Chapter 9
Margaret stirred from a fitful half-sleep with a faint gasp.
For the first time in years, Margaret woke without the echo of flames at her back.
No dream had dragged her through smoke and heat, and no phantom hand had reached for her in the dark. Only pale light met her when she opened her eyes to the soft warmth of a morning that felt too clean to be hers.
The Duchess of Ravenscourt. The words settled over her collarbones like a weight. The title fit ill, still stiff at the seams.
She turned her head. The fire had not yet been lit in the small hearth, but logs lay neatly in the grate, ready for the spark that had not come.
A low clock on the mantel ticked in prim measure.
Beside it, someone, a maid, no doubt, had left a tray set for her waking, which had on it a pot of tea, one roll under a linen napkin, and a pat of butter glistening in a silver dish.
She swung her feet to the rug. The wool beneath her toes was thick, pale green, and scattered with neat vines and flowers that looked too new to be walked upon.
A knock at the door startled her upright. Her breath caught—Foolish, she scolded herself, but the house felt so very wide about her.
“Yes?” her voice was hoarse, so she cleared her throat and tried again, firmer. “Come in.”
The door opened just enough for a young maid to slip through. The girl bobbed a curt curtsey, eyes lowered.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I am Jenny. Mrs. Fowler asked that I attend to you this morning, if it please you.”
Margaret pressed her palms flat to her knees, drawing a breath to settle the flutter at her breast. “Thank you, Jenny.”
The maid stepped to the tall wardrobe and eased open the doors, revealing a row of fresh morning gowns with soft dove gray, faint lilac, and pale cream muslins trimmed with discreet ribbon.
“They came from Madame Rouillard’s in town,” Jenny said, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret. “Arrived yesterday. His Grace had ’em made to your measurements, had me run them up to the room myself, so they’d be waiting.”
Not Beatrice’s old sleeves, not altered seams. Her own.
At Jenny’s discreet signal, two undermaids slipped in with downcast eyes, one bearing a tray where kid slippers and ribbons lay, the other carrying a shallow basket of combs, pins, and fresh linen. They curtsied low then took their places, silent as shadows.
Jenny folded her hands before her apron. “Would you care to dress now, Your Grace?”
Margaret found her gaze caught by the pale silks. So simple, yet to her, they seemed impossibly fine.
“Yes,” she said, her voice steadier now. “Yes, please. I should like that very much.”
The maids moved with quiet efficiency. One fetched fresh stockings, and another loosened the laces of her night shift while Jenny herself lifted the chosen gown.
The ritual felt solemn, almost ceremonial—layers of muslin and ribbon that marked her new place more surely than the coronet stitched above her bed-hangings.
The new gown was a soft dove-gray muslin, trimmed at the cuffs with a narrow band of ivory ribbon. Margaret had stood still as Jenny buttoned the back, fingers deft as a seamstress’, the faint brush of linen and skin both strange and strangely final.
For a heartbeat, she thought of Cecily, how her cousin would have fussed over the sleeves, the color, the shy trim. “You mustn’t let them make you vanish, Margaret,” Cecily would say, thumb brushing her cheek like she could rub the worry away.
A smile tugged at the corner of Margaret’s mouth, there and gone.
She wondered if she might find a moment that night to write it all down—but not in her old folio, not just for herself this time.
She would write it to Cecily. Little lines folded into neat paper, secrets to slip into the post when no one watched, so Cecily would know she hadn’t vanished. Not yet.
One letter at a time, she thought, smoothing the sleeve where Jenny’s fingers had left the faint warmth of touch. One page to prove I’m still here.
By the time her hair was pinned up—plain, but neat—and Jenny had directed one undermaid to stand ready with a tray of pins while the other set the discarded linen aside with practiced care, a knock came at the sitting room door beyond the bedchamber.
Jenny darted to answer. Mrs. Fowler entered, a thin sheaf of papers tucked beneath her arm, her cap crisp and apron spotless as polished pewter.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Fowler said, dipping a precise curtsey that managed to feel respectful but never servile. “I trust you rested well?”
Margaret hesitated, then inclined her head. “Well enough. Thank you, Mrs. Fowler.”
The housekeeper’s keen gaze flicked over the new gown, the neatly arranged hair, and the fresh flush still warming Margaret’s cheek. If she saw the faint stiffness in the new Duchess’ shoulders, she made no remark.
