Her Duchess

Two

The east wing was a cheerful apartment — or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean. It gave the appearance of an unused parlor. It took seven housekeepers to keep every inch of it spotless. The tall windows looked east and west. Through the west one, facing out to the rose hedges, came a flood of mellow June sunlight. The east side gave a pleasant view of the bloom white cherry-trees in the orchard.

The east wing was used mainly for all household affairs.

At 8:30 AM, the senior staff assembled for a monthly meeting. There were twenty-six employees working at Averbury estate, including six footmen, twelve gardeners, three electricians, and two chauffeurs.

Shirley was sipping her black coffee while reviewing a stack of files. They contained all the expenses of the castle. The funeral of the late Duke was one of the costly events the Wintours had ever organized. Shirley had to report it to Violet later that afternoon. She also kept track of Violet's daily schedules.

So far, the heiress had no appointment aside from an invitation for a banquet at Green Garden on Friday. Her long-time friend, Lady Florence of Grovefield, would arrive at Averbury on Thursday for the occasion. Shirley had to make sure the house was in perfect order before that.

"James, is there any mail delivery for Her Grace this morning?" Shirley asked one of the footmen.

"No, ma'am," said a red-haired youth, "but I spotted a minivan outside our property."

"Paparazzi," muttered Shirley as if they were fruit flies. The areas used to be very quiet many years ago. Now that Violet Wintour had become nothing sort of a nation-wide sensation, the castle was almost never free of unwanted attention. But she wouldn't blame them. It had been centuries since there was a Duchess like Violet.

"The pantry and the wine cellar need to be restocked, Ms. Shirley," the butler said. "We will run out of the fine Boudeaux in a month."

"Geez, they might as well raid the whole cellar," Shirley scoffed. "I forgot whose bad idea it was to serve wine at the funeral."

"Lord Raymond, ma'am," offered a female housekeeper named Hannah. "He said his older brother would prefer the guests to celebrate than to mourn over him because he had a life well-lived."

"As if we don't have enough of his middling," Shirley muttered under her breath again. "I'm pretty sure he celebrated all right."

"Is it true that the lord is going to take over the castle?" whispered Hannah. Shirley felt like someone just dumped a bucketful of ice over her.

"Where did you hear that?" she said, narrowing her eyes at the young housekeeper.

"Oh, it's already on the news, ma'am," she replied sheepishly.

Shirley pinched the bridge of her nose in despair. It obviously traveled faster than she had feared.

"I wonder if Her Grace is going to marry anyone," Judith, the kitchen staff added with a look of worries. "Will we be preparing for a wedding or getting sacked?"

At the mention of it, a wave of anxiety rippled through the others. They began to murmur their concerns.

"If the castle gets taken over by Lord Raymond, then where are we going to go?" someone asked in a panic.

"Oh quiet now, no one is getting fired, and stop talking about the wedding," Shirley hushed them. "If there's nothing else, then get back to work, or somebody is getting fired for sure."

After everyone left the kitchen, Shirley's mind began to wander to the same questions. She wanted to know what her young Duchess was planning.

In the midst of her reveries, her cell phone buzzed. She glanced at the message on the screen and had to stop what she was doing. It came all the way from the study room of the west tower. Shirley gathered her stuff immediately then rearranged her suits before heading off.

~*~

Clare Leighton unlocked her front door but had to give an extra push to swing it open. She shrugged off her coat and slipped out of her walking boots. But not until she switched the light on that she found her house a complete shambles.

"What the...?" she cried, staring at the mess around her. "Mom?"

"Clare?" a woman's voice called out from the kitchen. Her voice was hoarse with tears.

Clare went straight to the kitchen and found her mother sitting on the counter, hugging her knees. She immediately stumbled her way through the overturned chairs and broken plates to her.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"The debt collectors," was all her mother could say before breaking a sob.

"Where is Dad?"

"I have no idea. He just went out after they left."

Clare hugged her mother. Her heart ached to see her like this, but she was more worried about her dad.

"Shh...that's alright, I will put the house back together in no time," she consoled the sobbing woman in her arms. Looking around, Clare couldn't even see the floor. It didn't resemble a house anymore.

"I'm so sorry, Clare," her mother sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry? It's not your fault."

"You don't deserve to see this."

Clare sighed and hugged her mom tightly.

After an hour of picking up broken pieces, Clare managed to clear the kitchen and sat down with her mother, waiting for her father to come home.

"Here, Mom, have some chamomile tea, it will calm you down." She inched the steaming teacup to the older woman. Clare had never seen her mom looking so worn out. Her heart clenched again. It was midnight, and none of them had eaten yet.

Then they heard the door open. David Leighton walked in with stumbling feet.

"Merry furking christonchristoncs!" he cried at the top of his lungs.

Both women went to help him through the hallway. But drunk people tend to be heavier than usual, and when they reached the living room couch, they dumped him there.

"Whoa! Jenny, who is spinning the floor? Please, stop him!" he cried. "Our house is not a Russian roulette!"

Clare's mother clicked her tongue in irritation.

"We won't be having any house anymore if you keep it up," she hissed but all the while pulling off his shoes.

"Drunky drunk I am," David said with a giggle. "Jenny, I love you so much. I can fight four hundred snails for you."

"Mom, next time you have to call the police," Clare said after she came back with a pitcher of cold water and wet cloth. "We can't let them do this to us."

"No, honey, it only makes things worse," her mother said with a shake of her head. Her once shiny blonde hair had turned gray and dry like rug's treads.

"But we already paid them back, didn't we?" Clare tried to reason.

"Only the interest. They said we still have a lot more to pay. And we just received a notice of foreclosure. We are over 90 days late for our mortgage. Oh, honey, I don't know what to do!"

Her mother covered her face with her hands and cried again. Clare went to hold her. She looked at her dad, now snoring. It was a sorrowful sight. Clare had done everything she could, but even working three different jobs wasn't going to cut it.

For the first time, Clare Leighton felt the tiredness seeping to the very marrow of her bones. She was beyond exhausted and all she wanted to do was to put herself to sleep, and perhaps, in her wildest dream, she would wake up somewhere else.