‘Little Duke’

Prologue

Amelia Eloise Cassandra Elizabeth Francesca Evanhart Ransom III was born heir to the Grand Duchy of England on the sunny Sunday of May 27th, 1801. Amelia’s mother, Her Grace, the Duchess of London, Amelia Eloise Cassandra Elizabeth Francesca Evanhart Ransom II died a most tragic death shortly thereafter due to birthing complications. Amelia’s father, His Grace, the Duke of London, known to his intimates as, ‘Eddie,’ known to everyone else as, ‘His Grace, the Duke of London, Most High, Potent, and Noble Prince,’ suffered a minor nervous breakdown due to complications of bereavement over a most beloved wife and friend, and consequently ousted every non-immediate family-member from his property, retreating to his study to be alone with the liquor.

Amelia had yet to look on her father.

Three days later, on the rainy Wednesday of May 30th, 1801, His Grace, bleary-eyed and nose still a bit stuffed up with tears, formally put the reigns of nobility back on, and stumbled out of his sanctuary to inspect his daughter.

‘She’s beautiful,’ His Grace said in awe, meeting his only child’s baby blue eyes for the first time. The nurse, a Mrs. Phileda Beddington-often called, ‘Nurse Biddy,’ or just, ‘Biddy’ when ‘Nurse Biddy’ became too much of a mouthful to say-agreed.

‘She looks like her mother,’ Biddy added bravely.

His Grace sniffled and watched the newborn cock her head in question. ‘You look like Ellie,’ His Grace clarified. ‘She died to give you to me.’ The baby cocked her head to the other side of her pink silk pillow as if to ask why her mother would do such a silly thing as dying. ‘Because you’re precious,’ His Grace answered obstinately, not caring that his daughter was three days old and therefore probably didn’t know what the blasted hell he was talking about. ‘…And you’re mine.’ His Grace scrounged for another thing to say to explain why his daughter was apparently more valuable as a living being than his late wife. ‘You’re my blood. My heir. My only child. My…’

Nurse Biddy carefully glanced away; then looked back, but out of the corner of her eye this time, as to give His Grace and The Marchioness of London some privacy.

His Grace choked up. ‘…M-my ev-everything!’ he warbled, suddenly overcome. ‘Y-you’re my ev-everything!’

Amelia Eloise Cassandra Elizabeth Francesca Evanhart Ransom III did what any normal baby would do in such circumstances, and commenced warbling as well.

‘You s-see it, too!’ His Grace cried. ‘You see it, too!’ His Grace reached down with burly, long arms-in the process, pushing away a concerned Nurse Biddy-to lift up the fitful child and cradle her against a green vest that smelled like stale cigar-smoke and fine brandy.

Through the large nursery window, the sun climatically broke through the clouds and shined on the loving scene.

The day was looking up for father-daughter relationships everywhere.

Nurse Biddy smiled.

---

‘You come back here, you miscreant! Devil-child! Spawn! Spawn!’

Amelia skidded to a halt, hands on knees, and looked over her shoulder, taking in great, gulping heaps of air. Cook was out to murder her again. And all just because Amelia had nipped the last chocolate biscuit from the serviette.

Amelia shrugged. She really couldn’t help it if she liked chocolate.

If one wanted to look at it from a purely practical standpoint even, Amelia was doing Cook a favor. Those chocolate biscuits were meant for His Grace’s family; not the servants. And His Grace-Amelia’s father-wouldn’t be pleased, if he found out that his favorite child had learnt even an ounce of neglect at the hands of the very people whose job it was to care for her.

So really, Cook had nothing to be mad about.

‘…I told you to come back here, you malignant boil! You piteous jar of melon-sludge!’

Amelia scoffed. ‘Piteous?’ Couldn’t Cook come up with a better adjective? ‘Please.’ ‘Putrid’ sounded much meaner. Amelia was learning to out-speak Cook when she was still but a small and whinging four years old in toddling shorts. Was The Fat-Monster already running out of insults after only ten years of suffering under Amelia’s reign? That was sad. Amelia was sad for Cook.

Amelia knew that Cook liked to think that she had control over her kitchen, but Amelia knew that that wasn’t the case at all. Amelia was the ruler of that and every other domain on Evanhart property. Cook was Cook; a lowly, servile peon. Whereas Amelia was Her Lady, the Marchioness of London-and of course, if one wanted to get technical, the future Duchess of London, as well.

A lot to live up to, for sure; but Amelia had been preparing for the role her entire life.

Nabbing the last chocolate biscuit from under Cook’s pointed nose was just one of the perks of living grand.

‘I swear I’ll get you yet, you bulbous, pus-filled, sac of flesh!’

Amelia watched with eager, yet wary eyes as the strikingly large form of Farrowhead’s cook barreled down the hall in front of her. Amelia was in the alcove off to the side, and she knew from prior experience with Cook’s rages, that if she could just remain in the shadows unseen like this for a few minutes longer, Cook would eventually find someone or something else to get mad at.

And really, Amelia was getting a little too old to be chased around by Cook. She had just celebrated her tenth birthday with all the outlandish pomp and aplomb befitting a country children’s party for someone who was cousin to the king (however many ‘removed’s there were in between notwithstanding), and soon, pretty soon in fact, Amelia would be receiving a new governess to lead her in the ways of proper behavior, as Amelia hadn’t been led in before. This new governess would hopefully be with Amelia until she made her come-out in six years; so everyone knew that this new governess was the most important governess of all.

His Grace and Amelia especially.

For as The New Governess (henceforth referred to as, ‘TNG’) would soon find out, Amelia was actually a boy.

…Or as close to being a boy as one young girl could possibly be without actually being one.

And now, we get to our story.