Chapter Two
He will not come down for dinner.
Margaret stood in the blue room, her trunk unpacked, her few belongings arranged with methodical care, and knew with absolute certainty that the Duke of Blackmere would not join them for the evening meal.
Men like him did not alter their habits for the arrival of a paid companion.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
Mrs Albright entered—the housekeeper Margaret had met briefly upon her arrival. A beautiful woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and the sort of quiet competence that came from decades of managing a great house.
"Miss Hartwell, I've come to escort you to the small dining room. Her Grace dines at seven."
"Thank you, Mrs Albright." Margaret smoothed her skirts—the dark blue muslin that was her best dress, though it had seen better years. "Will His Grace be joining us?"
Mrs Albright's expression flickered. "His Grace takes his meals in his study, miss. He has done so for some time."
"I see."
"Her Grace has... expressed her displeasure at the arrangement." Mrs Albright's tone was carefully neutral. "But His Grace is not easily swayed once his mind is set."
Margaret followed the housekeeper into the corridor.
Blackmere Hall was even more imposing by lamplight; all shadows and gleaming wood, portraits of stern ancestors watching from the walls.
The silence was profound. No music. No conversation drifting from open doors.
Just the soft sound of their footsteps on thick carpet.
"How large is the household staff, Mrs Albright?"
"Thirty-two in total, miss. Though His Grace keeps only essential staff in the main house. The rest work at the estate—stables, gardens, and home farm. His Grace is particular about... privacy."
Privacy, Margaret thought. Or isolation.
They descended the main staircase and turned down a corridor toward the back of the house.
The small dining room, when they reached it, was far less imposing than Margaret had expected; a modest chamber with a table that could seat eight at most. The Dowager sat at one end, looking small and brittle in the candlelight.
"Miss Hartwell. Sit."
Margaret took the indicated seat. A footman appeared, the same young, nervous one from earlier, and began serving soup.
"Mrs Albright," the Dowager said. "Has my nephew eaten?"
"I believe His Grace requested a tray in his study, Your Grace."
"Of course he did." The Dowager's mouth thinned. "You may inform His Grace that I require his presence in the library tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. I have estate matters to discuss."
Mrs Albright hesitated. "Your Grace, His Grace has a meeting with Mr Pembroke at that hour."
"Then he will reschedule it. Ten o'clock, Mrs Albright. In the library. Tell him I shall not be discouraged by any excuses."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The housekeeper withdrew. Margaret kept her eyes on her soup, feeling the weight of the dowager's attention.
"You are wondering," the Dowager said, "why I persist in forcing my nephew to endure my company when he so clearly wishes to be left alone."
Margaret looked up. "It is not my place to wonder, Your Grace."
"Nonsense. You are wondering. You simply have the good sense not to say so." The Dowager sipped her wine. "I persist because someone must. If I do not drag him from that study, he will spend the rest of his life hiding among ledgers and tenant reports."
"Perhaps," Margaret said carefully, "His Grace finds comfort in work."
"Work is not comfort, Miss Hartwell. It is avoidance." The dowager set down her glass with deliberate precision. "But you will see for yourself tomorrow. I intend for you to be present when I speak with him."
Margaret's pulse quickened. "Your Grace, surely a companion need not be involved in estate matters."
"You are not there for estate matters. You are there to observe." The Dowager's eyes gleamed. "I wish to see how my nephew behaves when confronted with a witness he cannot dismiss."
Margaret said nothing. There was nothing to say.
They finished the meal in silence. The Dowager ate little, pushing food around her plate with visible distaste. Margaret ate because it was practical—she had learned long ago not to waste food when it was offered.
Afterwards, Margaret read aloud from Fordyce until the Dowager's eyes grew heavy and her breathing slowed. Mrs Albright appeared to help Her Grace to bed, and Margaret was dismissed with a curt nod.
She started walking towards her chambers, thinking that the Duke probably sat alone in his study. Working. Avoiding. Grieving.
She entered her room, closed the door, and did not let herself imagine what it must be like to carry such weight in absolute silence.
***
The library was a cathedral of books.
Margaret stood just inside the doorway at five minutes to ten and felt her breath catch despite herself.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall, filled with leather-bound volumes organized with meticulous precision.
Tall windows let in the morning light, illuminating dust motes that drifted like snow through still air.
