Chapter 17
“That scowl of yours can freeze this teacup,” Camelia teased the Duke from across the breakfast table.
“Not today, Camelia.” His tone was clipped.
“I’m just pointing out that no one likes to see a thundercloud so early in the morning.” She took a sip before carefully placing the teacup on the saucer.
Camelia only dared to look at the Duke with nothing delicate in her hands. After he had tied her up, she was never sure what he would do next. But he made no attempt to see her, and she had not found herself alone with him since then.
Her new duties as the Duchess were not easy, but they kept her busy and distracted from her loneliness in Brentmere.
“What has set you off, Your Grace?” Camelia continued to address him, even though his piercing gaze made her hands shake.
The Duke glanced at Pamela, who was picking at her toast. Her hazel eyes darted nervously to him and back to her half-eaten breakfast.
He slammed his coffee cup down. The porcelain rattled dangerously, and Camelia was surprised that it hadn’t shattered into a million pieces under his strength.
As I did.
“Discussing today’s schedule is a priority over speaking about one’s feelings,” he barked.
“Pamela, you’ll finish your etiquette lesson by ten, then embroidery at eleven.
I believe the governess has already arrived.
Camelia, you’ll oversee her and the household accounts by noon.
You need to arrange a meeting with the landscapers.
The garden needs new flowers. After, you may join Pamela for luncheon.
Pamela and I have to speak at two. No deviations. ”
“Yes, Father,” Pamela said softly.
“Speak louder, child,” the Duke scolded, and she flinched at the sound.
Camelia’s fork paused mid-air. “Do not berate her. If she is not as loud as you are, then let her be.”
Pamela’s head snapped up, and she looked at Camelia with pleading eyes.
“The entire point of these lessons is to teach her how to speak confidently and assertively,” the Duke countered.
“And what you fail to realize is that it takes time! Something you are not aware of. I am sure that even you needed time to be titled the Iron-Clad Duke,” Camelia huffed.
“I am her father, and I will correct her when I please.”
“You cannot be a father and a tyrant.”
“If that tongue of yours keeps wagging—” The Duke broke off when he remembered they were not alone.
“Why not move your meeting with Pamela to three, after the heat breaks? She could use the extra study time anyway.”
Camelia planned to take the girl for a short afternoon walk. God knows they both needed the sunlight and fresh air.
The Duke’s eyes snapped to hers, dark and stormy. “Camelia, I expect no deviations. I said two o’clock, and it will remain two. Stop arguing with me for once and be compliant. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m your wife, not a servant. A small change won’t ruin your precious schedule. Pamela, don’t you think three would be better?”
“I-I don’t know,” Pamela stammered.
Raph’s jaw ticked in that way it did whenever Camelia purposefully argued with him.
“I have heard enough from both of you. The schedule stands; no arguments and no changes will be allowed from now on. Pamela, eat. And Camelia, stop stirring trouble.”
Camelia’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded curtly. “Fine. Two it is.”
Pamela shrank in her seat as if she wanted to disappear.
The Duke shoved his chair back, standing abruptly. “Finish your meals and get to work.”
He strode out without a second glance, the door slamming shut behind him.
Camelia released a breath and turned to Pamela, who looked smaller than earlier.
“Pamela, don’t let him frighten you. He’s in a mood, but I’m sure it’s not your fault.”
“You’re wrong,” she responded with the same fire her father displayed.
“I’m wrong about what?”
“It is my fault.”
“Pamela, darling, there’s no way this is your—”
“He’s always like this… around this time of year.”
Camelia was caught off guard by her words.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” The hurt and pain were plain on the girl’s young features.
Camelia’s heart broke for Pamela, but she kept her distance after her last outburst.
I am not her mother, after all.
But she couldn’t help herself; she had a soft spot for the girl, and it was all thanks to her sisters. All she longed to do was protect Pamela and make her happy, but the task proved to be the most difficult of all. Especially when Pamela and her father had built walls so high around them.
“Come on, let’s go to your etiquette lesson before Mrs. Finch breaks into a two-hour-long lecture on time management.”
That earned her a small smile from Pamela.
They rose in silence. The weight of the Duke’s mood still lingered as they left the breakfast table and walked to the drawing room.
Their mornings usually started with an uncomfortable silence, and Camelia was resolved to change that as soon as possible.
In the drawing room, Mrs. Finch, a stern woman with a tight bun, greeted them. “Good morning, Your Grace, Lady Pamela. Shall we begin with posture today?”
Camelia forced a smile, settling beside Pamela. “That sounds perfect, Mrs. Finch. Pamela, show me the walk you were practicing yesterday.”
