Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I f the quiet of their London residence made her blood run cold, Greyvale felt still and suffocating without Damian. It was a strange realization that her arrival months ago, as the new Duchess of Greyvale, was a better homecoming than this one.
Even Cook and Mrs. Albright were too quiet during the whole journey. Gwendoline could see the looks of pity they tried to hide from her.
Hannah fidgeted next to her, letting out little whimpers from time to time. She was undoubtedly recalling what had happened the night before. She told Gwendoline that she had seen the blood and a little bit of the scuffle.
The imposing structure of Greyvale finally came into view. It made everything feel real.
Yes, Gwendoline was exiled. She should be happy that she was sent somewhere she felt she belonged, but somehow its halls felt empty.
Greyvale felt empty because Damian had made certain that she knew that it was some sort of punishment. She walked through the gilded cage feeling bereft. She could barely hear anything, except for the occasional murmurs from the servants performing their daily tasks.
Eventually, she had lost track of time. Days seemed to bleed into weeks, and she spent her time like she did during the early days of her marriage. She roamed the estate, always followed by Hannah.
“Did your master tell you to do this, Hannah?” she had asked no fewer than three times, and the maid would always give her the same answer even as she showed her disbelief each time.
“No, Your Grace. I can’t let anything happen to you. I may be small, but I’d fight them off as much as I could before they could hurt you.”
And the thing was, she believed Hannah. She believed that the maid would do anything for her.
Even inside the house, Hannah followed her everywhere. They remained quiet as they explored the rooms, a reminder of Gwendoline’s forced solitude.
But the solitude became all too real when Hannah stopped shadowing her. Both of them felt safer somehow. The days were dull and long, but it felt like a relief to be back to the usual humdrum.
Freedom.
Gwendoline had craved it so badly when she was still living with Timothy. She had a taste of it here in Greyvale, but now she no longer felt free. She felt as if every move she made would be frowned upon by Damian.
Even though he’d said so many hurtful things to her, she still wanted his favor. His love.
As she sat by the window of her chambers, she sobbed. Her eyes could no longer see the garden below. It was the same garden she used to admire. Even the sight of it filled her with grief. Even embroidery no longer gave her satisfaction. With the needle pricking her fingers so many times she believed she had lost all feeling.
Unbidden memories would creep up on her when she couldn’t find another distraction. She could still remember how Timothy had stripped her of her independence. She had lost everything with him—her father, her joy, her voice, and her sense of self. Somehow, what she was feeling today bore some resemblance to the despair and helplessness she felt back then. Except now she wanted to be next to Damian again.
A knock at the door mercifully pulled her out of her desperate thoughts. She quickly answered it, afraid that she would become so lost in her thoughts that she would no longer be able to get out of them. She thought of Damian’s mother, how she suffered through bouts of melancholy, only to kill herself in the end.
No, Damian must have cared somehow. He told her so many things that nobody else could ever guess.
“Come in,” she called, trying to sound cheerful, but her voice was too high-pitched.
Hannah entered with a tray of tea, smiling at her. “Your Grace, would you like me to pour you a cup?”
“Yes, please, Hannah,” Gwendoline replied gratefully.
The maid might have stopped shadowing her, but she was still concerned about her well-being.
Hannah gladly poured her tea. There was even a plate of her favorite biscuits on the tray.
Hannah opened her mouth, then closed it. Instead, she watched her mistress’s face for a brief moment, and she flushed when she realized she was doing it. She must have remembered that it was rude to stare, but Gwendoline knew that the maid didn’t mean anything bad by it. She was simply concerned about her.
Hannah bobbed a quick curtsy and walked out of the room, leaving the duchess alone once more.
Gwendoline didn’t know whether she liked it or not.
Sighing heavily, she turned to her writing desk. Embroidery was merely giving her jabs on her fingers. Perhaps it was time to do something less isolating, such as writing to her closest friend.
She reached for a sheet of parchment and dipped her quill into the inkwell. At least Damian made sure that she always had enough supplies. She didn’t often write to others, but she liked writing down her thoughts on paper.
Dearest Abigail,
I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize for disappearing on you and Alexandra the other night. I understand that you were held by your father, who did not want you to worry about what happened to me. Yes, I truly do.
