With hurried steps Marcelle sped down the corridors of the desolate mansion; the importance of this meeting ringing through her mind again and again. The voluminous skirts of her verdant green and cream dress made her journey difficult, clinging to her legs like seaweed in a beach. For the eleventh time that afternoon she cursed her love for all things fashionable, but a part of her knew she wouldn’t have it any other way. Passing by dreary paintings and sculpture of dubious skill, she reminded herself that she would need to instruct the servants to take the guests to the west wing instead of the east as they had planned, her reputation would never recover otherwise. She filed that thought in her mind, along the long talk with her husband about his tastes in the finer arts, or to be precise, his lack of one.

“For a member of the England peerage and an Earl, my dear husband wouldn’t recognize good art from a rock if Da Vinci himself sold it to him.” Marcelle thought, irritation sipping into her perfect expression.

She stopped in the middle of the room, an old fury burning in her blood. Memories of the last scandal her husband had caused played in her mind like a tragedy where Marcelle was the protagonist and her clueless husband the unaware antagonist. The shame left a horrible taste in her mouth and made her want to scream. But Marcelle knew she didn’t have time to spare, she had invested too much in this plan. She stomped the carpeted floor twice with her foot before moving on; all thoughts banished except for entertaining her guests.

The moment she entered the drawing room she became a flurry of motion, directing the pair of maids around the room with almost military precision. Flowers were changed and arranged, wooden tables were polished to a sheen, new sets of cards were brought in followed shortly by the tokens that would be traded later in the night. Chairs were exchanged with the mahogany set brought from Scotland while the best jugs and cups were set on the table. The pictures were dusted next while two stout servants put the various musical instruments on a corner in case entertainment was required. The curtains were open wholly, the grayish light from the clouded day gave the room a grim tone, bringing a frown to Marcelle’s face. It would have to do she reasoned, the Duchess was known to love natural light.

Marcelle had barely finished fixing the last details when a maid came to get her; the old woman, face red with exertion, informed her the Duchess’s carriage had been seen crossing the entrance to the manor. Her stomach turning in knots at the weight of the situation. Forcing a smile on her face, she left the servants to finish the preparations. The walk to the foyer seemed to last forever for Marcelle; the silence of the corridors a cold reminder of what she stood to lose in her gamble.

“You’re a Baker and a Baker always meets her problems with pride and ingenuity,” Marcelle whispered to herself, “you just need to be a good hostess and things will all turn around.”

The moment she entered the foyer, she found her husband already waiting near the doors. The short man was pale as a ghost, a feet frantically tapping the ground. To Marcelle’s eyes, her husband looked anything but comfortable in his clothes. His white shirt was too big, his brass jacket too tight, his wig was threatening to fall and his brown pants were clearly for a summer fashion and they were in autumn.

“At least he picked out the right shoes.” She thought with a bit of bitterness, resigning herself to do what she did best, improvise.

Marcelle greeted the Earl with the cold politeness of business associates before her hands fixed the mess her husband had made of her clothes. Impassive and collected, the man stood motionless like a statue, only the slight rise and fall of his chest betraying his place among the living.

It didn’t take long for the servants to announce the arrival of the Duchess with an excited shout. The eldest butler opening the oak door with muffled grunt. A chilling wind of autumn shook everyone in the room, but it was all quickly forgotten when their eyes fell on the gilded carriage parked down at the front. One of their servants, a young man barely into adulthood rushed to open the door, almost tripping over himself. The servant eagerly opened the door, offering his hand for the Duchess as was proper. Marcelle considered reducing the boy’s punishment after that.

The Duchess was the first to come out, her marble like skin complementing her salmon dress, a strip of pale green velvet tied around her waist; her wig tastefully decorated with ostrich feathers and a winning smile showing on her face. The Duke came out next; his blue cloak and jeweled cane eclipsed by his wife’s beauty. His face was stern and a little boorish, unlike the delicate features of his wife, they didn’t invite any kind of social interaction. The Duke’s hand gently craddled his wife’s hand, escorting her upstairs with a poised pace, To Marcelle’s eyes the two couldn’t be more different if they tried, while the Duke was certainly a man of power, his presence was barely a whisper and his demeanor was like that of a ghost, present but unconcerned by the world around. On the other hand, the Duchess carried herself with a confidence Marcelle couldn’t help but to admire and envy, her eyes shining with a childish twinkle.

The moment the crossed the threshold of their home, the complex dance of etiquette and politics began to take place. Introductions were exchanged as protocol demanded, first the men with curt nods and stiff bows, then the women with graceful curtsies and reserved smiles. The decoration was commented on, polite remarks were made on the gardens and the coldness of this autumn was acknowledged. With only a discrete hit on the Earl’s ribs, Marcelle prompted the man into action, inviting the Duke and the Duchess to the drawing room for a refresher. The Duke accepted the offer with the distant manner that seemed to haunt his every action.

The moment the two couples had entered the drawing room, all pretenses of unity were thrown away. The men took to the windows, discussing politics and science with the certainty of learned men. Praying to God that her husband wouldn’t ruin their plans, Marcelle took the Duchess to the sofa, where the two could rest their tired legs and backs.

If there had been one thing that Marcelle hadn’t expected from the Duchess, known for her love of fashion and her passions, was the frankness which she threw herself into conversation. Even if it was the first time the two met outside the high society parties, it didn’t take long for the Duchess to tell Marcelle to call her Georgiana with an harmonious laugh. Soon, the two were trapped in an easy conversation that changed topics so often but so seamlessly that it wouldn’t be until later that Marcelle really appreciated the depths of the Duchess’s charms. From politics to religion, science to fashion, gossip to the latest news, Georgiana had a talent to turn even the dreariest of talks into a fountain of interesting facts. However, there was one thing Marcelle noted about the duchess that worried her. Sometimes, when the Duchess turned to watch her husband, a cloud of grief coursed through her eyes. It was always a matter of moments, and were Marcelle less observant, she was sure she would’ve missed it. While she was no stranger to the coolness of marriage and the hardships of living in society, she had never seen such desperate longing in someone else’s eyes. It almost made Marcelle set aside her plans in favor of the innocent soul that laid before her.

But in the end, she made her move as they were on their thirteenth game of card. A friendly jib and a feint, soon escalated into a bigger bet. Extracting a promise for help “discerning eye” took only a couple more of games and by the time the men joined the game, she had all but secured the support of the Duchess for herself. A part of Marcelle felt cold and ruthless when Georgiana called her a true friend at the end of the evening, her warmth smile promising an invitation to the Devonshire manor in the future. It was a that moment that Marcelle realized how dangerous of a person Georgiana was, not due to malice or plotting as was the case for most of the nobles, but due to her earnest desire to connect with others.

“I’ll make it up to you. One day, I’ll make it up to you.” was the promise Marcelle made to herself as the Duchess’s carriage was lost in the night’s embrace.