A Duchess's Heart: Bledington Park, #2

RFC Squadron Aerodrome, Somewhere in France—April 1917

CAPTAIN THE DUKE OF MALVERN lifted eyes like flint from the crumpled letter a dispatch rider retrieved from the bottom of his leather satchel fifteen minutes before he was due to fly.

His mouth moved slightly in irony. Strange how it had nearly been lost; the British mail was usually quite efficient. The steady buzz of aeroplane propellers drew his attention towards the green strip of field that held the squadron’s Sopwiths, Nieuports, and FE 2s. Paltry instruments of war against the Fokker Scourge—what the officers and mechanics of the Royal Flying Corps called it in less polite company wasn’t fit for delicate ears. The words hovering on his lips weren’t fit for delicate ears.

He stuffed the letter into his pocket and lifted the squadron’s mascot—a fat calico—away from the maps strewn across the table, sifting through them until he found the one that charted his patrol mission. His fingers clenched around the table’s edge as he struggled to concentrate. The letter oughtn’t to have surprised him. Surely he expected it no matter what agreement they had come to five years before. No sane woman would content herself with half a life until she died (for that is what society decreed life was to be for a wife without a husband, much less a divorcée). Any sane man would tell him to hurry to rid himself of an unsatisfactory wife. War liberated men and women trapped in unhappy Edwardian marriages, and the tragedy of the casualty lists outweighed the scandal of divorce court proceedings.

He gripped the table tighter, bile rising in the back of his throat at his failure. He’d failed. The coronet of strawberry leaves had always rested uneasily on his head, no matter how hard he tried to live up to the standards set by his father, by his brother, by his mother. If fate had let him be, he would have been a marvelous second son—he might have been an easier husband. Fate hadn’t, however; he was duke. Bron loosened his hands and spread them across the map. His mouth tightened at his weakness. And at the most opportune time. Damn her for never ceasing to intrude into his thoughts, for pricking at his, in her eyes, inflated sense of duty.

She had failed.

She had exposed the Townsends to public ridicule, as his mother had warned him she would.

Now she was disrupting his duty to his squadron, to England.

He shot up from his chair, disrupting the calico twined around his ankles, and pushed through the knot of pilots crowding around the easel. Their squadron commander had chalked a list of names marking the day’s flight schedule and their duties. Bron swiped at the word patrol and wrote reconnaissance beside his name and that of Jacky Wilcox.

You’re mad, Townsend—

The speaker swallowed his words when Bron turned to him.

The mingled unease and respect on his hairless face mirrored the expressions of the other pilots. Bron had at least a decade on most of the flight officers in his squadron, their youth supposedly making them more nimble, more agile as pilots. Well, he’d seen more of their names crossed out in memoriam since the war began. And he’d live another damn day to show them cool experience trumped the brass balls of youth.

Where’s Wilcox? Bron stalked out of the hangar before anyone replied. Wilcox!

He spotted his observer—his longtime, most trustworthy partner in this venture—standing with a group of mechanics and observers, his gaze turned to the clear, gray sky.

That meant little. The cold snap could herald another freak snowstorm, much like the one they’d experienced two weeks before. Rumor tallied the RFC’s losses to well over one hundred men. Another storm like that meant certain death. His squadron alone had already lost sixteen pilots to the superior Luftstreitkräfte pilots.

Bron’s mouth moved into another ironic smile. What was one more casualty? He already had two heirs to carry on his line; he’d completed the duty he was set on earth to fulfill.

The men saluted smartly to him when he approached.

Reconnaissance instead of a brief patrol, Wilcox.

Wilcox didn’t even blink at the sudden change in duty. That was why Bron came as close as he could to loving one of his men—Wilcox’s steady hands and unperturbed personality kept them aloft and safe from German strafing more times than he could count.

The mechanics rolled the two-seater biplane he was to fly into position. The Sopwith 1½ Strutter was a thing of beauty, built to fight, with a synchronized machine gun to cut the Germans down in the air. Bron couldn’t have designed a better aeroplane himself. He touched the plane’s snub nose and the seats in which he and Wilcox were to sit. It was a pity the damned thing was proving to be far unsuitable against the Albatros.

