Chapter Eight
Hattie left the room and headed to her chambers.
To say she was stunned was an understatement.
She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d confessed to this being an academy as Ophelia and Trudy had teased her about before she’d left to start her adventure here as governess.
How she longed for their counsel now. They would know what to do. She didn’t.
Her mind was racing, her thoughts colliding with one another, and her uncertainty was as big as the Manor itself.
She sealed herself safely into her chambers, pressed her body against the back of the door to ensure she was indeed awake and not dreaming, and closed her eyes.
She couldn’t possibly pretend to be some Lady Penelope Denning.
Could she?
She opened her eyes and moved away from the door and allowed herself to soak in the calm beauty of her room.
She set aside the book the Duke had given her on her nightstand and walked to the large, gilded dressing mirror.
Standing before it, she tried to imagine herself with the trappings of a fine silk gown, sparkling jewels, a fancy bandeau woven through her tresses and pristine gloves matching her dress.
She gathered up her hair in a twist with her good arm and couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of such an idea.
Trudy would have pursed her lips at her and Ophelia would have cheered on her foolishness as she had when they were little.
On rainy days, the trio of them could while away a whole afternoon pretending to be anything other than where they were or what they were: orphans alone in the world.
Their favourite game they nicknamed ‘the day’.
It was the day they would be adopted all together by a fancy, wealthy family that loved them instantly.
They used old ribbons to tie back their hair and a sheet from their beds as a long train as one of them pretended to be their new mother, a regal yet kind woman eager to love them just as they were.
Hattie’s chest tightened. That day had never come.
No one had ever adopted any of them. No wealthy family had saved them.
They had aged out of the orphanage and saved themselves.
Together. She tugged up the cuff sleeve of her dress and ran her fingertips over the worn string bracelet with three purple glass beads around her wrist. Hers was identical to the ones Ophelia and Trudy had and the three of them had worn them for years as wish bracelets.
Once broken, their wishes were supposed to come true.
While none of them had been worn away and broken just yet, they teased how Ophelia would forcibly break hers so her wish of finding her prince would come true soon, as she had grown restless of waiting.
Hadn’t they all?
Hattie smiled as she ran her fingertip over the lopsided pale-purple beads.
They had saved for weeks to purchase them from the milliner’s shop years ago.
Hattie’s wish had never changed: she wanted independence and the safety that regular work provided.
Securing steady work like she had now was her dream as it would allow her a sense of safety she had never had and she could support Ophelia and Trudy, too, if all continued to go well.
They were her family. She would do anything for them.
Her chest tightened. Just as His Grace would do anything for his daughter.
While his request appeared absurd to her, part of Hattie understood where it had been born from: love mixed with desperation.
She had felt that way before many times.
To know a duke with all his wealth and standing would share such a feeling and experience with someone like her was a revelation and a surprise.
She never would have expected His Grace to suffer from the same problem.
Wealth had always seemed like a solution and an escape from where she had been as a child, but perhaps she had been all wrong.
Perhaps wealth could not fix all that was broken.
She completed her ablutions and dressed for bed, still mulling over the events of the day. Her body and shoulder ached and Mrs Chisholm came in with a steaming draught with a powder to help her sleep. She lingered nearby.
‘Do you have need of anything else, Miss Potts?’ Mrs Chisholm asked.
Hattie fidgeted with her hands. If anyone knew of what His Grace had proposed to her, it was his housekeeper. Did she dare?
‘Advice?’ Hattie said, hesitating a moment before continuing. ‘I am confused and I have no one to counsel me here.’
Mrs Simmons smiled sympathetically. ‘Is this about your conversation with His Grace?’ she asked.
Hattie sighed in relief, knowing she didn’t have to break any confidence by speaking with her.
‘Yes. And I want to help His Grace and Lady Millie, but I…’ She paused.
‘I cannot imagine anyone would believe me to be a lady of breeding. Look at me.’ Relief over sharing her insecurity and fear freed her, if only for a moment.
She plopped down on the edge of her bed.
Mrs Chisholm watched her. ‘May I?’ she asked, gesturing to the bed.
Hattie patted the space next to her and wiped a tear from her cheek. The day had been simply too much.
