XIII. Friendship

Every window in the palace was open. Summer, much to Lecia’s dismay, had really only just begun. It was incredibly hot, though the marble floors and high ceilings helped to keep the place somewhat cool. The air was heavy with heat and hyacinth. Lecia had never been more grateful for the weightlessness of Mr. Worth’s dresses.

Lisette had arrived last night and Lecia had promised a tour of the grounds when the sun came up. It wasn’t yet midday and she already resented her survival in the rising temperature. The thought of walking itself was impossible to bear. She’d have offered to explore on horseback, but her friend wasn’t overly fond of the creatures.

Upon her entry to the saloon, Lecia was surprised to find her husband with Lisette and Catherine. He was nearly in a state of undress, wearing only a casual shirt tucked into his trousers. Clearly he was as affected by the heat as she, but that certainly didn’t make her any less distressed by his lack of formality.

“You are uncharacteristically unkempt, holubchyk,” she said as she approached them. Vaughan was standing, in the midst of recounting a story, as Catherine and Lisette sat and watched, the latter’s smile wide and her eyes glittering.

The three turned their heads, mid grins, as she advanced toward them. Lisette hopped up without thought and rushed at her childhood friend, embracing her tightly. Overcome with sentiment, Lecia hugged her back, beaming despite herself. My, shethought, I have become quite broody without Lisette around. Truthfully, she had. Despite the regard she had for her husband, their relationship had always been quite profound, full of eloquent exchanges and weighty purpose. With Lisette hanging on her now, Lecia could see just how lacking in lightness her life had been; the vibrant juvenile had always brought balance to the Duchess’ pensive nature.

“I’ve missed you so,” Lisette cooed, pulling away and quickly finding her seat again. There was color in her cheeks: she knew she had behaved poorly in front of the others.

“And I you,” Lecia sighed, the burden of summer no longer felt so dense. She gave Catherine a smile and a bow of her head and the old woman returned the same. Then, with a raise of one brow, Lecia turned to her husband. “I hope you’ve only been telling them good things,” she said.

“Oh,” he pretended to pout. “As if there’s anything bad to say about you.” He stepped toward his wife and placed a nimble kiss on the crown of her head. It was so easy to do since he was impossibly tall.

Catherine hid her smirk behind the knitting she’d been working on; Lisette’s expression hadn’t changed at all.

“Now, what did you call me? Huh-looba-what?” he asked. Lecia took a seat across from her friend and then met her husband’s grey gaze. In just his white shirt, it seemed that his eyes were so much more noticeable. Or maybe it was the season, or the clarity of friendship.

“Holubchyk,” Lecia repeated. “It’s what my mama called my papa.”

“Hmm,” he pondered it. “Holubchyk…I like it.”

“Is that Russian?” Catherine asked, setting her knitting in her lap. Everyone looked to Lecia for an answer.

“Ukrainian,” she corrected.

“I see,” the Marchioness respired. “And what does that mean?”

Lecia blushed thinking of it. Why had she gone and said that word? At the very least she could have waited to use it in private, for heaven’s sake.

“Um,” she cleared her throat. “Little dove,” she murmured. Through hooded eyes she peered up at Vaughan. He was watching her, smiling all the while.

“I’m certainly not little, but I think it’ll do,” he said. Catherine nodded; Lisette was merely grateful to be present for the exchange. “Holubchyk,” he repeated.

“Now,” Lecia sat up, regarding Vaughan with as much authority as she could. “You cannot call me that.”

Impressed by her dominance, he bowed his submission.

“I certainly must ask why,” he said.

“Yes, do tell us why,” Lisette begged, inching forward in her seat. Even Catherine urged Lecia to share.

“Because,” she told them. “It’s like in French, or any language really. There is a masculine and a feminine. Holubchyk is the masculine; you’re not meant to use it for women.”

“Then what is the feminine, or must I just say ‘little dove’?” Vaughan inquired.

“I shall not say,” she declared.

“Lecia, that’s so very anticlimactic,” Lisette whined.

“My apologies,” the Duchess offered.

