A Suitable Match 7/?
Title: A Suitable Match
Author: fringedweller
Pairing: McCoy/Chapel, Pike/One, Rand/Kirk, others het and slash.
Warnings: Regency AU, with all that entails, including a wilful rewriting of history to suit my plot. I've fiddled with dates, made up entire countries, altered national political policy and pretended that racism didn't exist in the early nineteenth century. So, basically, your average regency romance.
Rating: PG to start, rising to NC-17 at the end
Beta: The fabulous seren_ccd, also others who have looked over the beginning of the fic. Thanks to all of you! Also huge thanks to searingidolatry who made all the fantastic graphics.
Length: 4075/59718
Summary: Lady Christine has successfully dodged the clammy-handed, small-brained idiots on the Marriage Mart for two Seasons, but everyone, including her recently married sister, insists that there's a suitable match out there for her. She doubts it.
Disclaimer: Nothing that you recognise here is mine. Also, I'm not making any money from this.
Author's Notes: I know that Sulu is canonically American, not Japanese, but for the purposes of this fic I've changed his nationality.
Chapter Seven: Where the Duke of Albany is very bad at trying to be subtle and Lady Christine makes an unusual request.
“So, Bones,” Kirk said companionably as he slung himself into a comfortable chair in front of the fire after dinner one evening a few days later. “What do you think of Chrissie?”
McCoy glanced over at Lady Christine, who was sitting on the other side of the room with her sister and Miss Rand. The duchess and Lady Christine were talking animatedly, and Miss Rand was listening and attending to her embroidery. They were paying no attention to the men before the fire.
“I think Lady Christine is an amiable, genteel lady,” McCoy said warily. “Why?”
Kirk made a face.
“Amiable? Genteel? That’s not exactly high praise, Bones.”
“It is from me,” McCoy replied firmly. At Kirk’s pointed look, he sighed and set down the newspaper he had been reading.
“Fine,” he said irritably. “She is intelligent, and good company.”
“Be still my beating heart,” muttered Kirk.
“Jim, I have known her all of one week,” McCoy pointed out. “To make any other judgement of her is impossible, and certainly not polite, especially in public.”
He fixed his friend with a hard stare.
“Why do you want to know?” McCoy said suspiciously. “What do you have planned?”
“Nothing!” Jim said innocently, which only made McCoy more suspicious. Innocence was not a quality that one applied to Jim with any regularity or truthfulness.
After another prolonged glare, Jim sighed and gave in.
“Although it pains me to say this about a woman who has, to date, pushed me into a manure heap, a fountain, two ponds and a thorn bush, she is most attractive. Her face is beautiful and her figure is absolutely splendid.”
Here Jim paused to take in Christine’s splendid figure as she walked to the tea-trolley to pour another cup for her sister. McCoy could not help but follow her path with his eyes also, then caught Jim’s sly glance at him and dived back into his newspaper again.
“If you are so enamoured of her, why don’t you do something about it?” McCoy asked gruffly. “Your mother has been pressing you to marry; Lady Christine seems eminently suitable to be the next Duchess of Albany.”
Jim sighed. “If it were as easy as that, Bones, I would have proposed at the start of the Season and had done with the whole business. No, Chrissie and I decided some years ago that we would not suit, and I must say that the decision was a wise one. She is fond of me, but does not have the respect for me that a wife should have for her husband. And when I look at her, all I see is the ten year old harridan that beat me at archery and saw fit to dunk me in ponds. I am more a brother to her than anything else, and I am glad of it.”
For a moment McCoy thought that Jim was about to continue, but his friend fell silent. It did not take a genius to figure out in which directions his thoughts lay, however, as Kirk cast a look that was full of longing in the direction of Miss Rand.
McCoy sighed.
“Although I know that I will regret saying this,” he said from behind his newspaper, “I should point out to you that you are the Duke of Albany, you know. Pre-eminent peer of the realm and all that rot. If you were to propose to a lady, any lady, there would be very little chance of her turning you down. Society would accept her as your wife; they could hardly do otherwise. Who amongst them would dare cut you?”
“Truly told, Bones, it is the very title that is keeping me from proposing,” Jim said quietly. “If I were simply Mr Kirk with two thousand a year and a simple house, I think that the lady would accept me without a second thought. But the thought of facing society matrons as a duchess is not for the faint of heart. Look at Una. She is one of the strongest women of my acquaintance, and she is spending her first Season here in the countryside rather than in town.”
McCoy, who had noticed the symptoms of the Duchess of Riverside, and had concluded that maternity was impending, kept his mouth shut.
“To ask somebody born to another sphere of life to take on that role is difficult, especially if the lady herself is gentle and quiet in nature,” Jim continued sadly.
McCoy raised an eyebrow behind his newspaper. Governesses, especially successful ones like Miss Rand, were not known for their quiet, meek natures. Given that Joanna had the full inheritance of Jocelyn’s petulance and his own temper, McCoy had a shrewd idea that gentle, quiet Miss Rand was in reality a martinet in a morning gown.