Bron and Wilcox swaddled themselves in jumpers, an extra pair of socks, and a woollen balaclava before sliding their arms into their thick leather coats. Thick, fur-lined gloves protected their hands from frostbite, as did the fur-lined knee boots. Mechanics prepared the Sopwith for a reconnaissance mission: filling the machine gun with ammunition and placing the bombs in the bomb ribs, and filling the tanks with enough petrol to last the four hour flight and back. Bron narrowed his eyes as they carried out their inspection and fitting of the aeroplane, his glance moving quickly from their hands to the plane. Once satisfied of their work, he fastened his helmet and goggles and climbed into the cockpit, where he placed his maps, notebooks, and pencils into their allotted compartments.

He strapped himself into his seat, peered over Wilcox’s shoulder to make sure he too was strapped in properly, before yelling contact at the mechanics.

A huge rush of chilly wind slapped his face from the spin of the propellers. The poor odds of survival made the blood pump in Bron’s in veins, burning away any distraction but that of returning to the aerodrome after a successful flight. He searched one of the notebooks in his compartment, the wind causing the pages to flutter, until he found what he sought: a photograph of his estranged American wife. What an idiot he’d been to rip it from the pages of The Sketch, that nonsensical society rag the squadron read to pass the time. She’d been captured inspecting a row of Girl Guides in early 1915, her haughty blonde beauty undiminished by time or the grainy quality of the photograph.

He’d meant to tear it up many times, but it somehow became his talisman in flight.

Amanda.

Suddenly reminded of her letter, he set his fingers to the ragged edge of the paper. But he couldn’t do it.

He scowled behind his balaclava and forced himself to turn his focus to piloting the plane into the air. The Sopwith swung towards the airstrip, and took care of his indecision itself: the photograph ripped from his fingertips, snatched by the wind into the propeller, where the wings sliced the glossy page into dozens of strips.

The pieces sailed behind the aeroplane as they lifted into the sky, suddenly still and white, and pregnant with omen.

PART ONE

Missing

Chapter 1

London–May 1917

THE APPLAUSE WAS DEAFENING, and the Duchess of Malvern, despite this occasion marking her fifth viewing of Oscar Asche’s Chu Chin Chow, joined in just as heartily as the cast of the musical, clad in daring costume, bowed before the red velvet curtains cloaking the glittering exotic sets.

The lights flickered on, illuminating the elegant interior of His Majesty’s Theatre once more, and everyone slowly rose from their seats. Amanda shook herself, noting that she shared the sensation with those in the stalls, balconies, circles, and private boxes, of abruptly awakening from an enchanted slumber.

The exotic spice of the musical gave everyone respite from the war for at least two hours.

Amanda pulled her opera cloak over her shoulders, which were practically bare save for the thin straps of her shimmering gold lamé frock, and rose as well.

Thank you, Your Grace.

The young officer who had sat beside her, and was now holding his trench coat over his arm, smiled shyly. I suppose Cochrane and I would have been out of luck obtaining tickets for the show had I not run into you at the canteen.

The other officer, Cochrane, grinned broadly, his ears sticking out from beneath the brim of his hat.

Thank Mr. Warfield, Amanda lifted a brow in gesture towards the man who sat behind her. I don’t know how he was able to obtain them, what with hundreds of people queuing every day at the box office!

Douglas Warfield smiled smugly at her admiration, and took her arm to escort her from the box.

Connections, my darling, he murmured in her ear as they joined the crush of people leaving the balcony stall.

Her smile tensed at Douglas’s assured intimacy. He was going to press her for an answer tonight, she was sure.

Shall we dine at the Carlton? Amanda half turned to include the two young officers trailing them into the conversation.

If you don’t mind, Your Grace, my leave is only for two days, and I have to catch the early train for Kent. Cochrane shrugged apologetically.

Oh, of course, Captain! Amanda exclaimed. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you up so late you’d miss your train. What of you, Lieutenant Howson—must you also leave early in the morning?

My family lives in London, Howson grinned.

Excellent! Amanda took the lieutenant’s arm, now in possession of two escorts.

Douglas narrowed his eyes at her, but she smiled blandly, needing this buffer between them.

