The Ugly Duchess

Page 31

Her mother reached over and patted her hand. “I know you didn’t, darling.”
But she did not deny that Theo had become something of a harpy. Drat. “Buying fine feathers in London won’t make me someone other than who I am,” Theo pointed out.
“You are beautiful,” her mother said now, once again demonstrating her ready ability to overlook the obvious. “The more beautiful for not looking like everyone else.”
Theo sighed. “Any feathers and furbelows I add to my person will merely diminish my dignity. My self-respect. If I play the game of making myself look pretty, I will not succeed, and I will just look foolish and vain.”
Her mother put down her teacup again. “Theodora, I did not bring you up to be such a weak-livered, cowardly person. You are not the first woman to receive a blow to your self-regard, and you will not be the last. But that does not excuse you, nor make it acceptable to wallow in self-pity. By avoiding the ton, you make yourself a continuing subject of conversation and speculation. Even more importantly, by dwelling on the less fortunate side of your marriage, you make yourself disagreeable.”
“I do not dwell on my marriage! And in truth, Mama, what would you deem the ‘fortunate’ side of my marriage?”
Her mother met her eyes. “Theodora, it is my distinct impression that you enjoy the way everyone on this estate listens to your every word. And that’s not to mention the effort you’ve put into the weaving concern and the ceramics factory.”
This was indisputably true.
“You would never have had this opportunity had you married Lord Geoffrey Trevelyan. I saw him at the opera a fortnight ago, by the way. It was a production of Così fan tutte, sung in Italian.”
“A nice way to make your point,” Theo said, grinning. “You’re right. I would rather not be made to endure hours of opera.”
“Still, you refuse to allow yourself to be happy. You are bent on seeing yourself as an injured party, whereas in fact you have triumphed over adversity. You threw your husband out the door, and in what I can only imagine was a paroxysm of guilt, James obeyed you.”
“He wanted to go,” Theo countered, having realized it at some point, and more or less made her peace with it. “He married to protect his father’s honor, but that doesn’t mean that he wished to stay married, at least not to me.”
Her mother looked at her, and then back down at the teapot. “May I offer you a fresh cup, my dear?”
“No, thank you. I just did it again, didn’t I?” Theo asked, with a sort of wry chagrin curling in her stomach.
“Life is a good deal more complicated than you admit. I would certainly, for example, contest your characterization of James’s motives, but it seems irrelevant at this moment. After all, the poor man may be dead.”
Theo flinched. “Of course he’s not dead! He’s staying away in a sulk. I did not say that he needed to stay out of England forever. I merely said that I did not wish to see him again.”
“In my opinion, James’s deepest attachment in England was to you. When you dismissed him, he likely severed all attachments in order to protect his heart. His father reminded him of nothing more than his ill-mannered behavior to you, and now the poor duke is dead. There is nothing to bring James back to England.”
“ ‘Ill-mannered!’ ” Theo said, stung. “I would call it rather more than that.”
Her mother ignored that comment. “No matter how irresponsibly the late duke handled his money—and your inheritance—he opened his house to us on your father’s death without a second thought. Ashbrook was never happy again after James disappeared, and you do bear some responsibility for that, Theo. He loved his son dearly.”
“You keep speaking as if James is dead,” Theo said, surprising herself with the vehemence in her tone. “James is not dead.”
“One must hope not.” Her mother rose gracefully from her chair. “I must finish going through the linens with Mrs. Wibble. I will join you at luncheon, dearest.”
It was a dramatic exit, Theo had to admit.
James was not dead. She would know if he were dead.
She did not bother to ask herself why she was so certain of that fact. Instead, she jumped to her feet. She had just remembered that she promised to send a new set of sketches to the factory that very afternoon.
Aboard the Poppy  Two
A few weeks after Jack Hawk came into being (and James Ryburn, Earl of Islay, was declared dead by one who should know—that is to say, himself), the Flying Poppy and her shadow, the Poppy Two, docked at an island in the West Indies on their way to France, and James—now known as Jack—succumbed to the amatory blandishments of a plump and jolly widow named Priya.
She taught him a thing or two, even though he felt terrible after the night with her. But his marriage was over—practically, if not formally. Could he truly remain celibate for the rest of his life? Of course not.
Unfaithful . . . unfaithful. He didn’t like the word. It knocked around in his head for a month or two until he managed to cram it into a dark corner of his mind and shut it up. His wife had ended their marriage. Therefore, he was free to act as he would if he were not married. It wasn’t adultery. It wasn’t.
He was acting in the only way a grown man could whose marriage had ended. He was staying away so that, after the requisite seven years, she could have him declared dead. He was living his life instead of simply reacting to it. His heart gave another painful thump at the memory of his father.
James learned even more from a Parisian mademoiselle, and the next year, from a girl named Anela, who lived on a Pacific island and thought the rising sun should be worshipped from a horizontal position.
Jack proved to have a knack for prayer.
For his part, Griffin was never happier than when he had a lass on each arm and French letters stowed all over his person. Since neither of them was greedy—in bed or out—the very sight of the Flying Poppy and the Poppy  Two rounding into a cove soon enough became reason for rejoicing in certain parts of the world.
“Jack Hawk” became a name that pirates loved to curse. Every day was hard work, all of it physical—clambering up the rigging, engaging in hand-to-hand combat, swimming between the Poppys, praying with Anela. Jack’s skin darkened and his chest broadened, until his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him. He even grew a few inches taller; he developed the powerful shoulders and thighs of a man who rules the waves.
But at the same time, his blue eyes and high cheekbones signaled aristocrat, though the small inked poppy under his right eye signaled something quite different to pirates: death.
Sixteen
August 1812
Mrs. Saxby and Theo had just finished breakfast one morning when the subject of James arose once again.
“Someday you’ll take him back,” her mother said.
“I will not,” Theo said, nettled. “I don’t even think of him any longer.”
“Have you resolved never to have a child of your own?” Mrs. Saxby asked. It was typical of her parting shots. But this time she paused and leaned her head against the doorframe for a moment. “Oh dear, I have such a headache.”
Theo leapt to her feet and went to her mother’s side. “Would you like me to have a tisane made up? Let me help you to your bedchamber. A few hours in the dark with a cool cloth on your head and you’ll feel much better.”