Accepting that she wouldn’t tell them, Vaughan sat down beside her—but not too close, as there were guests. He rested his arm on the end of the settee and took in the three women with him. It was an odd assortment of ladies, he decided. Lecia was so intellectual, her friend emotive, and his aunt was…his aunt. If anyone had told him that the three of them would get on as nicely as they did, he would not have believed it. Yet, there they were, quietly comfortable in each other’s presence, and he was content. His sisters aside, he supposed that these were his three favorite ladies in the world. Though, admittedly, he didn’t know Lisette all that well, but her effect on his wife was enough to appeal to him.

“Tell me,” the Marchioness started after awhile, “how is it you know Ukrainian at all? Was that just something your family picked up?” The Lady had gone back to working on her knitting, but she didn’t need to look down to do it; her eyes were flittering between Lecia and Vaughan and their palpable élan.

Lecia aligned her posture, and Lisette quivered slightly. It wasn’t a terrible secret. It really wasn’t even much of a secret at all. The truth, though, was not always welcome in polite company; something the young women had learned at an early age. While Lecia had been proud of her heritage, some were not so excited by the circumstances. Lisette, being the kind friend she was, had been tugged into the bedlam and anguish alongside Lecia after every cruel word and painful dismissal. It was the stupidest of things.

“My father is Ukrainian,” she stated simply.

“Oh,” Catherine said, surprised. “I had no idea. Though, now that I think on it, he does have that accent, doesn’t he? And you have your lovely name.”

Treading carefully, Lecia nodded. “Yes. My great grandfather was gifted the Barony in England and it’s been passed down ever since. He and my papa remained in the Ukraine on the hrafstvo. Father chose to inhabit Lekenbourgh instead, though he did travel home often before marrying mother. Once Zora and I were born, he didn’t return for a few years, and then Papa demanded to see us. I loved visiting there, but quite a bit has been happening, so father hasn’t brought us back in a long time. Though, there’s really no point to it anymore: Papa and Mama died a long time ago now, and we don’t have any cousins to entertain us. Uncle Ruslan isn’t even married yet.”

“That’s quite interesting,” Catherine mused. “Are you fluent in the language? How charming that you and my nephew are both not wholly English.”

“Heavens no,” Lecia laughed. “Father is, but he never truly pressured us to learn. In fact, I recall him more than once encouraging us not to. The Slavic parts of us were never smiled upon when it came to it.”

“Such a shame,” the Lady shook her head. “The arrogance in this society never ceases to amaze me. We need a bit of fresh blood in this country with all of the inbreeding that’s happened. I’ve always said that. But, you know, they always find something to titter about. It won’t matter now, of course, because you’ve married a Duke. Though, they might attribute your mystical ways to your heritage, but don’t let it get to you, my dear. They’re just a bunch of rich, jealous idiots. Vaughan knows it, and I will forever support the use of his real name.” The Marchioness eyed her nephew with a severe countenance.

They all took a moment to consider what had been said. Lecia realized that she and Vaughan had always had more in common than just distaste for society; neither of them had ever truly fit in it to begin with. Maybe they had been meant for one another, somehow.

“Why don’t you call yourself Fychan?” she asked him.

He thought for a beat and then responded, “It wasn’t my choice. By the time I had been introduced to society, everyone knew me as Vaughan. It seemed foolish to go through the trouble of correcting so many people. I really don’t mind; I document everything with my birth name, but they’re really the same thing when it comes down to it.”

Lecia sighed wistfully. “I envy that. Father had to Anglicize officially. He did it for my mother, for Zora and I. He didn’t want us to be complete pariahs.”

“My word,” Catherine huffed. “That’s terrible. But I do see his point. My nephew gets away with it because of his inheritance, but for as much as the English hate the Welsh—brothers under the same crown—I cannot fathom how little tolerance they’ve had for someone as foreign as your father.”

The young Duchess nodded, feeling respected for her heritage for the first time in her life. She’d always carried it with a dose of shame, but Catherine was a very progressive woman. Lisette was happy too.

“What name did he give up?” Vaughan asked.

“Herasymenko,” Lecia told him. “They’ve been Counts of Ilemnya for at least eight generations. Uncle Ruslan will have it eventually; he’s going to need to marry sooner than later so it stays in the family. Papa was always loved Zora and me, but he lamented not having grandsons.”

