Chapter 8 #2
His butler, an older man with shoulders still straight despite the years, paused where he was arranging decanters upon the sideboard.
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Keene, bowing slightly. “Her Grace is playing with Miss Eugenia in the garden.”
“Playing?” Magnus let the word fall as though it were sour upon his tongue. He pushed back his chair, the scrape of wood against the floorboards sharp. He crossed to the tall windows that overlooked the grounds, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
How bitterly ironic. He had chosen this room with care when he first ordered the house refurbished, insisting that his study overlook the garden.
The expanse of clipped hedges, fountains, and climbing roses had always offered him tranquility, a stillness in which his mind might work without interruption.
This view was meant to steady him. Silence, order, symmetry.
.. that was the reason his desk sat in this very corner of the manor.
Now, it was shattered by shrieks and the peals of a woman’s laughter. His niece darted across the lawn with flushed cheeks, the Duchess not far behind her, their skirts a blur of movement through the roses. Even Mrs. Tresswell, who never softened, had the audacity to smile as she watched.
Magnus’s lips thinned into a hard line. “How, pray, is a man to work...” he muttered, “... when his garden is transformed into a nursery playground?”
He had never in all his life seen Eugenia run.
The child had always been pale, moving as though each step cost her a measure of strength she could not afford to waste.
To see her now, flying across the grass, laughter tumbling out of her like spring water, was.
.. surprising. Shocking. The sight sent a heat creeping into his chest, settling low and uncomfortably in his knees.
It was dangerous, that warmth. Dangerous because it threatened the cold discipline that kept his world in order.
He pressed his palm flat against the window ledge, steadying himself, yet his gaze refused to pull away.
The laughter swelled again, unrestrained and far too near. Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose. No, he could not take it another moment. His study was not a sanctuary anymore but a cage of noise, every peal of amusement rattling against the stone walls as though to mock his patience.
He turned around and strode from the room, every step measured but edged with irritation. Down the staircase, through the great hall, and out into the gardens where the air was sweet with late roses and maddeningly alive with voices.
He had scarcely set foot on the gravel walk when a blur of muslin and curls came barreling toward him. Eugenia, breathless and laughing, rounded the hedge and collided with him.
The small body rebounded against his frame, and Magnus’s hands shot out instinctively to steady her.
The moment her wide eyes lifted to his face, all the color drained from her cheeks.
The laughter died in her throat. She recoiled as though burned, stumbling back a step, her tiny hands flying to her skirts.
It was fear he saw in her eyes. Sharp, unvarnished fear, staring back at him from those grey eyes.
Magnus froze. For an instant, he thought the child might scream.
His lips parted, but before a word could fall, movement at the far end of the path caught his eye.
Dorothy came swiftly through the roses, bonnet askew, her expression tightening the moment she beheld him.
Behind her waddled Mrs. Tresswell, fanning herself as if the air of the garden might excuse the disturbance, and Jenny hovered uncertainly, fingers clutching her apron.
Dorothy’s eyes widened, her hand darting to Eugenia’s shoulder. She pulled the child back a step. “Eugenia,” she said, her voice a little too bright, “you must greet His Grace properly. You forget yourself.”
Magnus’s stride into the garden had been bristling with impatience, but it was not true anger.
He had come merely to put an end to the racket.
Yet the moment Eugenia skittered back as though she had collided with a wolf rather than her uncle, recoiling as if his very presence was a threat, something sharp and unwelcome stabbed through him.
His jaw set, his displeasure no longer directed at the noise but at the baffling fear reflected in the child’s eyes.
Why should she shrink so from him? He had done nothing but attempt warmth.
Magnus arched a brow. “Forget herself? She nearly knocked me over like a wayward pony.” His gaze swept the group, cold and cutting.
“How very astonishing to find you all out here. Who would have thought it? The racket you contrived carried so well I was nearly deceived into believing Covent Garden had relocated beneath my windows.”
Dorothy flushed but lifted her chin. “We were only at play, Your Grace. Children cannot be expected to sit in silence like statues.”
“Children?” His voice sharpened. “Forgive me, Dorothy, but I counted at least grown voices among the din. I am surprised Mrs. Tresswell, too, has joined the game.”
Dorothy’s lips pressed thin. “We did not expect you in the garden.”
“Indeed?” His tone dripped with irony. “You did not expect me in my own garden? Though you thundered beneath my study as though to summon me deliberately? Remarkable logic.”
Eugenia clung to Dorothy’s skirts, staring up with pale, frightened eyes.
Dorothy smoothed a hand over the child’s curls, her own gaze fixed on Magnus.
He shot her a look, his irritation flaring anew when he saw how she clung to Dorothy’s skirts as if his very presence demanded protection.
That sting cut deeper than Dorothy’s insolence.
“If the garden displeases you so, Sir, perhaps you might return to your books and leave us to enjoy it,” Dorothy added.
