Chapter 7 #2
The question made her falter. Her sisters’ faces rose unbidden in her mind, each of them duchesses in their own right, each of them insisting upon the proper order of things.
They had lectured her relentlessly, even made her take notes as though she were a schoolgirl, drilling into her all the dos and don’ts of her new station.
There was no possibility they had been wrong.
Yet the admission stuck in her throat, pride and stubbornness fastening it there.
She merely pressed her lips together, unwilling to gift him the satisfaction.
She recalled, with a small inward groan, how her sisters had whispered, rather solemnly, that lying with her husband would also be part of her duty.
She had stared at them, utterly bewildered.
Surely, they meant simply spending the night in each other’s company, and she could not fathom why Magnus looked so appalled at the notion.
She had taken a bath that morning; she was certain she did not snore, yet apparently, there was more to it than she understood.
Dorothy crossed her arms. “Then how are we supposed to become one?”
It was the first time Magnus’s demeanor shifted ever so obviously. His gaze softened, and he took a step back. “Excuse me?”
Dorothy clutched her hands together, her words spilling out in a rush before she could stop them.
“It is only that my sisters were most insistent. They said the wedding night is when… when one truly becomes a wife. That it is not enough to stand before the vicar or to sign the register, but that a man and his wife must… must become one. We need to become one.”
“You want to become one with me?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
“Well… it is important, is it not?” she said, thrusting her chin up and planting both hands on her hips, as though she were scolding him rather than betraying her own nervous flutter. “That is how we can be properly married. We cannot do that if your bedchamber is miles away!”
Magnus stilled, her words hanging in the air between them with more force than she could possibly have intended. His lips curved, not in amusement exactly, but in something sharper, darker. He took a slow step forward, and then another, until the width of the hallway seemed to shrink around them.
“You want to become one with me?” he asked again, his voice low, and his eyebrows raised in a way that was at once taunting and entirely too serious.
He stopped only when the wall was at her back, his hand braced just beside her shoulder, caging her without ever touching. The distance between them shrank to a breath.
“Explain yourself,” he asked.
Dorothy swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Well, it is only that... that is what I have been told.”
His head inclined, eyes narrowing with deliberate patience. “What have you been told?”
“I already told you. A marriage is not complete unless—” She faltered, her fingers twisting into her skirts.
“Unless?” he echoed smoothly, drawing the word out. “Do finish the thought.”
Her chest rose and fell quickly, as though breath itself had deserted her. “Unless a man and a woman are together.”
He stilled, then repeated, “Together.” The syllables lingered between them. “Do you even comprehend what you mean by that, Dorothy?”
Her eyes darted to his. In that moment, she wondered if she should have said anything at all. Cecilia and Emma both did not have wedding nights, and their marriages turned out nearly perfect. She did not even need perfect; she just needed it to work.
Magnus let silence stretch, his gaze burning into her. “Do you think I have cheated you of this… completion?”
“I did not say cheated,” she hurried to correct, though her hands trembled at her sides. “Please disregard what I have said. I shall retire to my chambers.”
She shifted, intending to slip past him, but he stepped forward instead, blocking her retreat. The wall was once again at her back, the breadth of his frame stealing every breath of air between them.
“Then what is it you mean? Because I do not quite think you are completely clear on our arrangement, Dorothy.” His voice dropped lower.
Dorothy swallowed, her pulse rushing in her ears.
She wanted to turn her head, to look anywhere but into that unrelenting gaze of his, yet she found herself pinned, not by his arm, not by the wall, but by the steady, piercing look that seemed to see entirely too much.
He did not speak. He simply waited, as though her fumbling explanations were of no consequence, as though the truth must present itself if he gave her no escape.
Her lips parted before her thoughts could stop them. “You have… the most peculiar set of blue eyes I have ever seen. I mean, my eyes are blue as well, but not this kind of blue. What is it?”
Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths while her thoughts scattered like leaves in a gale.
Yet even through her fluster, she found herself absurdly, perilously intent upon the shade of his eyes.
It was not sky-blue, no. She would lay claim to that hue for her own, softer gaze, touched with grey.
Nor was it the shifting blue of the sea which yielded to every mood of sun and storm.
His eyes were steadier, fiercer, less forgiving.
Perhaps sapphires then, yes. Sapphires glinting beneath a hard brilliance of light, but even that fell short, for there was warmth in them too, a warmth that ought not to belong to stone.
She searched desperately for a name, a likeness, something to contain what refused to be contained.
Her breath caught as she looked up, still measuring shades against the man before her, until at last, with a sudden motion, he stepped back, as though he must free them both from the peril of her scrutiny.
“You are an odd woman,” he murmured, almost to himself, as though uncertain whether it were a rebuke or wonder. Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel, confusion etched upon his handsome features. “I shall leave you to your rest,” he added. “Seems as though you desperately need it.”
Dorothy stood rooted a moment longer, heat prickling her skin where his gaze had lingered.
Only when his footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor did she release the breath she had been holding.
Weariness swept over her at last. She slipped into her bedchamber, closing the door with quiet hands, her heart still unsettled by the glint of those impossible eyes.
“Your Grace, the morning has come.”
Dorothy jolted upright, her heart pounding as if she had been chased from some perilous dream.
Her eyes darted about the chamber, wide and uncomprehending, searching for the shadows of fancy she was certain still lingered.
The heavy draperies, the carved bedposts, the faint glow of a fire banked low in the grate all felt too real.
Slowly, with a curious, sinking weight in her chest, she turned to find Sylvana, her maid who had been introduced to her the night before, hovering beside the bed, curtsying with a respectful tilt of her head.
It was no dream. That impossible title was meant for her.
“Good morning, Sylvana.”