Some of the magic of Mr. Asche’s spectacle seemed to cling to the crowd as they moved out of the theatre and into the Haymarket. She saw Captain Cochrane off despite his inability to obtain a taxi in the crush of carriages, motorcars, and people. Amanda watched the young man turn up his collar and walk in the direction of his billet, and was stricken by a familiar pang of worry and pain of seeing the back of another young, bright-eyed soldier.

It was not her habit to pick up lonely young officers while working at the canteen at Victoria Station, but Cochrane—and Howson for that matter—had that hollow-eyed, clenched-jaw look she tried her damndest to eradicate. If that meant springing them on Douglas, disrupting his planned evening with her, then so be it. She might not be involved in nursing or driving ambulances like her sister-in-law Beryl, but she could open her home to soldiers and hard-working VADs for balls and take officers out for the theatre or to supper, or even both. And this, incidentally, was what she intended to do tonight, in spite of Douglas’s apparent irritation.

The Carlton Hotel was adjacent to His Majesty’s, and their walk was short and brisk, thankfully, for the streets were rather wet and slushy from the sudden snowfall of earlier in the month. The hotel and the theatre were the only bright spots on the otherwise darkened Haymarket, and the passing vehicles crept slowly through the pitch blackness of the night to unknown destinations. Once inside the elegant enclave of the Carlton’s restaurant, the maître d'hôtel, M. Joseph, escorted the three of them to a small round table near the Palm Court.

Douglas helped remove her cloak as Lieutenant Howson pulled back her seat, and Amanda sat. She glanced around the dining room, finding it uncanny how exceedingly normal it seemed to dine after the theatre. Only the officers in khaki, who squired ladies clad in glittering evening dress around the Palm Court to the light playing of the palm court orchestra, signified the brutal struggle that raged just across the Channel. Sometimes, in the silence of the early morning, she fancied she could hear the roar of the guns and shells pounding the rolling green valleys of France into the churning mud and barren trees she saw in issues of The Times.

She shivered and the expression of someone walking over her grave came unbidden to her mind. It was the morbid turn of her thoughts, she informed herself as she retrieved the small menu their waiter laid on their table, and forcibly shook off that brief moment of cold, wretched foreboding. Rationing laid a light finger on the dishes available, and the three of them ended up dining on three courses rather than six or seven of the Carlton’s pre-war heyday, though thankfully the wine remained excellent. Amanda sipped amusedly on her champagne as Lieutenant Howson cleaned his plate, his expressive features telegraphing his deep, deep enjoyment of his food. Douglas merely raised a brow in reaction to her smile and returned to clearing his own bone china dish.

I don’t fancy returning to tinned food and bully beef after tonight, Lieutenant Howson gave his empty plate a rueful look and then drank his claret.

Is it really that dreadful? Amanda set her glass on the table. Punch regularly chaffs about soldiers’ rations, but I assumed it was another of their endless and indiscriminate jests.

Between you and me, the lieutenant lowered his voice. It is that dreadful. But, and his voice rose to normal levels. It’s what our government provides, and when I see the sacrifices many of you make here in Blighty, I cannot rightfully complain.

I’ll tell you about sacrifices, Douglas’s fork clattered on his plate as he scowled across the table at the lieutenant. What of the damned poor job the British are doing to protect my ships from being torpedoed by German U-boats?

Douglas— she placed a warning hand on his arm. He ignored it.

Lieutenant Howson stiffened. We wouldn’t need to protect American ships if America hadn’t slunk away like cowards after the Lusitania’s sinking.

We had no truck with this blasted European war, Douglas waved his hand dismissively. Besides, we’re in now—and just when you fellows seem to need it.

Would you like to dance, Lieutenant? Amanda interjected, wanting to douse the disagreement before it became too volatile, or even physical.

The lieutenant looked startled by her abruptness, but could not refuse her request once she rose from her chair. This also forced Douglas to stand out of habitual politeness. She frowned at Douglas over the lieutenant’s shoulder as they moved to the Palm Court, her hand moving automatically to Howson’s shoulder and left hand, and his right hand curving around her back. Aggravation and anger radiated from every line in Lieutenant Howson’s body, his brown eyes distant and stormy, and his mouth flattened into a thin white line as the orchestra struck up a gentle hesitation waltz. Amanda’s feet moved instinctively into the steps, and she smiled up at the lieutenant, clearing her throat delicately to bring his attention to her.

You are a marvelous dancer, Lieutenant. Wherever did you learn?

