The Duchess and the Diamonds

The Duchess and the Diamonds by Rhianon Jameson July 2008 I was late to the ball, and the music had already started when the coachman let me out at the marbled steps in front of the Duchess’s residence. Gathering my skirts and summoning my courage, I walked past the stone lions, chipped and weathered with age, up the steps, and to the doorway, where Bartholomew, the butler, waited to greet me. My late arrival was not because of habitual tardiness on my part. Rather, I was new to Caledonian society – or, here, Society – and spent far too long ensuring my hair and makeup were just right before slipping into the ball gown I could scarcely afford and leaving my cottage for the waiting coach. I had no lady’s maid of my own, being a humble scrivener, so I had to apply the powders and unguents myself, then act as my own critic. Knowing I was running very late for the ball, my first important social invitation, made my hand unsteady, lengthening the process still further. “What can you tell me about Her Grace, the Duchess of Loch Wright?” I asked Willig, the driver of the phaeton. Although I could have hired one of the new horseless carriages and reached my destination sooner, I had wanted to keep my gown as free as possible from coal dust, which the steam-powered vehicles produced in abundance. Furthermore, pulling up in a phaeton seemed so much more elegant and befitting the occasion. Willig and I knew one another slightly, as he was one of my sources of information both for activities of the wealthy, whom he chauffeured, and the poor in Cheapside, where he and his wife lived. Willig clearly disapproved of me, firmly believing that women, regardless of class, had no business in a profession. A grown woman should marry, raise children, and, if wealthy, set an example for the nation through Good Deeds. I had explained to him this would never be my lot in life. He would grumble, take my money, and provide me with information. Despite his complaints, he was a good-hearted man who wanted a better life for his wife and children, and assumed one day I would come around to his point of view. “Well, Miss, ’er Grace comes from an old Caledonian family. They’ve owned that slab of rock on Loch Wright ever since it rose from the sea, or so it’s been said. ” He took off his cap with one hand, scratched his head, and replaced the cap, all the while keeping a steady hand on the reins with the other hand. “ ’Er ’usband, rest ’is soul, perished