The Duke and I (33 page)

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 Later that day, while Simon was going over some estate accounts, Daphne decided it was as good a time as any to get to know Mrs. Colson, the housekeeper. Although she and Simon had not yet discussed where they would reside, Daphne couldn't imagine that they wouldn't spend some time there at Clyvedon, Simon's ancestral home, and if there was one thing she'd learned from her mother, it was that a lady simply
had
to have a good working relationship with her housekeeper.

 Not that Daphne was terribly worried about getting along with Mrs. Colson. She had met the housekeeper briefly when

Simon had introduced her to the staff, and it had been quickly apparent that she was a friendly, talkative sort.

 She stopped by Mrs. Colson's office—a tiny little room just off the kitchen—a bit before teatime. The housekeeper, a handsome woman in her fifties, was bent over her small desk, working on the week's menus.

 Daphne gave the open door a knock. "Mrs. Colson?"

 The housekeeper looked up and immediately stood. "Your grace," she said, bobbing into a small curtsy. "You should

have called for me."

 Daphne smiled awkwardly, still unused to her elevation from the ranks of mere misses. "I was already up and about," she said, explaining her unorthodox appearance in the servants' domain. "But if you have a moment, Mrs. Colson, I was hoping we might get to know one another better, since you have lived here for many years, and I hope to do so for many to come."

 Mrs. Colson smiled at Daphne's warm tone. "Of course, your grace. Was there anything in particular about which you

cared to inquire?"

 "Not at all. But I still have much to learn about Clyvedon if I am to manage it properly. Perhaps we could take tea in the yellow room? I do so enjoy the decor. It's so warm and sunny. I had been hoping to make that my personal parlor."

 Mrs. Colson gave her an odd look. "The last duchess felt the same way."

 "Oh," Daphne replied, not certain whether that ought to make her feel uncomfortable.

 "I've given special care to that room over the years," Mrs. Colson continued. "It does get quite a bit of sun, being on the

south side. I had all of the furniture reupholstered three years ago." Her chin rose in a slightly proud manner. "Went all

the way to London to get the same fabric."

 "I see," Daphne replied, leading the way out of the office. "The late duke must have loved his wife very much, to order

such a painstaking conservation of her favorite room."

 Mrs. Colson didn't quite meet her eyes. "It was my decision," she said quietly. "The duke always gave me a certain

budget for the upkeep of the house. I thought it the most fitting use of the money."

 Daphne waited while the housekeeper summoned a maid and gave her instructions for the tea. "It's a lovely room," she announced once they had exited the kitchen, "and although the current duke never had the opportunity to know his

mother, I'm sure he'll be quitetouched that you have seen fit to preserve her favorite room."

 "It was the least I could do," Mrs. Colson said as they strolled across the hall. "I have not always served the Basset family, after all."

 "Oh?" Daphne asked curiously. Upper servants were notoriously loyal, often serving a single family for generations.

 "Yes, I was the duchess's personal maid." Mrs. Colson waited outside the doorway of the yellow room to allow Daphne to precede her. "And before that her companion. My mother was her nurse. Her grace's family was kind enough to allow me to share her lessons."

 "You must have been quite close," Daphne murmured.

 Mrs. Colson nodded. "After she died I occupied a number of different positions here at Clyvedon until I finally became housekeeper."

 "I see." Daphne smiled at her and then took a seat on the sofa. "Please sit," she said, motioning to the chair across from her.

 Mrs. Colson seemed hesitant with such familiarity, but eventually sat. "It broke my heart when she died," she said. She gave Daphne a slightly apprehensive look. "I hope you don't mind my telling you so."

 "Of course not," Daphne said quickly. She was ravenously curious about Simon's childhood. He said so little, and yet she sensed that it all meant so much. "Please, tell me more. I would love to hear about her."

 Mrs. Colson's eyes grew misty. "She was the kindest, gentlest soul this earth has ever known. She and the duke—well, it wasn't a love match, but they got on well enough. They were friends in their own way." She looked up. "They were both very much aware of their duties as duke and duchess. Took their responsibilities quite seriously."

 Daphne nodded understandingly.

 "She was so determined to give him a son. She kept trying even after the doctors all told her she mustn't. She used to cry in my arms every month when her courses came."

 Daphne nodded again, hoping the motion would hide her suddenly strained expression. It was difficult to listen to stories about not being able to have children. But she supposed she was going to have to get used to it. It was going to be even more strenuous to answer questions about it.

 And there
would
be questions. Painfully tactful and hideously pitying questions.

 But Mrs. Colson thankfully didn't notice Daphne's distress. She sniffled as she continued her story. "She was always

saying things like how was she to be a proper duchess if she couldn't give him a son. It broke my heart. Every month it

broke my heart."

 Daphne wondered if her own heart would shatter every month. Probably not. She, at least, knew for a fact that she

wouldn't have children. Simon's mother had her hopes crushed every four weeks.

 "And of course," the housekeeper continued, "everyone talked as if it were
her
fault there was no baby. How could they

know that, I ask you? It's not always the woman who is barren. Sometimes it's the man's fault, you know."

 Daphne said nothing.

 "I told her this time and again, but still she felt guilty. I said to her—" The housekeeper's face turned pink. "Do you mind if I speak frankly?"

 "Please do."

 She nodded. "Well, I said to her what my mother said to me. A womb won't quicken without strong, healthy seed."

 Daphne held her face in an expressionless mask. It was all she could manage.

 "But then she finally had Master Simon." Mrs. Colson let out a maternal sigh, then looked to Daphne with an apprehensive expression. "I beg your pardon," she said hastily. "I shouldn't be calling him that. He's the duke now."

