“You mean to say His Grace has estates other than this one?”
“Yes. Quite vast, mind you. Some with dense forests.”
“That sounds a great pleasure, Mrs Greer.”
“They’re lovely from what I’ve been told. I haven’t been there myself. But to answer your question, His Grace’s mother had thirty pounds a quarter for her supplies, Your Grace. Allowing for the rise in the price of dried goods, I should think forty would not be unreasonable for the present.”
Violet did not allow her face to do anything with the figure, but it was nearly twice the full annual income at Thornwick. She nodded once as if the sum was perfectly ordinary.
“I should be grateful for the use of it, Mrs Greer. I have some skill with herbs, and the apothecary’s bill need not remain quite where it is.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
She did not trust herself to keep her face in order through another page. She closed the ledger.
“I believe that is all, Mrs Greer.”
“If you wish, Your Grace.” The housekeeper’s gaze flicked to Violet then away.
“Is there something else you wish to discuss?”
“I only wanted to mention that the staff are quite looking forward to meeting Your Grace. If Your Grace is amenable to it, I could arrange a formal presentation. Perhaps this Friday morning, if it suits you.”
“I see. It does not suit me, Mrs Greer. I think I would find it too unfamiliar to be in that position. I still cannot get accustomed to being addressed as a duchess, Mrs Greer. A formal presentation would undo me entirely.”
Mrs Greer’s lips curved slightly. “As Your Grace wishes. I ought to remind you that the furniture from Gillows is to be delivered at noon, and we shall be wanted in the south rooms most of the afternoon.”
“Very well.”
“I should also like, when we may, to take you through the house room by room. There are corners of it Your Grace has not yet seen.”
“I should like that very much. Could we settle it for Thursday?”
“Thursday, Your Grace. I shall have the linen-press and the storerooms opened, and the cellar gates, if it would interest you.”
“It would.”
Mrs Greer drew a second small book from the white cloth in which she had carried the ledgers up. This one was bound in black.
“Your Grace’s engagements for the month, with the calls Your Grace ought to make in person, and the days set aside for callers. There are also the invitations.”
Violet opened the black book. The schedule covered the first leaf. The other leaves were the invitations themselves, slipped between the pages: cards in cream and ivory and one or two in pale grey, each in different hand. She turned them over. There was a dinner with the Marchioness of Bramwell, Lady Carstairs’s ball, a breakfast in Richmond on the twentieth, and a garden party at Marlowe Hall, weather permitting. There were others behind these. She had not, in her life, received so many invitations as lay between the leaves of one black book.
“This is the usual quantity, Mrs Greer?”
“It is rather more than usual, Your Grace. If I may speak plainly. The first card came the morning after the wedding. The rest have arrived over the days since. I have put before you only those which I think will require an answer.”
“They are curious about me.”
“They are curious about Your Grace, yes. And about His Grace. The marriage has been the subject of a great deal of remark.”
“I should imagine so.”
Violet closed the black book.
The door opened. A footman stood in the doorway with one foot in the corridor.
“Mrs Greer. The Gillows men are at the area door. They are an hour early.”