The Duchess (Montgomery/Taggert 16)

“Yes,” Claire said. “I would like to know about Harry. He—” The duchess cut her off, not allowing her to say another word.

“Open your notebook.”

Before Claire could get the little book open, the duchess began speaking very rapidly.

“We will start with peas. My son will eat peas with ham and beef, but he’s not to be served peas with chicken. Except chicken in cream sauce. Then peas are always to be served. Of course he never eats peas with mutton, but peas with lamb are allowed, but only if the lamb is under six months old. Peas can be served with veal but only in the spring. No peas with veal in the winter and of course no peas with fish of any kind. Nor are peas to be served with game, except squab, of course. Shall we proceed to carrots?”

During this Claire had not had time to get her mouth closed, much less her notebook open. But at the word carrots she moved so she could rest her notebook against the back of a chair and began to write as quickly as possible. But it wasn’t nearly fast enough. There were instructions about vegetables, meat, game, how to serve Harry’s food, when it was to be served. It was all much, much too complex to understand, much less write down.

Once the duchess had finished with the food, she told of Harry’s weak back and how he was to be taken care of should he have back pains. The treatment involved tents full of steam and hot towels and compresses full of aromatic herbs.

Claire was never to raise her voice to Harry, never to argue with him, never to cross him in any way. The duchess told Claire what games Harry could and could not play, and she advised Claire to allow Harry to win any and all card games. “To win gives him such pleasure,” the duchess said.

She went on to tell Claire what colors Harry’s clothes should be. Harry was never, never to have wool next to his tender skin. With an angry look at Claire she told how she did not approve of Harry’s wearing of those disgusting Scots’ clothes. Her look let Claire know that it was her fault Harry was running around bare legged and that she was close to killing him with her absurd love of these clothes. Claire heard herself murmuring an apology.

The duchess told of Harry’s schedule, of when he could and could not do things. She chastised Claire for being so selfish as to drag Harry from a warm bed to take her on a survey of the estate. “My son is a man who tries to please. He likes to give to people. He will do whatever anyone asks of him, for he is generous beyond belief, but this morning I could tell he was nearly ill from having to spend a cold morning yesterday wearing improper clothes and traipsing about the countryside.”

Claire had no idea Harry was of such a delicate constitution, that he caught colds so easily or that he had a weak back, and she felt bad that she had been so unobservant as not to have seen it. “I will be more careful in the future,” she murmured.

“Yes, see that you are.”

At seven, after the two longest hours of Claire’s life, Harry came into the room. Claire was so glad to see him she almost ran to him to throw her arms about him, but then she remembered his bad back.

“Mother,” Harry said cheerfully, “the two of you have been in here for ages.” He went forward and kissed his mother’s cheek, then perched on the edge of her chair.

Claire watched from her place behind the chair and saw the way the woman’s face softened when she looked at her son. Her eyes looked younger, almost like those of a girl who looked on the face of her lover. Claire looked at Harry and saw the tenderness between the two of them. And as she saw them together, she knew that she would always, forever, eternally be an outsider.

Harry raised from bending over his mother, took a biscuit from the tea tray, and munched as he looked at Claire. Claire wondered if almond cookies were on her list as a yes, a no, or a maybe. “Why are you standing?” he asked.

Claire looked at the two of them, the old woman sitting on the chair that now she thought resembled a throne and Harry draped over the arm of it, his kilt showing his strong legs, and she plainly and simply wanted to run away. The duchess was looking at her with interest, to see what she would answer to Harry’s question.

“I can write better when I’m standing,” Claire said.

The duchess lifted one eyebrow in acknowledgment of Claire’s quick thinking.

“Mmmm,” Harry said, not really interested. “And what are you writing?”

“About you,” Claire said, smiling at him and not looking at the duchess.

Harry bent and again kissed his mother’s cheek. “You old darling, you haven’t been boring Claire with all my childhood ailments, have you?”

“I was just trying to take care of you. That’s what a mother does.” She gave him a look that was so full of love Claire was embarrassed to have seen it. It was too private, too intimate for another person to see.

Harry smiled at Claire. “You will probably hear dreadful stories about my mother,” he said, and he was thinking about Trevelyan, “but I want you to know they aren’t true. She is the kindest, sweetest person in the world, and I’m sure that in time you will come to love her as much as I do.”

Claire looked at the duchess and saw the sly smile on her face. It was an expression that let Claire know she owned her son and always would.

“I must go,” Claire said. “I…I promised my mother I’d see her before dinner.” Quite suddenly Claire thought that she might explode if she had to stay in that opulent room one more minute of her life.

Harry got off the arm of his mother’s chair. “Stay and I’ll order fresh tea. You can tell Mother all about the horse I bought you. You haven’t even named it yet. The two of you can decide on the horse’s name.”

“I really must go. Thank you, Your Grace, for…for everything.”

“Wait,” Harry said, “I’ll go with you.”

“No, please don’t,” Claire said. “I have to go.” She was at the point that she didn’t care if she was rude or not. All she knew was that, as she lived and breathed, she had to get out of that room.