Chapter 9 #2
Margaret returned each small greeting with a nod, careful not to let her mouth tremble. But her eyes caught theirs, and too often, they slipped away. A girl carrying a stack of folded linens ducked her head so low, her cap nearly slipped off.
A pair of kitchen maids stepped aside so fast they pressed themselves against the wall rather than brush her sleeve.
One of the young footmen—John, she thought Mrs. Fowler had called him—stiffened so quickly, his tray nearly tipped, the gleam of polished silver catching sunlight in a jittering flash.
The way they looked at her unsettled her. It wasn’t disrespect. Not quite. But the look in their eyes, the faint dart of glances down at her boots, told her all she needed to know. They knew. Or thought they did. That she was the mad one, the cursed wife. The scandal wearing the Ravenscourt silks.
Margaret lifted her chin, letting her steps echo sharply on the worn flagstones. If they watched her, let them see a woman who would not shrink from her own name.
A maid carrying fresh hearth-brushes stopped dead in her tracks, eyes darting to the floor.
Margaret let her steps slow, her glance resting on the maid, a girl no older than Cecily, freckles sharp against pale skin, knuckles white around the broom handle.
“Your Grace,” the girl breathed, voice catching as she dipped a curtsy so deep it nearly unbalanced her.
Mrs. Fowler started to move them along, but Margaret lifted a hand, stopping the older woman mid-step.
“What’s your name?” Margaret asked, her voice as soft as the corridor’s decorum.
The maid’s eyes flickered up, wide as saucers. “Anne, Your Grace.”
“Anne,” Margaret repeated, letting the name sit warm on her tongue. “Is this your first position?”
Anne nodded, a quick dart of her chin. “Y-yes, Your Grace. First proper house, I mean.”
Margaret felt Jenny shift behind her, felt Mrs. Fowler watching too, weighing her.
“Well then, Anne,” Margaret said gently, “mind your broom near the grand stair—the polish there is treacherous. And when you’ve finished this corridor, do have Cook set aside a proper tea. You’ve done well.”
Anne’s eyes went rounder still, and for a heartbeat, she looked like she might spill over with relief. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”
Margaret tipped her chin once, the faintest nod of command she’d seen Aunt Agnes wield a thousand times over. Then she walked on, Mrs. Fowler stepping smartly beside her, Jenny a half-pace behind.
When they got to the far door, Mrs. Fowler paused, glancing back. “Shall I fetch your shawl, Your Grace? The breeze can be sharp near the west lawn.”
Margaret forced a small smile, one that felt almost real. “Yes, please. And then perhaps you might walk with me a while longer. I should like to know the names of those I pass.”
Mrs. Fowler’s mouth curved in that small, rare approval. “As you wish, Your Grace. I shall see to it.”
Margaret pressed a palm to the cool stone arch as Mrs. Fowler stepped briskly back inside. Beyond the half-glass door, she could see a line of hedges bright with new buds and the gardener’s shears glinting in the spring sun.
She let her forehead rest against the cold arch for a moment, breathing in the faint tang of rain still clinging to the flagstones. A duchess, she thought, the word tasted like an unfamiliar spice on her tongue.
And him. The man whose name now wrapped around hers like a borrowed coat, warm in places, suffocating in others. Sebastian. Her husband—in law, if not in any truth, she could feel.
She had not seen him since they arrived the day before, his boots crunching on the gravel, his nod as he left her standing with Mrs. Fowler and the steward and a houseful of polite, distant eyes.
No warm welcome, no guiding hand at her elbow, and no gentle word to ease the shift from her former life to respectability.
Which is what you wanted, she reminded herself. No illusions. No kindness that might look too much like care.
Still, when she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the low rasp of his voice, the way it had curved around her name in the library, in the carriage, and in that cold chapel where neither of them had wanted to stand.
She straightened, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. Let him vanish, she told herself firmly, gathering her shawl around herself as Mrs. Fowler returned. Let him keep to his dark corners. I have enough rooms to fill without him.
