9. CHAPTER 9
D espite his reassurance, she still looked ill at ease as the carriages rounded the curve of the drive and stopped before the massive front doors.
The footmen jumped down. He descended first and offered his hand.
"Thank you," she said, but she was looking up at the facade the way a prisoner regards the walls that will hold her.
She placed her hand on his arm, and he felt the tremor in her fingers.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dr. Harrison alight from the second carriage and offer his hand to Mrs. Carteret. The doctor's eyes swept the castle front with an appraising coolness that set Dalton's teeth on edge.
He could tolerate Mrs. Carteret, who was chatty and good-natured. But having his rival for his wife's affection stay under his roof was contrary to every instinct he possessed. If it was what she needed, he would bear it. He would bear anything. He could not pretend to enjoy the man's company.
"Welcome home, Your Grace," Prowse intoned. "I have prepared the guest rooms and the duchess's room as you requested."
A faint question lurked beneath the words. Prowse's impeccable training prevented him from outright questioning an order, but the instruction to prepare the duchess's room for occupation after seven years must have strained even his considerable discretion.
Then the butler's attention moved to Vivienne as the hood of her traveling cloak fell back .
Prowse gasped, his hand flew to his chest, and he staggered a full step backward. It was the most undignified thing Dalton had ever seen the man do in thirty years of service.
Dalton would have found humor in the butler's reaction if he had not known how it felt to see her face again after believing her dead.
"Yes, Prowse. This is indeed the Duchess of Dalton. My wife. And I assure you she is no ghost."
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I didn't mean — " He collected himself with visible effort and turned to Vivienne, performing a bow so deep it bordered on genuflection. "Your Grace. It is an absolute delight to have you back."
"Thank you, Prowse." Only a slight hesitation. Only the faintest stiffness.
Behind the butler, a young footman named Thomas had gone rigid.
"Oh, sweet saints above!"
The exclamation had come from Mrs. Trevena, who had just appeared in the doorway. White as chalk, one hand at her throat, she stared at Vivienne, her eyes enormous.
"Mrs. Trevena, Mr. Prowse. My study in fifteen minutes."
Their reactions were his own fault. He had sent a telegram announcing his arrival, not a letter explaining the impossible. There had not been time to plan, to announce, to bloody prepare. He had been managing crises as they arose and managing them badly, if this was the result.
"Of course, Your Grace." Prowse had recovered. Almost.
"These are our guests." Dalton indicated Harrison and Mrs. Carteret. "Dr. Harrison and Mrs. Carteret, Her Grace's friends who have accompanied us from Guernsey. Please guide them to their chambers and see to their comfort."
"Right away, Your Grace," said Mrs. Trevena, dropping a hurried curtsey. Still shaken. Trying to regroup. "If you would follow me."
Harrison gave Dalton one last measuring look before allowing himself to be escorted away .
Dalton turned to Vivienne. She stood rooted to the marble, eyes wide, shoulders drawn in, her whole body angled toward the carriage as though she might still bolt.
"Come, my dear. I will take you to your rooms."
She took his arm, and he led her through the doors.
They boomed shut behind them. The echo rolled through the vaulted space, and her fingers tightened on his sleeve.
He slowed his pace. The entrance hall had been designed to impress visitors with its soaring arches, stained-glass windows, and polished marble. He had grown immune to it years ago. But she had forgotten it. She was seeing it anew, and it was having an effect on her.
Her eyes traveled upward, across the vaulted ceiling ribbed like the inside of a ship, and her throat moved as she swallowed.
"This is… enormous."
He wished she had said familiar instead.
"You always said the scale made it feel like a cathedral," he told her.
She startled. "Did I?"
"You used to claim it was a house built for echoes."
A wavering smile touched her lips before it died. She wrapped her free arm around her waist, and the movement undid him. She looked so small in these halls. So unsure. Just as the doctor had predicted.
He guided her along the runner toward the grand staircase. Ahead, the gallery of portraits stretched the length of the hall — generations of St Aubyns in gilt frames. He watched her eyes move across them, searching, though he doubted she knew what she was searching for.
Her attention caught on one painting and held.
He could understand the fascination. It was his favorite painting — alive in a way the other portraits, with their rigid formality, were not.