The lieutenant’s grip tightened on waist, and she narrowed the gap between their bodies when he frowned down at her. However, to her relief, his frown—and the anger—dissipated, and his mouth curved into a slight grin.

I’m always a marvelous dancer when there’s a beautiful woman in my arms, Your Grace.

Amanda laughed lightly. Come now Lieutenant Howson, there must be some young lady who inspired you to learn how not to tread on her toes.

The lieutenant’s insouciant grin faded to a bittersweet smile. Lady Muriel Brassey.

Your fiancée? Amanda lifted a brow. Why are you dancing with me tonight instead of dining with the Brasseys in Belgrave Square?

No, Lieutenant Howson shook his head. Not my fiancée. I couldn’t lay the burden of my possibly being killed before the week was out on her. It wouldn’t be fair.

I consider making Lady Muriel’s decision for her to be more than unfair, Lieutenant—and worse, a gross mistake. I believe your refusal to brave the possibility of your death or being maimed with her causes much more pain.

Lady Muriel was in complete agreement in the last letters we exchanged before my leave, he said mournfully.

Oh, Lieutenant, Amanda sighed in exasperation. I am not intimate with Lady Muriel Brassey, but she is known to be quite shy and overly agreeable. Did it ever occur to you that she agreed with your sentiments in order to mask her hurt?

Lieutenant Howson’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment. Thankfully, the waltz ended before his pause on the dance floor could disrupt the flow of the other dancers. The shifting expressions on the young officer’s face, from the aforementioned bewilderment to consternation to hope, would have under other circumstances, made her laugh had not her heart leapt in her throat. She swallowed painfully and she forced herself to smile as Lieutenant Howson flushed slightly in palpable relief, his eyes already lifted away from hers towards the restaurant’s exit. Something touched the hand with which she clutched the young officer’s shoulder, and she turned away from the recognizable glow of long suppressed love to see Douglas already lifting her hand and cutting in.

Lieutenant Howson politely stepped aside, his hand dropping from her waist to be replaced by Douglas’s large, warm one. The orchestra struck up a swift tango, but she stayed Douglas’ shift towards the waxed dance floor when the lieutenant narrowed his eyes in skepticism.

Go lieutenant—if you do not, I shall call on Lady Muriel and tell her myself.

Are you certain?

I am, Amanda said firmly.

The lieutenant grinned broadly, and as Douglas pulled her into the tango, she caught a glimpse of the young officer retrieving his khaki cap from the table and hopefully—she prayed—hie off to propose to Lady Muriel Brassey and marry her as quickly as possible.

That thought—and the image of thousands of young men and women running to registries, desperate with love and desire, made her choke on a bitterness she was shocked to feel. Shocking more so because she was in the arms of the man she planned to soon marry and wipe the dust of fifteen years of sorrow from her feet.

She forcibly turned her contemplation to the warm, solid man who moved expertly on the dance floor, his arm around her waist providing an anchor, a sense of security that allowed her to relax in his embrace without fear of rejection or of revulsion. It they had not been in a public setting, she would have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him. Douglas stared down at her, his mouth briefly curving into a smile of chagrined bemusement, as though he caught the gist of her thoughts, which, in and of itself was also a comfort. He did not wait for the tango to end before squiring her out of the Palm Court and back to their table, where he threw a few pound notes on the table before lifting her opera cloak from her seat and holding it out for her. Amanda obliged, turning to allow him to settle the thick velvet cape over her, and his hands lingered on her shoulders as she fastened the toggle braid closure.

His hand on her elbow was firm and commanding as they departed from the Carlton, stepping back into the darkened, chilly night. A cobalt colored motorcar slid neatly up to the kerb in the space left by the gleaming hansom cab into which a couple before them had climbed, and from the motorcar slid her chauffeur, Mrs. Molly Cartwright. Mrs. Cartwright, the tall, bright-eyed wife of Amanda’s chauffeur, saluted and opened the passenger door of the De Dion Bouton landau.

I had a devil of a time trying to remain in the Haymarket while Your Grace and Mr. Warfield dined. Bloody cabs.

I apologize, Cartwright, Amanda paused at the door. I should have informed you of my change of plans after the theater.