‘I believe you could, Miss Potts. You are a handsome woman. You just lack the confidence, if I may say so.’ She patted Hattie’s hand and Hattie’s heart skipped in her chest. No one other than Ophelia and Trudy had ever thought her pretty. Her cheeks warmed.
‘But it is also a great deal to ask of anyone and, if I am honest, I was surprised he asked it of you. It is a compliment to you. He must trust you. His Grace has difficulty asking for help.’
‘Really?’ Hattie asked. ‘Why?’
‘He didn’t always have such difficulties, but when his older brother died ten years ago, he changed. Hardened. I think he was angry about losing him.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Carriage accident. Then, when his wife died in a carriage accident in a…similar fashion…just last year…it was difficult for him. Such a loss seemed to bring it all up again. He closed up, isolated himself in London and then here after his father passed.’
‘So much loss,’ Hattie murmured, her heart swelling with compassion.
‘Too much. But he has been lighter since you arrived,’ Mrs Chisholm added with a smile. ‘You have made Lady Millie happy, which in turn has made him happy as well.’
Her cheeks burned hotter under her praise. ‘Thank you.’
‘So, whatever you decide, you have a post here as governess, I know that much. He told me so.’ She winked at Hattie and clutched her hands, and the warm, soft feel of them over her own made her think of her mother. A lump filled her throat and her eyes welled again.
‘Have a sleep on it,’ she said, squeezing Hattie’s hands before releasing them. ‘Your heart will know the right decision in the morning. It works for me every time.’
‘Thank you for the advice, Mrs Chisholm,’ Hattie replied, wiping a tear from her cheek. ‘I will do that.’
The older woman rose. ‘And be sure to take your tonic. It will ease some of the ache and help you sleep.’ She glanced at Hattie’s shoulder.
‘I will. Thank you.’
After the door closed quietly, Hattie pulled back the covers and crawled into bed.
The cool sheets and soft mattress enveloped her and she sighed aloud.
She propped herself up with the numerous pillows, sipped on her tonic and opened to the first page of the story ‘Cinderella’.
Soon the words were blurry and she submitted to her body’s need for sleep.
Hattie knocked on the door to His Grace’s study the next morning, her pulse hammering in her throat. She had awoken early, ready to speak with him and she could wait no longer.
‘Enter,’ His Grace replied.
Hattie opened the door slowly and it squeaked on its hinges.
‘Simmons, please see if that door can be oiled and I have some correspondence for you to—’ He turned his head to her and his words fell off into an abyss.
‘Miss Potts,’ he spluttered out. He haphazardly folded the broadsheet he was reading, pulled his feet down from where they had been crossed at the ankles and propped on the corner of his desk, and stood.
Blast. She knew she should have waited. She gripped the edges of her skirts. What had she been thinking?
‘I am sorry. It is an early hour. I just wished to speak with you, Your Grace. I tend to be an early riser and I did not think—’ She did an awkward curtsy although she had no idea why.
They were far beyond such ridiculous formalities.
She righted herself quickly and as she took in the sight of him her throat dried.
Lord, he was handsome.
His untied cravat dangled about his neck and his loosened tunic gaped open, revealing a clean ‘v’ of skin at his throat and a sliver of his fine collarbone and chest. His brown hair was dishevelled as if he’d been running his hands through it and he had a shadow of stubble darkening his face.
Once again, she was reminded he was no elderly Duke, but a man in his prime.
A man only a handful of years older than her.
A man who was also her employer.
Her face heated. But she was also a woman in her prime.
Even a dead woman would notice his fine features.
Hattie almost giggled aloud as Ophelia’s often-used phrase popped into her head.
She pressed her lips together instead, gripped her hands in front of her, and prayed that the candlelit room was too dim for him to see the hot blush that was now heating her entire body.
She stared at the fine rug for a few seconds to regain her composure.
When she glanced back up, His Grace had shrugged on the jacket that had been hanging loosely on the back of his chair.
His hair had also been somewhat smoothed.
But it didn’t matter. Her eyes couldn’t unsee what he had looked like before: disastrously handsome. How had she not noticed it before? How could she not notice it now?
‘Miss Potts?’