* * *
“Miss St. Claire! Will you join us?” The Duchess of Montford patted the empty space beside her on a plump, green silk settee near the fireplace.
“Yes, do come, won’t you, Miss St. Claire?” The Duchess of Basingstoke, who was seated on the other end of the settee, beckoned her forward with a curl of her gloved fingers.
Goodness. Summoned not just by one duchess, but two? Given the cool reception the other ladies had given her, Rose had reconciled herself to a long evening of solitary reading. She’d brought a copy of Miss Burney’sThe Wandererto keep herself occupied, but it seemed the duchesses took their chaperone duties quite seriously.
And one didn’t naysay a duchess, did one? Certainly nottwoduchesses.
She set the book she’d been reading aside and hurried across the drawing room, the hair on her neck rising at the sensation of other ladies’ eyes upon her, but both duchesses greeted her with friendly smiles.
“Now, Miss St. Claire,” the Duchess of Montford began. “Do sit down and tell us all about yourself. How long have you lived at Hammond Court?”
Allabout herself? Oh, dear. This charming tête-à-tête was destined to end as quickly as it had begun, then, as duchesses did not generally waste their graciousness on the daughters of servants, particularly those daughters who were born on the wrong side of the blanket.
But she’d never been ashamed of who she was, and she wouldn’t hang her head now. “I was four years old when I came to Hammond Court with my mother, so nearly seventeen years now. She—my mother—was Mr. St. Claire’s cook.”
They’d shove her off the end of the settee now, or worse, get up and leave themselves, abandoning her in the middle of the drawing room with every eye upon her—
“Yes, I believe Mrs. Watson told me as much. She had a great deal of admiration for your mother,” the Duchess of Basingstoke said. “As I understand it, she was a treasured friend of Mr. St. Claire’s.”
Rose blinked. She hadn’t expected such kindness, and for one horrifying moment she felt tears press behind her eyes. “She was indeed, Your Grace.”
“Oh, you must call me Francesca. All of my friends do.”
“I’m Prudence, or preferably Prue, as Prudence is a bit too antiquated for me,” the Duchess of Montford added.
“Prue, and Francesca,” Rose repeated dutifully. “I’m afraid I haven’t ventured far from Fairford since then. I’ve never even been outside of Gloucestershire. Sadly provincial of me, I’m afraid.”
Prue patted her hand. “I think I mentioned before that Franny and I were both raised primarily in the English countryside. Franny spent part of her childhood in London, but I only visited for the first time the year before last.”
The Duchess of Basingstoke—Francesca—leaned closer, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Not all duchesses are as perfectly pedigreed as the aristocracy would have you believe, Miss St. Claire.”
“No? Well, I . . . that’s . . .” No. It was no use. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say in reply to that.
Prue laughed. “Oh, dear. We’ve stunned her speechless, Franny. However does that keep happening, do you suppose?”
“It does happen with astonishing regularity, does it not? Too much forthrightness, I imagine, but no matter. Come, Miss St. Claire, you may be at your ease with us, as we’re all certain to become the greatest of friends.”
Friends? For the duration of the house party, perhaps. After that, she’d likely never see either lady again, as they hardly moved in the same social circles. Still, they seemed in earnest, and she didn’t have many friends. Or any friends, really, and she’d quite like to, if only for a fortnight. “Thank you. I’d like that very much. You’re both too kind.”
“Well, now that’s settled, do tell us about yourself.” Prue gave her another smile. “I understand you and Mr. St. Claire were extremely close—as close as a father and daughter, Mrs. Watson said.”
“Very close, yes. I—I miss him dreadfully, I’m afraid.” Dash it, there were the tears again, pressing more insistently this time.
“You poor thing.” Francesca seized her other hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s dreadfully difficult, isn’t it? I lost my own father at quite a young age, and it felt as if my heart had been torn still beating from my chest.”
Rose cast her a grateful glance. “It does. I hadn’t been able to put words to it, but that’s exactly how it feels—as if you’ve lost some vital part of yourself.”
“Oh, my dear.” Francesca’s fingers tightened around Rose’s hand. “I’m afraid so, but the pain does ease after a time, and you’ll always have your memories of him. No one can take those away from you.”
No, they couldn’t. She wouldn’t let them.
The three of them were quiet after that, but both Prue and Francesca kept her hands in theirs, and after a time the tears receded, and her heart resumed its steady beat.
“How do you and Grantham get on?” Prue asked, breaking the comfortable silence. “He was no friend of Mr. St. Claire’s. I imagine that must make it rather awkward between you.”
“Yes, it . . .” She’d been about to say ithadbeen awkward, but the truth was, since the day Sir Richard had revealed the terms of Ambrose’s will to them, and the bitter argument between them that had followed, the Duke of Grantham had been, well . . . perhaps one couldn’t saygallant, precisely, but in his own way, he’d been quite . . .
