Chapter 17
Seventeen
“He proposed to me in the rain, you know,” said Dorothy, her voice so fragile it might have shattered had one of her daughters looked at her directly.
“There was nothing remotely poetic about it. The sky was leaking, my bonnet was ruined, and your grandfather’s bull had just escaped into the orchard.
” She dabbed her eyes, sniffling despite the miniature of Albert she clutched in one hand.
The Duke had passed away at dawn, proving to all of them that he had even less time than the physician predicted.
May, perched on the arm of the settee and clinging to her mother’s other hand, said, “You never told us that, Mama.”
April added, “She said yes of course. She had a particular fondness for ill-advised heroics.” She reached to adjust the shawl around her mother’s shoulders, tucking it with a tenderness that further tightened Eliza’s heart.
June leaned against the mantel, her stance a study in rebellion barely checked by grief. “Was this before or after Father tried to serenade you and ended up in the duck pond?”
Dorothy managed a laugh, brittle and wet.
“After. By then I was well aware of his limitations as a suitor. If a man proposes while soaked to the bone, you may be assured he will not let small discomforts dissuade him from a project.” She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, careful not to smudge the painted face of her husband.
“He said if I could love him drenched and shivering, I could love him through anything.”
The girls drew closer. Even June, who rarely permitted herself sentiment, reached to brush the hair from her mother’s cheek.
Across the rug, Lady Hartwell presided in a wing chair like a general surveying the wounded. She had not spoken since the girls entered the room and seemed determined not to cry in front of Dorothy, though her mouth had contracted into a straight line that spoke volumes.
Eliza sat at the edge of a second settee, hands folded in her lap.
She watched the scene with a sense of trespass.
In her own home, mourning had been a private matter—if one wept, it was done alone, and if one offered comfort, it was as formal as a black armband.
Here, grief was a collective undertaking, messy and loud and wholly without shame.
It made her uncomfortable, and yet she could not look away.
She watched May lean in, her forehead touching Dorothy’s, and heard her whisper, “He loved you so much, Mama. He talked about you at breakfast, every day.” The claim sounded exaggerated, but May was not a woman to lie on such matters.
Dorothy clutched May’s hand with surprising force. “He loved all of us. Even when he said otherwise.”
“Especially then,” said April, who had always been the family’s apologist.
Lady Hartwell stirred. “Your father was an admirable man, but he had a talent for the spectacularly wrong word at the worst possible moment.”
“Genetic, apparently,” muttered June, her mouth twitching at the corners.
Eliza could not suppress a smile. Even here, the family persisted in being wholly, absurdly themselves. She wondered if it was this quality that had kept them from being crushed by their own legend.
A silence fell, heavy and absolute, until Dorothy broke it. “I do not know what happens next,” she said, voice barely a whisper.
May’s grip tightened. “We do what we always do, Mama. We make lists, and we plan, and we—”
“We survive,” June said, the words more comfort than she likely intended.
April rose and went to the sideboard, pouring a restorative measure of sherry. She brought it to her mother, kneeling to offer the glass with both hands.
Dorothy accepted and sipped then made a face. “That is dreadful,” she said but drank again.
May finally released Dorothy’s hand and sat beside Eliza, her eyes red but bright. “He was so proud of you, you know. He always wanted a daughter who could argue him to a standstill, and then you married his most infuriating protégé.”
Eliza started, but before she could reply, June added, “He said you were the only woman who could match August for stubbornness. He took wagers on it.”
“Who won?” asked Eliza.
June shrugged. “No one ever wins those. But the money went to charity.”
Lady Hartwell cleared her throat. “Let us not pretend that the next days will be anything but dreadful. The house will fill with people who never gave a fig for Albert, and every one of them will try to console you in the most inconvenient manner possible. The only thing worse than grief is having it inspected by the public.”
Dorothy took a deep and calming breath. “We will manage. We have never lacked for perseverance. Or for each other.”
The sun had vanished behind a bruised sky. The room, lit by the glow of the fire and the odd glint of tears, seemed suspended outside of time. Eliza found herself longing for the comfort of movement, for a task—anything to keep her from drowning in the stillness.
“I should check on the Duke,” she said, the words sounding strange in her own voice.
Dorothy nodded, eyes warm with gratitude. “You always know what is needed, Eliza. Go to him.”
Eliza rose and smoothed her skirts then crossed to the door.
As she reached for the handle, she glanced back at the circle of women: the mother clutching her locket, the daughters bound together, Lady Hartwell’s presence at their flank.
For the first time since entering the family, Eliza saw what August meant when he said it was impossible to be lonely in this house. Even the pain was shared.
She closed the door behind her, shutting out the sounds of sorrow, and set off down the hallway in search of her husband. As she walked, Eliza found herself wondering whether she was meant to ease the gloom or simply endure it.
She stopped at the door of the late Duke’s study. The door hung open by an inch, as if afraid to intrude further. She could see only the line of moonlight that fell across the worn carpet, painting a path to the desk inside.
She entered without knocking.
August sat behind the desk his with head bent, the papers before him arranged with the desperation of a man hoping order might stave off chaos.
He wore no coat, and his hair had lost its battlefield discipline.
One hand covered his mouth, the other pressed flat to the ledger.
His shoulders curved around his grief, as if he feared it might escape and fill the room.
He did not look up at first. Eliza waited, and the silence was like a living thing between them.
When at last he noticed her, he rose, maintaining his manners despite his grief. “Duchess,” he said, and stopped, as if uncertain that the title truly belonged to either of them.
Eliza swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She felt as though she had taken a title that did not belong to her. She had only just begun to Lady Barrington, and now she must wear a different crown.
She took a seat opposite him, and he returned to his seat. They watched each other, as if waiting for the other to say the first word to break the silence. Breathing as evenly as she could, she waited for the moment to take its shape.
“You are awake late,” August said at last. The words fell like marbles into a basin.
“There is little to be gained from sleep,” she replied. “It only waits until you are awake again.”
“I thought you would be with my mother.”
“She has your sisters,” Eliza replied. “They will see her through, but you are alone.”
“I prefer it.” He punctuated that with a weak shrug.
“That is a lie,” Eliza whispered.
August looked down at the ledger, and his hand clenched. “I do not know why I am doing this,” he said. “There is no reason to add up the rent rolls now. The tenants can go another month without a reckoning.”
Eliza considered his words for a moment. “Routine is its own comfort.”
He nodded. “My father would have finished the work. Even now.”
She watched the struggle—how he wanted to be furious, or devastated, or even bold, but he settled instead for resigned sigh.
Running a hand through his hair, he leaned forward. “I do not know what to do with you here, Eliza.”
She smiled a little. “You do not have to do anything with me, August. Let me stay.”
Instead of responding with words, he stood and moved slowly to the window where he stood with his back to her.
“I do not feel like the Duke,” he said, and it was so quiet it almost didn’t reach her.
Eliza’s heart, which she had trained to be a cold and reasonable instrument, took the blow as if it were not ready. She rose and crossed to him, standing at his side. For a moment, she looked out, too, the fields gray under moonlight.
She reached for his hand. It did not meet hers right away, but when it did, it was as if every wall in the house had bent a fraction inward, holding them both in place. He did not say another word but squeezed her fingers once then again as if to reassure himself that he had someone there with him.
They stood like that for a long time. Eliza thought, Is this how it feels to be needed?