Sylvana approached with a knowing smile. “If you please, Your Grace, I have laid out your gown. Breakfast is to be served in the south dining room.”
Dorothy swallowed. “With His Grace?”
Sylvana shook her head. “His Grace does not eat breakfast.”
“What kind of man does not eat breakfast?” Dorothy blurted.
The maid’s lips twitched, as if she dared not reveal amusement. “The Duke prefers to begin his day with correspondence and strong coffee. He rarely lingers over a meal in the morning.”
Dorothy pressed her palms together as she rose from the bed, struggling between disbelief and curiosity. “Strong coffee? At such an hour? That hardly seems sufficient for a man of consequence. How does he manage to keep upright?”
“You will learn, Your Grace, that the Duke is… unlike others,” Sylvana replied in a careful tone. “His Grace has his ways.”
“That’s not surprising,” she mumbled.
Still dazed, Dorothy stretched and let out a yawn. Sylvana helped her to the basin where cool water kissed her face and chased the fog from her thoughts. Rosewater followed, dabbed lightly at her temples, its scent both calming and invigorating.
“Open, if you please,” Sylvana said, producing a small jar of tooth powder and a neat brush.
Dorothy obeyed, the mint-and-chalk grit biting against her teeth until her mouth felt scoured clean.
Then came her hair. Sylvana’s fingers tugged through tangles, smoothing waves of dark silk and coaxing them into soft curls that framed her face.
At last, the gown was lifted from its stand.
It was a pale morning-blue muslin, light as a sigh.
Dorothy stepped into it, and Sylvana fastened the back.
A string of pearls was clasped at her throat, cool against her warm skin.
She stared at her reflection, still unsure if she looked like a duchess or merely a girl who had stumbled into a stranger’s life.
Once Dorothy was dressed for the day, she descended the wide staircase, her hand gliding over the polished banister.
The house was hushed, and the scent of baked bread and something sweet—perhaps cinnamon—drifted from the breakfast room, pulling her onward.
It was all so different from what her home used to be, where mornings rang with the shrill laughter of her sisters and younger brother tumbling over one another and the clatter of spoons on tin plates as her sisters bickered over who would eat the last slice of bread.
At Walford, the silence was reverent, carefully preserved, as though noise itself might shatter the grandeur.
Even her own footsteps seemed too loud upon the marble floor.
She stepped into the breakfast room expecting a long, solitary table, perhaps a footman hovering in silence to pour her tea. Instead, her gaze snagged on a small figure already seated halfway down the table. It was the little girl from the night before... Eugenia.
The girl’s fair hair had been neatly braided, her lavender frock smoothed without a wrinkle, and she sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap.
At Dorothy’s entrance, she rose from her chair quietly and made a small curtsy, graceful but without expression, as though trained to acknowledge rather than to welcome.
She did not speak or smile, merely resumed her seat with the same stillness that seemed to rest over her whole person.
Before Dorothy could gather her thoughts, a tall woman in a sober grey gown stepped forward.
“Your Grace,” she said with a dip of her head.
“I am Mrs. Miriam Tresswell, Miss Eugenia’s governess.
” Her voice carried the firmness of a woman accustomed to discipline, but her eyes softened when they flicked to her young charge.
“The Duke asked that she join you this morning.”
Hovering just behind her stood another girl, scarcely older than Eugenia but taller and lankier. She bobbed a curtsy.
“This is Jenny Tresswell, my niece and Miss Eugenia’s maid,” Mrs. Tresswell explained. “She is in her fourteenth year. She stays by Miss Eugenia’s side because they are closer in age.”
Dorothy nodded and sank into her chair at the table, her pulse still quick with surprise. “Good morning, Eugenia.”
The child’s spoon halted midway to her lips. She glanced up, her clear eyes meeting Dorothy’s only for a fleeting moment before she dropped her gaze again and bent over her plate as if the bread and porridge there required her full attention.
Dorothy’s smile wavered. She cleared her throat softly and reached for her own cup.
“Do not be discouraged, Your Grace,” Mrs. Tresswell said. “Miss Eugenia is not unkind. She only… keeps her words to herself.”
Dorothy turned toward the woman, grateful for the explanation. “She truly does not speak?”
“No,” Mrs. Tresswell replied, shaking her head gently.
“She has not spoken since she was very small. Physicians have been summoned, one after another. Learned men with many opinions, none of which have proved useful. They found no affliction of the tongue nor of the throat. Nothing that explains her silence.”
Dorothy’s eyes lingered on the girl, who now ate with careful, almost delicate movements, as though performing a ritual. “Then she chooses not to?”
Mrs. Tresswell’s expression softened. “We cannot say. But she understands everything. If you address her, she will answer in her own way. A nod, a look, sometimes a written note when she is comfortable. She is exceedingly polite. Exceedingly clever too.” She leaned forward just slightly.
“Her arithmetic is already years ahead of what one would expect.”
Dorothy felt a pang in her chest that was half pity, half curiosity. “What about her parents?” she asked carefully.
The warmth in Mrs. Tresswell’s features cooled at once. She straightened, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “I am not at liberty to speak of them, Your Grace. It is not my place.”
The firmness in her tone left no room for pursuit. Dorothy inclined her head, though a dozen questions swirled unspoken in her mind. “Of course,” she murmured, casting another look at Eugenia, who kept her eyes fixed stubbornly on her plate.
“I hear that the housekeeper is quite ready to show you about the estate once you have finished here,” Mrs. Tresswell added. She will explain all that is to be managed. It is a great house, and there is much to acquaint yourself with.”
Dorothy sat back, forcing a smile as she lowered her gaze to her plate. “At least that is something to look forward to,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Something tangible. Something that might make the walls of this great, echoing place feel a little less like they were closing in.