Birdie and the Beastly Duke by Sofi Laporte
Chapter 23
So this is where Birdie spent her childhood, Gabriel mused as the carriage turned onto Paradise Road in Bath. It came to a halt in front of a grey, formidable-looking mansion house with a Palladian portico. On a marble slate was engraved Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies.
A peal of girlish laughter rang from the gardens surrounding the house.
Gabriel ducked behind a tree.
Then he straightened his top hat and pulled down his tightly fitting coat. Blast Freddie! He’d ordered the tailor to make it tighter than he normally wore, and now it stretched uncomfortably across his chest and arms. But apparently, it was all the crack, as Freddie had assured him earnestly. The young man had accompanied him to Inverness to make sure he was clothed properly.
“You must have a Weston coat,” Freddie had insisted. “And Wellington boots. Is there a Hoby’s in Inverness?”
Gabriel had no clue. “Who, or what is Hoby’s?” he’d countered testily.
Freddie had nearly had a heart attack. “Hoby’s, Your Grace, is London’s most esteemed bootmaker,” he’d explained after he recovered from the shock. “He makes the best Wellingtons in the entire kingdom. They are made of the finest, softest calfskin leather and are shined to glossy perfection. Don’t settle for anything less.”
Gabriel had been rather irritated. The last time he checked, Wellington was the name of his field marshal, not of a boot. He knew for a fact that Wellington’s boots had been mud and blood splattered. It eluded him entirely why those boots, sensible as they were, had to be this tightly cut, as well as polished to such an extent that he could see his mirror image in them.
But oddly enough, he rather trusted Freddie’s sense of fashion more than his own. If it were up to him, Gabriel would’ve kept on his linen shirt, which sported holes, and his black leather trousers which had grease spots that refused to come out. Blast it, but Freddie was undoubtedly right; he needed to improve his wardrobe.
He’d also had his hair cut in the newest fashion. The hairdresser who, most irksomely, had been French, had insisted that he wear his hair à la Brute. This meant that his hair would be brushed forward, so that it cascaded over his right temple and down his cheek, hiding the ear and semi-covering the burn scars.
“Eet weel look most fetching, seigneur,” the toad had said and danced about him with scissors.
“Bah,” Gabriel replied, unnerved at the thought that some years ago he may have shot this man’s kin without a second thought.
Thus pruned, plucked, primed, polished, and primped, Gabriel stood in front of Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies in search of his wife.
The maid who opened the door looked at him cluelessly. “One moment, sir,” she mumbled, and bid him wait in the corridor.
It smelled of paper, wax polish, and a feminine smell that he couldn’t quite decipher. Something flowery. Maybe violets.
A tall, slender woman quietly descended the stairs. She looked ageless with silver hair and silver eyes and looked at him inquiringly in a straightforward, regal manner. This, no doubt, must be Miss Hilversham.
Gabriel gulped. “Ma’am.” He took off his hat.
“The Duke of Dunross, I presume.” Her voice was cool and clear.
He was taken aback. “How did you know that?”
“If you would follow me, Your Grace.” She turned without answering his question.
Gabriel followed her, feeling his nervousness rise.
They walked down a corridor, with doors to his left and right.
One door was open, and he saw oaken tables, a blackboard, and shelves stuffed with books. Girls in similar pale blue dresses bent their heads over the books. A silent hush told him they were studying.
“It is quite extraordinary,” said Gabriel. “A girl’s school like this, I mean. It isn’t too common.” Blast it. That woman made him nervous, but one had to say something.
The woman threw him an assessing look. “No, it isn’t too common. This is the best academy in the country. If you will have a seat, Your Grace.” She pointed at a chair that stood in front of a rather large writing table. He sat down and felt rather small.
“Miss Talbot studied here for several years. She was one of my best and brightest students.”
Gabriel sat up proudly. “Of course, she’d be.”
“We teach the girls more than just the belle arts. Languages, History, Natural Sciences. Geography, and Advanced mathematics.”
“That is an impressive list.” Certainly more than he’d ever learned.
“The school has currently less than twenty students. I like to keep the numbers low, though some may say twenty is large enough.” Miss Hilversham picked up a quill and pulled it between her fingers. “I hire the best teachers in the country. None but the best will do for my girls.”
“Naturally.” He did not know where this conversation was going.
“Excellent education like we provide here requires a considerable number of resources, such as a lapidarium where the girls may study at their own pace.”
“Naturally.” Gabriel was out of his depth and did not know what a lapidarium was.