And with that, Margaret stepped into the garden, the door clicking shut behind her, a small sound swallowed by birdsong and the brightness of early spring.
The dining room at the Duncaster Estate had once hosted banquets fit for dukes and ministers with its heavy plates, gilt candlesticks, and polished walnut gleaming under hundreds of candles. Tonight, it held only Margaret.
She sat at the far end of the long table, a single setting laid before her like a quiet mockery.
Mrs. Fowler had insisted Cook send up a proper supper of roast fowl, creamed turnips, and a little tart glazed with currants, but each dish arrived under its silver dome as if to remind her she ought to be grateful.
Jenny hovered at her elbow, hands clasped. “Shall I pour the wine, Your Grace?”
Margaret glanced at the empty chair opposite. “No… water will do.”
She tried for a time. She lifted her fork, cut neat slices, and chewed politely as if Sebastian might appear any moment to take the seat opposite her.
But the chair stayed empty. The fire popped in the grate, a dull echo against so much carved paneling, and too many portraits of old, cold-eyed dukes stared down at her from gilded frames.
She could almost imagine Beatrice’s voice scolding her to sit up straighter and Cecily’s laugh bubbling across the table. All those sounds used to stitch a supper hour together until the candles burned low.
She glanced at the empty chair opposite. Imagined Sebastian’s shape there, coat unbuttoned, hair a little mussed from the wind. Imagined him raising that sardonic brow and asking her why she looked so grim with a supper fit for a queen. Imagined him really listening when she said she was lonely.
She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold at that thought. The candles guttered slightly in their glass chimneys.
“Will His Grace be joining me?” she asked when the footman cleared a plate.
“I’m afraid not, Your Grace,” he said, eyes fixed on the silver dome in his hands.
When at last she rose, her chair scraped loudly against the tiles. The silence followed her up from the floorboards as she stepped back from the table, skirts brushing the oak like a whisper.
She stepped into the corridor and found Jenny waiting just outside, hands folded neatly before her.
“Shall I bring a lamp, Your Grace?”
Margaret shook her head. “No. Just… let me walk a little.”
Jenny dipped her head. “As you wish.”
Margaret drifted through the wide corridor like someone half-awake, fingertips brushing the cold wainscoting.
Somewhere behind her, a clock ticked steadily as a heartbeat.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for; she did not even know where her feet were taking her.
Only that the dining room’s hollow quiet clung to her shoulders, pressing her forward in search of anything but emptiness.
She carried no candle. The sconces along the wall glowed steadily with tapers, throwing pools of gold against gilt-framed paintings and silk wallpaper the color of old bone.
A turn of the corridor brought her to a gallery. She paused at the threshold, breath misting faintly in the draft that slipped under the tall windows. Along the wall, portraits stood guard in solemn rows of ancestors rendered in oils and varnish, each face with the same careful gravity.
Men in powdered wigs and embroidered coats, each Duke of Ravenscourt more rigid than the last, shoulders square, gaze distant. Their wives beside them, painted with the same deliberate stillness, their eyes lowered, hands folded as though even in oil they knew better than to look amused.
She bit back a laugh. The fourth Duke’s mouth bore the faintest curl, not a smile exactly, more like the expression of a man who had just discovered a pea under his mattress.
She stopped before a boy near the end. Dark hair combed flat. Shoulders braced, as if ordered to stand still for hours.
“Sebastian,” she murmured.
The same green eyes stared back at her—cool, careful—but the mouth was too tight for a child.
“Did you ever laugh?” she wondered aloud. “Run here without checking who watched?”
Her fingers hovered near the carved frame.
Farther down, half-hidden in the shadow where the gallery turned, another canvas loomed.
She could not see the face clearly from where she stood.
Something about the posture, rigid and slightly turned just so, caught at the base of her neck.
A chill flicked down her spine, an old echo she couldn’t name.
She didn’t linger. She backed away, the hem of her gown brushing the marble threshold.
Without thinking, she pressed her palm to the first door she found, needing to be anywhere else. The brass latch was cool under her fingertips. She pushed it open.
“Lost your way, Duchess?”