Chapter 21
Nancy woke with the singular sensation of having misplaced a day. Her first thought was: I am late. Her second: I am not dead. Therefore, I have survived something, but what? She sat upright, squinting at the unfamiliar slant of sunlight in her bedchamber.
She groped for the bell pull and missed. Instead, she knocked over a stack of books from the bedside table—Livy, Ovid, a battered volume of Addison, and one daringly misfiled treatise on animal husbandry. The books tumbled, the crash a small but sufficient clarion.
Within moments, Miss Lynch materialized, arms folded and face composed in the way of someone prepared to endure both ridicule and tragedy before the first tea service.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said. “How do you feel?”
Nancy’s tongue felt twice its size. “Like I’ve been trampled by a cavalry charge. What time is it?”
Miss Lynch checked the slim watch at her wrist. “Ten past ten.”
Nancy winced. “You let me sleep past eight? Have you all gone mad?”
Miss Lynch’s lips barely moved. “The Duke’s orders, Your Grace. He said you were not to be disturbed under threat of—I believe the phrase was ‘capital consequences.’”
Nancy’s mind snagged on the memory of last night: reading to the twins, then—oh, good God—falling asleep between them. Had she really? She remembered something about a corset, and then—her face burned.
“Was anyone else in the nursery after I fell asleep?”
Miss Lynch’s eyes went wide. “I—I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. I was not permitted upstairs after the candles were out. Perhaps Mrs. Tullock…?”
“Never mind.” Nancy flapped her hand as if to erase the question from the air. “What am I wearing?”
“Your dress from yesterday,” said Miss Lynch. “Your stays are fully loosened, per your instruction.” She paused, faintly scandalized. “Did you…?”
“Undo them myself?” Nancy fished for the nearest plausible lie. “Naturally. I am not a complete invalid.”
Miss Lynch appeared unconvinced, but her face betrayed nothing. “Shall I bring your breakfast up, or will you take it in the morning room?”
Nancy’s stomach growled, a small and traitorous sound. “The morning room, please. I should like to see the children.”
“Of course.” Miss Lynch turned to the wardrobe. “Do you have a preference for dress?”
“Anything that won’t suffocate me before noon.”
Miss Lynch selected a sensible gray, unadorned save for a modest white collar. Nancy eyed it with suspicion, but allowed herself to be buttoned, pinned, and neatly trussed. Her hair required only a brisk brushing and one hasty coil.
As Miss Lynch set the pins, Nancy’s mind returned to the evening prior. Had she really asked Oscar to help with her corset?
You are hopeless, she scolded herself. You could have summoned the maid. Or simply endured it. But no—let’s rope in the Duke, of all people, to witness your utter helplessness.
She blamed it on exhaustion and perhaps a momentary lapse of pride. Still, the mortification lingered.
She descended the staircase, more nervous than she would have admitted even under threat of laudanum. The hallway leading to the morning room hummed with distant laughter—the twins, unmistakable. She followed the sound, feet light on the stone.
Nancy paused in the doorway. There, arrayed like the cast of a domestic farce, were Clara, Henry, and Oscar.
Not only were they eating together, but the children seemed wholly unafraid of their uncle.
Clara sat perched on the edge of her chair, spooning porridge with a precision usually reserved for surgery.
Henry was busy ordering Oscar to “spread more jam, please, Your Grace,” a demand the Duke met with something resembling patience.
Nancy watched for a moment, gathering herself. For an absurd, dangerous second, she felt hope. Perhaps this will work, and it does not have to be a calamity.
“Am I late, or is everyone else early?” she said, entering with the bravado of a woman who did not, in fact, just wake two hours past her intended.
“Aunt Nancy!” Henry nearly toppled his bowl in his haste to wave. “You are awake!”
“I am. And it seems you have not eaten all the food in the house yet.” Nancy ruffled his hair before settling in the chair Clara had already begun to push out for her.
Oscar looked up from the jam jar. “Good morning, Duchess.”
There was something unguarded in his face, a softness quickly re-armored. Nancy chose to ignore it.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Children, have you been keeping the Duke in line?”
“We are teaching him to be polite,” Clara said, sniffing. “He does not know how to butter bread correctly.”
Oscar, straight-faced, set another piece of toast before Henry. “I have become their indentured servant,” he said, “and am not allowed to leave the table until every slice is adequately slathered.”
Clara offered Nancy a muffin, which Nancy accepted with a flourish. “Thank you, Clara. You are a far better host than some adults I could mention.”