Which, he realised with a secret smile, would be exactly the sort of woman necessary to keep Jim on the right course. He had remonstrated with Jim previously about his fascination with Miss Rand because Jim was a notorious rake, who had cut a swathe through the pretty wives of ton. Those women could fend for themselves, but Miss Rand had no society friends to protect her reputation. She was from a small country village with no connections at all in London, and he felt protective of her reputation; as her employer, it was his duty to defend her from men like Jim.
But if this was more serious than a tumble in an empty guest room, if Jim was actually in possession of real feelings for Miss Rand, then McCoy could think of no reason to oppose the match other than that of the sensibilities of Jim’s mother. She had let him know that she was angling for a match with one of Prinny’s cousins - an HRH in the family was considered a great coup - and what the Dowager wanted, she got. To tell her that her only son and the heir to the entire Albany fortune wanted to marry a governess of low birth and no family would require more testicular fortitude than most men were in possession of.
The sensible thing to do would be to bow to society’s dictates and look among the daughters of the aristocracy for a woman to wear the duchess’ coronet. However, none of Jim’s plans ever had a lick of sense about them, and they worked every time. More or less.
The sound of the door to the drawing opening and closing got the attention of its occupants. It was the admiral, who had left their number some time earlier to speak to a messenger who had arrived just as dinner had ended.
“I have good news,” he said, as soon as he had reached the centre of the large room. “That was a messenger from London. Our royal guests will be arriving in Bristol in three days time, and will be with us on the fourth. The Vulcanian ambassador is already in London, and will travel to arrive on the same day as the rest of them.”
“About time,” Jim said cheerfully.
“Everything is in place to receive them,” Una told her husband. “Mrs Barrett has reported that the servants are ready to welcome the retinues of our guests, although Cook is having conniptions of the thought of catering for foreign palates. Somebody told her that all the Japanese will eat is raw fish, and she nearly cried.”
“Their servants will eat what they eat, which will be the usual fare,” the duke stressed. “There will be no raw fish for anybody except the cat.”
There was some laughter in the room. Una went on to detail the arrangements, but they were simple enough with her well-trained staff. The most sumptuous room in the ladies wing of the house, that Christine should have been using, was being kept for the Princess Nyota. Similarly, the best rooms in the wing for single gentlemen had been reserved for the Japanese, Russian and Vulcanian princes. Una had drawn up plans for all sorts of both indoor and outdoor amusements, to break up hours of negotiation over trade and political discussions.
“I shall spend most of my time curtseying,” said Christine good-humouredly. “What with all this royalty about, I shall feel quite sea-sick from bobbing up and down all the time.”
“I have only met the Princess before, but she seemed most easy with her manners,” her brother in law assured her. “I am sure that she will not stand upon ceremony unduly.”
“I have met the Vulcanian ambassador previously,” Christine said. “He wasn’t exactly what you would call friendly, but he and I had a quite civil discussion.”
“What on earth could you have to talk about?” Jim said, curling his lip. “I’ve met him before. He’s such a dull stick.”
“We talked of Jenner,” Christine said firmly.
“Edward Jenner?” McCoy asked, surprised to hear the eminent scholar being mentioned by the beautiful young woman.
Christine nodded. “His royal highness recommended a book, a copy of the report Jenner recently made to the Royal Society. I have been reading it recently.”
“How have you found it?” McCoy asked, interested in her opinion. “I bought a copy just before I left London and read it in the coach on the journey here.”
“I must admit that a portion of it surpassed my understanding,” Christine said, obviously annoyed at the deficiency in her education. “But that which I could follow seemed most interesting. Are you interested in vaccination, my lord?”
“I am,” he replied gravely. “If they had been vaccinated against smallpox, Joanna’s mother and grandfather would still be alive. If the process is as safe as Dr Jenner suggests, I believe that as many people should vaccinated as possible.”
Christine blanched. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said quietly. “I should not have spoken on the subject.”
“It is of no matter,” McCoy said gruffly, waving off her apology. While he had mourned his father honestly, he mourned the loss of Jocelyn more for the sake of his daughter than for his own. “I believe that Doctor Jenner is resident in Gloucestershire. I had planned on writing him a letter, and asking him if he would consent to a visit.”
Lady Christine’s eyes regained their sparkle.
“I would dearly love to meet him,” she said excitedly. “Please write, Lord Arundel.”
“An outing to the countryside would be a nice excursion for our guests,” mused Una. “Perhaps two birds would be killed with one stone - you could visit with your esteemed doctor, and we could picnic afterwards.”
“It would certainly interest Spock, and I seem to recall that the Russian prince is of a scientific bent,” the admiral concluded. “You must write, Arundel, and see when Dr Jenner will receive us.”
“I would have thought that the party would give his poor wife a fit of the vapours,” remarked Kirk. “Three princes, two dukes and an earl, as well as a princess, a duchess and two other ladies, all in her best parlour?”
“Don’t forget Joanna,” warned McCoy. “I want to have her vaccinated, although I beg you all not to mention it to her. I fear she will take on at the thought of it.”
“I think that I would like to be vaccinated also,” Miss Rand said suddenly, quite shocking the company. Although she routinely attended meals with the rest of the household and sat with them after dinner, she rarely spoke in front of the whole group, preferring to converse with Lady Christine, who was becoming quite a particular friend, or the duchess.
