The Duchess's Daughters

Chapter 1

   "Hurry, Peter!" I squeal, trying my best to run up the slippery, muddy hill to the palace, in the pouring rain.

   "I'm trying, I'm trying!" he calls back. He's only a few feet behind me, but the thick sheets of rain hammering down on us makes it difficult to hear or see anything.

I've gathered up my skirt hem and step as daintily as I can up the hill, trying to get the least amount of mud on me as possible.

   "Ella, wait-" Peter calls, and I turn around just in time to see him slip and fall on his stomach in the mud- hopelessly dirty. At least he can afford to be dirty, being the stable boy.

   "My father's going to beat me! Come ON!" I yell through the rain, brushing away clumps of wet hair, plastered to my dripping face. The rain beats down harder, if that is possible, and I can no longer see Peter, even though he hasn't moved away at all. I wait.

   "Good God, Pete! Come. ON!" I release a most unladylike bellow. I blink the drops out of my eyes, peering into the rain. Do I have to go down there and fetch him myself? Finally, I see him struggling up to me. As I see him coming, we both continue up the hill, over the slick, drowning grass.

At last, we reach the top of the hill, just as a flash of lightning cuts through the murky sky. Now it's just a headlong run across the palace yard to the doors. We sprint towards the looming sihlouette of the building as thunder loudly announces itself, followed by it's acquaintance, the lightning.

After a minute of running, we're halfway to the palace, and stop. It's time to depart. We grab each other's shoulders- his hands on mine, my hands on his. We tilt our heads down till our foreheads touch, so the rain hits the top of our heads instead of our faces. Our shoulders tremble with giggles of how absurdedly idiotic we are, and the excitement of it all. We take in gasps of the chilly summer air, trying to compose ourselves for a proper good-bye.

   "Well, then," I say, smiling so hard it hurts. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

   "Tomorrow, yes, that will do."

   "I have lessons at 8 and tea at noon, but I'll send dove to the stables for exact time." We break apart.

   "OK, I'll be waiting!"

   "Fairwell!"

He bows, and I curtsy, then he's off down the dirt road to the stables, and I'm off running across the lawn toward the white palace, the rain slapping my face. I pass a few of the elaborate, marble fountains- gargoyles and swans still spitting water from their mouths, into the pool below which is overflowing and drenching the poor grass, making it very slippery. And before I know it, I'm down. My feet fly up in front of me, and I land hard on my back, causing a splash from the pooling water on the lawn. Damn. Just my luck. I dutifully get up, chilled to the bone, and ring out my skirt, not that it helps. Then, without warning, I sneeze. Oh no. If I get sick right before my sixteenth birthday....

I brush this thought out of my head. I can't and won't afford to get ill, it's nothing. Then I take off once again for the palace, running in the rain.

Oh! How it is to be young.

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   I burst through the front doors and jump as Evelynn the parlor maid lets out a screech at the mud I've tracked in. She slams the giant oak doors shut against the howling wind and sheets of rain, grabbing her rag and getting straight to work on the mess I've made.

   "Oh, for goodness sake, you're dripping wet- Cecelia!"         

    "Yes?" Cecelia, an older, bigger, ginger maid- my personal maid since the second I was born, comes around the corner. She's taken care of me all my life, but... I wince as she sees me.

   "Oh, Miss Doyle! Whatever did you do?!" she runs off and comes back with a towel, jogging up to and wrapping gently it around me. "Oh, sweetheart, you're dripping wet!" Cecelia gasps.

   "Yes, we can see that, can't we?" Evelynn says sarcastically, kneeling and poised on the ground, waiting for me to move so she can wipe up the muddy puddle I'm forming. Cecelia glares down at Evelynn, who averts her eyes and murmers, " Beggin' your pardon Miss Doyle." I nod at her apology.

   "Miss Ella, you could've caught pnemonia!" Cecelia gasps, exasperated, then scoops me up in her strong arms and heads up the marble stairs to my room.

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   "Cecelia, you could set me down now, it's OK." I say nicely. I'm still bundled in the towel and held tight in the maid's sure grip, while she fumbles to open the room to my door.

   "Oh, don't think of it, I've almost got it Miss..." Cecelia smiles warmly, still working with the knob and holding me at the same time. I do love Cecelia, I really do, but...sometimes I think she forgets I'm almost fifteen, and no longer five.

After a minute longer of being cradled in Cecelia's arms, and gaining nothing in the concept of opening the door, a soft voice comes from inside the room. I recognize it as my mother's. The door opens from inside and she's standing in the doorway, forcing a tired smile when she sees me, in an attempt to cover up her stressed state.

My mother, the Duchess of Devonshire, is a very beautiful woman, long blond hair, slim form, and a delicate face, but her pregnancies- 9th, I believe now, stresses her out more and more every time, she never seems to have energy anymore, and she's just not herself. Father doesn't help at all, either. In fact, if you ask me, he makes things worse. Pardon, I shouldn't be thinking things like that about my Father. But Mother always looks so tired, and I worry about her so.

Cecelia smiles, nods and carries me into the room as Mother closes the door behind us. I'm carried off into our huge bathroom and finally, to my relief, Cecelia puts me down, and starts to dry me off. Mother bring me in clean clothes, and a light dress, thankfully. I thank her.

   "I'll leave you two," she says softly and with a smile, she leaves the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind her. Cecelia continues to dry me, and helps me pull my heavy layered dress over my head. It's always heavy the way it is, but while soaking wet, it's really at least ten more pounds than usual. My maid also helps me remove the deviled contraption every woman that's six and older loathes with all her heart- the corset. After Cecelia unlaces it, I pull it off, sighing, and rub the sore bruises it's been making.

Oh, the consequences of beauty.