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  When she reached nine and ten the servants and maids who had been her family finally began to feel that a kitchen was perhaps, after all, not the most appropriate place for her. It had been a long time since any royal children had been in the castle—not since the duke himself had grown up, with his cousins—so the protocol was uncertain. Jessica was forced into a proper bedroom in the main hall near where her father slept, but not too close. She was lonely and scared the first few nights, and gathered as many of the hunting dogs as she could to sleep in bed with her. Maids tried to fit her with more appropriate clothes, switching from shifts to dresses, barefoot to slippers. They tried to make her brush her hair.

  But exile from the kitchen meant freedom on the rest of the estate grounds. Soon—every moment she wasn’t under direct supervision, in fact—Jessica was running wild, from looking out the highest gable windows in the attic to jumping in the hay in the stables, from catching frogs with the servants’ children to tiptoeing about the great hall when it was empty, spooking herself with the empty suits of armor that stood guard there.

  Her happiness was not to last.

  The duke finally began correspondence with a woman whom he did not immediately dislike. She was Duchess Anne of Mandagor, from England and therefore at once distrusted by everyone. The duchess was, however, childless, which brought some relief, eliminating the fear of a complete invasion of the duchy. She was older than Jessica’s mother would have been by a number of years, some said almost as old as the duke himself. The estate flew with rumors about her: that she was a spy for the Queen, that she was the most beautiful woman in Britain, that she had dark powers, that she had killed her previous husband, that she had just been considering entering a convent, and that she had a delicate hand and an unheard-of skill with the needle.

  The duke traveled to see her with his most trusted advisors and secretaries. Jessica was only vaguely concerned about the goings-on regarding the duchess; the duke himself was merely a scary man she was supposed to like and who, having gone away, she wouldn’t be forced to see for a fortnight or two.

  Upon his return he announced his betrothal to Anne, who was making arrangements and would join him in a month for their wedding. Parties were planned, despite his annoyance. It had been far too long since his few friends and colleagues had anything to really celebrate. The stableboy, Davey, told Jessica that there were plans for cakes and great fox-hunts. They were debating the various merits of the different kinds of possible cakes when she was summoned to the duke’s presence.

  Maids rushed to prepare her as best they could, combing her hair with their fingers and patting down her dress, removing ash and flour. A little frightened at the summons, Jessica entered the duke’s private office with her head down but remembered to curtsy and mumble “My Lord Duke” as she approached him at his chair and desk.

  “My Lord Father,” the duke corrected. He looked her up and down as if she were a stranger, no fault escaping his eye. Her face was smudged, her stockings crumpled, and her dress the length of a child’s—not the calf-length dress an eleven-year-old should wear.

  “You are to have a new mother,” he said, gazing at her levelly.

  Jessica’s mouth hung open in shock. Her mother, as everyone told her, was dead and interred in the church. She had never known her. Dolly was the closest thing to a living mother she had, and Jessica loved her with all her heart. She didn’t understand why she needed another.

  “Close your mouth, girl. This will not do at all. Too long have I neglected your education, left it in the hands of incompetent and lally-minded maids. We shall have to shape you up before the duchess arrives.”

  “The duchess …” The realization came upon Jessica slowly that the woman who was to marry her father was also to be her mother. This was a connection she had not made before, listening to all of the servants’ gossip. “Is she very … nice?” she asked meekly.

  “She is very beautiful. And wise,” answered the duke. “And she may be able to turn you into a real lady yet.”

  Chapter Two

  THE DUCHESS ANNE OF MANDAGOR

  “Stay still.”

  Jessica, eleven and just beginning to be fully acquainted with the concept of duchess, mentally forgave the maid, Gwen, who dressed her and forgot to say “Your Grace” as she tied tight bows and brushed down the girl’s dress. The little girl might have been responsible for making such a hassle of it; she strained on tiptoes and swung this way and that to catch a glimpse of her new mother, or at least her entourage.