At the surprised look of the rest of the company she blushed a little, but carried on bravely.
“I lost both my parents to smallpox; if, God forbid, I were to contract the disease it would leave my brothers quite alone in the world. If Lord Arundel thinks it safe enough a procedure for Lady Joanna, then I would appreciate the chance to be vaccinated also.”
“I didn’t know you had brothers,” Jim said into the silence of the room. “Are they younger than yourself?”
“Yes, your Grace,” she replied, looking down at her embroidery. “Robert is fourteen, and Henry eleven. They are at school presently, and they live with my father’s aunt when down for the holidays.”
“When was the last time you saw them?” Jim asked.
“Two years ago, your Grace,” Miss Rand said carefully. “But we correspond regularly.”
“Two years!” said Jim, aggrieved. “What, not even on Christmas?”
“They live many miles away, in Cornwall,” Miss Rand replied. “By the time I reached there, it would be time to return to London. It does not signify, my lord. They are happy, and do not miss me. Besides, there is Lady Joanna to consider.”
Jim said nothing, for fear of mortifying her further, but he cast a baleful glance at McCoy, blaming him with a single look for the distance between Miss Rand and her family, the length of the Christmas holiday period, the state of the House of Commons and the price of sugar.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and the admiral saw to break it by asking his wife how the great sewing project was coming along. It was a source of great merriment to him that his mother in law had sent so large a quantity of fine quality materials to his house. The sight of a veritable battalion of women arriving at Berkely a week previously, ready to cut and stitch clothes for his wife and her sister, had caused much laughter. Una reported, with great satisfaction, that they were well on the way to a wardrobe of complete elegance that would rival any of the patronesses of Almacks.
“I don’t suppose they could run up a waistcoat or two, could they?” Jim asked, peering down at his current favourite, a gold silk creation. “With all of your finery, I’m worried that I’ll be under-dressed.”
“There is a wonderful crimson that’s just the thing,” Christine told him, a small smile threatening the calm composure of her face. “It’ll bring out the red of your eyes.”
“Christine!” Una scolded. “You’re not ten years old anymore. You cannot say such things in front of our company.”
“Have no fear, my manners will be all that they ought,” her sister reassured her. “But I could not resist.”
Una sighed heavily.
“Jim, get your valet to speak to Mrs Barrett, the housekeeper. I’m sure that something can be arranged.”
“Speaking of your valet, Jim,” the admiral interrupted. “Roddenberry has informed me that he’s asked if he could have the use of a small outbuilding as some kind of workroom while he’s here. Is there any reason I should say no?”
“Admiral, if you let Scott have a workroom I can promise you that he’ll have revolutionised some part of your house by the time we leave,” Jim chuckled. “He’s already invented a way of making coach rides feel as smooth as silk, even on bumpy country roads, and he has some contraption in Albany House that produces ice by the bucket load in minutes.”
“Of course, he has also caused six kitchen fires while trying to produce a more efficient way to toast bread,” McCoy pointed out. He was still irritable about the last one; Scott had been tinkering in the middle of the night, and the whole house had been evacuated into the cold in their nightwear. It was very difficult to remain stately and dignified when in a nightshirt and slippers in the middle of Piccadilly.
“The ice machine was of great use in that instance,” Jim argued, and McCoy rolled his eyes and went back behind his newspaper.
“Perhaps one of the more distant outbuildings,” the admiral said thoughtfully, and the matter was adjourned.
It was decided that the admiral and Jim should go to meet the visiting royalty with their carriages, to show respect for the position of the royal dignitaries by sending two dukes to accompany them back to Berkely Hall. The duchess was to remain at the house, with her sister and Lord Arundel, in case the Vulcanian prince arrived before the Bristol delegation returned home.
Una spent the best part of the morning pacing in front of the windows of a small parlour that was not usually in use. It was cold and not particularly well decorated, but it did boast a view of the sweeping drive, and would allow her to know when her guests arrived minutes before Roddenberry could get a message to her.
Christine, aware of the stress that this visit was putting on her sister at such a delicate time, spent the morning co-ordinating with the housekeeper over the hundreds of last minute decisions regarding the furnishing of the royal suites, the location of the foreign servants’ bedchambers, tweaks to the menu to accommodate the fact that slugs had got into the blackberry bushes and ruined dessert and the order of precedence.
It was the last that was giving her such a headache; Christine, like all ladies of her station, had the order of precedence for British royalty and nobility firmly drummed into her by her governess. She could plan a table and instruct staff for any combination of British nobles, but the vastly different foreign social structures confused her. Both the Russian and the Japanese princes were styled their imperial highness, compared to the royal highness used by the African and Vulcanian guests. Did that mean that they had precedence? But the Vulcanian prince was the heir to the throne, while the Japanese and Russian princes were members of cadet branches of their royal lines; should Prince Spock take precedence at table? Then there was Princess Nyota to consider; she came from a matriarchal society, and was a daughter of the ruling queen - she would be used to being considered the most important person in any room she was in. There were no rules regarding royal women of independent power that Christine had ever learned - their last queen was Anne, now dead these last hundred years.