 "Don't stop on my account," Daphne said, happy to have something to smile about.

 "It's hard to change one's ways at my age," Mrs. Colson said with a sigh. "And I'm afraid a part of me will always remember him as that poor little boy." She looked up at Daphne and shook her head. "He would have had a much easier time of it if the duchess had lived."

 "An easier time of it?" Daphne murmured, hoping that would be all the encouragement Mrs. Colson would need to

explain further.

 "The duke just never understood that poor boy," the housekeeper said forcefully. "He stormed about and called him

stupid, and..."

 Daphne's head snapped up. "The duke thought Simon was stupid?" she interrupted. That was preposterous. Simon was

one of the smartest people she knew. She'd once asked him a bit about his studies at Oxford and had been stunned to

learned that his brand of mathematics didn't even use
numbers
.

 "The duke never could see the world beyond his own nose," Mrs. Colson said with a snort. "He never gave that boy a chance."

 Daphne felt her body leaning forward, her ears straining for the housekeeper's words. What had the duke done to Simon? And was this the reason he turned to ice every time his father's name wasmentioned?

 Mrs. Colson pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "You should have seen the way that boy worked to improve himself. It broke my heart. It simply broke my heart."

 Daphne's hands clawed at the sofa. Mrs. Colson was
never
going to get to the point.

 "But nothing he ever did was good enough for the duke. This is just my opinion of course, but—"

 Just then a maid entered with tea. Daphne nearly screamed with frustration. It took a good two minutes for the tea to be

set up and poured, and all the while Mrs. Colson chitchatted about the biscuits, and did Daphne prefer them plain or with coarse sugar on top.

 Daphne had to pry her hands off the sofa, lest she puncture holes in the upholstery Mrs. Colson had worked so hard to preserve. Finally, the maid left, and Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea, and said, "Now then, where were we?"

 "You were talking about the duke," Daphne said quickly. 'The late duke. That nothing my husband did was ever good

enough for him and in your opinion—"

 "My goodness, you
were
listening." Mrs. Colson beamed. "I'm so flattered."

 "But you were saying..." Daphne prompted.

 "Oh yes, of course. I was simply going to say that I have long held the opinion that the late duke never forgave his son for not being perfect."

 "But Mrs. Colson," Daphne said quietly, "none of us is perfect."

 "Of course not, but—" The housekeeper's eyes floated up for a brief second in an expression of disdain toward the late

duke. "If you'd known his grace, you would understand. He'd waited so long for a son. And in his mind, the Basset name was synonymous with perfection."

 "And my husband wasn't the son he wanted?" Daphne asked.

 "He didn't want a son. He wanted a perfect little replica of himself."

 Daphne could no longer contain her curiosity. "But what did Simon do that was so repugnant to the duke?"

 Mrs. Colson's eyes widened in surprise, and one of her hands floated to her chest. "Why, you don't know," she said softly. "Of course you wouldn't know."

 "What?"

 "He couldn't speak."

 Daphne's lips parted in shock. "I beg your pardon?"

 "He couldn't speak. Not a word until he was four, and then it was all stutters and stammers. It broke my heart every time he opened his mouth. I could see that there was a bright little boy inside. He just couldn't get the words out right." 

 "But he speaks so well now," Daphne said, surprised by the defensiveness in her voice. "I've never heard him stammer.

Or if I have, I-I-I didn't notice it. See! Look, I just did it myself. Everyone stammers a bit when they're flustered."

 "He worked very hard to improve himself. It was seven years, I recall. For seven years he did nothing but practice his

speech with his nurse." Mrs. Colson's face wrinkled with thought. "Let's see, what was her name? Oh yes, Nurse Hopkins. She was a saint, she was. As devoted to that boy as if he'd been her own. I was the housekeeper's assistant at the time, but she often let me come up and help him practice his speech."

 "Was it difficult for him?" Daphne whispered.

 "Some days I thought he'd surely shatter from the frustration of it. But he was so stubborn. Heavens, but he was a stubborn boy. I've never seen a person so single-minded." Mrs. Colson shook her head sadly. "And his father still rejected him. It—"

 "Broke your heart," Daphne finished for her. "It would have broken mine, as well."

 Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea during the long, uncomfortable silence that followed. 'Thank you very much for allowing me to take tea with you, your grace," she said, misinterpreting Daphne's quietude for displeasure. "It was highly irregular of you to do so, but very..."

 Daphne looked up as Mrs. Colson searched for the correct word.

 "Kind," the housekeeper finally finished. "It was very kind of you."

 "Thank you," Daphne murmured distractedly.

 "Oh, but I haven't answered any of your questions about Clyvedon," Mrs. Colson said suddenly.

 Daphne gave her head a little shake. "Another time, perhaps," she said softly. She had too much to think on just then.

 Mrs. Colson, sensing her employer desired privacy, stood, bobbed a curtsy, and silently left the room.

 Chapter 16

 The stifling heat in London this week has certainly put a crimp in society junctions. This author saw Miss

 Prudence Featherington swoon at the Huxley ball, but it is impossible to discern whether this temporary lack

of verticality was due to the heat or the presence of Mr. Colin Bridgerton, who has been cutting quite a swash through society since his return from the Continent .

 The unseasonable heat has also made a casualty of Lady Danbury, who quit London several days ago, claiming that her cat (a long-haired, bushy beast) could not tolerate the weather. It is believed that she has retired to her country home in Surrey .

 One would guess that the Duke and Duchess of Hastings are unaffected by these rising temperatures; they are down on the coast, where the sea wind is always a pleasure. But This Author cannot be certain of their comfort; contrary to popular belief, This Author does not have spies in all the important households, and certainly not outside of London!