Chapter 19 #2
“It is a tragedy, really,” Julia said, loud enough for the other patrons circulating the shop to hear.
“His Grace is a man of duty, even if he is prone to sentimental lapses in judgment. He will have to marry soon, of course. You know this, I am sure. A Duke cannot rely on wards forever. He will require a proper Duchess to provide an heir and manage a household of that stature. It is only natural and right.”
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a hiss that only Imogen could hear then.
“A man like Welton may dally with the help when he is lonely and burdened, but he will always return to his own kind when it is time to build a nest, you wretch. You are a temporary convenience, Imogen, to mend his household. A distraction. Do not mistake his charity for anything else.”
Imogen felt as though she had been plunged back into the freezing lake.
The words were a death toll to her waking heart, much as she tried to temper it.
Julia was right, which is what stung most of all.
She was a lowly maid who was masquerading as a governess.
She had only ever been a girl with a tarnished name.
She had no family, living in a world of marble and titles where she was, at best, a shadow.
“We must be going, My Lady,” Imogen whispered, her vision blurring as she watched the boys start to jump a bit closer to the busy street in their excitement. “They are waiting for me.”
She rushed out of the shop door without purchasing new mittens.
She quickly gathered the boys with sharp urgency, ushering them away from the shop and down the street.
As they walked back toward the Welton townhouse, which ironically had to be situated next to Presholm House, the grand stone pillars and perfectly manicured hedges of Mayfair seemed to mock her very existence.
They looked like the bars of a gilded cage she had no right to occupy.
Lady Presholm’s words echoed in her mind as she tried desperately to listen to the boys talk about what they had purchased.
Remember what you are.
Imogen knew that she was not a part of Ambrose’s world. She was merely a guest in it, and her time was running out. Fast. She barely felt the bite of the wind as she stepped back onto the pavement, her movements wooden and stiff.
“Miss Lewis, are you quite all right? You are walking fast,” Philip panted, skipping to keep pace with her frantic stride. He reached out to grab her hand, but she flinched reflexively before softening her touch.
“My apologies, Lord Philip. The air is turning cold,” she managed to say, though her voice sounded hollow, as if it were coming from the bottom of a deep well.
A temporary convenience, she thought. A distraction.
Every grand facade they passed, the towering limestone columns, the gleaming brass knockers, the footmen in their stiff liveries, seemed to sneer at her.
It was as if they could smell the inferiority of her breeding emanating from her.
She was a fraud in a borrowed cloak, playing a part that had no happy conclusion.
As they rounded the corner toward Berkeley Square, a tall figure in a well-tailored navy coat emerged from a hatter’s shop, nearly colliding with them.
“Steady there! It is called an afternoon stroll, not a mad dash,” a cheerful voice rang out. “Boys, Miss Lewis!”
Imogen blinked, forcing her eyes to focus. It was His Grace, The Duke of Kirkhammer. Unlike her Duke’s often stormy countenance, this Duke’s face was usually lit with a crooked, knowing grin. But as his gaze fell on Imogen, his smile faltered.
“Miss Lewis?” he asked, his tone shifting to one of genuine concern. He glanced at the boys, who were busy inspecting a puddle, then back at her. “You look as though you’ve just seen a phantom. Or perhaps a tax collector.”
Imogen tried to summon her usual mask of professional decorum, but it slipped. She could not even laugh at his well-timed joke. Her lower lip trembled for the briefest of seconds before she bit it down on it.
“It can’t be as bad as all that,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Your Grace, I am just distracted, is all. I… we were just returning to the house. It is nothing. The wind was turning cold, and I didn’t want Lord Philip to be out too long. You see, this is his first time out since being so ill, and I wanted it to be a joyous occasion. And it was! Until she—”
The Duke of Kirkhammer narrowed his eyes, leaning in slightly.
“She?” He pressed.
“I have said too much. I tend to babble on when I am nervous.”
“Why are you nervous, Miss Lewis?” He let the question hover in the air until he clicked his tongue. “So, you’ve run into her, haven’t you? Lady Presholm. In fact, I had the displeasure of seeing her carriage two streets back. Is that it?”
Imogen did not answer, which was an answer in itself. She looked down at Arthur’s hat, adjusting it with trembling fingers just to have something to do with her hands.
“Don’t let her venom settle in your marrow, Miss Lewis,” the Duke of Kirkhammer said, his voice uncharacteristically soft and serious. “Lady Presholm measures the world in centimeters of blue blood. She is incapable of seeing anything else.”
“I am aware. And yet, she is not wrong about the world, Your Grace,” Imogen whispered, her gaze fixed on the pavement.
“And what does that mean?”
“A Duke has a duty,” she said, the softness of his voice and her need for a friend emboldening her.
“That is debatable,” The Duke of Kirkhammer laughed. “If I am any evidence of that. What do you mean, Miss Lewis?”
“He requires an heir. A… proper Duchess. I am under no illusions about my place in his house, and that it is temporary. I must be smart and look ahead, for my future…”
Future… that is a laugh.
He reached out, briefly squeezing her shoulder once more in a gesture of friendship that was technically improper but deeply kind.
“Perhaps His Grace will find a Duchess one day, but that is of no import to you.”
“Of course not,” Imogen said as she began to sweat, despite the cold. “It was just in her tone, the way she speaks…”
“Do not start packing your bags just because a viper hissed at you,” he ordered. “His Grace is a many-layered man, much like an onion, but he is not a cruel one. Give him more credit than she does. He is a worthy employer.”
“I must get the boys home,” Imogen insisted, unable to meet his eyes. She felt that if she stayed a moment longer, she would break apart entirely.
“Of course,” he said, stepping aside and tipping his hat. “Take care of your governess, lads. She is a good one!”
“Yes, she is,” they said in unison as they walked away.
As Imogen reached the steps of the Welton townhouse, she looked up at the massive front door. It no longer felt like the entrance to a home. It felt like the boundary of a dream she was about to be shaken awake from, despite the Duke of Kirkhammer’s kind and pragmatic words.
Remember what you are.