Page 1 of From Unwanted to Duchess
CHAPTER 1
Frances
Frances stepped out of the carriage in front of the townhouse that evidently belonged to her aunt Eugenia. It was an impressive house, four stories tall with balconies overlooking the front, as well as a wrought iron gate.
She clasped her hands together, feeling the handle of her reticule digging into her palms. This was to be her home.
Her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest as she took in the house and then the street.
The roads here were smooth, the sand pressed down properly so that the rides were smoother. Street lamps lined the road.
She had heard that in the city at night, someone would come to light the lamps. They had no such thing back home. One had towalk around with a lantern if someone wanted light out on the street.
Dusk was already settling, and she knew that soon enough, she would see the spectacle for the first time.
Oh, I sound like such a clodhopper. As if I have never been out of Bedfordshire. As if I have never been to a town. That’s ridiculous. And yet everything is so overwhelming.
“Miss,” a voice said.
She looked up to find a man standing in the doorway. A pair of black pantaloons, a crisp white shirt, a white waistcoat, and a black overcoat told her that this had to be the butler.
Of course, Aunt Eugenia had a butler. Frances had spent the entire ride attempting to think of everything she knew about the old lady, but her mind had drawn many blanks.
She knew that Eugenia was not truly her aunt. She was her father’s second cousin. They were connected through some distant relation, a grandparent or a great-grandparent or some such. She had met her on occasion when she was younger, but not for over ten years now.
She vaguely remembered the three daughters of the household. Evelyn, Charlotte, and Marianne. Marianne was closest to her in age, but beyond that, she could not recall much.
“Miss,” the butler called again, and this time his voice carried a hint of impatience.
Quickly, she hurried up the steps. Her skirt swished as she climbed them, and her shoes slapped against the stone. Her hair, which had escaped the tight bun at the back of her head, likely looked very unruly and not the way it ought, given that she was about to be presented to a lady.
“Yes,” she said. “I am Frances Langley. I am here?—”
“Franny!” a voice came from the back of the house.
The clip-clap of footsteps followed, and a moment later, she was pulled into a tight hug. Meaty arms enveloped her, and a plume of lavender and sage wrapped around her.
When she was released, she saw that the person dishing out the hug was an elderly woman.
Frances was not tall, merely five feet two, but the lady was shorter than her. Her wrinkled face beamed up at her, her thin lips curled up, her eyes sparkling with genuine delight.
“You have grown up so much! I remember when you were just a little girl bouncing on your mother’s?—”
“My mother’s knee?”
She remembers my mother.
Warmth spread through Frances. Perhaps this was a chance to learn more about her mother.
Had she always harbored this foolish hope?
“How was your journey? I am Aunt Eugenia, by the way. You probably do not remember me.”
“Genuinely, I do not,” she said. “I barely recall a whit.”
“Nonsense, you’ll just have to get to know me again. Now, come, come. Hand your luggage to Peterson, and I’ll have the footman bring in the other things.”
“I only have the one trunk.” Frances pointed behind her, where the footman had already lifted the woefully small case from the carriage.