It was, in short, a great problem, and one that was making Roddenberry, usually so unflappable, flap wildly. She was peering at a seating chart with the butler in the breakfast room when Lord Arundel entered.
“Am I late?” he asked, glancing down the empty table.
“No, my lord,” Christine said, rubbing her temple as she scratched her pencil through yet another botched placement. “The arrival of our guests had prompted an earlier than usual start.”
“Ah,” said McCoy, helping himself from the serving platters. “That explains it. What are you working on there?”
“We are trying to work out how to avoid offending anybody at dinner,” Christine said, wishing she could throw the blasted paper into the fire that was blazing cheerily in the hearth. “A fact not made easy by the fact we have five nationalities, four different titles and not nearly enough women.”
She glared at the paper again, as if willing the hopelessly confused scribbles to dance around neatly and order themselves.
“You should do as King Arthur did,” McCoy said, trying to make her smile. “Sit everyone around a round table, precedence be damned.”
Christine stared at him open-mouthed, looked down at her seating plan again, and beamed at him.
“No wonder Jim rates you so highly, sir,” she said with great admiration. “You are indeed a genius.”
McCoy reddened a little at such undeserved praise, but Christine had turned away from him and faced Roddenberry instead.
“Roddenberry, somewhere upstairs there is a room with an incredibly large round table in it, a massive mahogany piece with matching chairs. The legs are carved with mythical beasts, and it has the most gorgeous marble inlay. I found it accidentally when I was looking for the library.”
Roddenberry nodded.
“I know the room you speak of, my lady, and the table.”
“Organise the footmen to move the table down to the dining room along with the chairs, and place the table from the dining room into storage somewhere. Tell Mrs Barrett to get her maids dusting and polishing it as we’ll be using it for all our meals together.”
“Very good, my lady,” Roddenberry said, looking relieved. A round table at dinner would mean serving would be a lot easier for his staff. He left to deliver his orders, and soon the sound of busy voices could be heard starting the laborious process of dismantling and removing the heavy oak table of the dining room.
“I had meant it as a joke, you know,” McCoy said gruffly. “Will her Grace not mind you shifting the furniture about?”
“In the state she’s in at the moment, she probably won’t notice until we sit down to eat,” Christine said absently. “I do wish she would rest more, but she’s wearing a hole in the carpet at the moment with her pacing. All this fuss and worry can’t be good for the...”
Christine stopped herself just in time, but a panicky look at McCoy told her that there was at least one other person in the house who knew of her sister’s pregnancy.
“I have not told anyone that your sister is expecting a baby,” he hurriedly assured her. “But to a medical man, her symptoms are quite telling.”
“That and the fact that she’s pulling the nursery apart,” Christine said ruefully.
“Well, that was a large clue,” McCoy replied, looking relieved at the fact that she was not upset.
“Truly told, I am glad that you know,” Christine confessed. “I know that we have only been of a few weeks’ acquaintance, Lord Arundel, but I hope you do not think it too forward of me when I tell you that I am grateful that we have a medical doctor of your intellect and ability here. Christopher thinks highly of you, and Jim is convinced that you hung the moon. Una is my only sister and my closest friend. God forbid anything untoward occur, but...”
She trailed off, and smiled tremulously.
“Just knowing that you are in the house brings me much peace of mind,” she finished quietly.
McCoy stepped forward and offered her his hand, an unconscious gesture of support that she accepted immediately. His large hand closed over her smaller one, gentle but strong.
“If there is anything I can ever do to be of service to you or the duchess, you must ask, immediately,” he told her earnestly. “I mean this, Lady Christine, any task at all.”
“Do you mean that?” she asked, her blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“I do,” he said firmly. “Anything at all. You have my word.”
“Good,” she said brightly. “I find myself shockingly uneducated on the whole subject of pregnancy. I would appreciate it if you would enlighten me.”
It was worth the impropriety of the question to see the look of horror break out over his face.
She waited as long as she dared, and then said, “Of course, I am in possession of the basic facts; my father is a biologist, remember, and I have a completely inappropriate lady’s maid who is an education in and of herself. But I lack knowledge about the development of the child, and the birth process.”
He looked less flustered now that he would not have to explain to the daughter of one of the richest men in the country how babies were made, although his colour was still too pale for comfort.
“You did say anything,” she reminded him.
“I did,” he responded, a small smile forming now that the shock was wearing off.
“I want to be useful,” she told him earnestly. “And I cannot help Una if I do not understand her...situation.”
“Very well,” McCoy agreed. “You will no doubt be busy in the first few days of these talks. But when things have settled down a little, and you are not needed, we will sit and I will answer your questions on the subject to the best of my ability.”
“I will hold you to your promise, my lord,” Christine warned him. “If you will excuse me, I have to find the housekeeper and apologise for shifting furniture about today of all days.”
He nodded, and seemed to realise belatedly that he still had hold of her hand. He let go and she immediately missed the warmth of it. She nodded at him, slightly awkwardly, and went off to find Mrs Barrett.
dating advice
Author: fringedweller
Pairing: McCoy/Chapel, Pike/One, Rand/Kirk, others het and slash.
