Page 121 of The Duelist for the Ton
A lake dominated the foreground, and the drive wound around one side of it, following a slight incline leading toward the main house, a building of soft gray stone. The central section was topped by a dome with a flagpole, the flag fluttering in the breeze, and was flanked by the main body to the building—two halves that extended either side, with row upon row of windows that stared out across the landscape.
Angela leaned out of the carriage window.
“My heavens—it’shuge!” she said. “I’ve never seen anything the like. It must be ten times the size of our home. And Lady Portia lives here with her brother? How can one building house only two people?”
“Not just two people, Angela,” Mrs. Stowe said. “There will be a whole household living there. Not to mention the steward whose offices are likely to occupy some of the rooms.”
“How would you even begin to take care of a house that size?”
“The housekeeper will see to that,” Mrs. Stowe said.
“Overseen by the mistress of the house, I suppose,” Angela said. “But it doesn’t have a mistress at present.”
“I daresay Lady Portia keeps house for her brother, at least while they’re both unmarried.”
“I wonder how she’ll feel when the duke marries?”
“Relieved, I’ll warrant,” Stephen said, tempering his apprehension at the anticipation of seeing Portia again.
Assuming she’s willing to receive me.
“You don’t think she’ll be disappointed to be supplanted by another?”
Stephen smiled. “I doubt that. Your sympathies are better directed toward the future duchess, whomever she may be. What do you think, Mrs. Stowe—would you relish being mistress of Forthridge Park?”
Mrs. Stowe shrank away from the window, as if she feared the building watched her. Then she drew her shawl around her shoulders.
“It’s not something I’m likely to experience.”
“You were mistress of your former home, were you not?” Angela said. “I overheard Lady Staines say—”
“Angela, I think perhaps you’d do well to remain in the carriage when we arrive,” Stephen said, aware of the distress in Mrs. Stowe’s eyes.
“You can’t leave me in here!” Angela protested.
“Only until I’ve seen Lady Portia,” he said. “I fear my conversation with her may at first be of a somewhat delicate nature.”
“And whose fault’s that?”
“Angela,” Mrs. Stowe said, a tremor in her quiet voice, “I’m sure your brother knows best.”
“Wouldyouaccompany me, Mrs. Stowe?” Stephen asked.
Her eyes flared with fear. “I-I hardly think that’s appropriate.”
“A respectable widow is the best advocate for a man begging forgiveness.”
“I doubt anyone would wish to hear anythingI’dhave to say.”
“Not Foxton, perhaps,” Stephen said, and she flinched at the mention of the duke’s name. “But Lady Portia’s a sensible sort. She’ll not dismiss anything you have to say merely because of your sex—or your rank.”
The carriage drew to a halt. Stephen climbed out and helped Mrs. Stowe down. Angela folded her arms and slumped in her seat, sticking out her lower lip.
“Sit up straight, Angela,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Remember what we said about posture.”
“There’s nobody to see me here, stuck in the carriage.”
Mrs. Stowe gave a nod, her expression impassive, and, at length, Angela straightened her stance. Then Stephen offered his arm and escorted the chaperone to the main doors.