However, I also want you to know that I did not keep my distance on purpose. My heart is heavy as I tell you that I am currently confined to Greyvale. Because of the danger I have found myself in, my movements have been limited. It grieves me, but I also know the wisdom of it.
I miss your laughter and the wisdom and strength that you seem to carry with you. We are the same age, but I feel like I need more of your sunny disposition to carry me through these days.
If you can spare some of your time, I would greatly appreciate your company. Do not feel forced to do it, but I would like to see you. I wish I could do the same, but at the moment, you’ll find me only here in Greyvale.
Always yours,
Gwendoline.
She sealed the envelope, pressing a little too hard on the wax. With renewed hope, she summoned a footman to deliver the letter.
After what seemed like forever, she finally felt a little hopeful. She knew that there would be better days ahead, although she wasn’t certain it would be with Damian.
A mere two days later, the sound of a carriage rolling up the driveway reached Gwendoline’s ears. She had been waiting, after all. Her days were mostly spent by her window, wondering if Damian would come to apologize to her, forgive her, or reconcile with her.
She pitied herself, for she was willing to take any of those scenarios just to see him return.
It wasn’t Damian who arrived, however. It was Abigail.
Her heart leaped, and she tried not to scream like a little girl when she saw her friend stepping out of her carriage.
Abigail’s emerald-green gown was a stark contrast to the cold and gray backdrop.
Gwendoline had asked the servants to show her friend to the drawing room. She rushed there, excited like a little girl about to open presents. She was glad that she wore her silk yellow dress. They would look like two blooms against an icy plain.
Ah, perhaps she would begin writing poetry again, no matter how terrible. She giggled to herself.
When she finally entered the drawing room, tears formed in her eyes. She hadn’t expected to feel so emotional when her friend opened her arms to her.
“Abigail!” she exclaimed, rushing to embrace her.
Abigail returned the embrace with a reassuring firmness and rubbed her back soothingly.
There really wasn’t anyone else who could remind Gwendoline how it was before her mother and father died.
“Your Grace, you look like you have been locked in a tower! What is happening here? Did the duke do this to you?”
Even though Abigail’s tone was light, there was a seriousness in her eyes that Gwendoline was not quite used to.
Before Gwendoline could even respond, a guard stepped into the room. His presence was a stark reminder of her new reality—of how Damian had placed restrictions upon her.
Abigail’s eyes narrowed at the intrusion. “And who might you be?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.
“I’m here to guard Her Grace,” the guard replied, his jaw hard and his eyes stern.
“Apparently, Hannah was not enough,” Gwendoline muttered.
“Guard her?” Abigail asked sharply, glaring daggers at the man. “It appears more like imprisonment, dear sir. From where I stand, I can see that your mistress can barely breathe here—and Greyvale is already intimidating, at best.”
The guard awkwardly shifted from one foot to another but said nothing. Gwendoline knew that they were trained to guard her and not to talk back.
“That will be all,” she dismissed him gently.
Sometimes, he would be barely there, but she could understand the extra precaution. After all, they had a visitor.
The guard hesitated, but after more prompting from her, he eventually left the room.
Gwendoline suspected that he would be near, anyway. Perhaps just outside the door.
The two young women settled on the sofa. The tension broke when they smiled at each other. Even Abigail’s face softened as soon as they were alone.
“Please tell me everything. I was distraught when I learned what happened to you. Alexandra was about to rush toward you, but her child caught her first. They think we ladies are delicate—that we can’t be exposed to violence or even the hint of it. But how can we protect ourselves if we are not aware of the dangers nearby?”
“I wholeheartedly agree, dear Abigail.”
“And?” Abigail prompted when Gwendoline didn’t seem too eager to tell her the full story.
For most people, that night a married lady of the ton was attacked by a peer. Everyone questioned their own safety. For Gwendoline, however, it was the night her heart was torn out of her chest by the man she thought she would protect—the same man she was willing to die for.
“Ti—Montrose did it. He was pressuring me for information. I gave it to him, and he still hit my head with his pistol. I guess I should be grateful he didn’t shoot me. The whole thing destroyed whatever I had with Damian, though. He feels as if I don’t trust him to handle things. He also believes that I’ve ruined his plans.”