Miss Hilversham steepled her fingers and lifted a narrow eyebrow. “A lapidarium, Your Grace, is a type of museum that exhibits stone sculptures, artworks and artefacts. Lapidarium, coming from the Latin lapis, meaning stone, refers to such a collection. It would be highly beneficial for the girls to have their own lapidarium, particularly since our garden seems to harbour some Celtic and Roman artefacts that are worthwhile to exhibit. Artefacts which one, naturally, would exhibit in a lapidarium.”
“Oh. I see! You do not have this lapidarium yet.”
“No, Your Grace, we do not.”
“But you would like to have one.”
“Yes, Your Grace, we very much would like to.” Her voice was deceptively soft.
“And you need funding.”
“It is a coarse term. Shall we call it patronage? The school has been tremendously lucky to have two dukes who are patrons of this school; one more so than the other, and if one is honest, it is the duchesses who are the patronesses, not the dukes. It would be very beneficial to have a third. A school that can boast three dukes as patrons would be quite exceptional.”
“Naturally,” Gabriel said automatically. “I will be more than happy to be this third patron.”
Miss Hilversham actually smiled. It took him aback because, with this smile, her entire being transformed; there was an inkling of a rather attractive woman behind the severe façade. “I see we understand each other, Your Grace. Now. Regarding Birdie.”
Gabriel leaned forward eagerly. “Yes? Can I talk to her?”
“May I ask what your intentions are towards the girl?”
He frowned. “She is my wife. There needs to be nothing more added.”
“Is she, indeed?”
He bristled. “We were married in a ceremony in Scotland. There were witnesses.”
“Gathering from Birdie’s description, the reverend married her under the wrong name, even though she signed the register under her own. I believe the marriage to be invalid. Particularly since you were led to believe, until fairly recently, that she was an entirely different person.”
Gabriel stared at her. Dash it, the woman was right.
He ran both hands through his carefully coiffed Brutus mane, destroying it entirely.
“So, you see, you have no obligation towards Birdie at all,” the woman continued. “You may not even need to annul the marriage since it was never valid to begin with.”
Gabriel sat up, stung. “I am not interested in annulment. As far as I’m concerned, she is my wife, and it is my duty to care for her.”
“Duty?” Miss Hilversham threw him a shrewd look. “Is she a mere duty to you now?”
“With all due respect, madam. This is none of your concern. But if you must know, I care deeply for her.” He drew a shaky breath. “I cannot imagine a life without her.”
“And it took you over a month to realise that?”
He felt himself blush.
Her steely look held his gaze one moment longer. Then she gave a curt nod. “Very well, Your Grace—”
A knock on the door interrupted her. A girl with two thick auburn braids entered and curtsied quickly. “Beg your pardon, Miss Hilversham. I was just meaning to ask whether we may go out in the garden now that we finished the assignment.” She looked at Gabriel. “Oh! Your face!” she blurted out.
“Katherine Merivale, where are your manners? This is no way to greet our guests,” Miss Hilversham’s voice cut through the atmosphere in the room.
The girl coloured and stammered. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean—”
“Merivale?” interrupted Gabriel. “Did you say Merivale?”
The girl curtsied. “Yes, sir. I beg your pardon. My name is Katy Merivale.”
Gabriel gripped the side of his chair that his knuckles whitened. “Are you, by any chance, acquainted with a Philip Merivale?”
“Yes sir. He is my father.”
Gabe breathed heavily. “You mean to say he was your father as he—he fell in battle? At Waterloo?”
Katy threw him a curious glance. “No sir. He is very much alive.”
“It can’t be.” Gabriel felt the blood leave his face.
“You may go now, Katy,” said Miss Hilversham, “and yes take the girls outside in the fresh air for half an hour.”
“Yes, Miss Hilversham.” The girl curtsied and threw a last curious look at Gabriel before she left.
Miss Hilversham played with her quill. “What do you intend to do, Your Grace?”
Gabriel still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Merivale might be alive. It was a mistake. It was a different Merivale. But first, Birdie. Birdie was what mattered. He’d go down on his knees and beg if he had to.
“I need to find Birdie. Please, Miss Hilversham. Help me.”
The teacher nodded. “You are in luck and will be able to catch two birds with one stone. I sent Miss Talbot to the Ashmore residence in Oxfordshire a fortnight ago. You will find her there.”
Gabriel had no idea what she was talking about, killing two birds with one stone, but he shook her hand gratefully.