“That is our disgrace as women, isn’t it?” Catherine begrudged. “Never truly welcomed at birth. Oliver had been my younger brother, and father had reminded me often that since the creation of his title, it had always been passed to the oldest son. ‘Cantingtons are hearty men,’ he’d say, and then tell me how I was the first—and hopefully only—first-born who was not a boy; there hadn’t been a daughter in seven generations, you know. And then there was—” she stopped herself from saying the girl’s name.

After a moment of anxiety, Vaughan said, “My sisters have continued your legacy.”

“Yes,” the Marchioness breathed. “Sarah and little Blanche.

Lisette was oblivious to the agony the last few breaths had caused two of her companions. For Vaughan, his old wound had recently been opened; his aunt could never truly be at ease in the palace of her youth.

“Well,” Lecia cut through the silence, “shall we take that tour now, Lisette?”

“Yes please,” the girl bounced excitedly.

“In this heat I insist upon driving you in the chaise,” Vaughan announced, getting to his feet before either of them. He looked to his wife expectantly who, in turn, was looking to Lisette for a reply.

“I would not find that too disagreeable; it is awfully hot already and your park is so big,” she told them both, delight sparkling across her skin.

“Brilliant,” he said. “I’ll have them hitch the horses and you ladies can meet me out front. Grab your hats.” He eyed Lecia with a wink. She met his humor with a purse of her lips. Oh how she hated hats.

As he left, she and Lisette got to their feet and said adieu to the Marchioness. Lecia sent Izzy for her hat back in her room while Lisette had brought hers to the saloon that morning. Arm in arm, they ambled to the Great Hall. The halls and property were bustling with servants setting up decorations for the Grand Soiree. It was mere days away. The two young women waited at the threshold of the propped front doors, out of the way of the workers. Lecia admired her vision coming to life as Izzy arrived with her hat.

“Thank you, Izzy,” she said and dismissed the maid. She adjusted the modest hat as the team of black hackneys came clopping down the court, pulling a fancy curricle with the cover retracted. Vaughan drove them up to the front steps. Lecia recognized one of the grooms as he hopped out of the cart and waited to help the ladies up into the seat.

The Duchess got in first, sitting beside her husband, and then Lisette followed. The two-horse carriage was wide enough to accommodate the three of them without much scrunching or discomfort.

“Are we ready, ladies?” Vaughan asked, glancing over at them. Their guest was on the edge of her seat, while Lecia sat back into the upholstery. The former nodded vigorously and Vaughan called, “Up!” to the horses to strike off.

They drove out of the gate and then turned off of the cobbled path onto the crushed granite trails. In the bright summer sun, the grass was vibrant green; the flowers were saturated in color. Although she’d seen it all before, the magnificence still hadn’t completely set in with Lecia. The park rolled over gentle hills and copses of trees; the back line of the property was marked by the curve of the River Wye, but that was acres from the house.

As they rounded the back of the palace, they passed the terrace and patios that were home to some floral decoration and small water features, but they were very simple. Vaughan directed the horses to take them down the centerline of the greens. The main gardens quickly came into view; those flowers had been cultivated in precise order since the foundation had been poured in 1700. While they were beauteous, it was truly the fountains of Martis that made an impression with guests. Immersion was swift, knots and parterres spreading out on each side, growing deeper into the property; it was a natural progression of ornamentation until it faded into simple design.

“The gardens run wider than long,” Vaughan told Lisette.

The poor girl was craning to take in everything. Lecia empathized with her; when she’d taken her first outing with Vaughan, they’d been able to walk in a light breeze and take their time with it. Even though this was not her first time through, she still struggled to appreciate it all. She doubted she ever could.

Her interest was piqued now that they’d passed the end of the actual greens. That had been where she and Vaughan had turned back for lunch. She was now in new territory, actually as oblivious as her friend. When they went riding, they generally avoided the areas where foot traffic was expected; mostly because the obstacles were cumbersome, but also because the gravel was no good for cantering.

“Martis is on almost eighty-eight hundred hectares. The gardens are about seven hundred,” he told them. Lecia had heard that before, but that didn’t make it any less impressive.

