“No need. I can find my way. Thank you.”
The quarters belonging to the duchess were marked by double doors covered with carved images of forest creatures. Madeline opened the main room, only to discover it was empty. This room reminded Madeline of spring, a stark contrast to the old lord’s study. Murals of a rose garden, with a gazebo and fountains, covered the walls. The furniture was painted white and green, and vases of silk flowers stood on every table. She recognized her mother’s laughter and followed the sound to a door on the far side of the room.
As she was about to open the door, Madeline heard the duchess mention her name.
“You should tell Madeline,” The duchess was saying. “She has a right to know.”
Madeline edged closer to the door. The duchess’s words came through as clear as if the door were made of tissue paper.
“I disagree,” Roseline said. “This is your secret to tell, not mine.”
“We are connected, and she grows suspicious. Your daughter is intelligent, a tribute to you, not that good-for-nothing father of hers, God rest his black soul.”
Madeline froze. How did the duchess know about her father? She moved to press her ear to the door. The voices came through the thin panel clearly.
“I do not want to speak ill of the dead,” Roseline said.
“I will if you won’t. Dangerously handsome, and a notorious rake. He was the son of an earl, and you had just turned seventeen and thought yourself in love. If it weren’t for your mother’s jewels, God knows what would have happened to you and your unborn child.” She paused. “His brother learned you were here and has made inquiries about you. I would not be surprised if he came courting. I have heard he is not at all like his elder brother and has a respectable income.”
“He has already reached out to me in a letter. I intended to meet with him in the village but changed my mind. You and I have had this conversation before. I am content with the single life. My choice in men has been abysmal, as you well know. It is the reason I wrote a letter to Madeline’s father before she was born, although I never mailed it. I wanted to never forget what had happened, how I felt, and the events that led to his deserting us. I keep it with me always. But what about you? You are still young enough to find happiness. Is there a man you fancy?”
“None that I would trust would love me for myself and not my fortune.”
Rosaline laughed softly. “We share the same dilemma, you and me. I too do not trust that a man would not love my money more than he loved me. But isn’t that what you are asking from your sons and daughters?”
The duchess heaved a sigh. “It is true. In my defense, I thought by adding wealthy heirs and heiresses from outside the titled classes of Europe, my children would have more options.”
“And when will you tell your children that you have money to burn? That this ruse that they need to marry a person with vast wealth is a lie?”
“I had my reasons.”
“Those reasons died with your husband.”
There was a long silence, and Madeline held her breath, concerned that their conversation had ended and they might burst into the room where she was hidden, and discover she had been listening. Their conversation opened up more questions than answers. It was clear that her mother and the duchess had known each other for a long while. Why hadn’t her mother shared that information?
“Would you like more tea before we continue our conversation?” Roseline said. “I could ring for Winfield or Mary,”
“This conversation calls for whiskey,” the duchess said with a chuckle. “I have a feeling we are in for a long night.”
There was the sound of a cabinet door opening and glasses clinking, followed by laughter and a second clinking of glasses.
“It has been so good to see you again,” the duchess said. “It is as though time rolled back and we are childhood friends once more.”
Madeline sucked in a breath and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle another. Not only did her mother and the duchess know each other from when they were children, her mother was drinking whiskey. The most Madeline had seen her mother drink was the occasional sherry.
“Did you hear something, Roseline?” the duchess asked. “No, it must be only the creaks and moans of this old castle,” she continued.
“Your plan might not have worked when your husband was alive,” Roseline said. “He would not have approved of my daughter, regardless of how much money she offered as a dowry.”
“How true. My husband was obsessed with a person’s pedigree. He made a list for me of acquaintances he approved. He said my choice of friendships reflected on him.”
“Then he never knew his mother’s origins?” Roseline said. There was the sound of rustling fabric, and Madeline presumed her mother walked across the room.
The duchess laughed again. “Lord, no. He would have died from the shame of it. Or perhaps he was aware and that was the reason he was so obsessed with titles and lineage. On the reverse of it, his father was good and just, always kind and generous with his servants and treated them well. As a young man, he frequently visited the ladies of the night in London. One lady in particular caught his attention. Rather than keep her as his mistress, as I am sure his parents would have desired, he married her, and they had a son. Her name was Caroline Tinsworthy, and after I married her son, she and I became good friends.”
“Why would she tell you her beginnings and not tell her own son?”
“That is a question I have long wondered. But knowing my husband as I did, the only conclusion I have come to was that his mother might have feared he would cast her out when his father died. I do not want to believe he would have, but I guess we will never know.”