Warnings: Regency AU, with all that entails, including a wilful rewriting of history to suit my plot. I've fiddled with dates, made up entire countries, altered national political policy and pretended that racism didn't exist in the early nineteenth century. So, basically, your average regency romance.
Rating: PG to start, rising to NC-17 at the end
Beta: The fabulous seren_ccd, also others who have looked over the beginning of the fic. Thanks to all of you! Also huge thanks to searingidolatry who made all the fantastic graphics.
Length: 4075/59718
Summary: Lady Christine has successfully dodged the clammy-handed, small-brained idiots on the Marriage Mart for two Seasons, but everyone, including her recently married sister, insists that there's a suitable match out there for her. She doubts it.
Disclaimer: Nothing that you recognise here is mine. Also, I'm not making any money from this.
Author's Notes: I know that Sulu is canonically American, not Japanese, but for the purposes of this fic I've changed his nationality.
Chapter Seven: Where the Duke of Albany is very bad at trying to be subtle and Lady Christine makes an unusual request.
“So, Bones,” Kirk said companionably as he slung himself into a comfortable chair in front of the fire after dinner one evening a few days later. “What do you think of Chrissie?”
McCoy glanced over at Lady Christine, who was sitting on the other side of the room with her sister and Miss Rand. The duchess and Lady Christine were talking animatedly, and Miss Rand was listening and attending to her embroidery. They were paying no attention to the men before the fire.
“I think Lady Christine is an amiable, genteel lady,” McCoy said warily. “Why?”
Kirk made a face.
“Amiable? Genteel? That’s not exactly high praise, Bones.”
“It is from me,” McCoy replied firmly. At Kirk’s pointed look, he sighed and set down the newspaper he had been reading.
“Fine,” he said irritably. “She is intelligent, and good company.”
“Be still my beating heart,” muttered Kirk.
“Jim, I have known her all of one week,” McCoy pointed out. “To make any other judgement of her is impossible, and certainly not polite, especially in public.”
He fixed his friend with a hard stare.
“Why do you want to know?” McCoy said suspiciously. “What do you have planned?”
“Nothing!” Jim said innocently, which only made McCoy more suspicious. Innocence was not a quality that one applied to Jim with any regularity or truthfulness.
After another prolonged glare, Jim sighed and gave in.
“Although it pains me to say this about a woman who has, to date, pushed me into a manure heap, a fountain, two ponds and a thorn bush, she is most attractive. Her face is beautiful and her figure is absolutely splendid.”
Here Jim paused to take in Christine’s splendid figure as she walked to the tea-trolley to pour another cup for her sister. McCoy could not help but follow her path with his eyes also, then caught Jim’s sly glance at him and dived back into his newspaper again.
“If you are so enamoured of her, why don’t you do something about it?” McCoy asked gruffly. “Your mother has been pressing you to marry; Lady Christine seems eminently suitable to be the next Duchess of Albany.”
Jim sighed. “If it were as easy as that, Bones, I would have proposed at the start of the Season and had done with the whole business. No, Chrissie and I decided some years ago that we would not suit, and I must say that the decision was a wise one. She is fond of me, but does not have the respect for me that a wife should have for her husband. And when I look at her, all I see is the ten year old harridan that beat me at archery and saw fit to dunk me in ponds. I am more a brother to her than anything else, and I am glad of it.”
For a moment McCoy thought that Jim was about to continue, but his friend fell silent. It did not take a genius to figure out in which directions his thoughts lay, however, as Kirk cast a look that was full of longing in the direction of Miss Rand.
McCoy sighed.
“Although I know that I will regret saying this,” he said from behind his newspaper, “I should point out to you that you are the Duke of Albany, you know. Pre-eminent peer of the realm and all that rot. If you were to propose to a lady, any lady, there would be very little chance of her turning you down. Society would accept her as your wife; they could hardly do otherwise. Who amongst them would dare cut you?”
“Truly told, Bones, it is the very title that is keeping me from proposing,” Jim said quietly. “If I were simply Mr Kirk with two thousand a year and a simple house, I think that the lady would accept me without a second thought. But the thought of facing society matrons as a duchess is not for the faint of heart. Look at Una. She is one of the strongest women of my acquaintance, and she is spending her first Season here in the countryside rather than in town.”
McCoy, who had noticed the symptoms of the Duchess of Riverside, and had concluded that maternity was impending, kept his mouth shut.
“To ask somebody born to another sphere of life to take on that role is difficult, especially if the lady herself is gentle and quiet in nature,” Jim continued sadly.
McCoy raised an eyebrow behind his newspaper. Governesses, especially successful ones like Miss Rand, were not known for their quiet, meek natures. Given that Joanna had the full inheritance of Jocelyn’s petulance and his own temper, McCoy had a shrewd idea that gentle, quiet Miss Rand was in reality a martinet in a morning gown.
