“I’m sure I could not say,” her pretty companion replied, “since I have not read them myself, nor do I fully understand His Grace’s taste in reading material. Can you tell me a little about what he might encounter?”
“Well,” Adelaide took another sip of wine, “George did love to go on about the scenery and such.”
“I don’t believe His Grace would be terribly interested in that,” Mrs. Swinton put in.
It was a shocking breech of manners for her to interrupt the Duchess in that way, but Adelaide encouraged her companion to behave naturally, just as if they were two girls in finishing school, she had explained to Mrs. Swinton.
“Then, there were the lover bits,” Adelaide went on. “I do wonder if he would like to borrow some of George’s better turns of phrase for his own personal correspondence. Do you think that he might take reading his father’s words better than our instruction?”
“Perhaps you might like to keep that private?” Mrs. Swinton suggested. “I have some very dear bits that John wrote. But if I had a son, I don’t believe I would care to share their contents with him.”
Adelaide frowned at a letter. “No, I suppose not. Although, I might share them with his wife one day.”
Mrs. Swinton laughed. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
Adelaide chuckled. It was so nice to have someone who understood her. “Here, my dear. You have been married. You read it.”
Mrs. Swinton looked at her dubiously. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes! Read!”
Mrs. Swinton began to read. First her eyes got big, then she sucked in a breath. Next she asked, “Is that even possible?”
“Only if you are very young and athletic, which we were,” the Duchess said smugly.
“Goodness gracious!” Mrs. Swinton fanned herself with one hand. “I can quite see why you thought the letters might give His Grace some pointers. But honestly, I think I would save them for after he is married, and perhaps give them to the happy couple as a wedding gift.”
Adelaide sighed. “The sad thing is, I am not at all sure that Blanche is up to such things. She is so proper, and has no affinity for natural things, such as bugs or scaling fish.”
Mrs. Swinton folded in her lips, keeping them in a straight line, but her eyes danced with merriment. Then she sobered.
“That seems rather sad,” she said. “John and I were not so… athletic, but all our expressions of love were warm and heartfelt.”
“It is sad.” Adelaide sighed. “He is going into the battle of life with a dry stick of a woman by his side. George arranged the marriage, and he had his reasons, but I am not sure that if he had lived that he would expect Darrius to go through with it.”
Mrs. Swinton sank down on a hassock so as not to loom over her employer. “You feel that he is making a mistake?”
“Yes,” the Duchess said. “I believe he is. But the marriage has been planned so long that were he to jilt her now, her reputation would be irreparably ruined. My boy is much too good a man to do that to his childhood playmate.”
“Dear me,” Mrs. Swinton frowned in sympathy. “You are right, of course. How terribly unfortunate. I wonder if there might be some way to put her back up, and get her to cry off. Then, your son would be a rare catch for most of the mamas who have a daughter they need to have wed in the near future.”
“Possibly,” Adelaide tapped one finger on her chin. “The only thing is that Darrius has not quite got a head for business. Oh, I know, he thinks that my eyes glaze over and my brains go to sleep when he mentions buying and selling, but what it truly tells me is that he does not yet fully understand the duties of his position.”
“Indeed?” Mrs. Swinton seemed astonished.
“Indeed. He needs to trust his solicitor, or else get a new one. Darrius needs to be attending parliament, paying attention to the bigger picture, while relying on capable people to run the estate and the farm.”
Adelaide looked at the letter again. “Can such things truly be delegated?
“Not only can, but must. Else how should the Dukes, Earls, Viscounts and all have time to see to the larger finances and running of the nation?”
“I suppose I had not thought of it like that,” Mrs. Swinton said slowly. “It is rather like saying that the butler should not be expected to do the dusting.”
“Precisely,” Adelaide said, gesturing widely with the hand that held the wine glass.
Sticky, red wine that was scarcely more than grape juice with all the syrup and sugars that implied, sloshed over Adelaide’s apron, the tablecloth, and the snowy linens of the daybed.
“The housekeeper will never let me hear the end of this!” Adelaide wailed. “Whatever shall we do?”