smiled warmly, quickly recovering from whatever shock she had felt. “Of course. You are the man who has been corresponding with us. And you’re engaged. How wonderful.” She looked at each of them, her expression welcoming at last.
“You must both be exhausted. I’ve prepared a room for you, Genevieve, and of course, Mr. Campbell, you are staying at a nearby hotel? The Langham obviously. There really isn’t another hotel that would be suitable.”
“I’m to stay here?” Genny asked. She had assumed she would visit with her grandparents and stay at a hotel as well. “I have a maid.” She’d been under the impression that as long as she had Tillie with her, the demands of propriety would be met.
“We can accommodate another servant,” her grandmother said, misunderstanding. She turned to the older woman in green. “Mrs. Parsons, would you please have one of the girls escort Miss Hayes’s maid to the servants’ quarters.”
“But—”
Her grandmother turned back to Genny, giving her an icy smile. “Yes?”
Genny shook her head. “Of course. Tillie, go on.”
“You weren’t thinking of staying at the same hotel as Mr. Campbell?” The duchess let out a small laugh. “You’d start tongues wagging before you are even introduced.”
“I hadn’t given our accommodations much thought,” Genny said, feeling completely out of her element and more than a little terrified of being left in this house of strangers without Mitch nearby. It seemed her powers of charm were at least temporarily gone.
A maid stepped forward then and curtsied, first to her grandmother and then to her. “Tea is ready in the blue parlor, Yer Grace.”
Her grandmother pursed her lips, as if the fact that it was teatime was unexpected. “Can you stay for tea, Mr. Campbell? I’m sure you are weary after your trip . . .”
“I’d be delighted,” Mitch said, his smile just a tad effusive.
Another tight smile. “Very well. Mrs. Parsons, you may dismiss the servants. Thank you.” When her grandmother turned to her, the old woman’s smile warmed considerably, putting her at ease. “Let us remove to the blue parlor, shall we?”
Genny nodded, and looked around for her grandfather, who had apparently disappeared with the servants. He hadn’t uttered a single word. Genny looked at Mitch and tried to convey in her expression what she’d thought of her first meeting with her grandparents. Mitch chuckled silently, but Genny could feel the subtle shake as they followed the duchess down the long hallway into the bowels of the mansion.
The ceiling soared high above them, painted to look like a cloud-filled sky, with small cherubs looking down upon them every so often. It was such a whimsical touch, Genny wondered at her grandmother allowing it.
The blue parlor was, indeed, blue—the carpet, the ornate, flowered wallpaper, the cushions on the furniture. The only other color in the room was the brown wood and white ceilings and trim. In the center of the room, a sitting area and small table with a silver platter placed atop it was set up for afternoon tea.
“Shall I pour?” the duchess asked.
“Yes, please. I fear my education on tea pouring was sorely lacking.” Genny laughed aloud, but quickly stifled her mirth when her grandmother gave her a sharp look. Goodness, was she not allowed to laugh? She was suddenly and fiercely glad that she would be returning with Mitch to New York. She was not certain she could live in a world where laughter was not allowed.
After they’d all settled with their tea, Mitch looking rather uncomfortable holding the tiny teacup, the duchess said, “Now, Genevieve, give me your life story.”
“I’m not certain how much you know of our time in America, but when I was very small, we lived in Philadelphia. I don’t remember much about that time, just snippets of memories. My mother reading bedtime stories to me or making them up as she went. I always liked the made-up ones best because I imagined she was talking about her own life.”
Genny watched her grandmother carefully to make certain talking about her dead daughter wouldn’t evoke too much emotion, but she might have been talking about the weather for all the reaction she saw. “She was a wonderful mother, and when she died, my father was quite devastated.”
“Was it a boy child?”
It took her a moment to understand what her grandmother meant. The baby who’d died with her mother. “We never knew. It was never born, you see.” Genny paused. “After that, my father and I traveled by train and wagon to California, where my father and I lived in a small house quite far from the nearest town. I have your letters, the ones you wrote to my mother.”
The duchess lifted her chin. “I never wrote.”
Genny furrowed her brow. Now that she thought of it, all the letters had been signed by the duke. “Where is his grace?”
“He dislikes emotional scenes.”
Genny started to laugh, then quickly covered it by coughing.
Emotional scene
? She’d seen more emotion from a rock.
“And how did Mr. Campbell enter the picture?” her grandmother asked before taking a sip from her teacup. Genny had no doubt the tea they were drinking was excellent, but she longed for a cup of nice, strong coffee. Her teacup was so delicate, she feared it might chip just from the pressure of her lips on the edge. Genny took a tiny sip of tea, then carefully replaced the cup on the saucer, taking extra care not to make a sound.