Chapter 7 #2
He turned toward her with the sort of careful attention that suggested her use of his name had surprised him as well, though he concealed it better than his household staff.
“Is there something you require?” His voice was polite, controlled, but she caught a flicker of something warmer in his green eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or recognition that she was not going to prove as easily managed as his servants.
“Only to say that the house is magnificent. I look forward to learning its history.” She paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, “And to meeting Lillian properly when she is ready.”
The implication was clear—she would not be following his lead in treating the girl’s curiosity as something requiring correction. Several servants exchanged glances, clearly unused to hearing anyone offer even mild contradiction to their master’s judgments.
Edmund remained impassive, save for the slight twitch she noted in his jaw. “I’m sure she will be delighted to make your acquaintance under more appropriate circumstances.”
The emphasis on ‘appropriate’ carried a warning, but Isadora merely inclined her head as though accepting his words at face value.
She had learned to pick her battles carefully during years of navigating Father’s expectations, and this was not the time or place to challenge Edmund’s authority directly.
But neither would she allow him to believe she intended to ignore Lillian’s obvious need for companionship simply because it complicated his household’s rigid order.
Mrs. Pemberton cleared her throat delicately, clearly eager to end this display of mild marital tension before it could develop into something even more uncomfortable. “Your Grace, if you would permit me to show you to your chambers? I believe you will find them quite comfortable.”
Isadora allowed herself to be guided toward the staircase, noting the way Edmund’s gaze followed her progress.
When she glanced back from the first landing, she found him still standing in the great hall, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable in the flickering light of the Christmas torches.
The Duchess’s chambers occupied a substantial portion of the east wing, approached through a corridor lined with portraits of long-dead Ravensleighs who seemed to regard her passage with painted disapproval.
The women wore the elaborate dress of their respective eras, but all shared a certain hardness around the eyes that spoke of lives spent managing difficult men in unforgiving circumstances.
Had they, too, arrived at Rothwell Abbey as strangers, required to make their own way in this fortress of ancient stones and older secrets?
“These rooms have been prepared especially for Your Grace,” Mrs. Pemberton said as she opened a door of carved oak that must have been hanging on its hinges since the Restoration. “His Grace specified that they should be aired and refreshed, though they have stood empty for some years.”
The sitting room beyond was magnificent in its way, with tapestries that might have been priceless if one cared for such things, and furniture that spoke of centuries of accumulated wealth.
A fire blazed in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across walls hung with what looked like genuine Van Dycks.
Christmas greenery had been arranged on the mantelpiece and windowsills—holly and ivy wound through silver candlesticks, with red ribbon that provided the only spots of bright color in the otherwise somber chamber.
But for all its grandeur, the room felt cold in ways that had nothing to do with Yorkshire winter. It was beautiful as a museum might be beautiful, perfectly appointed but somehow lifeless, as though no one had ever truly lived within its walls.
“How long have these rooms stood empty?” Isadora asked, moving toward the windows that looked out over snow-covered gardens.
Mrs. Pemberton’s hands twisted in her apron, a gesture that seemed unconscious but telling. “Since the previous Duchess passed, Your Grace. His Grace’s mother died when he was but twelve years old. No lady has occupied these chambers since.”
Twenty years, then. Twenty years of emptiness, of rooms maintained but not lived in, of a house that had functioned without the softening influence of feminine presence.
No wonder the servants walked on eggshells—they had spent two decades learning to navigate the moods and expectations of a master who had grown to manhood in a household ruled by masculine authority alone.
“I see,” Isadora murmured, though she was beginning to understand far more than Mrs. Pemberton’s simple explanation had intended to convey. “And the bedchamber?”
The housekeeper led her through connecting doors to a room that was even more imposing than the sitting room.
The bed was a massive four-poster that could have slept a royal court, draped in midnight blue velvet that had probably cost more than most people earned in a year.
More portraits adorned the walls—Duchess after Duchess, each looking slightly colder than the last. Christmas candles had been arranged on every surface, their warm glow doing little to dispel the chamber’s austere grandeur.