Which, he realised with a secret smile, would be exactly the sort of woman necessary to keep Jim on the right course. He had remonstrated with Jim previously about his fascination with Miss Rand because Jim was a notorious rake, who had cut a swathe through the pretty wives of ton. Those women could fend for themselves, but Miss Rand had no society friends to protect her reputation. She was from a small country village with no connections at all in London, and he felt protective of her reputation; as her employer, it was his duty to defend her from men like Jim.
But if this was more serious than a tumble in an empty guest room, if Jim was actually in possession of real feelings for Miss Rand, then McCoy could think of no reason to oppose the match other than that of the sensibilities of Jim’s mother. She had let him know that she was angling for a match with one of Prinny’s cousins - an HRH in the family was considered a great coup - and what the Dowager wanted, she got. To tell her that her only son and the heir to the entire Albany fortune wanted to marry a governess of low birth and no family would require more testicular fortitude than most men were in possession of.
The sensible thing to do would be to bow to society’s dictates and look among the daughters of the aristocracy for a woman to wear the duchess’ coronet. However, none of Jim’s plans ever had a lick of sense about them, and they worked every time. More or less.
The sound of the door to the drawing opening and closing got the attention of its occupants. It was the admiral, who had left their number some time earlier to speak to a messenger who had arrived just as dinner had ended.
“I have good news,” he said, as soon as he had reached the centre of the large room. “That was a messenger from London. Our royal guests will be arriving in Bristol in three days time, and will be with us on the fourth. The Vulcanian ambassador is already in London, and will travel to arrive on the same day as the rest of them.”
“About time,” Jim said cheerfully.
“Everything is in place to receive them,” Una told her husband. “Mrs Barrett has reported that the servants are ready to welcome the retinues of our guests, although Cook is having conniptions of the thought of catering for foreign palates. Somebody told her that all the Japanese will eat is raw fish, and she nearly cried.”
“Their servants will eat what they eat, which will be the usual fare,” the duke stressed. “There will be no raw fish for anybody except the cat.”
There was some laughter in the room. Una went on to detail the arrangements, but they were simple enough with her well-trained staff. The most sumptuous room in the ladies wing of the house, that Christine should have been using, was being kept for the Princess Nyota. Similarly, the best rooms in the wing for single gentlemen had been reserved for the Japanese, Russian and Vulcanian princes. Una had drawn up plans for all sorts of both indoor and outdoor amusements, to break up hours of negotiation over trade and political discussions.
“I shall spend most of my time curtseying,” said Christine good-humouredly. “What with all this royalty about, I shall feel quite sea-sick from bobbing up and down all the time.”
“I have only met the Princess before, but she seemed most easy with her manners,” her brother in law assured her. “I am sure that she will not stand upon ceremony unduly.”
“I have met the Vulcanian ambassador previously,” Christine said. “He wasn’t exactly what you would call friendly, but he and I had a quite civil discussion.”
“What on earth could you have to talk about?” Jim said, curling his lip. “I’ve met him before. He’s such a dull stick.”
“We talked of Jenner,” Christine said firmly.
“Edward Jenner?” McCoy asked, surprised to hear the eminent scholar being mentioned by the beautiful young woman.
Christine nodded. “His royal highness recommended a book, a copy of the report Jenner recently made to the Royal Society. I have been reading it recently.”
“How have you found it?” McCoy asked, interested in her opinion. “I bought a copy just before I left London and read it in the coach on the journey here.”
“I must admit that a portion of it surpassed my understanding,” Christine said, obviously annoyed at the deficiency in her education. “But that which I could follow seemed most interesting. Are you interested in vaccination, my lord?”
“I am,” he replied gravely. “If they had been vaccinated against smallpox, Joanna’s mother and grandfather would still be alive. If the process is as safe as Dr Jenner suggests, I believe that as many people should vaccinated as possible.”
Christine blanched. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said quietly. “I should not have spoken on the subject.”
“It is of no matter,” McCoy said gruffly, waving off her apology. While he had mourned his father honestly, he mourned the loss of Jocelyn more for the sake of his daughter than for his own. “I believe that Doctor Jenner is resident in Gloucestershire. I had planned on writing him a letter, and asking him if he would consent to a visit.”
Lady Christine’s eyes regained their sparkle.
“I would dearly love to meet him,” she said excitedly. “Please write, Lord Arundel.”
“An outing to the countryside would be a nice excursion for our guests,” mused Una. “Perhaps two birds would be killed with one stone - you could visit with your esteemed doctor, and we could picnic afterwards.”
“It would certainly interest Spock, and I seem to recall that the Russian prince is of a scientific bent,” the admiral concluded. “You must write, Arundel, and see when Dr Jenner will receive us.”
“I would have thought that the party would give his poor wife a fit of the vapours,” remarked Kirk. “Three princes, two dukes and an earl, as well as a princess, a duchess and two other ladies, all in her best parlour?”
“Don’t forget Joanna,” warned McCoy. “I want to have her vaccinated, although I beg you all not to mention it to her. I fear she will take on at the thought of it.”
“I think that I would like to be vaccinated also,” Miss Rand said suddenly, quite shocking the company. Although she routinely attended meals with the rest of the household and sat with them after dinner, she rarely spoke in front of the whole group, preferring to converse with Lady Christine, who was becoming quite a particular friend, or the duchess.
