But in the meanwhile, she said at last, and before doing anything else, they must all take a few moments to return to their rooms to dress. Goodness knew when they would have another chance, and any visitors who arrived later might consider it odd to say the least if they found all the servants and other residents of the house in their nightgowns and nightcaps.
She was suddenly acutely aware of her own nightgown and old dressing gown and of her frilled cap—and of the fact that this had been her wedding night and the servants were all fully aware of the fact.
Her words drew a weak laugh from everyone as they dispersed.
In the absence of a black dress—it had not occurred to her to bring any of her old mourning clothes to Manville with her—Chloe donned a dark blue one. It would have to do for now. She left her hair braided about her head.
By the time she came back downstairs, she had thought of a few other things that needed to be done without delay. Robert had just returned with the physician only to learn that they had arrived too late. Chloe comforted him with the assurance that Dr. Gregg could not have saved the duke’s life anyway, and she sent the footman back to the village to fetch the vicar even though it was still night. The presence of a clergyman was needed, and the Reverend Marlowe would not mind the hour. Indeed, he would probably be hurt if he was not summoned until after daybreak. It was not often he was called to the deathbed of a Duke of Worthingham.
She sent the footman who was on duty in the hallway to fetch something with which to muffle the sound of the door knocker, black crepe if possible.
And then there was nothing left to do that she could think of. She stood in the hall for a few moments and glanced up the stairs. Ought she to go back up there? Was that where her place was, at her husband’s side? But there was nothing she could do, and the thought of going back into that room with its silent, empty presence was daunting. If she had not left at all, it would be different. But she had.
She could not go back.
She went into the drawing room instead and pulled Her Grace’s chair closer to the fireplace. She picked up the fire tongs and heaped a few more coals onto the fire. The room still felt chilly. But she was too restless to sit. She went back down to the kitchen instead, to make sure everything was proceeding smoothly. It was. Mrs. Loftus had recovered both her poise and her authority and was instructing the chambermaid who had already finished her breakfast to check all the rooms to make sure the curtains were drawn across every window. As soon as the others were finished, she assured Chloe, they would be sent to dust and polish in the main rooms, though they had all been done just three days ago. The footmen were being sent back to their rooms to change into their best livery. Miss Bunker had volunteered to make black armbands for them.
Chloe arrived back in the hall just as the vicar was coming through the door. He strode toward her, both hands outstretched.
“My dear duchess,” he said, squeezing hers tightly. “Under what sadly different circumstances we meet today. Please accept my deepest sympathies and those of my dear wife. But the Lord is merciful, you know. Yesterday it was very clear that His Grace was happy he had lived long enough to witness the nuptials of his only grandson.”
She led the way upstairs, but she was glad to relinquish him to the care of Weller, who was waiting on the upper landing, all stiff, formal dignity.
She sat in the drawing room after that, waiting, and gradually dawn grayed the room through the curtains. It struck her fully then. The duke, that gruff but kindly old gentleman of whom the duchess was so very fond, was dead. Gone. Leaving a heavy emptiness behind, even for her. She could only imagine what Her Grace and Ralph were feeling. And indeed she could imagine it. Her mother’s death still felt recent.
When the drawing room doors finally opened, Chloe got to her feet and pulled the bell rope before turning. It was a moment she had been dreading.
Ralph had his grandmother on his arm. Both were fully dressed, both in black. Her Grace was straight backed and regal, her face looking as though it had been sculpted of marble. Ralph’s was ashen, stern, and forbidding. Dr. Gregg and the Reverend Marlowe came behind them.
Choosing which one to comfort was instinctive. Chloe hurried across the room and drew Her Grace into her arms. They clung wordlessly together for several moments before Chloe led her to her chair by the fire and spread a lap robe over her knees.
“The tea tray will be here in a moment,” she said, “and a plate of scones.”
“I could not eat or drink a thing, Chloe,” Her Grace said, “but Dr. Gregg and the vicar will be glad of some refreshments, I daresay. I regret that they were dragged from their beds at such an hour. Perhaps they would prefer something stronger than tea, though?”
Both men held up staying hands and shook their heads. Dr. Gregg assured Her Grace that a cup of tea would be much appreciated.
“And you will drink too, Grandmama,” Chloe told Her Grace firmly, “and have a bite to eat. You must.”
The duchess smiled wanly.
“I just asked Weller how the servants are faring,” she said. “He told me they have been under your direction and that everything is running smoothly. Thank you, my dear. I might have guessed you would take charge without any fuss or panic. I will drink tea since you insist. And I will try half a scone.”
Ralph meanwhile had crossed the room without a word to anyone and stood now at the window. He had opened the curtains back a few inches and was staring out at the gray dawn, his hands clasped at his back.
A tray on which there was both a coffeepot and a teapot was carried in almost immediately. Chloe busied herself pouring and carrying around the cups and saucers and then the freshly baked scones. The Reverend Marlowe had seated himself close to the duchess and was speaking quietly to her. Dr. Gregg stood at his shoulder, listening and looking down at the duchess with obvious concern.