  “What kind of carriage does she ride in?” Jessica asked for what was probably the thousandth time.

  “Not a carriage—she’ll ride in a train as far as Cardiff, and the duke has bought her a pretty little Beaufort phaeton to ride here in. By herself!”

  Jessica squinched her nose, trying to remember what Davey, the stableboy—now the coachboy—had said about such things. He and his friends were all mad for coaches, trains, and other conveyances. Maybe the phaeton was the one with the open roof? And the large—

  “Ow!”

  Now Gwen had the brush, the one with boar’s hair spines, and was yanking it down Jessica’s locks in back, which were perfectly black and mostly straight without the help of a maid, thank goodness.

  “Mother cats are kinder when they groom their kittens, and they have long claws and teeth!” Jessica protested.

  Gwen giggled.

  “Oh, I think you’d be glad I’m no cat,” she said.

  There was some excitement in the hall beyond her bedroom, and Jessica managed to squirm out of Gwen’s grasp just long enough to peek over the banister.

  There was a crowd downstairs of porters, luggage carriers, drivers, servants, and more foreign wait staff. Piles of trunks and suitcases littered the front hall. The crowd parted for just a moment, and in the middle was the most beautiful, tall, and stately woman Jessica had ever seen, as regal and pale as an ice queen. She was delicately removing fawn-colored driving gloves and a matching bonnet when she seemed to sense Jessica’s stare. The woman turned, locking eyes with her for a moment.

  Gwen grabbed Jessica from behind and pulled her down the hallway. The little lady duchess did not object.

  Anne of Mandagor. Jessica was positive that was the woman she saw—the woman who was to be her new mother. Maddeningly, she was told that the woman was exhausted from her travels and would be resting in private until the evening, when Jessica would be formally presented to her. She found this horribly unfair; it was her mother, for goodness’s sake. She sat and played as quietly as she could, trying not to mess up her outfit and require another horrid neatening by Gwen. Her own bedroom was huge and drafty, recently redecorated in honor of the duchess’s arrival. No one had consulted Jessica on what she might like, however. The paint was a vomity pale green with white trim, and the bookshelves were filled with nasty little books about what happens to children if they are bad. The bed was the only real improvement; it was huge and high and adult, and like a whole other world when she was perched in the middle of it. She liked playing in the quilts, pretending that they were hills and oceans and that she was meeting and speaking with animals. Maids yelled at her for leaving bits of food out on the floor, claiming it would attract rats, but Jessica only hoped to see and tame a mouse.

  Evening finally came; supper was brought up to her but she couldn’t eat more than a bite or two. Bored and sick with waiting, she brought out her last defense: an absolutely giant book of ABCs with more than two hundred pages of illustrated, nauseating rhymes about the English language. She began at page one, reciting each poem aloud.

  Jessica was deep in the middle of “Meditating Monkeys Might Mostly Meet Men” when she was called. Gwen and a butler formally escorted her downstairs into the sitting room traditionally reserved for the lady of the estate. A large fire was lit and roaring, as were a few gas lamps. The duchess sat in front of a silken screen that protected her from the extreme heat of the flames. The duke stood behind her chair, arms
on its back, watching her intently.

  Suddenly Jessica felt bad for all the trouble she had caused Gwen earlier with her hair brushing and wished she didn’t have to walk the final few feet alone. But she did, even remembering to curtsy. She wrinkled her nose, distracted by the duchess’s strange perfume, something like oranges, something from far away. Exotic. In the firelight the older woman was even more regal than before. Her face looked as though it had been carved from white marble, and her eyes were brown and warm like caramel. Her golden hair was put up severely and elegantly behind her. Her eyebrows arched elegantly; her cheekbones were high. She … was … perfect. A queen.

  Jessica felt like a baby and wanted to look down or hide. She was small and ugly next to this creature.

  The duchess sensed her discomfort and smiled slightly.

