Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“If there is anything you wish to have stocked in the library, you can come to me, and I shall arrange it,” Mrs. Pentwood was telling Sibyl as they walked down the hall.
Sibyl was a couple of days into her first week at Stonehelm Hall and was still learning her way around. More than once, she had taken the wrong turn, only to find herself in yet another unused room.
“It is so strange,” she mused, peering into a room that was vacant of furniture save for a harp. “An estate so big, yet so empty. I cannot imagine how His Grace has endured living in such an empty manor.”
“He rarely spends time here, in all honesty,” Mrs. Pentwood revealed. “But then he spent so much time abroad, so he had little use for Stonehelm Hall.”
“Abroad?” Sibyl echoed, pausing with her hand on the door of an unused library. Dust motes danced in the air, and she wondered why it was not maintained like the rest of the rooms.
“Ah.” Mrs. Pentwood ducked her head, looking away. “I am certain His Grace will tell you about his adventures soon enough.”
“Adventures?” Sibyl frowned. “What sort of adventures?”
“As I said, I am certain he will tell you himself.”
She wondered why the housekeeper sounded so evasive, overcareful with her words.
“Very well,” she relented, returning to Mrs. Pentwood’s side to continue their tour.
It was taking her a while to fully explore the manor, for she didn’t want to be far from Rosie. Nor did she want to carry her baby all over the estate and risk having her fuss far from the nursery.
“I have noticed you have begun dining with His Grace,” Mrs. Pentwood said, in a blatant attempt to change the subject.
“I have,” Sibyl confirmed.
She thought back to the second dinner she had had, when she had been left alone by her husband, seething, exhausted, and frustrated.
She hated how right he had been, how he had taken the care to find out more about her. True, it upset her that he had not asked her directly, but his intentions had unexpectedly touched her.
“The company must be nice,” Mrs. Pentwood commented, leading her down yet another hallway she had not encountered before. “Especially when you grew up in such a large family.”
“Indeed,” Sibyl lied, not wanting to tell the housekeeper that the mostly silent dinners were rather uncomfortable and made her feel uncertain of what to say or how to act.
The Duke often ate in the same silence, and it annoyed her. He clearly was not seeking company, just the propriety of eating together.
Either that, or he was insistent on making sure she ate.
“I am certain the two of you will grow closer soon enough,” Mrs. Pentwood added, sounding too optimistic.
I do not need to grow close to him, Sibyl thought bitterly.
But she was quickly distracted by the sight of a cracked door. Inside, something shimmering caught her eye, and she stopped before pushing her way in. She found herself in a parlor, one that was clearly not used but still set up as one.
The furniture sported a coating of dust, and Sibyl peered at the portraits lining the wall, easily finding the Duke in most of them. She cocked her head, regarding the younger version of him that looked down at her.
A man with the same features towered over him in one portrait, his eyes just as hard and carrying an authority he clearly knew he had.
On the other side, a woman with blonde hair severely pulled back into a knot had her hand on the Duke’s shoulder.
Her eyes were green, kind, and soft even on the canvas.
“These were His Grace’s parents,” Mrs. Pentwood explained, coming to stand next to Sibyl. “Lord Frederick Redford and Lady Amelia Redford. The late Duchess was a lovely woman, practically the light of Stonehelm. Unfortunately, she passed when His Grace was only five-and-ten.”
Sibyl’s eyebrows pinched in sorrow at the thought of the Duke losing his mother at such a young age. “I didn’t know.”
“He grieved very deeply. They both did. Although when they lost their father just over a decade later, their grief was not as great.”
They? She thought. Both?
“He was… The late Duke was rather tyrannical. He raised His Grace as an heir, not as a son. His life only consisted of rules and obligations, with little room for anything else.”
Suddenly, it made sense to Sibyl why the Duke had demanded that they eat together, even if they did not want each other’s company. If his father had instilled propriety to such an extent, then it simply would have been in the Duke’s nature to follow those rules no matter what.
Sibyl’s attention was soon drawn to another portrait of the Duke standing next to a dark-haired girl, barely older than seven-and-ten. Her eyes were the same pretty green as the late Duchess’s, and Sibyl immediately noted the resemblance between her and the Duke.
