Duchess By Night
Then the judge woke up again and he seemed to have a terrible problem with gas, so the duchess smiled at Loveday just as if she were a normal person, and they both left the room.
Loveday Billing had never been so happy in her life.
A duchess liked her, and had quitted her, whatever that meant, and told her what to do.
And she did just that.
Chapter One
In Which Cinderella Dresses for the Ball and Her Fairy Godmother Brings a Goose Instead of a Pumpkin
January 6 (Twelfth Night), 1784 A Costume Ball The Country Seat of the Duke of Beaumont
N ursery tales are full of fascinating widows, although they aren’t always the nicest characters. Cinderella’s stepmother likely put on a dazzling gown for the prince’s ball, even if her daughters did inherit her big feet and sharp tongue.
Harriet, Duchess of Berrow, realized soon after her husband died that there are glamorous widows, and then there are widows who live in shoes with too many children, like poor Loveday Billing. There are widows who dance all night with younger men, and then there are dowdy widows who are offered only pinched smiles.
Harriet had no illusions about what kind of widow she was. She was the kind who lived in a shoe, and never mind the fact that she had no children and her estate was much larger than a shoe.
Her husband had been dead for two years and no younger—or older—men were lining up to ask her to dance. Most of her acquaintances still got a tragic sheen in their eyes and promptly moved away after greeting her, as if sadness was catching.
Apparently, if one’s husband committed suicide, one automatically became the unappealing type of widow.
Partly it was her fault. Here she was at the Duchess of Beaumont’s impromptu costume ball—but was she dressing as a glamorous character? Or even an evil one?
“Who are you?” her friend Jemma (the aforesaid Duchess of Beaumont) asked.
“A nursery rhyme character. Can you guess which one?” Harriet was wearing a motherly nightgown of plain cotton that her maid had recruited from the housekeeper. Underneath she had three petticoats, as well as four woolen stockings in her bodice. Just to show off a bit, she arched her back.
“A nursery rhyme character with big breasts,” Jemma said. “Very big breasts. Very very—”
“Motherly breasts,” Harriet prompted.
“Actually you don’t look motherly as much as wildly curvaceous. The problem will be if one of our houseguests lures you into a corner and attempts a cheerful grope. Wasn’t there some nursery rhyme about lighting the way to bed?”
“I’m not on my way to bed,” Harriet said, somewhat deflated. “And no one ever tries to grope me. What character are you?”
Jemma’s gown was made of a clear pale pink that looked wonderful with the dark gold color of her unpowdered hair. There were small silk poppies sewn all over her skirts, and poppies tucked in her hair. She managed to look elegant and yet untamed, all at once.
“Titania, Queen of the Fairies.”
“I’m Mother Goose. Which fairly sums up the difference between us.”
“What are you talking about!” Jemma scolded, wrapping an arm around Harriet. “Look at you, darling. You are far too young and fresh to be Mother Goose!”
“No one will know who I am,” Harriet said, pulling away from Jemma and sitting on the bed. “They’ll think I’m a fat white ghost.”
“I already look as big as a barn, at least on top.”
“A goose!” Jemma said. “Of course, you need a goose and I know just the one!”
“Oh, but—”
Two minutes later, Jemma was back. With a goose.
“Is that real?” Harriet asked warily.
“In a matter of speaking. I’m afraid it’s a little stiff. It usually flies along the wall in the south parlor. My mother-in-law has a morbid attitude toward decorating that involved arranging all kinds of dead animals on the walls. You can use the poor goose tonight, darling, and then we’ll set him free to fly to a better place, if you understand me.”
Harriet took the goose in her hands rather dubiously. It was stuffed so that its neck stayed stiff, as if it were in flight.
“Just tuck it under your arm,” Jemma said. Harriet stood up and tried it. “Not like that. Here, turn his head upright so he looks like a friend whispering in your ear.”
Harriet stared down at the bird’s glossy eyes. “This is not a friendly goose.” It looked ready to lunge from her hands and peck someone.
“There is no such thing as a friendly goose,” Jemma said. “I must go see how Isidore is coming with her costume. I checked on her earlier and her maids were frantically tearing apart two dresses. She says she’s going to be a queen, but I’m afraid she’s going to enter the ballroom wrapped in a handkerchief.”
“Why doesn’t Isidore go by her title of Duchess of Cosway?” Harriet asked. “Last night she was announced as Lady Isidore Del’Fino.”
“I don’t think she’s ever met the duke. Her husband, I mean,” Jemma said. “Or if she did, it was for five minutes years ago. So she uses her own title, although for tonight she’s the Queen of Palmyra.”
“If you had told me that you were planning a Twelfth Night costume party,” Harriet said, putting the goose down, “I could have been a queen as well.”
“Apparently queens don’t wear much clothing, so you’ll definitely be more comfortable this way. And I’m sorry about not warning you, darling, but it’s so much fun doing it last minute. You should see people rushing about the house looking for costumes. The butler is going mad! It’s wonderful.”
And with that, Jemma sailed out of the room leaving Harriet with the goose.
It was absurd to feel so sorry for herself. Every time she walked into Judge Truder’s court she heard of people whose lives were far more desperate. Why just last month there was a girl who stole half a jar of mustard and six oranges. Truder had actually woken up and wanted to give the poor child hard labor, fool that he was.
But she, Harriet, had no need to steal oranges. She was a duchess; she was still relatively young; she was healthy…
She was lonely.
A tear splashed on the duck and she absently smoothed his feathers.
She didn’t really want to be a queen, either of fairies or Palmyra, wherever that was. She just wanted a husband.
Someone to sit with her of an evening, just like Loveday said.
Chapter Two
Another chapter in Which Breasts Play a Not-insignificant Role
Z enobia, Queen of Palmyra, threw back her head and laughed. Her bodice gaped, precariously clinging to the slope of her breasts. The dapper man before her twirled on his toes, one hand up in the air, like a gypsy dancer at Bartholomew Fair. Zenobia laughed again, and flung both hands in the air in imitation of him.
The Queen of Palmyra’s corset, if one existed, was thoroughly inadequate.
It crossed Harriet’s mind that a true friend would alert Zenobia—more commonly known as Isidore—that her breasts were about to make an appearance on the ballroom floor.