Chapter Three #2
Margaret kept her voice steady. "I am a witness to a conversation, Your Grace. Nothing more."
"How convenient for my aunt."
"How honest of Miss Hartwell," the dowager corrected. "Well, Nathaniel? Do we have an agreement?"
The Duke was silent for a long moment.
Then he pulled a second piece of paper from his desk, wrote what he thought necessary and set it before his aunt.
"I shall dine with you," he said quietly. "Every evening. As you wish. But there will be rules."
The Dowager's eyes gleamed. "Will there?"
"Dinner will be served at seven o'clock precisely. If you are late, I will not wait. If you are unwell, you will send word by six o'clock at the latest. If you attempt to use these meals as an opportunity to lecture me on my personal affairs, I will leave the table immediately."
"And Miss Hartwell?"
"Miss Hartwell may attend if you require her presence. But she is not to be used as a weapon against me."
Margaret's breath caught, but the Dowager's smile widened.
"How very specific, Nathaniel. One might think you fear her."
"One would be mistaken. I merely prefer clarity in all arrangements."
He pushed the second document forward, close enough so that even Margaret could see it.
The Duke of Blackmere agrees to dine with the Dowager Duchess each evening at seven o'clock for the duration of her natural life. In exchange, the Dowager Duchess agrees to provide full authority to the Duke of Blackmere to act in her stead concerning financial affairs and estate management.
It was, Margaret realised with cold clarity, a business contract.
For dinner.
The Dowager read it slowly. Then she picked up the quill pen from the duke's desk and signed both documents with a flourish.
"There. We have an agreement."
The duke took the papers, checked the signatures, and filed them away with methodical precision.
"I will have copies made for your solicitor."
"How efficient." The dowager rose, leaning heavily on Margaret's arm. "I look forward to our first official dinner this evening, Nathaniel. Do try to be pleasant."
"I will try to be present. Pleasant is not included in the contract."
The Dowager laughed; a dry, humourless sound. "No. I suppose it is not."
They left the study, and Margaret helped the Dowager back to her sitting room in silence.
When they arrived, the dowager sank into her chair with visible relief.
"Well, Miss Hartwell. What did you think of that performance?"
Margaret chose her words carefully. "I think, Your Grace, that you have bound His Grace to your company through legal obligation."
"I have indeed. Because he would not come willingly." The dowager closed her eyes. "He needs structure, rules and contracts. Without them, he would drift until there was nothing left of him but work and silence."
"And me, Your Grace?"
The dowager's eyes opened. "What about you?"
"His Grace said I was not to be used as a weapon against him. Yet you insisted I attend these dinners."
"You are not a weapon, Miss Hartwell. You are a witness." The Dowager's voice softened slightly. "He needs someone to see him. To bear witness to his existence beyond duty and grief. That is all I ask of you."
Margaret looked down at her hands. "I am not certain I understand."
"You will." The Dowager's fingers drummed against the chair. "You will see him every evening now. You will watch him and listen to him. Do not try to fix him or save him. Simply... be present."
"And if he dismisses me?"
"He cannot. You are part of the contract now." The dowager smiled faintly. "I made certain of it."
Margaret's throat tightened. "Your Grace…"
"Ring for tea, Miss Hartwell. And then you may read to me. Something less tedious than Fordyce. I find I am tired of sermons."
***
At six o'clock, Margaret changed into her blue muslin and pinned her hair with shaking hands.
She was trapped now. Bound to these dinners by the dowager's manipulation and the duke's legal precision.
Every evening. For the duration of the dowager's life.
Six months, perhaps. Possibly less.
Six months of sitting across from a man who looked at her as though she were an inconvenient piece of furniture.
Six months of bearing witness to a grief she could not touch and a distance she could not bridge.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Miss Hartwell? Her Grace is ready."
Margaret took a breath and went to collect her employer.
***
The small dining room felt smaller tonight.
Margaret sat in her assigned place, to the Dowager's right, and folded her hands in her lap. The Duke arrived precisely at seven, dressed in dark blue superfine, his cravat tied with mathematical precision.
He took his seat without greeting either of them.
A footman appeared and began serving the first course.
And Margaret found that the silence was crushing.
"Miss Hartwell," the Dowager said. "Tell His Grace about the book we read this afternoon."
Margaret's hands tightened in her lap. "Her Grace chose a volume on ancient Rome, Your Grace. The campaigns of Julius Caesar."
The Duke's expression did not change. "How edifying."
"I found it rather violent," the dowager continued. "All that conquering and betrayal. Miss Hartwell found it tedious."
"I did not say tedious, Your Grace. I said the strategic sections were less engaging than the political ones."
"Ah, yes. You preferred the senate machinations to the battlefield descriptions." The Dowager sipped her wine. "Nathaniel, Miss Hartwell has opinions on political strategy. How unusual for a woman."
Margaret felt heat rise in her cheeks. The duke's gaze shifted to her—cold, assessing.
"Do you study politics, Miss Hartwell?"
"I read, Your Grace. That is all."
"Reading implies interest. Interest implies opinion." He cut his meat with precise movements. "What are your opinions on Caesar's strategies in Gaul?"
Margaret hesitated. This felt like a test.
"I think," she said carefully, "that Caesar was effective because he understood his enemy's weaknesses and exploited them without mercy. But I also think his greatest strength was his ability to make his soldiers believe they were fighting for something greater than conquest."
The Duke's knife stilled. "You believe morale matters more than tactics?"
"I believe morale enables tactics. A demoralised army cannot execute a strategy, no matter how brilliant."
"And how did you come to this conclusion?"
"By reading accounts of failed campaigns as well as successful ones, Your Grace. Failure is often more instructive than victory."
The Duke set down his knife and looked at her directly for the first time that evening.
"That is a remarkably pragmatic view for a woman whose occupation involves reading sermons to elderly ladies."
Margaret met his gaze. "Pragmatism, Your Grace, is what one learns when one's options are limited."
Something shifted in his expression. Not softness. But recognition.
He returned to his meal without comment.
The Dowager smiled into her wine glass.
The rest of the dinner passed in stilted conversation; the Dowager prodding, Margaret responding with careful honesty, the duke contributing only when directly questioned. He ate mechanically, spoke minimally and left the moment propriety allowed.
As he reached the door, he paused.
"Miss Hartwell."
"Your Grace?"
"My aunt's health is fragile. These dinners will exhaust her. I trust you will ensure she does not overtax herself."
"I will do my best, Your Grace."
He nodded once and left.
The Dowager leaned back in her chair, looking pale and satisfied.
"Well. That was almost pleasant."
Margaret helped her from the dining room and up the stairs. The Dowager's breathing was laboured by the time they reached her chambers.
"Your Grace, you should not have insisted on this arrangement. It tires you too much."
"I will rest when I am dead, Miss Hartwell." The Dowager's grip on her arm tightened. "These dinners are all I have left."
Margaret helped her to bed and waited until the Dowager's maid arrived before slipping away to her own room.
She stood at the window and looked out at the darkened grounds.
Somewhere in this house, the duke sat alone in his study. Working, avoiding, surviving.
And tomorrow night, they would do this again.
And the night after that.
And every night until the dowager died.
Margaret pressed her forehead against the cold glass and tried not to think about what would happen when the dinners ended.
When the contract dissolved.
When she had no reason left to stay.
But even now, after only three days, she knew the answer.
She would leave.
And something in this cold, silent house would break beyond repair.