A woman in pale blue, seated in a garden with a toddler on her lap.
Both were laughing. The painter had captured the mother mid-turn, her expression unguarded and warm.
Vivienne stopped and stared at it for a long moment.
"That painting…"
"My mother," he said .
"And you?"
"Yes." He said nothing more. Talking about his parents was difficult at the best of times. Now, he was not sure he could manage it.
Thankfully, she looked away and asked no more questions.
He led her on.
They passed beneath the chandelier with its thousands of crystals breaking the light, and she slowed again.
"Vivienne."
She turned to him.
"No one expects you to remember any of this. Least of all me."
"The butler and housekeeper were in shock. Do they know what happened to me?"
"Not yet. I will explain now — that is why I asked them to meet me. Everything will be fine."
"What about the other servants? Will they recognize me? Expect me to act a certain way?"
"Most have been here for years, so yes, they all know you." He held her eyes. "I will leave it to Mrs. Trevena and Prowse to explain the situation to the staff, but they will all be glad you are back, Vivienne. They like you."
She looked away. "It all seems so far above me. I feel like an impostor walking through someone else's halls."
"This place is not above you. It is yours." He kept his voice low. "These corridors were part of your daily life. You laughed here. Argued with me here. Once, you ran down that hallway during a storm." He gestured toward the east passage. "Daring me to catch you."
A flicker of recognition crossed her face, gone before he could be certain. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from disclosing more information before she was ready.
They reached the landing. Her chambers were ahead. He paused before the doors.
"The duchess's chambers. Your rooms."
Her fingers brushed the carved wood as though afraid it might burn her .
"Whatever you are feeling, remember this: you don't have to perform a role or fit anyone's expectations."
She looked up at him.
"Not even yours?" she asked.
"Especially not mine."
"But I can see the hurt in your eyes every time I don't know something I should. Every time you are reminded that I don't remember you." Her voice dropped. "I don't want to hurt you. But I don't know how to be her."
"You already are." He felt the conviction in his bones.
"No. I am not."
He smiled, and it cost him. "I see you, Vivi. Below the confusion. I still see you."
He raised his hands to cup her face. Her skin was warm under his palms. Her breath caught.
Too close. Everything in him was pulling toward her. He kept breaking every resolution he made of taking things slow. The warmth of her skin under his touch was enough to undo him.
He dropped his hands. Turned from her. Pushed open the doors.
He had not been inside these rooms in years. At some point he had stopped entering them. It was too painful.
But he had needed to preserve her. So he had ordered the staff to keep everything as she had left it.
Every bottle on the dressing table, every garment in the wardrobe.
The bed linens changed and pressed on their usual schedule.
As though the duchess were merely away for the week.
The servants likely considered him crazy, but they nonetheless obeyed without question.
The room looked as it had on the morning they departed for the crossing that was meant to last seven days and had lasted seven years.
Even the air smelled of her. Fainter now, but there. Her perfume of roses, bergamot, and lily of the valley.
She moved into the room. He stayed by the doors.
He watched her fingers trail across the dressing table — the silver-backed hairbrush, the hand mirror, the small bottles of cosmetics arranged in the order she had always kept them. She unstoppered the perfume and lifted it to her nose.
Her eyes closed.
"This feels… familiar."
His throat tightened. "What does?"
"The perfume. I can't explain it. It didn't bring back any memories, but it feels as if I have known it before. It makes me…" She paused. "Happy. It brings me peace."
"I’m glad." Two words. Insufficient. But all he could manage.
She moved to the canopied bed in shades of emerald and rose, and skimmed her hand along the counterpane. He looked away and studied the crown molding with an intensity it did not merit.
When he trusted himself to look again, she had moved to the window and thrown the curtains wide.
She drew a sharp breath.
"The view is magnificent," she said.
She was standing in the full light of the setting sun. It caught her hair, turned the red to copper and gold, traced the line of her jaw and throat. Behind her, the terraced gardens fell away to the sea. The view truly was breathtaking, but what stole his breath was the woman standing before it.
She turned. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
"I think fifteen minutes have passed," she said.
He blinked.
"You told your servants to meet you in your study. To explain my return. My condition."