Mrs. Thacker, their generously proportioned housekeeper, trundled into the room, clutching her chest and gasping for air. “Your Grace. Lady Cecilia. I am here.”
“Mrs. Thacker, please sit and catch your breath.” The dowager waved the red-faced woman to the nearest chair, then fixed a chiding look on Celia. “And do forgive Lady Cecilia. It seems her impatience knows no bounds today.”
Celia helped the poor woman to the seat. “I am sorry, Mrs. Thacker. That useless doctor has me distraught about Mama, and both of us need something stronger than calves’ foot jelly, barley broth, or tea.”
The housekeeper waved away the words as her hard breathing slowed to her usual huffing and puffing. “I feared as much about that man.” She shook a chubby finger high in the air. “That one had a dodgy look about him. Saw it in his eyes from the moment he stepped through the front door.”
The double doors swung open wider, and Berta entered, bearing a tray filled with cold meats, cheeses, and fruit. Friedrich followed close behind. His tray held a teapot, teacups, and a round-bellied decanter of golden pear brandy.
Mrs. Thacker pushed herself to her feet and offered both Celia and the duchess a kindly smile. “Forgive me for being so bold, but I thought this might be warranted after that dreadful man overstayed his welcome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Thacker.” Celia blinked hard against those irritatingly persistent tears while scolding herself for being such an emotional ninny. Now was not the time. She had to be strong and convince Mama to persevere. “All of you take such good care of us.” She turned to include Berta and Friedrich in the praise. Their loyalty and support meant everything. “We appreciate you more than you know.”
Berta dipped a quick curtsy. Her bottom lip quivered, and she swiped at her red-rimmed eyes. “We are thankful to be here, my lady. You do so much to help our families.”
Friedrich cleared his throat and bowed his head. “We are proud to serve this house, my lady. Proud indeed.”
Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, Mrs. Thacker trundled forward and supervised the footman while he set the table. After an approving nod, she turned to the duchess. “Does Your Grace wish to take her tea while enjoying the sunshine at the window? I can prepare a small lap tray.”
“No, Mrs. Thacker. Thank you.” Celia’s mother slowly pushed herself up from the lounge, moved to the table, and, with Friedrich’s help, settled into a chair. “I feel it is important to keep moving. Thank you. You may all go now.”
The trio left and closed the doors with a quiet click.
Celia poured their tea, then added a gentle splash of brandy to their cups. She paused with the decanter over her mother’s cup. “More?” Mama’s pallor worried her. She had seemed much healthier before that fool physician’s visit.
Duchess Thea delicately waved the bottle away. “That is enough for now, thank you.” She took a sip, closed her eyes, and smiled. “Excellent. This was your father’s favorite brandy.”
Whenever Mama spoke about Father, she was melancholy indeed. While the two had never been in love, they had enjoyed an agreeable friendship during their brief marriage. Their union had lasted less than two years before he was killed in a carriage accident, leaving Mama alone, heavy with child, and praying for the babe to be a son to become the sixth Duke of Hasterton. Instead, Celia was born, and Mama, in her desperation, had launched a most remarkable endeavor to protect what the world would deny her child just because she was a daughter rather than a son.
“This afternoon, I shall write to that Italian physician I read about earlier this week,” Celia said. “Remember the one? I showed you the article.” She sipped her tea, then added more brandy when Mama remained silent. “Remember?” she prodded. “His results are reported to be quite exceptional.”
“Celia.” Mama didn’t look up from the delicate, gold-rimmed teacup in front of her. She gazed down into it with a faint smile, as if watching her last days unfold. “It is time we accept what is and decide what we shall do with the time I have remaining.” She leaned back in the chair and rested her hands on the padded armrests. “There are three things I wish to accomplish before I find my eternal rest. The first of which is seeing my beloved London again and enjoying this year’s Season. Easter came early this year, but we can still reach Town in time to enjoy a good portion of the season’s offerings.”
“You wish to travel to London?” Celia could not believe her ears. London was not safe. They could be discovered. “And enjoy the Season? To submit yourself to all those marriage-minded mothers wishing to match their daughters with your son, the duke, who is really your daughter—the one not considered suitable to inherit the title, even though she has built the Hasterton dukedom into quite an impressive empire?” Celia shook her head. “Out of the question. We simply cannot, Mama. It is difficult enough to protect our extremely complicated venture from here in Germany. Need I remind you that Mrs. Thacker had to dismiss the two newest maids and a footman because they took too great an interest in why my imaginary twin never visited us here at the manor?”
“Are you quite finished?” Mama arched a sleek, dark brow.
Celia folded her hands in her lap and proffered an apologetic nod. “Forgive me. You wish to enjoy this year’s Season. What are your other wishes? You spoke of three.”
“I wish to see you happily married to a good man of my choosing.”
“Mama.”
“None of the three are unreasonable or extravagant. Do you not agree?” Mama lifted her cup for another sip, her sharp gaze pinned on Celia all the while.
“And your third wish?” Celia preferred to know every detail before engaging in battle—especially with Mama.
“I told you.”
“You did not.” Celia added more tea and milk to both their cups. Battling with her mother required a sober mind. “You stated your wish to go to London and your silly desire for me to marry a man of your choosing.”
“And you happy,” her mother added with a subtle tip of her head. “Your happiness is my third, yet greatest desire.”
“You know I can never be presented in London, and you cannot travel alone.” Celia applauded herself for countering request number one and number two effectively. “And I am happy.” She offered a genuine smile. “As long as you fight to remain alive and well, I am happy.”
“You are not happy. You have become an old curmudgeon—a most soured, miserly sort of person who is interested in nothing but business.” Mama leaned forward and thumped her delicate fist on the table, her mouth pressed in a hard, flat line. “There is more to life than adding to our coffers, starting new business ventures, and buying more land.”
“I am not miserly.” How could Mama say such a thing? “When have I ever refused a purchase or an expense you requested? And might I also remind you that several of our businesses have set up a great many women in their own shops, so they might feed their families and earn a proper living without demeaning or endangering themselves?”