It wasn’t a bother, Your Grace, Cartwright shook her head. Now in you go—it looks to be another nasty night.

Amanda suppressed a smile of amusement at her chauffeur’s authoritative air and settled into the plush passenger seat. Molly had been a quiet, unassuming woman until she’d taken over her husband’s duties when he enlisted. Change was devastating, but it could also renew and invigorate, Amanda pondered thoughtfully. She twitched the trailing hem of her frock and her opera cloak out of the way when Douglas settled in beside her, his masculine presence and crisp scent filling the car. Divorcing Malvern to marry Douglas was to fulfill both qualities. Or so she hoped.

She unclenched her hand from around her hem, hating the corner of her heart that hesitated taking such a monumental step. The Duke and Duchess of Malvern’s marriage had been over long before she signed the papers of legal separation. They had not set eyes on one another since the summer war was declared. How much easier would it be to sever their connection completely and finally?

The De Dion pulled away from the kerb and away from the comforting bright lights of the Carlton Hotel and His Majesty’s Theatre, for now they were swallowed in the incessant and unpleasant darkness mandated by the government. She gave an apprehensive look at the darkened sky. The anti-aircraft guns were silent tonight, but a Zepp could fly over London at any moment, and she decided she would rather not become a moving target during an aerial attack.

Douglas took her hand, and she gave him a questioning glance, only just realizing he could not see her face just as she could not see his. But she could feel him—besides their clasped hands—and sense him. The brief press of his lips to hers under the cover of night was warm and comforting, giving her a taste of what she could expect from a marriage with him. An arc of light sliced through the interior of the De Dion, and Douglas sat hastily back into the seat, a flush of embarrassment apparent on his cheeks before the darkness closed in on them again. She did not know whether to feel disappointed or relieved, and told herself it was disappointment as he squeezed the hand he held.

What were you discussing with that Howson fellow?

Not your rudeness, Douglas, she unlinked their hands.

He called us cowards, Douglas scoffed. As though we didn’t burn to avenge the useless destruction of the Lusitania.

You needn’t have baited him about your blasted ships. Is that all you care about?

Of course not. Nevertheless, you must admit the British are doing a poor job of protecting us. I’m glad we’ve finally got in; Wilson was a fool for waiting so long.

Wilson wanted peace.

At the cost of dozens of ships sunk and countless lives lost because America was determined to remain neutral? Douglas pulled her into his embrace. When I think of you over here, alone, unprotected—

Not entirely alone, she replied dryly. I have my children.

They’re away at school for most of the year, aren’t they? And that rotter has them during holidays.

Not all holidays, Amanda said sharply. I see my sons often enough.

She felt Douglas’s dismissive huff of air on her cheek.

What matters is that they are thoroughly English boys—I’m positive they haven’t a drop of red-blooded American in them, not at all like our sons shall be.

That stung. Amanda hid her grimace in his shoulder, allowing him to mistake her gesture as agreement rather than a desire to conceal her pang of grief. If there was one thing she regretted about her decision to leave her husband, it was her separation from her boys. Douglas took her silence as agreement and she and she reluctantly allowed him to tilt her chin up to where she supposed his face was.

You’ve seen a lawyer, haven’t you?

You don’t divorce a man in wartime! She exclaimed softly, taken aback.

Why ever not? There’s no ration on divorce like there is on food.

It’s unpatriotic, or I believe it would be considered so. This time, she pulled out of his arms. She tightened her grip on the cloak around her shoulders. You’ve been so patient—

Fourteen years. He interrupted sharply.

Her breath caught in her throat at his words, and she turned away from his impatience in discomfort. She had written Malvern in what she hoped were vague enough words to tentatively raise the possibility of divorce, but now she wasn’t so sure of anything.

Can we at least wait until the war ends?

Douglas’s huff of exasperation reassured her, and she felt on safer ground, safe enough to rest her head on his shoulder, tilting her face upwards. Now you may kiss me again.

He lifted her hands and pressed a kiss to each of her palms, and then bent to kiss her. This time the kiss was real and hungry, and she gratified that she could rouse Douglas to such passion. He pressed her into the seat, his hands on her bare shoulders as her opera cloak slid to her waist, and the masterful movement of his lips over hers was more than delicious. Unbidden, the memory of the last time Malvern kissed her blotted out the sensations Douglas aroused, and she wrenched away with a gasp of shock, feeling as though she’d been doused with a bucket of ice water. She pressed her knuckles to her kiss-swollen lips in dismay, confused and angry as to why Malvern intruded—even from hundreds of miles away—just as she decided to make a final break with him.