Her smile was full of life in comparison to the Duke’s solemn expression, as though she was having fun while posing for the portrait, while he was only doing his duty. Her dress was pale blue, and she wore a necklace that—
Sibyl turned, the shimmering thing catching her eye. It was the very same necklace, peculiarly hung around the antler of a silver deer figurine on the windowsill.
She turned back, looking up at the painting again. “Who was she?”
“That was Lady Letitia Redford,” Mrs. Pentwood replied. “His Grace’s sister.”
“He has never mentioned a sister.” Sibyl’s frown deepened. “Where is she now?”
Mrs. Pentwood fell silent for a very long time before gently steering Sibyl towards the door. “She passed when she was young. His Grace does not often speak about her, and I would not mention her to him if I were you, Your Grace.”
Again, her voice was gentle, but the warning was clear.
Sibyl nodded, confused and curious.
Why wouldn’t the Duke mention his sister, even if she had sadly passed away?
He knew so much about her life already, yet she knew nothing about his.
Eventually, Mrs. Pentwood explained the protocols and her new duties, from arranging dinner menus and hosting balls and parties to ensuring the household ran smoothly.
Sibyl had already decided she wanted to throw herself into her duties, both to avoid the Duke and to prove herself. Still, not even the thought of hosting her first ball or planning her first dinner party as the Duchess could distract her.
“Mrs. Pentwood,” she spoke up some time later, having been lost in her thoughts of Letitia and still wondering why the Duke had never mentioned her.
They were about to head out into the garden, and she was already thinking about venturing to the lake.
“I have noticed that His Grace always disappears after dinner on horseback. Do you know where he goes?”
Mrs. Pentwood paused with her hand on the door leading out to the garden. “Truly, Your Grace, I do not know. While I run the household, I do not ask where my master goes. I’d only know if he himself told me.”
Sibyl nodded, pondering. There had been moments where she felt as though the housekeeper knew more than she let on, but this time, her lack of answer seemed genuine.
She thought of Edmund, of the rumors about his mistresses, of Miss Tremaine and her flirtatious ways. Edmund had also disappeared often without an explanation.
And now the Duke was so secretive, with walls frustratingly high. For a moment, Sibyl wondered if he was sneaking out to visit a lover, just like Edmund used to do. She swore that if that were the case, she would not be na?ve this time.
Jealousy flared hot in her chest, unexpected and ugly.
Heavens, you should not care whose bed he seeks. You have comfort and security; that is all you need for Rosie’s sake. That is all this marriage is for.
“Shall we?” Mrs. Pentwood prompted when she fell silent for too long, gesturing to the garden path.
Trying to leave her questions behind, Sibyl followed the housekeeper.
Gabriel pushed open the door to the King’s Hound, a tavern a couple of villages over from Stonehelm.
Nestled in the heart of Bartley, the tavern was the rowdiest place for miles around, and as soon as he walked in, the chatter of the patrons immediately fired him up.
It was exactly where he needed to be, and where he had been every evening since the night he had dragged Sibyl into the dining hall to make sure she ate.
The taproom was packed, ale already spilled on the floor—or likely having not been mopped up for weeks—and already people were noticing his arrival.
“The Helm is back for another victory!” a man cried, throwing his tankard up in the air. The liquid inside splashed onto the sleeve of his tailcoat and the shoulder of the man next to him.
Gabriel grimaced as he pushed through the taproom before the fight about the spill started.
“The Helm is back!” More cries went up, cheers for his return.
“Helm, will you continue your winning streak in the ring?” one man asked as he passed by.
But Gabriel paid him no mind. He didn’t have the patience to stop tonight. He rarely did. Every muscle in his body was tense and rigid, and he needed to take out his frustration in the ring.
His eyes stayed on the open door ahead that led into the room where men of all walks of life went to box. Titles weren’t needed when fists were willing to be bloodied.
He stepped into the room, and the people around him roared. Hands reached out to clap him on the back, and he stalked away from them. The ring was currently occupied, but he was already rearing to go.
Tonight, he couldn’t wait for his turn.
He simply walked into the ring and took the place of the man who looked most likely to fall in the next few moments.
For a second, the crowd gasped in surprise, for Gabriel was not usually so bold as to take over somebody else’s fight.
But tonight was different. His mind was foggy, and he knew the only thing that would clear it was venting out his emotions with his fists. His mind was in such a state because of his damned wife.
His damned wife and the scent of her perfume, an intoxicating blend of violet and vanilla.