Chapter 9
“Will Her Grace be taking breakfast in her chambers, or shall I lay a place in the dining room?”
Her Grace. Two words that belonged to someone else—a woman who existed in ballrooms and receiving lines and all the gilded machinery of a world that had spat Rosamund out before she was old enough to understand why.
She was no more Her Grace than she was the Queen of Egypt.
She was a seamstress in a borrowed nightdress who had woken at five o’clock because the mattress was too soft and the silence was too complete and her body, trained by four years of vigilance, refused to believe that safety did not require consciousness.
“The dining room.” She turned from the window. If she took a tray in her chambers, she would be hiding. Rosamund Everleigh—Rathbourne, she corrected, and the name sat in her mouth like a pebble—did not hide. “Has His Grace already come down?”
“His Grace breakfasts at seven, Your Grace. Without fail.”
Of course he did. Without fail. The man probably scheduled his heartbeat.
She descended the staircase with her chin up and her hands clasped at her waist—a posture she had adopted during the worst months after the trial, when walking into any room had required the same courage that soldiers presumably summoned before advancing on cannon.
Tristan sat at the head of a table long enough to seat fourteen.
He occupied his chair the way he occupied every space—with an economy that left no question as to who owned the room and how little that ownership interested him.
A plate of toast, barely touched. A cup of coffee, half-emptied.
The Times spread before him, though his attention was directed not at the newsprint but at a stack of correspondence beside his plate, which he was working through with the focused efficiency of a man dismantling ordnance.
He rose when she entered. The chair scraped faintly on the parquet—the only sound that seemed permitted to exist without his authorisation.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.” She took the chair the footman indicated, fourteen feet of polished mahogany stretching between them like a negotiating table. The distance was deliberate. Everything in this house was deliberate. “You are up early.”
“I am up at seven every morning. The household operates on a schedule I find no reason to alter.” He reseated himself and returned his attention to the correspondence. “Coffee? Or do you prefer tea?”
“Tea.”
“I have received word from Hargrove this morning.” Tristan did not look up from his letters.
His voice carried the same clipped neutrality he might have used to report on the weather or the price of corn.
“The preliminary filing against your uncle’s petition has been lodged with the Court of Chancery.
The relevant documents name you as my wife and Clara as a ward of the Rathbourne household.
Hargrove anticipates the petition will be rendered moot within the fortnight, but as a precaution, I have instructed him to prepare a secondary challenge should Edwin attempt to contest the jurisdictional basis of the filing. ”
Rosamund set down her cup. “You have done all this since yesterday?”
“I began the preparations before the wedding. The filing was completed this morning.” He turned a page of correspondence, annotated something in the margin with a pencil, and set it aside.
“Clara’s legal status as your dependent is no longer contestable.
Your uncle would need to challenge the marriage itself to reopen the guardianship question, and I have ensured that the marriage is unassailable on every procedural ground available. ”
Unassailable.
“Thank you.” The words came out flatter than she intended. She tried again. “That is… I am grateful for the speed with which you have acted.”
“Gratitude is unnecessary. The matter was straightforward.” He folded the broadsheet with two precise movements and laid it beside his plate.
“Is there anything else you require this morning? Mrs Alcott can provide a tour of the household offices, if you wish to familiarise yourself with the domestic arrangements. The housekeeper’s room, the kitchens, the—”
“I am aware of how a household functions, Your Grace.”
The sharpness surprised both of them. Tristan’s hand paused mid-reach for his coffee, though his brow lifted.
“I did not mean to imply otherwise.”
“You implied that I require instruction in domestic management. I have been running a household since I was nineteen. That the household consisted of two rooms and a kettle does not diminish the competence with which I ran it.”
A beat of silence. Then, so faintly she almost missed it, the corner of his mouth moved. It was not quite a smile, but it was close to it.
“No,” he said quietly. “I imagine it does not.”
He drank his coffee. She drank her tea.
“I intend to walk the grounds with Clara this morning,” Rosamund said, because the silence had grown limbs and she needed to sever them. “If that is permitted.”
“Everything is permitted. This is your home.”
Your home. The phrase landed with the weight of a thing she could not yet believe and did not wish to examine.
She rose. He rose. They stood at opposite ends of a table that could have hosted a state dinner, separated by enough mahogany to build a modest boat, and she had the strange, involuntary thought that this was what a marriage of convenience looked like from the inside: two people performing the rituals of cohabitation across a distance neither had chosen and neither knew how to close.
She left the room without looking back.