Darling, what is it?

She flinched away from Douglas’s touch and drew her opera cloak over her shoulders, making certain the toggle braid closure was fastened tightly. She could not think, her wits scattered to the wind, and it was with extreme relief that she viewed her Belgravia townhouse on Eaton Place. The long row of white Georgian houses gleamed in the darkness, despite the lack of light—artificial and lunar—over the quiet street. She shook her head in response to Douglas’s next query, and hastened from the motorcar the moment Cartwright opened the passenger door. As she walked to the front door, hand outstretched to rap the knocker, she shivered with yet another sensation of warning, and before her housemaid Sarah even opened the door, she knew something was wrong.

Chapter 2

URSULA WAS HERE.

Amanda's flesh prickled as she walked up the stairs to the drawing room on the first floor, and she rubbed her bare arms against the chilly wave of dread that washed over her. The boys were healthy, tucked away at Eton, and the new marriage settlement worked out between her solicitor and the Townsend family solicitor provided more than enough funds to keep Bledington running smoothly—even with the rising costs of living—, so there was only one reason why the Dowager Duchess of Malvern would deign to call on her.

She smiled tightly to her housemaid, Sarah, who opened the door, and stepped inside to find the dowager duchess examining the Cubist painting hung over the fireplace mantle. It had been one of her first purchases after moving to London. The chaotic geometrical brushstrokes, which rejected the restrained art filling Bledington Park, aptly symbolized her breaking free of her gilded cage, weighted by tradition. Malvern had despised it on sight during his first and only time she had invited him inside, which made her love it even more.

Now it seemed to reflect the chaotic uncertainty of war, of this new world forged in blood and machine gun.

A young Spaniard named Picasso. Amanda was grateful for the steadiness of her voice. Roger Fry says he has a marvelous career ahead of him.

The Dowager Duchess's silence told more than any insult or derisive harrumph ever could. Ursula pivoted smoothly with the use of her walking stick, somehow retaining the erect, forbidding posture of her Victorian girlhood and her years in the saddle despite the significant limp that lingered from her riding accident. Save for the whiteness of her masses of lovely hair, Amanda almost felt as though no time at all had passed between now and their last parting. The dowager's proud, bold face tautened with an unrecognizable emotion.

Amanda checked the impulse to reach for the dowager.

It is Malvern, isn’t it?

Her mother-in-law tightened her lips, and flickered a glance past Amanda. She turned to see Sarah hovering in the door, her pinafore a ghostly white against the black of uniform.

Yes, Sarah? Has Mr. Warfield settled in the morning room?

But before Sarah could response, Ursula spoke.

You may go, gel, Ursula gestured with her cane. And close the door behind you.

Sarah jumped to obey the dowager duchess, and Amanda’s anxiety dissipated in the face of Ursula’s highhandedness.

Well Ursula, it appears you have not changed, she said tightly.

Her mother-in-law ignored her and walked slowly to the most comfortable seat in the room—a heavy, masculine leather chair with an accompanying cherry oak table that faced a smooth blue Louis Quinze sofa. Ursula turned a patient look at her, and Amanda could only move to sit on the blue sofa facing the dowager. She tensed beneath Ursula’s cold scrutiny, the unspoken opinion that her frock left her almost nude hovering in the air. Ursula shifted in her seat, her right palm clutching the curved beak of the silver bird mounted on the tubular malacca stick.

Oh? Did you wish for your housemaid to take part in our conversation? Ursula raised a brow. By all means, call the gel back and we can all have a good gup.

I’m not in the mood to match wits with you, Ursula.

I wasn’t aware we were, my dear. I simply never know with you Americans—and the war has purportedly trampled over so many traditional barriers. Ursula smiled slightly.

Amanda refused to rise to the bait, knowing Ursula well despite her mother-in-law’s attempts to keep her at arm’s length.

War has not trampled over the barriers between us, she replied quietly. So I know it is not the pleasure of my company that brings you here, Ursula.