At the surprised look of the rest of the company she blushed a little, but carried on bravely.
“I lost both my parents to smallpox; if, God forbid, I were to contract the disease it would leave my brothers quite alone in the world. If Lord Arundel thinks it safe enough a procedure for Lady Joanna, then I would appreciate the chance to be vaccinated also.”
“I didn’t know you had brothers,” Jim said into the silence of the room. “Are they younger than yourself?”
“Yes, your Grace,” she replied, looking down at her embroidery. “Robert is fourteen, and Henry eleven. They are at school presently, and they live with my father’s aunt when down for the holidays.”
“When was the last time you saw them?” Jim asked.
“Two years ago, your Grace,” Miss Rand said carefully. “But we correspond regularly.”
“Two years!” said Jim, aggrieved. “What, not even on Christmas?”
“They live many miles away, in Cornwall,” Miss Rand replied. “By the time I reached there, it would be time to return to London. It does not signify, my lord. They are happy, and do not miss me. Besides, there is Lady Joanna to consider.”
Jim said nothing, for fear of mortifying her further, but he cast a baleful glance at McCoy, blaming him with a single look for the distance between Miss Rand and her family, the length of the Christmas holiday period, the state of the House of Commons and the price of sugar.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and the admiral saw to break it by asking his wife how the great sewing project was coming along. It was a source of great merriment to him that his mother in law had sent so large a quantity of fine quality materials to his house. The sight of a veritable battalion of women arriving at Berkely a week previously, ready to cut and stitch clothes for his wife and her sister, had caused much laughter. Una reported, with great satisfaction, that they were well on the way to a wardrobe of complete elegance that would rival any of the patronesses of Almacks.
“I don’t suppose they could run up a waistcoat or two, could they?” Jim asked, peering down at his current favourite, a gold silk creation. “With all of your finery, I’m worried that I’ll be under-dressed.”
“There is a wonderful crimson that’s just the thing,” Christine told him, a small smile threatening the calm composure of her face. “It’ll bring out the red of your eyes.”
“Christine!” Una scolded. “You’re not ten years old anymore. You cannot say such things in front of our company.”
“Have no fear, my manners will be all that they ought,” her sister reassured her. “But I could not resist.”
Una sighed heavily.
“Jim, get your valet to speak to Mrs Barrett, the housekeeper. I’m sure that something can be arranged.”
“Speaking of your valet, Jim,” the admiral interrupted. “Roddenberry has informed me that he’s asked if he could have the use of a small outbuilding as some kind of workroom while he’s here. Is there any reason I should say no?”
“Admiral, if you let Scott have a workroom I can promise you that he’ll have revolutionised some part of your house by the time we leave,” Jim chuckled. “He’s already invented a way of making coach rides feel as smooth as silk, even on bumpy country roads, and he has some contraption in Albany House that produces ice by the bucket load in minutes.”
“Of course, he has also caused six kitchen fires while trying to produce a more efficient way to toast bread,” McCoy pointed out. He was still irritable about the last one; Scott had been tinkering in the middle of the night, and the whole house had been evacuated into the cold in their nightwear. It was very difficult to remain stately and dignified when in a nightshirt and slippers in the middle of Piccadilly.
“The ice machine was of great use in that instance,” Jim argued, and McCoy rolled his eyes and went back behind his newspaper.
“Perhaps one of the more distant outbuildings,” the admiral said thoughtfully, and the matter was adjourned.
It was decided that the admiral and Jim should go to meet the visiting royalty with their carriages, to show respect for the position of the royal dignitaries by sending two dukes to accompany them back to Berkely Hall. The duchess was to remain at the house, with her sister and Lord Arundel, in case the Vulcanian prince arrived before the Bristol delegation returned home.
Una spent the best part of the morning pacing in front of the windows of a small parlour that was not usually in use. It was cold and not particularly well decorated, but it did boast a view of the sweeping drive, and would allow her to know when her guests arrived minutes before Roddenberry could get a message to her.
Christine, aware of the stress that this visit was putting on her sister at such a delicate time, spent the morning co-ordinating with the housekeeper over the hundreds of last minute decisions regarding the furnishing of the royal suites, the location of the foreign servants’ bedchambers, tweaks to the menu to accommodate the fact that slugs had got into the blackberry bushes and ruined dessert and the order of precedence.
It was the last that was giving her such a headache; Christine, like all ladies of her station, had the order of precedence for British royalty and nobility firmly drummed into her by her governess. She could plan a table and instruct staff for any combination of British nobles, but the vastly different foreign social structures confused her. Both the Russian and the Japanese princes were styled their imperial highness, compared to the royal highness used by the African and Vulcanian guests. Did that mean that they had precedence? But the Vulcanian prince was the heir to the throne, while the Japanese and Russian princes were members of cadet branches of their royal lines; should Prince Spock take precedence at table? Then there was Princess Nyota to consider; she came from a matriarchal society, and was a daughter of the ruling queen - she would be used to being considered the most important person in any room she was in. There were no rules regarding royal women of independent power that Christine had ever learned - their last queen was Anne, now dead these last hundred years.