Clara glowed. Henry, emboldened, demanded another helping of preserves.
Nancy ate, savoring the rare sense of belonging. “What’s on the agenda for today? Shall we visit the garden, or perhaps the library? I think the hedgehog from yesterday’s story would enjoy a tour.”
Clara’s eyes lit. “Can we show him the pond?”
Henry clapped, nearly splattering the jam. “And the ducks?”
“Of course,” Nancy said, then looked at Oscar. “You’re welcome to join us if your schedule allows.”
Oscar considered. “I have business this afternoon. But if you are free, Duchess, I would like a word after breakfast.”
Nancy nodded, trying not to let the sudden anxiety show.
Breakfast concluded with minimal destruction. The children were bundled off by Molly, the undermaid, who looked faintly relieved to see Nancy restored to command.
Nancy lingered long enough to pour a second cup of tea, then followed Oscar to his study. He was already at his desk, shuffling papers with surgical precision.
“You wished to see me?”
He did not look up. “I have arranged for us to view several properties today.”
Nancy blinked. “Properties? For what purpose?”
He looked at her, surprised. “For your residence, of course. You will be moving in with the children at the end of our arrangement, as discussed. These are options for your future home.”
Nancy felt the words like a small, cold slap. Oh. Of course. She had, for one foolish moment, forgotten that her place here was temporary. She had allowed herself to believe that the morning room scene was something more than a well-executed illusion.
“Very well,” she said, voice steady. “When do we leave?”
“This afternoon. Some of the estates are Scarfield holdings; others are on the market. If none are satisfactory, we may have one built to your liking. The children’s comfort is paramount.”
He said it without inflection, as if reading from a pamphlet. Still, the care in it was unmistakable.
Nancy nodded. “Thank you for arranging it.”
Oscar inclined his head. “It is the least I can do.”
“If I may, Your Grace, the children were promised an outing today. I should like to tell them myself that it must wait.”
Oscar gestured to the door. “Of course.”
Nancy found Clara and Henry in the nursery, embroiled in a bitter dispute over a broken crayon.
She kneeled to their level. “Change of plans, my dears. I must attend to some important business with the Duke. But if you are very good, I shall bring you each a surprise this evening.”
Clara scowled. “We will be as good as is strictly necessary.”
Henry muttered, “I wanted to see the pond.”
“Tomorrow,” Nancy promised. “And we shall bring bread for the ducks.”
She left them with a stack of parchment and instructions to draw her the best version of the day they could imagine. Then she swept down to find Mrs. Tullock, who was organizing a legion of maids in the foyer.
“Mrs. Tullock, I am leaving with the Duke this afternoon. Please see to the children in my absence.”
The housekeeper nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. The twins will be well cared for.”
Nancy lingered, caught between two worlds: the one she was leaving, and the one she could not quite claim as her own. She wondered, not for the first time, which would end up mattering more.
Oscar was waiting at the door, coat immaculate, posture even more so. He looked every inch the man of logic and rules—a man who would never leave anything to chance. A man who would never, under any circumstances, allow a marriage to become more than a tidy solution to a problem.
He offered his arm, formal as a contract. “Shall we, Duchess?”
Nancy took it, her own arm steady. “Let’s.”
And together, they stepped into the unknown.
The carriage rattled through the countryside with an efficiency that brooked no rebellion.
Nancy watched the bare-branched hedgerows slide by, the fields glistening with the last dregs of a morning frost. She sat at the far end of the bench, hands knotted around her reticule, every muscle braced for disaster or revelation, whichever came first.
Oscar sat opposite, immovable in navy superfine, his expression as blank and inscrutable as a headstone. He’d barely spoken since they left the manor, which was probably for the best. Words with him were always a double-edged sword: stimulating, exhilarating, but rarely safe.
The coach slowed, then stopped. Oscar unfolded himself from the seat and stepped down. He turned, offering his hand to Nancy.
She took it, telling herself it was necessity, not longing, that made her fingers linger just a moment longer than polite.
His grip was steady, warm. She looked up, and for a second, their eyes met.
Not the way one met a stranger’s gaze, but as if a private joke had just passed between them.
Nancy felt her heart execute a small, traitorous leap.
“Careful,” he said, steadying her as she descended the step. “It’s icy.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I shall endeavor not to shatter any bones on the first outing.”
He allowed himself a half-smile, then gestured at the manor before them.