Chapter 4
The Duke went perfectly still, and the silence was absolute.
He blinked once, as if expecting her to recant. When she did not, his mouth curved into something between a smirk and a sneer. “That is the most preposterous—”
“It would satisfy the world’s idea of decency, would it not?
” Nancy barreled ahead, afraid that if she paused, her courage would dissolve.
“A duchess for your household. A proper guardian for the children. No more questions. No more gossip. You get your reputation restored, and I get to keep my promise to Teresa. Everyone wins.”
He stared at her, his eyes unreadable. “You have not thought this through.”
“I have thought of nothing else since I heard she died.”
He circled the desk again, coming so close she caught the scent of citrus and something smoky. “You would consign yourself to a lifetime of misery, just to keep a promise?”
“I would consign myself to you,” she shot back, “which is not the same as misery. Though I grant you, it is not without risk.”
He laughed, but there was no joy in it. “You have no true notion of what you’re proposing.”
Nancy matched his gaze. “Neither do you.”
They stood, two army generals in a silent field, daring the other to step back.
The Duke broke the silence first. “You think yourself very clever, Lady Nancy.”
“I do,” she said. “But I am also practical.” And desperate, she silently added.
His voice was almost gentle. “You should not be.”
She fought the urge to touch his hand, to see if it was as cold as his words. Raising her chin, Nancy said, “I will go see the children now.”
Nancy did not wait for a reply, nor a summons, nor for the permission she so clearly did not require.
She left the Duke of Scarfield—Oscar—in his own library, gazing after her as if someone had just set fire to his favorite chair.
The tap of her heels sounded down the hallway, unhurried and entirely unlike the brisk, nervous shuffle of a woman on the edge of social ruin.
If Nancy was to be damned for this, she intended to enjoy every step.
The manor at night felt different. Not haunted—she was not a sentimentalist—but bruised, as if the house itself mourned the loss of its young master and mistress.
The lamps burned low, oil rationed by the sort of economy that only an unfeeling housekeeper could muster.
Nancy wondered, with some dark amusement, if Oscar made them burn the wicks shorter out of pure spite.
She found a staircase. The butler—Wilks, or something equally apologetic—had tried to explain the layout when she arrived, but she’d interrupted him, “I know how houses work, thank you.” Now she stalked the first landing and nearly collided with the housekeeper, who materialized as if conjured by disapproval.
“Miss—my lady—” the woman gasped, hands clenched in a defensive steeple, “His Grace did not instruct—”
“He rarely does,” said Nancy, brushing past with a speed that drew a surprised gasp. “You may return to your plotting.”
“But—” The housekeeper, already outmatched, fell behind after two paces. “It’s not proper, Lady—”
Nancy stopped so abruptly that the woman nearly tripped into her. “I am not here to be proper, madam. I am here to see the twins. Unless you mean to physically restrain me, which, let’s agree, would end badly for you, I suggest you stand aside.”
The housekeeper’s jaw unhinged and hung, swinging between horror and awe. Nancy swept on.
The nursery, by the logic of all grand houses, belonged in the uppermost reaches—farthest from the center of power, but close enough to be heard if needed.
A relic of a time when children were half myth, half inconvenience.
She climbed the next set of stairs, heart drumming not with fear, but with a tremulous anticipation.
They would hate her for not coming sooner. She deserved that.
At the top, she paused outside the heavy door. Some part of her hoped Oscar would appear and order her away. Some part of her wished he’d follow, just to see if he would flinch at the sight of her unaccompanied, bare-headed, in the dark. But the landing remained empty, so she let herself in.
Inside: a hush. The curtains had been drawn poorly, leaving a ragged edge of moonlight that draped itself over the small figures on their beds.
Clara sat upright, back against the headboard, eyes round and wild.
She wore an old tartan dress, cinched tight enough to constrict her breathing.
Henry, never far from his sister, was curled at the foot of her bed, still in his day-clothes and clutching the rabbit with both hands as though it might otherwise explode.
They both saw her at the same instant. For one perfect heartbeat, they simply stared. Then Clara made a noise—half-sob, half-squeal—and launched herself across the coverlet.
“Nancy!” she screamed, careening into Nancy’s arms so hard the buttons of her bodice left a bruise.
Henry tumbled after, almost tripping on his own nightshirt, and wrapped himself around Nancy’s knees. He did not speak. He just held on.
For the first time in years, Nancy did not have words ready. She kneeled, letting Clara cling to her neck and Henry weep quietly into her skirt. Her own vision blurred, but she would not—would not—let them see her cry.