It was, in short, a great problem, and one that was making Roddenberry, usually so unflappable, flap wildly. She was peering at a seating chart with the butler in the breakfast room when Lord Arundel entered.
“Am I late?” he asked, glancing down the empty table.
“No, my lord,” Christine said, rubbing her temple as she scratched her pencil through yet another botched placement. “The arrival of our guests had prompted an earlier than usual start.”
“Ah,” said McCoy, helping himself from the serving platters. “That explains it. What are you working on there?”
“We are trying to work out how to avoid offending anybody at dinner,” Christine said, wishing she could throw the blasted paper into the fire that was blazing cheerily in the hearth. “A fact not made easy by the fact we have five nationalities, four different titles and not nearly enough women.”
She glared at the paper again, as if willing the hopelessly confused scribbles to dance around neatly and order themselves.
“You should do as King Arthur did,” McCoy said, trying to make her smile. “Sit everyone around a round table, precedence be damned.”
Christine stared at him open-mouthed, looked down at her seating plan again, and beamed at him.
“No wonder Jim rates you so highly, sir,” she said with great admiration. “You are indeed a genius.”
McCoy reddened a little at such undeserved praise, but Christine had turned away from him and faced Roddenberry instead.
“Roddenberry, somewhere upstairs there is a room with an incredibly large round table in it, a massive mahogany piece with matching chairs. The legs are carved with mythical beasts, and it has the most gorgeous marble inlay. I found it accidentally when I was looking for the library.”
Roddenberry nodded.
“I know the room you speak of, my lady, and the table.”
“Organise the footmen to move the table down to the dining room along with the chairs, and place the table from the dining room into storage somewhere. Tell Mrs Barrett to get her maids dusting and polishing it as we’ll be using it for all our meals together.”
“Very good, my lady,” Roddenberry said, looking relieved. A round table at dinner would mean serving would be a lot easier for his staff. He left to deliver his orders, and soon the sound of busy voices could be heard starting the laborious process of dismantling and removing the heavy oak table of the dining room.
“I had meant it as a joke, you know,” McCoy said gruffly. “Will her Grace not mind you shifting the furniture about?”
“In the state she’s in at the moment, she probably won’t notice until we sit down to eat,” Christine said absently. “I do wish she would rest more, but she’s wearing a hole in the carpet at the moment with her pacing. All this fuss and worry can’t be good for the...”
Christine stopped herself just in time, but a panicky look at McCoy told her that there was at least one other person in the house who knew of her sister’s pregnancy.
“I have not told anyone that your sister is expecting a baby,” he hurriedly assured her. “But to a medical man, her symptoms are quite telling.”
“That and the fact that she’s pulling the nursery apart,” Christine said ruefully.
“Well, that was a large clue,” McCoy replied, looking relieved at the fact that she was not upset.
“Truly told, I am glad that you know,” Christine confessed. “I know that we have only been of a few weeks’ acquaintance, Lord Arundel, but I hope you do not think it too forward of me when I tell you that I am grateful that we have a medical doctor of your intellect and ability here. Christopher thinks highly of you, and Jim is convinced that you hung the moon. Una is my only sister and my closest friend. God forbid anything untoward occur, but...”
She trailed off, and smiled tremulously.
“Just knowing that you are in the house brings me much peace of mind,” she finished quietly.
McCoy stepped forward and offered her his hand, an unconscious gesture of support that she accepted immediately. His large hand closed over her smaller one, gentle but strong.
“If there is anything I can ever do to be of service to you or the duchess, you must ask, immediately,” he told her earnestly. “I mean this, Lady Christine, any task at all.”
“Do you mean that?” she asked, her blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“I do,” he said firmly. “Anything at all. You have my word.”
“Good,” she said brightly. “I find myself shockingly uneducated on the whole subject of pregnancy. I would appreciate it if you would enlighten me.”
It was worth the impropriety of the question to see the look of horror break out over his face.
She waited as long as she dared, and then said, “Of course, I am in possession of the basic facts; my father is a biologist, remember, and I have a completely inappropriate lady’s maid who is an education in and of herself. But I lack knowledge about the development of the child, and the birth process.”
He looked less flustered now that he would not have to explain to the daughter of one of the richest men in the country how babies were made, although his colour was still too pale for comfort.
“You did say anything,” she reminded him.
“I did,” he responded, a small smile forming now that the shock was wearing off.
“I want to be useful,” she told him earnestly. “And I cannot help Una if I do not understand her...situation.”
“Very well,” McCoy agreed. “You will no doubt be busy in the first few days of these talks. But when things have settled down a little, and you are not needed, we will sit and I will answer your questions on the subject to the best of my ability.”
“I will hold you to your promise, my lord,” Christine warned him. “If you will excuse me, I have to find the housekeeper and apologise for shifting furniture about today of all days.”
He nodded, and seemed to realise belatedly that he still had hold of her hand. He let go and she immediately missed the warmth of it. She nodded at him, slightly awkwardly, and went off to find Mrs Barrett.
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