It was difficult to recount how coldly Damian had treated her after she had just told her friend how things were going well between them. But she did. She talked about how she was exiled to Greyvale for her own safety. Abigail listened intently, her brow furrowed the whole time.
When Gwendoline finally finished her tale, Abigail sighed and reached for her hand to squeeze it comfortingly.
“Men,” she muttered exasperatedly. “They always think they know what’s best for us. They think that they should always get their way. The duke wants to protect you by hurting you with words before anyone else can hurt you again? Here you are, looking miserable and isolated, and it’s supposed to be good for you?”
Abigail’s words made Gwendoline wonder if her friend had somehow experienced what she was complaining about. She seemed to have strong opinions about men for an unmarried lady.
“Damian meant well,” Gwendoline said, somehow still defending her husband even though her voice lacked conviction.
“Perhaps you are right,” Abigal relented. “However, poor execution destroys good intentions. Why couldn’t he have done it without hurting your feelings? You are a strong and intelligent woman. You also did what you did for him. He could not just decide to put you in a gilded cage.”
“I did something wrong, Abigail,” Gwendoline sighed, looking down at her lap, where her other hand was clenched. “I ruined his chance at revenge. He had been planning it for years before I even met him. I made a mess of it when I involved myself in it. It’s not his fault.”
“Listen to yourself. You made the right decision. Nobody could have known what Montrose was thinking at that moment. He could have shot you. He could have had somebody shoot His Grace. All your experiences have made you develop a keen sense of survival. I wish your husband would realize that soon enough.”
Gwendoline mulled it over.
No, Abigail could not see that while she had started to develop feelings for Damian, he was more interested in revenge. Whatever they had was fragile because it was not founded on love. It was a mere alliance to bring Timothy down. Now that she proved she was the weak link, she had been discarded while Damian and Evan continued their quest.
“Whatever we have is not what normal couples have, Abigail,” she reminded her friend. “Once he gets his revenge, I will be left to languish here in Greyvale. He might be too honorable to divorce me. And if I leave him, I’ll just cause a huge scandal that I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.”
“Mm. You do know that you can always leave the country and start anew,” Abigail suggested cheekily, the dimple in her cheek popping.
“But in that case, I’ll never be able to come back,” Gwendoline pointed out.
She couldn’t imagine starting anew. She had lost so much already. Could she afford to lose her friends too? Could she stand not knowing what was going on in Damian’s life?
“Perhaps we could go wherever we wanted to,” Abigail said with good humor. Then, both of them sighed. They knew that was an impossibility.
They knew that they could dream about these things, but they were still bound by duty. Gwendoline was bound to Damian. Abigail’s absence might put her parents in a rough spot—as the ones who had raised a daughter into scandal.
“I don’t have my own money, anyway,” Gwendoline grumbled.
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
Money was the least of their problems. Their minds were full of adventure, of being governesses or even farmers. For now, they could continue dreaming together.
Abigail’s visit was a balm to her soul. Even though they might not have solved any problem, her friend had soothed her frayed nerves. Gwendoline didn’t feel quite as alone as when she started the day. By the time night fell, she felt more determined to take more control of her life and destiny.
No more fear.
No more second-guessing herself.
She did not do anything wrong. And even if she was physically weaker as a woman, there were other things that women could do.
She lay in bed that night, staring at the canopy above her. It was then that she thought of Damian again. His face. His voice. His fierce protectiveness.
The darkness could be deceitful, too. It also reminded her of his mistrust. His anger and disappointment. Then, there was his fear. No matter how angry he was at her, she knew that he was rattled when he saw her unconscious form on the ground.
“I’ll prove it to you, Damian,” she whispered into the night. “I’ll show you that while I’m a woman—a weak one at that—I’m not a liability. I can help you take Timothy down in my own way. I can make you see that I’m not a victim, nor am I your deceiver.”
It felt easier to sleep that night.
With her resolve renewed, she closed her eyes and felt her heartbeat slow down. She was not a hopeless woman who had no control of her own life.