  “Why, come here, child. I shan’t hurt you.” She offered a single white, long hand, beckoning Jessica to come forward. I shouldn’t touch her. I’ll break her. Jessica imagined herself stumbling forward and knocking into the duchess, causing her fine white skin to crack and her to fall into a pile of porcelain shards. She inched forward delicately, aware of being observed every step of the way by the caramel eyes.

  “You’re very pretty,” the duchess said approvingly, turning her head this way and that to see her better in the light. Jessica felt a warmth rush through her. “Very pretty. I am to be your new mother, you know that, child?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Jessica mumbled.

  “I think we shall get along just splendidly. I’ve always wanted a daughter of my own.”

  Again Jessica felt thrilled that this woman was pleased with her … but it was strange to be called daughter by her. A mother was fat, dark haired, warm, and loving. Like Dolly or the picture in her locket.

  “Let us see some of your work.”

  Jessica blinked; she immediately thought of the snowmen she had built in the winter, or the ravens she made out of straw with Davey.

  “Here, My Lady,” Gwen curtsied and came forward, handing the duchess a folded bit of cloth.

  Oh. That.

  Jessica frowned and stared at the floor while the duchess inspected her admittedly terrible embroidery.

  “Oh, this won’t do at all,” the duchess said with a smile. “Proper ladies must know how to sew, mustn’t they? And you do want to be a proper lady, isn’t that right, child?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Five minutes ago nothing could have been further from the truth. What is a proper lady, anyway?

  “We shall have to work on that. And you …” She reached a long, delicate finger out to touch Jessica’s cheek. She turned her head this way and that in the firelight, inspecting Jessica’s face. “Yes. You are beautiful. Almost. Well, you haven’t anyone to properly teach you about your toilette. We will have good mother and daughter times together, I promise you that!”

  Jessica was wondering what the word “toilet” was doing coming out of such an elegant woman’s mouth when the duchess took both her hands in her own and squeezed them, with a smile that was not false, merely unpracticed.

  “You may go now, Jessica,” her father said with a faint smile.

  He seemed to be pleased; Jessica had done well. She had known this was going to be some sort of ordeal, but she had no idea how or when she passed. She curtsied as prettily as she could, backed away, and then turned and left—that much courtesy she knew. Court-esy. Court-easy. Curtsy.

  Within a few minutes she was playing in her bedroom again, making her fingers bow and dance for each other. But after she fell asleep, the duchess’s golden hair and pale face haunted her midnight dreams.

  The wedding was immediate and small, far smaller than the duke’s distant relations and closest friends would have liked. The duchess herself had little family, and as a widow she thought it fitting to keep the ceremony close and elegant. Jessica could see a great number of the housestaff’s fears relieved immediately; They had been terrified the duchess would be a spoiled big spender who would insist on luxuries the estate could ill afford.

  Jessica’s own opinions of the duchess were uncertain. She had imagined her new mother to look or be like any number of things, including wicked, and Anne had turned out to be nothing like she could have ever dreamed.

  She belongs in her own fairy tale, Jessica decided as Anne walked down the aisle. She is far too beautiful and special for Kenigh. The duchess glowed silvery as white and shiny cloth reflected her pale beauty back at the candles and gas lamps. Her dress was just long enough to touch the floor and skate over it, pearls and trim making soft tinkles.

  Jessica’s own dress was itchy, but she kept as still as possible during the ceremony and tried not to fidget as the priest went on and on about the blessings of marriage. The only interesting and light-hearted moment in the solemn afternoon came at the end, when two altar boys released a pair of doves that fluttered to the ceiling. The duchess smiled in delight, and the whole room sighed at her beauty. My stepmother’s beauty. Jessica was proud of that and walked behind the couple with her head held high. She only tripped once.