“His Grace has left word that he will be at the stables this morning,” Fowler said briskly. “He asked that I provide you with an account of household matters, should you wish to begin today.”
Margaret’s fingers found the ribbon at her cuff, twisting the end as she gathered herself. “Yes. I ought to know what’s expected of me.”
A faint glimmer of approval touched the older woman’s eyes. She stepped forward, laying the sheaf of papers on the small writing table near the window.
“You are the mistress here now, Your Grace. The running of Duncaster Estate rests chiefly in your hands. The household staff answer to you through me, but all final matters are yours to direct.”
She spread the papers with neat columns of names and sums, household purchases marked in ink so fine that Margaret’s eyes nearly blurred reading them.
“You oversee the accounts for food, linen, candles, and wine. The kitchens submit their order lists weekly, and the laundry maid records the linen count daily. Any repairs to the roof, the windows, and the gardens pass through you.”
Margaret bent closer, her fingertip drifting over the careful columns. The numbers felt heavier than any lace or silk she might wear. She could almost see the trail of coins shifting hands down every corridor of this house.
“And the tenants?” she asked, lifting her gaze.
Mrs. Fowler nodded once. “You are expected to make calls when the need arises, especially when there are births or deaths on the land. His Grace’s steward, Mr. Talbot, manages the rents and leases, but you may hear any petition the tenants wish to bring.
If you desire, you may also visit the poorhouse in the village once a fortnight. It has long been the custom.”
Margaret’s mouth felt dry. She had never had a purse to manage before, let alone a household this size or families whose welfare now depended on a word from her lips.
She drew herself up, smoothing the muslin skirts at her hip. “Then I should begin. What needs attending first?”
Mrs. Fowler blinked, then permitted herself the faintest approving nod. “The kitchen accounts, Your Grace. Cook is below stairs now, waiting for your word to finalize the butcher’s bill. Cook says if the order is delayed, tomorrow’s dinner must be altered.”
She drew in a breath, adjusted her spectacles, and launched on, “There is also the matter of the stillroom stores; the preserves have run low, and the apothecary bill is yet unsettled. The laundress begs for new soap.” She tapped one finger sharply against the ledger.
“And the head groom insists two saddles cannot be mended again. The glasshouse requires attention before the frost sets in, and the tenants’ accounts await review for the quarter. ”
Her voice wavered only slightly as she added, “Oh, and the linen inventories. Lady Grantham herself always inspected them before the winter.”
She paused only when Margaret’s eyes lifted from the ledger, wide with astonishment, her lips parted in disbelief. The housekeeper faltered, color rising faintly. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I have gone on too quickly. You need not concern yourself with all at once—”
Margaret let out a small, breathless laugh. “You’ve given me a year’s worth of tasks in a single breath. Only… tell me, which is most urgent?”
Mrs. Fowler adjusted her cap with brisk dignity, seizing on safe ground. “The butcher, Your Grace. If Cook is to keep tomorrow’s dinner, she must have her word today.”
Margaret closed her hand lightly over the ledger’s corner. “I should like that. And… after the kitchens, perhaps the gardens? I should know what grows here at least.”
Mrs. Fowler allowed herself the smallest hint of warmth. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Margaret paused at the turn of the corridor, her hands resting lightly on the rail as Jenny hovered just behind her shoulder. Mrs. Fowler waited a pace ahead, keys at her waist whispering against her skirts each time she moved.
Margaret’s slippers sank silently on the thick carpets. At the foot of the stairs, servants straightened their backs as she passed, a bow here, a curtsey there, murmurs of Your Grace that brushed her ears like ghostly hands brushing her.
And when she stepped into the warm bustle of the kitchens below stairs, Cook’s white cap bobbing among hanging copper pots, Margaret lifted her chin and asked for the butcher’s bill.
When the butcher’s bill was signed, and Cook’s quick nod bobbed, Mrs. Fowler gathered the ledgers and gestured toward the long passage that led back to the service stairs.
“If it please you, Your Grace,” she said, tone gentle but firm, “the gardens are best seen in the morning. Mr. Phipps, our head gardener, is pruning near the west lawn.”
Margaret inclined her head, smoothing her gloves against her palm.
They passed through the servants’ narrow walls, painted a faded cream that bore the careful polish of good keeping.
Along the corridor, housemaids bobbed curt curtseys as she passed.
A footman straightened so sharply he nearly knocked his shoulder against the doorframe.