Magnus’s gaze fell to the child’s gown, the once pale muslin now muddied and streaked green with grass stains. His jaw tightened.
“So, this is what comes from a morning in my garden,” he said coldly. “Her dress is in a state most unbecoming. Tell me, Dorothy, was it your intention to let her run about like a stray?”
He watched her pause, the small crease of defiance in her brow, and felt the ache in his chest twist sharper.
Eugenia’s laughter, bright and careless, filled him with delight, but each gleam of fear that flickered across her face gnawed at him.
He knew he should temper his words, restrain the scolding, yet the cadence of his voice betrayed him.
Dorothy’s eyes widened at the rebuke, but before the child could wither under the sharpness of his tone, she stepped forward. “That is my fault, not hers,” she said quickly. “I encouraged her to run, and it is only a dress, Your Grace.”
“Only a dress?” His voice sharpened. “Is it also only a reputation? Only an upbringing? You are meant to be a steady influence upon my niece, not...” He gestured toward the trampled paths and scattered flowers. “... a wild companion leading her into mischief.”
Dorothy’s chin lifted, color rising in her cheeks. “Better mischief than a prison, Your Grace. She is a child, not a miniature duchess. Must she never breathe the air, never laugh, never play?”
His eyes darkened, the rebuke on his tongue meant for her alone, until he caught sight of Eugenia again. The child hovered behind Dorothy’s skirts, wide-eyed, shrinking as though he might strike her down with his very shadow.
“You defend her play,” Magnus said, his voice lower but taut. “Yet what am I to think when the child herself still recoils like this? You have been here a month; what have you been teaching her? Where is her boldness? Where is her courage?”
Dorothy drew in a breath, her lips parting in protest, but before she could reply, Mrs. Tresswell clucked softly and laid a hand upon Eugenia’s shoulder.
“Come, darling,” she murmured, sensing the storm in the air. She guided Eugenia gently toward the path. “We shall go inside and change that gown.”
The little girl cast one last, timid glance up at Magnus, then clutched Miriam’s hand and hurried away, her small shoes scuffing the gravel. Magnus remained rooted where he stood, every muscle rigid, his eyes still on the retreating figure before turning back to Dorothy.
Dorothy folded her arms, her eyes narrowing.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Was I meant to be keeping a journal of my progress? A daily account of whether Eugenia has laughed, skipped, or dared to look a beetle in the eye? Forgive me, I must have misplaced the ledger where you wished me to record her courage.”
His brows snapped together. “You take this lightly, but it is no jest. A month under your charge, and still she shrinks from me. What am I to conclude but that you have failed her?”
“Failed her?” Dorothy’s voice rose, incredulous. “You think boldness can be drilled into a child, like sums or Latin declensions? She is tender; she needs time. Not every soul bends to your commands, nor should they.”
“Time?” Magnus echoed, his tone cutting. “Time, when she is already years behind? I expected guidance, steadiness, not indulgence and dirt-stained gowns.”
“Oh, of course,” she shot back. “Because nothing says ‘steady guidance’ like constant scolding and a face so grim it might sour cream. If you truly wish her to grow bold, perhaps you might try something novel like kindness. Or heaven forbid, play.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. “You mistake me. Discipline and structure are what she requires, not frivolity.”
Dorothy gave a short, sharp laugh. “You speak as though she were a soldier in your regiment. She is a child. A lonely one. What do you offer her but silence, frowns, and the occasional rebuke? Tell me, Your Grace, how is that helping?”
“You have no idea what I have done,” Magnus said suddenly, his voice rougher now, his eyes fixed on Dorothy as though she had struck something buried deep.
“How could I possibly know?” she said softly.
“How could I know anything when you will not even tell me? We have been married a month, Your Grace, and it does not even feel like a marriage. I do not know the man I share this roof with. Only this stern, closed-off stranger who cannot abide a muddy dress.”
His head snapped back to her, his voice clipped. “We have been over this.”
“Not nearly enough.”
“I do not care to repeat myself,” he said, each word measured, controlled, the tension in his shoulders betraying the storm beneath.
“You must stop dwelling on the fact that we are married. It is done. What matters is why you are here. Eugenia. That is your purpose. You have nothing to do with me. Nothing.”
Dorothy stilled for a moment, and he saw the glisten in her eyes before she lifted her chin. “That is what I am trying to do!” she replied loudly.
Before he could reply, she turned and swept away, her skirts trailing behind her as though her anger itself propelled her.
Magnus stood rooted, his breath caught tight in his chest. He exhaled only then, slowly, realizing he had been holding it all the while they quarreled. His pulse was unsteady, his thoughts disordered. He loathed the feeling, being rattled, unsettled. It was not how he lived. Not how he survived.
Yet somehow, with her, he could not seem to help it. She rattled him.