“Your belongings have been unpacked and arranged as seemed appropriate,” Mrs. Pemberton said, gesturing toward a wardrobe that could have housed a small family. “If anything is not to your satisfaction, please ring and it will be corrected immediately.”
The emphasis on ‘immediately’ was telling, suggesting that delays in meeting the new Duchess’s requirements would not be tolerated any more than they would be in addressing the Duke’s needs.
Whatever reputation Edmund had earned for himself, it had clearly created a household where efficiency was valued above all other virtues.
“Everything appears perfect,” Isadora assured her, which was true enough if one valued perfection over warmth. “You have clearly taken great care with the arrangements.”
Relief flickered across the housekeeper’s features, so briefly that Isadora might have imagined it. “Thank you, Your Grace. Is there anything else you require at present? Perhaps some tea, or refreshments after your journey?”
“Tea would be most welcome. But first, tell me—what time does the household typically rise? And what are the arrangements regarding meals?”
Though she smiled, Mrs. Pemberton still seemed quite cold… almost as though she feared that even an inkling of warmth would set the entire manor aflame.
“His Grace typically breakfasts at seven, Your Grace. He prefers to take his morning meal in the small dining room, and to conduct estate business immediately afterward. Luncheon is served at one, dinner at eight during winter months. The household retires early—His Grace values punctuality and efficiency above all else.”
Translation: Edmund ran his household like a military operation, with schedules to be observed and expectations to be met without variation. The sort of rigid order that left little room for spontaneity or the messy complications of human need.
“And Miss Gray? What are her typical arrangements?”
Another pause, more weighted than the first. “Miss Gray takes her meals in the schoolroom with Mrs. Hale, Your Grace. Her day is structured according to her educational requirements.”
The girl was being raised in isolation, Isadora realized with a pang of sympathy. No wonder she had fled so quickly—any disruption to her carefully ordered world probably felt both thrilling and terrifying.
“I see,” Isadora said again, filing away this information for future consideration. “And His Grace? Does he typically join the household for meals, or does he maintain separate arrangements?”
The question seemed to surprise Mrs. Pemberton, as though the idea of the Duke’s dining habits being subject to discussion had never occurred to her. “His Grace dines alone, Your Grace. He has done so since returning from London several years ago.”
Since the duel, then. Since whatever scandal had earned him his dangerous reputation and driven him to this self-imposed exile.
Isadora was beginning to understand that Rothwell Abbey was not merely remote—it was a fortress in the truest sense, designed to keep the world at bay while its master nursed the wounds that had driven him to such isolation.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton. You have been most helpful.” Isadora moved toward the window. “I believe I would like that tea now, and perhaps some time to rest before dinner.”
The housekeeper curtsied and withdrew, leaving Isadora alone in the vast silence of chambers. The silence was overwhelming and thoughts muddled through her head: in a manner that was entirely unstoppable.
What had she gotten herself into?
It was not long before a soft knock at the door interrupted her brooding, and a young maid entered with a tea service that was probably worth more than the girl’s annual wages.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, setting the silver tray on a table beside the fire.
“Mrs. Pemberton said you might require refreshment.”
“Thank you.” Isadora studied the girl’s pale face, noting the way her hands shook slightly as she arranged the delicate china. “What is your name?”
“Mary, Your Grace.” The answer came so quietly it was almost a whisper.
“How long have you been in service here, Mary?”
The girl’s eyes darted toward the door as though she feared being overheard. “Three years, Your Grace. Since I was fourteen.”
“And do you find it agreeable work?”
Another nervous glance, this one accompanied by a flush of color that suggested the question was more complicated than it appeared. “His Grace is... that is, we are well provided for, Your Grace. The wages are fair, and the work is steady.”
But not agreeable, Isadora noted. Fair and steady, but not comfortable or pleasant. The girl clearly felt trapped between honesty and loyalty, unwilling to criticize her master but unable to offer genuine praise.