A massive desk sat near the windows, its surface clear except for a single inkwell and a stack of papers arranged at perfect right angles.
"Impressive, is it not?"
Margaret turned. The dowager stood behind her, leaning heavily on Mrs Albright's arm.
"It is beautiful, Your Grace."
"It was Catherine's favourite room." The dowager moved past Margaret, settling into a chair near the fireplace with visible effort. "She spent hours here. Reading and sketching. My nephew has not set foot in it since her death."
Margaret looked around the room with new eyes. There were no cobwebs, no dust on the shelves. Someone had been keeping it maintained despite the duke's absence.
"Then why meet here, Your Grace?"
"Because it is time." The dowager's voice was firm. "He cannot avoid every room that holds a memory. He will run out of rooms soon enough."
Suddenly, there were footsteps in the corridor. Measured. Deliberate.
Margaret's hands tightened on the book she still carried from breakfast; the Dowager had asked her to fetch a volume on estate management from the shelf.
The door opened.
The Duke of Blackmere stood in the doorway, and Margaret saw immediately that he was displeased. His face was a mask of cold control, but his jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid.
"You wished to see me, Aunt."
"I did. Come in. Sit."
"I prefer to stand."
"I was not asking." The dowager's voice cracked like a whip. "Sit down, Blackmere. This is not a battlefield, and I am not your adversary."
For a long moment, he did not move. Then, with deliberate slowness, he crossed the room and took a chair opposite his aunt. He did not look at Margaret. His gaze remained fixed on the dowager with icy precision.
"I have fifteen minutes before my meeting with Pembroke. Say what you must."
"You will make time for what I require, Nathaniel. You are a duke, not a clerk."
His jaw tightened further, but he said nothing.
The dowager leaned back in her chair. "I have reviewed the estate accounts. Your steward sent them to me last week."
"Pembroke had no authority to do so without my permission."
"I am still the Dowager Duchess of this estate. I have every right to review its management." The dowager's eyes narrowed. "You have been selling off investments. Three in the past six months. Why?"
The duke's expression did not change. "The investments were underperforming. I reallocated the capital to more productive ventures."
"You reallocated the capital to the tenants' relief fund. And to repairs on cottages that were perfectly serviceable."
"The cottages required modernisation."
"The cottages required minor repairs at best. You spent three times what was necessary." The dowager leaned forward. "You are pouring money into this estate as though you can somehow earn your way back to…What? Redemption? Absolution?"
"I am ensuring the estate remains profitable, and the tenants are well cared for. That is my duty."
"Your duty," the dowager said softly, "is to live. Not to work yourself into an early grave out of misguided guilt."
The duke stood abruptly. "If you summoned me here to lecture me on how I manage my grief, you are wasting both our time."
"Sit down."
"I have a meeting…"
"Sit down."
Margaret stood very still near the bookshelves, wishing she could disappear into the walls. The tension in the room was suffocating.
The Duke remained standing, his hands clenched at his sides. "I will not be spoken to like a child, Aunt. Not even by you."
"Then stop behaving like one." The Dowager's voice was merciless. "You hide in your study. You avoid every room that holds a memory. You refuse to dine with anyone, speak to anyone, or see anyone beyond the absolute minimum required by duty. That is not grief, Nathaniel. That is cowardice."
"Enough."
The word was quiet. Deadly quiet.
The Duke turned toward the door.
"If you leave this room," the Dowager said, "I will instruct Pembroke to lock the estate accounts and refuse you access until you agree to dine with me. And Miss Hartwell. Tonight."
The duke stopped. His back was to them, his shoulders rigid beneath his dark coat.
"You would not dare."
"I am dying, Nathaniel. I have very little left to lose. And I will not spend my final months watching you bury yourself alive."
Margaret's heart pounded. She should not be witnessing this. It was too private. Too raw.
The duke turned slowly. His face was white, his eyes blazing with something that was not quite anger but something deeper and more dangerous.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to sit at a table with other human beings and remember how to behave like one."
"I will not."
"You will. Seven o'clock. The small dining room. Miss Hartwell, you and me." The dowager's voice softened slightly. "It is one meal, Nathaniel. Surely you can endure one meal."
The duke's gaze finally shifted to Margaret. She met it steadily, though her pulse was racing.