“You’re here,” Clara repeated, voice hoarse, as if trying to convince herself. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” Nancy managed. “You are my two favorite people on this rotten earth.”
Henry said nothing, but his hold on her tightened.
The housekeeper hovered in the door, making anxious mouth shapes, but Nancy ignored her. She extricated one arm and ran her hand over Henry’s hair, smoothing it into a semblance of order.
Clara said, “We thought we would never see you again.”
“I am here now, aren’t I?” Nancy kissed her on the crown of her head. “And I intend to stay as long as you need me.”
Clara pulled back, face wet but furious. “He said we can’t go home. Not ever. He said it’s not our house anymore.”
Henry whispered, “He is always in a mood.” He buried his face deeper into Nancy’s skirt.
“Never mind him.” Nancy turned Clara’s face up and wiped the tears with her own sleeve. “What else did he say?”
Clara frowned. “He said we may roam the manor, but we must not touch anything we are not supposed to. Mrs. Tullock says we are to be kept here until we grow up.”
Nancy snorted. “Then we shall simply have to grow up faster so Mrs. Tullock doesn’t get her victory. Won’t we?”
Henry peeked up at her, finally braving a question. “Are you taking us away?”
Nancy looked from one child to the other. They were both smaller than she remembered—thinner, paler, as if the last week had pressed years into them. Her heart twisted, and she gathered them both in, nearly crushing herself with the effort not to break down.
“I will never abandon you,” she whispered. “Not for anything.”
Clara, always the sharper blade, caught the uncertainty. “But are you taking us away now?”
Nancy’s throat closed. She wanted nothing more than to spirit them both out the window, run for the coast, and build a life far from these cold, suffocating houses. But she could not promise what she did not know.
“Not tonight,” she said. “But soon. I will come back, and we will decide together.”
Clara frowned but nodded, as if she’d already foreseen the answer. Henry held the rabbit to his nose and breathed in, trying to disappear behind its patchy fur.
Nancy pressed her lips to their hair, trying to memorize the shape of them, the scent, the weight. She would need it, soon enough.
Behind her, the housekeeper coughed, a sound so tentative it barely qualified as a suggestion. “Lady Nancy, the children ought to rest. Dr. Harkness said—”
“Dr. Harkness can find a new occupation,” Nancy replied, not turning around. “I’ll let them rest when I am ready.”
The housekeeper made a soft noise of despair, then retreated. Good.
“Nancy?” Henry asked, voice so faint it barely escaped his mouth.
“Yes, my darling?”
“Why did Mama go away?”
There it was—the question she’d dreaded. Clara stared at the bedspread, jaw clenched. Henry looked up, eyes desperate for something solid to stand on.
Nancy took a long breath. “Mama was very ill. She tried her best to stay, but her body was too tired. Sometimes that happens, and it’s no one’s fault. Not yours, and not hers.”
Henry blinked at her, trying to process this. “But if she tried her best—why didn’t she win?”
Clara answered, “Sometimes people lose, even if they try.” She reached for Henry’s hand, holding it tight.
Nancy stroked his hair, wishing she had something better to say.
Henry asked, “Will you get sick, too?”
“No,” Nancy said, and though it was a lie, she told it with all the certainty she could conjure. “I am made of sterner stuff. And besides, someone has to keep you two out of trouble.”
Clara laughed, a short, brittle sound. “No one can do that.”
“We’ll see,” Nancy said. She kneeled there until her legs went numb, until both children leaned against her, half asleep, warmed by the comfort of touch and the promise of something less horrible tomorrow.
When their breathing slowed, Nancy eased herself out of their grip and arranged them on the bed, tucking Clara’s feet under the blanket and propping Henry’s head on a softer pillow.
She sat for a moment, just watching them—studying the rise and fall of their chests, the peace that would not last, the proof of what had been lost and what she still might save.
She got up quietly. At the door, she looked back once, memorizing the scene as if it might be snatched away at any second.
Outside, the housekeeper loitered, eyes puffy and red, hands wringing themselves into knots. She looked at Nancy—at the streak of moisture on Nancy’s cheek, quickly wiped away—and seemed to lose the thread of everything she’d been about to say.
“Thank you, Lady Nancy,” she managed. “For—” She gestured vaguely toward the nursery.
Nancy straightened her skirt, composed herself, and said, “They’re just children. They need someone to remember that.”
The housekeeper nodded, chastened.
Nancy descended the stairs without looking back, her resolve set in concrete. Now more than ever, she knew she could not abandon them. Not to Scarfield’s rules, nor to the slow decay of a household that considered children a hazard to the upholstery.
Even if it kills me, I will not leave them, she thought. I will not.