The Inconvenient Duchess

dare knock them down, or would her husband come raging into the room and insist that she might hurt herself on the sharp edge of the pillow? She was nowhere near the banister when Marcus had plucked her off the bench. Surely he didn’t think her such a ninnyhammer as to fall over the edge. Or worse yet, jump. If it came to that, she’d choose a less messy end, considering the amount of time and boric acid it had taken to return the entry hall marble to pristine white.
    She punched the offending pillow in frustration. It needed airing. As did the hangings.
    She’d tried not to think that way. But there was so much to do. If he wanted her to be idle, she’d learn how.
    And then she guiltily took the pillow and walked with it to the open window, pounding it on the sill before leaving it to hang in the breeze.
    ‘Your Grace?’ There was a faint knock and the door opened to reveal a hesitant Polly.
    ‘Yes, Polly? Come in. You needn’t linger in the hall like that.’
    ‘Wilkins says that his Grace says you might be in a temper.’
    ‘Does he now?’ Marcus’s belief that the servants could keep secrets was sorely misplaced.
    ‘Yes, your Grace. But he told Wilkins, and Wilkins told me, that you was to have this, with his compliments.’ And she dangled something towards Miranda, as though expecting her to bite.
    It was a heavy chain, but it needed to be to support the many dangling attachments. There was a tiny pair of scissors, a needle case, and a small ivory tablet with a silver-plated pencil chained to it. Scrawled on the ivory, in a hand that was growing familiar to her, were the words ‘I’m sorry’. And, to the last extension, he had attached a large ring of keys, which spoiled the grace of the thing but not the message.
    ‘It’s the dowager’s chatelaine, your Grace. She couldn’t be bothered with it, and I don’t hear tell that the second duchess wore it neither. But his Grace says it’s to be yours now, if you still wished and you could make what you will of it.’

    She opened the door to the picture gallery, hesitating on the threshold. She shuddered. If only the room were not sofull of ghosts. His mother was bad enough, although they had never met; Cecily’s stories had been enough to colour her perceptions there. But to have to face the late duchess, larger than life before her, was a disconcerting mockery of her own position here.
    Her husband stood transfixed in the gloom by the portrait of his late wife. Damn the marble of the floors, she thought, for her first steps echoed and he looked up, and she had to abandon the idea of creeping away unnoticed.
    ‘Excuse me, Marcus. I didn’t mean to interrupt…’ She faded. What was she interrupting?
    ‘Oh.’ He stared at her as though he didn’t recognise her; then seemed to come to himself. ‘It is nothing. I come here sometimes, because it is quiet.’
    She moved closer to him. ‘I came to thank you for the gift.’ The chatelaine jingled at her waist. ‘And to tell you that there is no need to be sorry. The fault was mine.’
    He sighed. ‘You are too quick to take the blame for my mistakes. I looked up the stairs and saw you in the hallway and it reminded me of an old quarrel. One in which you played no part. I will try in the future to be less of a fool.’
    She nodded. ‘And I will try to behave more like a duchess.’
    ‘Be who you are, Miranda, and if it makes you happy, I will be glad of it.’ He slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to him, pointing to the portrait of himself. ‘Look at that young idiot. It pains me to see him. More bluff than brains in me when they painted that. I was five and twenty and just married. No idea what I was up to. None at all.’ He looked at her appraisingly. ‘We shall have to find an artist who can do you justice.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Not some idiot that would wrap you in lace and seat you next to a piano, or, God forbid, holding a lap dog. Of course, wearing an apron and holding a mop might be appropriate…’ he touched the sensible cap that she was wearing to protect her hair as she worked ‘…but most unconventional for a formal portrait.’
    ‘Whatever are you talking about?’
    ‘When you married me, you earned your place on the wall, my dear. You belong at my right hand.’
    She looked up at the portrait in front of her and said softly, ‘The place is already full.’
    His teasing ended, he grew silent and stared back up at the portrait in