A Duchess to Remember by Christina Brooke

Tibby whose movements had caught his eye as she took up the shirt she’d been mending for Andy and bowed her head over her work.
    Cecily smiled. Norland looked forward to his intellectual discussions with Cecily’s former governess. Today, however, Tibby had positioned herself firmly in the background, perhaps in deference to the presence of the duchess. Her Grace was known for her stern views on paid companions knowing their places.
    Then and there, Cecily resolved to make a point of including Tibby in the conversation at every opportunity.
    “Won’t you sit down, Your Grace?” said Rosamund, indicating the sofa.
    “Ah, no. At least, not yet. Er, Mama will be along directly. Must see to her, you know.”
    They exchanged the usual meaningless pleasantries while they waited for the familiar stomp on the stairs that heralded Norland’s mama.
    The Duchess of Norland entered the room, aided by two footmen, on whose arms she leaned heavily.
    With a deep curtsy, Cecily said, “How do you do, Your Grace?” She was determined not to let her future mother-in-law provoke her this time. “We’re so happy you could call on us.”
    The duchess was a heavyset, irascible lady, who was usually to be found reclining on some couch or other with a vinaigrette in one hand and hartshorn in the other. She was the terror of her family, particularly her eldest son, for despite her inertia, she ruled both them and the ducal estate with an iron fist.
    Cecily had little patience with the duchess and her megrims, for Norland assured her that his mother’s health was, in fact, excellent. This astonished Cecily. Why would anyone lie about all day if they weren’t forced by illness or infirmity to do so?
    “Do sit down,” said Cecily, gesturing to a group of chairs by the window. “I’ll ring for tea.”
    “Are you mad, gel?” said the dowager faintly. “If I sat so near to that drafty window, I’d catch my death. But I suppose that would suit you to a nicety, wouldn’t it? By the hearth, if you please,” she snapped, perversely shaking off her footmen as they tried to assist her. “Norland, build up a fire. I’m likely to freeze in this cavern.” She sniffed. “The place reeks of damp.”
    Cecily might be prepared to ignore the aspersion cast on what was in truth an elegant and comfortable salon, but she detested the way her prospective mother-in-law ordered her son about as if he were a lackey.
    Norland didn’t seem to mind, however, and dutifully settled on his knees on the hearthrug, wielding fire irons and bellows until he’d conjured a blaze.
    The bald spot on his crown was clearly visible beneath straggling strands of sandy hair as he bent to his task. His scalp glowed pink; the rest of his face was similarly ruddy as he rose to dismiss his liveried footmen and guide his mother to a chair.
    He was a good son, Cecily thought. It wasn’t as if he believed in his mother’s condition, yet he indulged her every whim.
    Tactful as always, Rosamund said, “Are you not feeling quite the thing, Your Grace? The exertion of this visit has fatigued you, I daresay.”
    The dowager duchess’s grim features softened slightly. She patted Rosamund’s hand. “You are a good, sweet child, Lady Tregarth. How I wish I had you for a daughter.”
    In other words, she wished Rosamund and not Cecily was to wed her son.
    Unable to stop herself, Cecily rolled her eyes at Norland. She ought not to have done that, for his eyes lowered and his cheeks reddened all over again. “Mama, please.”
    Taking pity on him, Cecily indicated the sofa. “Won’t you sit down, Your Grace? I’ll ring for tea.”
    The dowager duchess let out a bloodcurdling moan. “ Tea? Are you trying to poison me, girl?”
    Her brows snapping together, Cecily opened her mouth to respond, but Rosamund hastily intervened. “Would a tisane be more acceptable?” she suggested. “That might suit Your Grace’s constitution better.”
    “Or perhaps a posset?” said Cecily