Pamela nodded, her fingers fumbling with a pile of books they had left on the table for this lesson.
She placed one book on her head. It wobbled dangerously before it stilled, then she walked in a straight line to the opposite wall, head lifted and back perfectly straight. Mrs. Finch watched her intently.
“Like this?” Pamela asked when she returned to the pile of books.
Mrs. Finch tapped her chin. “Add another book, Lady Pamela. Precision is everything.”
Camelia’s voice was warm. “You’re doing fine, Pamela. Mrs. Finch, isn’t she improving?”
The governess grunted. “Improving, yes. But she can do better. Lady Pamela. Focus. You will only succeed once you balance all those books on your head.”
Pamela’s foot slipped slightly, and the second book slid off her head and fell loudly to the floor.
“Don’t worry,” Camelia spoke before Mrs. Finch could correct her. “Don’t be afraid to try again even when you fail.”
She ignored the governess’s glare.
The older woman picked up her teacup and watched Pamela with hawk-like eyes over the rim. Pamela walked towards her carefully.
“Chin high, shoulders back, and walk straight to me, Lady Pamela,” Mrs. Finch ordered, her voice as crisp as starched linen.
Pamela’s spine was rigid as she glided forward with careful grace. She halted mere inches from the governess’s formidable bosom.
“Turn,” came the next command.
Pamela pivoted slowly and deliberately, but the second heavy volume atop her head betrayed her. It teetered, slid, and plummeted with a decisive thunk onto Mrs. Finch’s porcelain teacup. The saucer cracked, and the scalding tea spilled across the woman’s drab dress, leaving a dark stain.
“Confound it!” Mrs. Finch’s breath hissed between her teeth.
The curse echoed in the silence as she dabbed frantically at the spreading stain.
Camelia strode to Pamela’s side and placed a reassuring hand on her trembling little shoulder. “Mrs. Finch, let’s take a breather. You may call for Mrs. Weber and get cleaned up. I’ll speak to Pamela.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Finch responded curtly, glaring at Pamela as she stormed past.
“It seems everyone is in a bad mood today,” Camelia mumbled when the door clicked shut behind the governess’s taut back.
Pamela plopped down on an armchair and placed the books on her lap. “No, His Grace gets like this every year,” she whispered. “When it’s close to my birthday…”
“Now, why would you think that, Pamela?”
“Because Mother died that day too.”
Camelia’s heart shattered at the quiet confession.
“Oh, Pamela. I’m so sorry. That’s a heavy burden for you to carry.”
Pamela’s eyes glistened, and her voice trembled as she spoke. “He won’t talk about her. He just gets… angry.”
“Perhaps he does not know how to handle his grief either?”
“Perhaps… or perhaps he hates me for it?”
Camelia reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “No, Pamela. Your father does not hate you at all. And you should never be scared to miss your mother or enjoy your birthday. Have you ever told him how much you want to talk about her?”
Pamela shook her head, her voice small. “No. He’ll shut me out. He always does.”
He shuts everyone out.
The door to the drawing room opened, and Mrs. Finch re-entered. She cleared her throat. “Shall we continue, Lady Pamela?”
“Yes, Mrs. Finch.” Pamela got up immediately and continued with her lesson.
Camelia’s tone was firm but kind. “A moment, Mrs. Finch. Pamela, listen to me. Birthdays are meant to be celebrated, not drowned in sorrow. Your mother would want you to smile and feel joy. We’re changing this, you and I.”
Pamela’s eyes widened, her voice hopeful but wary. “Change it? How?”
Camelia smiled. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ll plan something special.”
“But… what if Father says no?”
“Leave your father to me. I’m quite good at pestering him. Mrs. Finch, what do you say? A birthday celebration sounds great, right?”
Mrs. Finch stood ramrod straight, her arms crossed over her flat chest as she scowled at them both. “Your Grace, I am not here to advise you on Lady Pamela’s social life. Now, without any further delays, we have an etiquette lesson to finish.”
Camelia rolled her eyes, and Pamela’s lips twitched into a rare small smile. “All right, Mrs. Finch. Do continue.”
She squeezed Pamela’s arm for reassurance before she placed the books on her head and walked towards the uptight governess.
“Father?” Pamela’s voice was soft and barely audible through the door.
“Enter,” Raph called out.
The door creaked open, and Pamela slipped in. Her raven curls were tucked under a bonnet, and her eyes were fixed on the floor.
She curtsied. “You… you wanted to see me, Father?” she whispered.
“Sit, Pamela.” He pointed to the armchair before him.