“How do they compare to Versailles?” Lisette asked.

“Ours are a touch smaller, but that doesn’t particularly bother me, nor do the domestic visitors mind. They’re much more accessible here than France.”

They came to a bridge and passed over a bubbling creek. Lecia ceased listening to the back and forth between her husband and friend, focusing on the way the streams of light filtered through the treetops like lace shadows; she saw colorful birds flying between branches, a hare hopping into hiding. The trees became thick overhead, shading them from the beating sun as the path split into a patte d'oie and they kept straight to travel through the woods. There were elegant statues and cascades of water meant to blend seamlessly with the landscape; now that they were overgrown, they almost did.

The path had faded into mere dirt, and it led them to a small glade. There was a modest fountain at the center, surrounded by an exedra of columns. The horses were able to maneuver a loop around the entire thing before Vaughan halted them at the front again. The water had died to a meager trickle now, the figure of a woman rising from its middle. Though she was covered in moss, a crack in her chest, she was still beautiful.

“That is Britomartis. She may have been a goddess, or a warrior for Spenser, but she most assuredly was a lover to Hugh Cantington, the first Duke of Martisine. He named his dukedom after her; there’s an entire mythology for her in my family. It’s said we owe the existence of our lineage to her. Hugh and his wife Margery struggled to conceive a child, but Britomartis was an enchantress who could wield the magic of life in her own hands. So, for her love of Hugh, she blessed them with a child, William, and the line continued, but at the cost of her own life,” Vaughan told the ladies.

Lisette, entranced by the story, sighed in adoration of the statue. Lecia did not outwardly indicate her wonderment over the tale, but she tore her gaze from the bewitching figure to peer at her husband. He was looking at her plainly, a supple smile on his lips.

“When Henry Cantington III began building Martis—also clearly named for her—he made sure to include this dene in her honor. All documentation of her has disappeared, save for the myths that have been passed down through the generations and written in our private records. There supposedly was once a tapestry of her, but it went missing long ago. The sculptor was told to make her as beautiful as he could imagine a woman to be. Henry’s wife Eleanor never forgave him for not having the statue made in her likeness,” Vaughan laughed. He hadn’t looked away from Lecia, or she him. “It’s rather well known that Eleanor was not the most beautiful Duchess, as you can note for yourself if you study her face in the palace’s hall of portraits.”

“I suppose it would be childish to think that all of the peers have beauty in their pedigrees,” Lecia said.

“I do take after my mother,” the Duke reminded her.

“I see,” she whispered. His eyes were not on hers; he had been watching her mouth as it parted to speak.

“We must go see Eleanor’s portrait!” Lisette interrupted, oblivious.

Vaughan stiffened at the disturbance and swallowed. He commanded the horses to take off again once Lecia voiced her agreement. She was less interested in seeing an ugly woman than seeing if Vaughan resembled his father. It was a silly thing, but she was curious now, and a Duchess ought to visit her predecessors at some point or another.

The ride back to the palace was quiet. Lisette was taking in the grounds again, so naïve in her enthusiasm. Lecia tried to memorize the landscapes, but decided that she had a lifetime to do it. Instead, her observation was first of her husband’s feet. One was braced against the footboard to give him balance in his seat; his tall boats were not shiny and polished, they were worn and tarnished from dirt and horse sweat.

His legs were not skinny like hers; tan breeches were almost taut over his masculine limbs. She stifled a laugh when she finally realized how restricted he was in his seat for being so tall; Lecia and Lisette could move comfortably in the space because it was more accommodating than a typical chaise. It was probably custom made to fit his giant figure.

Discretion prevented her from eyeing his waist or shoulders, but she could clearly see his arms and hands. His white shirtsleeves had been rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were ideally shaped, the muscles distinct and lively under the skin as he managed the team in one hand. Lecia was impressed that he had spent enough time driving himself in a carriage to learn how to control two horses with only one hand.

When she had met him, she had thought his large, calloused hands mean, but now she knew better. Their roughness had come from rough times, from hard work and manual labor. He didn’t wear gloves when they rode, or as he drove them then. There was no more damage that could be done to his already tough hands. There was no malice in his touch, she realized. There never had been.