Ch#81
The three young women, fresh from their public dressing-down, burned with a mix of fury and mortification, their cheeks aflame.
“I’ve got things to do, so I’ll be off,” Cecilia announced with a taunting grin before sweeping out of the dress shop.
Meisel and the two baronesses’ daughters seethed in silence, as the shopkeeper and attendants prudently retreated.
Meisel rode homeward without uttering a word.
The daughters of the barons at first attempted small talk, but her stony silence soon drove them to converse between themselves.
“The Duchess must be extraordinary.”
“Perhaps she received training as an heir in the capital?”
“But she’s only a daughter.”
“Even so, her mindset sets her apart from us. Wasn’t it the Duchess who proposed at the tea party that Lady Cecilia contribute those recipes?”
“I’ll admit, I’m a bit jealous.”
“Jealous? Of her what?”
“Well, she moves about freely, manages a business, and enjoys the Duke’s unwavering backing.”
“Don’t imply we’re locked away like captives.”
Meisel snapped at the mention of jealousy, her irritation flaring.
One of the girls lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug.
“What options do we have but linger in cafés or visit shops like this one?”
Us? You presume to equate yourselves with me? Meisel clenched her jaw.
Merely observing my gown selection should count as a privilege. They should count their blessings for the opportunity.
This underscored the necessity of peers in rank—even adversaries outshone dragging around these two.
“I find myself envying Lady Cecilia as well,” one confessed.
“Indeed, serving as the Duchess’s maid must bring her no end of perks.”
“It goes beyond that—she pens articles in her own name. And they compensate her for it, I hear.”
“As if the earnings amount to anything substantial.”
“Fair point…”
Yet even the skeptic appeared forlorn, her mind drifting back to the admiration Cecilia had garnered in the shop.
“I believe the magazine’s proprietor is some far-flung kin of hers,” the other ventured.
“Ah, to have connections like that…”
Their chatter only sharpened Meisel’s recollection of the shop’s indignity.
‘Do you imagine anyone could claim the role of Blenheim’s mistress?’
Cecilia had flung those words her way with a pointed glance.
You possess nothing—yet strut with such presumption, merely a servant?
Did proximity to the Duchess inflate Cecilia’s sense of self?
Meisel couldn’t lash out at the Duchess herself, but crushing a viscount’s daughter posed no challenge.
Her prior subtle jabs—petty slights at teas and assemblies—had left Cecilia unscathed.
To wound her deeply, I must shatter what matters to her above all.
“…!”
Inspiration flashed through Meisel’s mind like a thunderbolt.
“I’ve just recalled pressing matters elsewhere.”
She fixed her gleaming gaze on the pair.
“You’ll need to alight here.”
“What? But we—”
“Surely you can summon a carriage? Safe travels home.”
The driver received fresh orders, and the carriage departed, stranding the stunned noble girls on the roadside.
“Steady now. Tea first, to settle you.”
Alchent, proprietor of Northern News, appeared meek and fretful, though his demeanor carried an innate warmth.
I (the Duchess) coaxed him to drink, aiming to soothe his jitters.
He took a tentative swallow before launching into his account.
“My father launched Northern News back in his theater promotion days, to spotlight plays and operas.”
Cecilia had already shared most of this with me—his father’s enterprises had crumbled amid the Demon War, sparing only modest survivors like Northern News.
“Lately, the publication teetered on closure, but… Your Grace’s intervention kept it afloat,” Alchent said with deep appreciation.
“In Rondo, opera flourishes, so I pursued funding to revive operations there.”
“From the Merchants’ Guildmaster?” I inquired.
He mopped his brow and affirmed with a nod.
“Precisely. Baron Gelfry and several guild backers contributed capital.”
“But now they insist on immediate repayment?”
“Yes,” he lamented.
“They demand principal plus interest. Baron Gelfry apparently acquired the stakes from five other investors.”
“And failure to pay means he claims the magazine?”
“Spot on. He’s coveted Northern News for ages, though I never anticipated such abrupt aggression.”
Loopholes in the agreement rendered Alchent helpless.
“It’s essentially my father’s legacy. I’ve pleaded everywhere for funds…”
His words faded.
Cecilia had outlined the essentials beforehand; prolonging his tale served no purpose.
I withdrew a readied check and nudged it toward him across the table.
His eyes bulged.
“Your Grace?”
“This will bridge the deficit.”
He inhaled sharply at the figure.
“More than sufficient! My deepest gratitude, Your Grace!”
He’d arrived seeking a loan, never imagining full coverage. Springing up, he bowed furiously.
“I’ll cherish this kindness forever!”
“No handout—this is an investment.”
“Naturally!”
“With a single stipulation.”
He dropped back into his seat, rigidity returning.
“Y-yes?”
“Compile Cecile’s Recipes into a book.”
“A… book?” he echoed, faltering.
“Not wresting it from your grasp,” I assured him.
“Once sufficient recipes feature in the magazine, release them as a volume. My funds will handle printing, in exchange for a profit portion.”
He pondered briefly, then bobbed his head with zeal.
“Entirely feasible. We might even offer royalties to the authors.”
Cecilia’s pride in shopgirls’ recipe scrapbooks had sparked the notion.
In book form, it could reach far beyond the North—a welcome revenue stream.
Alchent expressed profuse thanks prior to departing.
Cecilia arrived lips compressed in remorse.
“Your Grace, my thanks. I’m terribly sorry…”
Never had I witnessed her so deflated.
“My oversight…” she whispered, collapsing onto the sofa as I drew her close.
“The fault isn’t yours,” I countered.
“Granted, absent your provocation, events might have unfolded otherwise. But scheming to dismantle someone’s livelihood? Utterly unforgivable.”
Merely days after Cecilia crowed about shaming Meisel in the shop, Alchent faced the Guildmaster’s ultimatum for Northern News.
I lacked precise particulars, yet Meisel’s hand seemed unmistakable.
Could a count’s mere daughter truly influence the Guildmaster?
Likely he nursed his own resentments toward me, rendering their pact expedient.
Cecilia paled, heaping blame upon herself for Alchent’s crisis.
Yet I refused to allow Northern News—and Cecile’s Recipes, my brainchild—to succumb to unworthy clutches.
Seek funds from the Duke?
He’d respond with regret over my dowry’s shortfall, proffering a check without hesitation.
No—I won’t tap his coffers for this. Alchent isn’t household like Retta.
Hence the wisdom of a private reserve.
I exhaled, unlatching my coffer to reveal scant emergency coinage.
My gaze then settled on the jewel case from Ferdinand.