  There was a proper fête and party afterward, but instead of joining the kitchen staff Jessica was now forced to sit at the head table. She looked longingly at the door where servants silently entered and left the kitchen with appetizers and main courses, where they secretly stared and gossiped in between serving the duke, the duchess, and their guests. The food was delicious, however, and deprived of good company she could at least dig into the roasted lamb and venison, terrines, and salads—and a glass of wine she managed to steal. Once the duchess looked askance at her, amused and chastising, when she caught Jessica sucking the marrow from a bone and smacking her lips afterward.

  The lady used a fork.

  Many hours later some of the guests were leaving, and Jessica was overtired but still refusing to go to bed. She was in her nightgown, practicing walking like the duchess up and down the hall, clasping her hands behind her back and not moving her head. Then she heard Anne and her father talking on the main floor below.

  “Oh really, Edward, you shouldn’t have—”

  “But my dear, I know your passion for music, and we have so little in the country…. It’s only fair.”

  “It is a frivolity.”

  “It is my wedding present to you.”

  “You are far too generous, Edward.”

  Jessica could barely contain her curiosity. What could they be talking about? Maybe an exotic pet; she had heard of some ancient kings and queens keeping nightingales or birds from the east that could sing twelve different songs. Perhaps it was a music box or orchestrina from Germany, She ran to the banister to look down just in time to see her father walking away and the duchess looking at a boy. Jessica was severely disappointed. He wasn’t even a foreign boy—he had the look of a Scotsman about him. He wore black pants that ended at his calf, a white shirt, and an old black coat that was clean and carefully mended. A cap was tilted rakishly across his red hair, and he carried a fiddle. He was not very tall for his age—fourteen or fifteen, she guessed. He stared at the floor quietly, neither meek nor proud.

  “So,” the duchess asked him once they were alone, “can you play very well?”

  “Moderately well, I am told, My Lady.”

  “We are not as rich as you might think, boy. I have not married into endless money. We must economize; there is no room for people who would just play the fiddle. You will also help me with some personal tasks—nothing too onerous or unbefitting an artiste. In return I will act as your patron—buy you music, bring you to concerts, make introductions for you, and the like. Are you willing?”

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  Still he kept his eyes on the floor; his voice never wavered. Jessica instantly wished she could be like him. He’s so … brave. She could not think of a better word. He had none of the subservience or sarcasm the other servants possessed.

  “Excellent. Follow me into my room then, Alan. I have some issues to attend to and would be
entertained.”

  “Of course, My Lady.”

  She swept out of the room with a rustle of undercoats and silks; the boy followed at a safe distance. He caught sight of Jessica and did not wink, the way another might have, but smiled—a genuine, friendly smile—before his face resumed its previous blank, polite stare.

  Jessica had no idea what to make of him.

  INTERLUDE

  Alan followed the duchess silently through the halls; for all of the bustling around them the only thing he could really hear was the swish of her skirts sliding over the cold stone floor. She nodded her head at the few servants she had met already and the ones she had brought with her from her own household. We’re both foreigners here, he thought. Perhaps that’s why she wants me close by. He ran a hand quickly through his bristly red hair, which affected its appearance not at all. Ginger hair, orange and spiky, may have been bad luck in Scotland, but keeping it short meant he never needed a mirror.

  He had already stowed his few possessions in his new cell-like room, all except for his precious fiddle. His parents had worked hard when they saw he had the gift of music and sent him to Glasgow to be properly trained. His dream was to someday play at the courts in Europe.

  And yet here he was in Kenigh, another small town. At least it’s a new country. And he wouldn’t even have to learn French just yet.

  They entered the duchess’s bedroom, which in the manner of royalty was separate from the duke’s. It was less feminine than he would have guessed, with just a few touches of the new woman’s presence here and there: rose-colored velvets on the bed, silk robes piled on a chair, and boxes and cases of what looked like ill-packed toiletries. There was also a giant oval mirror, gilt-edged and covered with golden ivy, perched inconveniently in the corner. The duchess went to that first, ignoring Alan, and gazed at herself in it, brushing a finger over her eyebrows and pulling the skin back from her eyes. She sighed.