The terror was compounded by the close proximity to the dowager duchess, who peppered me with questions and regaled me with comments about people I didn’t know.
“So did you go to school or did you have a governess? No point in overeducating girls, that’s what I always say. Nothing more dangerous than an educated woman. In my day, speaking French, riding and playing the pianoforte were all that was required of a girl. So you’ve come out, I take it? Had any interesting proposals? Have you seen anything of the Devonshires recently? Is it true what they plan to do to Chatsworth?”
I stumbled through the answers under the glare of her eagle eye, made larger as she stared through the lorgnette.
“Never met the Devonshires? I thought everybody knew them. And the Westminsters. Where have you been hiding yourself? You must get out into society more if you’re to make a good match.”
She peered at me through the lorgnette. “And your small talk is sadly lacking. One needs small talk, my dear, if one wants to flourish in society,” she said. “I don’t hold with idle gossip, but one should be au fait with what is going on. Apropos of which, what do you think about this latest chapter in the saga of the Prince of Wales?”
I was grateful for once that I could join in this discussion and mentioned that I knew Mrs. Simpson.
“You’ve actually met the woman, have you?”
When I told her that the Simpsons had actually stayed at our Scottish castle, I could see my stock rise in her eyes. “So that she could be near HRH at Balmoral, of course,” she said, nodding conspiratorially. “The woman astounds me with her brazenness. And married to someone else too. Has she no shame?”
I replied that I didn’t think she had.
“Surely the boy will come to his senses before his father dies,” she said. “My son’s defiance only means the loss of a title, but in the prince’s case it’s the whole future of the monarchy at stake. Why couldn’t he just do what his ancestors have always done—marry someone suitable and then keep a mistress?” She lifted her lorgnette and stared at me. “He could have married someone like you. It’s not as if you’re first cousins.”
“Much as I like my cousin David, I intend to marry for love,” I said.
She snorted. “What a curious notion. Got a young fellow in mind, have you?”
“Well, yes.”
“Not the son of the stable boy, one hopes.”
“No. His father is a peer.”
“Well, that’s all right, then. So many young people have the most curious ideas on equality these days. You read about it all the time in the lesser newspapers, don’t you? Young men and women of our class marrying typists and jockeys and actresses. Don’t they realize that the future of the empire depends on a stable aristocracy?”
I thought it wise not to mention that my father had married an actress. Actually, I’m sure she knew. It would have made good gossip in its day—as would my mother’s subsequent bolt. I also stayed silent about Darcy’s lack of money or prospects. I found myself thinking about Darcy, wondering where he was and when I would see him again. How would I ever get in touch with him? I wondered. How would he find out I was in the depths of the Kentish countryside? I just wished he was better about writing letters, but then I realized that a lot of his trips were supposed to be hush-hush and he probably couldn’t tell me where he was and what he was doing. I sighed. Why did romance have to be so complicated?