To her surprise, Ursula’s expression crumpled, the strong, unusual beauty of her face collapsing inward like a fireplace bellows, and she appeared every bit of her sixty-two years. Amanda reached instinctively for Ursula’s hand, the skin paper thin and supple and the bones delicate, beneath her fingertips.

A lady’s hand.

A duchess’s hand.

The dowager stared down at where their hands clasped, and then at her, her gray eyes chilly and distant.

Amanda recoiled, cursing herself for allowing her mother-in-law’s reaction to pluck at the wound she had long thought healed. It apparently was not, and she could only withdraw her gesture of sympathy, clenching her fists in her lap. Things had not changed, it seemed, and not even war could do anything about it.

* * *

Ursula tore her eyes away from the portrait hanging over the fireplace, where her glance had strayed time and time again since entering the drawing room. Her troubled spirit inexplicably found something strangely comforting in its weird and bizarre shapes and colors.

It was precisely the very type of thing her brash American daughter-in-law would hang in her drawing room—though she should be thankful it was not looming over callers or guests while they dined. Her eyes then fell on the thin gold straps of her daughter-in-law’s low-cut evening frock Ursula knew was not made over from an old gown as wartime concessions advised—frivolous and vain.

Another withering quip hovered on the tip of her tongue, but it suddenly tasted like ashes on her tongue, and she reached into her handbag to cover her momentary loss of equilibrium. However, her fingers recoiled from the envelope and she felt a visceral stab in her heart.

This arrived in the post yesterday morning, Ursula said quickly, thrusting the envelope at her daughter-in-law and returned her hands to grip the head of her walking stick. Since it was addressed to the Duchess of Malvern, I thought it proper that it should be read by us both.

Her daughter-in-law turned the envelope over to reveal the unbroken seal. You haven’t opened it?

No, it is just as much your letter as it is mine.

You are frightened of what it might say.

Humor an old woman.

Ursula met her daughter-in-law’s quick glance, and then closed her eyes when Amanda rose from the couch to walk to the desk facing the window. Ursula gripped her walking stick even tighter, wishing she had ignored the stationmaster’s refusal to permit her to bring her Pekingese aboard the train to London, as she ignored so many other irksome obstacles. Holding Eugenie and Albert in her arms would have been a greater comfort than the horrid silence of the drawing room, broken only by the sounds Amanda made as she opened the envelope. Ursula winced, finding they increased the sharp sting of apprehension.

The scrape of an opened drawer.

The crackle of paper.

The pfft! of a paper knife sliding beneath the sealed edge of an envelope.

The crunch of paper being ripped apart by said paper knife.

Silence.

Well, gel, what does it say? she demanded harshly, opening her eyes.

Another crackle of the paper, and a movement from the corner of her eye, the crisp, vetivert scent she would always associate with her daughter-in-law wafting over her. No milk-and-water miss scents like rose or violet for this unsuitable duchess. The fragrance always reminded Ursula of when she met Amanda, glowing with athleticism from a vigorous game of croquet, and of newness. The last had caused her more disquiet than she’d realized fifteen years ago. But the girl had run away rather than rise to the challenge of stepping into Ursula’s shoes, of maintaining the duty she’d promised to uphold by marrying the Duke of Malvern, and Ursula would never forgive her for it.

The letter was thrust into her line of vision, forcing her to read the lines with her own eyes. Ursula released one hand from her walking stick to tug the gold filigree chain holding her spectacles out of her bodice and then held them to her eyes. It took a second for the broad, black brushstrokes on the cream telegram to coalesce into words, and when they did, her vision darkened, the room spinning wildly.

Ursula. Ursula!

She waved the hands away from her face with impatience. Leave me be! For goodness sake, gel, leave me be.

Her daughter-in-law knelt beside her chair, the skin around her mouth taut, her eyes bright and luminous against her ashen skin. Ursula tensed when Amanda bent over her once more, but it was merely to retrieve the telegram, which she read once more as she rose stiffly to her feet. Ursula tapped her stick on the floor to obtain her daughter-in-law’s attention.

Ring your servant for tea, and then have that maid of yours open a room for my things—I don’t suppose she took the initiative with that?

I-I beg your pardon?

"I don’t intend to return to Bledington when my son will send word that there has been a mistake. When he does so, we shall receive the news directly from the