Chapter Fifteen
The entrance hall of Montclaire House was designed to intimidate, and it succeeded magnificently.
Ophelia stood in the borrowed maid's dress, trying not to gape at the soaring ceiling painted with what appeared to be the entire heavenly host witnessing the glorious deeds of various Montclaire ancestors.
The floor was so highly polished she could see her bedraggled reflection, which was somewhat unfortunate given the circumstances.
The servants were lined up in perfect formation—at least thirty of them, from the butler down to the smallest scullery maid.
Every single face was carefully blank, but Ophelia could feel their curiosity radiating like heat from a fire.
The new Duchess of Montclaire, arriving in a servant's dress.
She'd wager this was a first in the estate's five-hundred-year history.
Mrs. Morrison, the housekeeper, stepped forward.
She was exactly what one would expect of a ducal housekeeper—-grey hair, impeccable posture, and an expression that suggested she'd seen everything and was impressed by none of it.
Her curtsey was perfect, though Ophelia detected a slight stiffness that suggested internal conflict between proper protocol and personal opinion.
"Your Grace,"Mrs. Morrison said, her tone studiously neutral. "Welcome to Montclaire House. I trust your journey was... comfortable?"
Alexander, standing beside her in his borrowed shirt and muddy boots, made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a cough. "Our journey was eventful, Mrs. Morrison. Her Grace's luggage was unfortunately destroyed in the storm. She'll need... everything."
The housekeeper's composure cracked slightly, her eyes widening. "Everything, Your Grace?"
"Everything," Alexander confirmed. "Send for seamstresses immediately. The best you can find. Her Grace requires a complete wardrobe as quickly as possible."
"Of course, Your Grace." Mrs. Morrison's gaze flickered to Ophelia with something that might have been sympathy. "Perhaps Her Grace would like to refresh herself while we make arrangements?"
"Yes," Ophelia said, finding her voice. "That would be lovely, thank you."
The butler, a man who looked like he'd been carved from disapproval and starched into submission, stepped forward. "Your Grace," he intoned to Alexander, "there are several urgent matters requiring your attention. The correspondence from London..."
"Later, Carrington. I need to change first. And send word to my grandmother's solicitor. Her Grace will need access to the family jewels."
Ophelia felt rather than saw the ripple of reaction through the assembled servants. The family jewels. That was significant, apparently.
"Shall I show Her Grace to her chambers?" Mrs. Morrison asked.
"I'll do it," Alexander said, surprising everyone, including Ophelia. "The rest of you, return to your duties."
The servants dispersed with the kind of organized efficiency that spoke of years of training, though Ophelia caught several backward glances and heard the whisper of conversation beginning the moment they thought they were out of earshot.
Alexander led her up the imposing staircase, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. Portraits of dead Montclaires watched their progress with painted disapproval.
"That went well," Ophelia said dryly.
"They didn't openly revolt. I consider that a victory."
"Your standards really have lowered."
"It's been an educational few days."
They reached the duchess's suite, and Alexander opened the door.
"I shall have Mrs. Morrison assign you a lady's maid," Alexander said, hovering in the doorway as if crossing the threshold might commit him to something. "Do you have preferences?"
"Someone who won't actively despise me would be nice."
"That might be challenging. The Coleridge name isn't popular here."
"How encouraging."
He studied her for a moment, this woman who should be his duchess but looked like she'd wandered in from the kitchens. "You're taking this remarkably well."
"Would hysteria help?” She asked once again.
"No, but it would be more expected."
"I'm tired of meeting expectations. They haven't done me much good so far."
"Fair point." He gestured toward the connecting door. "My rooms are through there. The door locks from both sides."
"Yes."
They stood there awkwardly, neither quite sure what to say. They'd shared a bed last night in the inn, but somehow this felt more intimate.
"I should change," he said finally.
"Yes."
"Mrs. Morrison will help you... settle."
"Thank you.”
He left through the connecting door, closing it with a soft click that somehow sounded very final.
Ophelia stood alone in the duchess's rooms, her rooms now, and tried to comprehend that this was her life. These silk-covered walls, these priceless furnishings, this view over manicured gardens that stretched to the horizon. All hers, except none of it felt remotely like it belonged to her.
A knock at the door interrupted her musings. Mrs. Morrison entered, followed by two younger women carrying towels and fresh linens.
"Your Grace, I've taken the liberty of preparing a bath. The seamstresses will arrive within the hour, and I thought you might wish to refresh yourself first."
"Thank you, that's very kind of you."
The housekeeper's expression softened marginally. "This is Mary," she indicated one of the maids, a girl of perhaps twenty with kind eyes and freckles. "She'll serve as your lady's maid until we can arrange someone more... experienced."
Mary curtsied nervously. "Your Grace."
"Hello, Mary." Ophelia smiled, trying to put the girl at ease. "I'm afraid I'm not very experienced at being a duchess, so we can learn together."
Mary's eyes widened, but she smiled back tentatively.
Mrs. Morrison looked slightly scandalized at this admission but said nothing. She supervised the preparation of the bath with military precision, and soon Ophelia was sinking into gloriously hot water that smelled of roses.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said carefully, "might I speak plainly?"
"Please do."
"The household is... unsettled. The news from London about the wedding has already reached us, and there's been considerable speculation."
"What are they saying?"
Mrs. Morrison looked uncomfortable. "That Your Grace... that is, that the ceremony was... irregular."
"I was sick on His Grace at the altar. I imagine that qualifies as irregular."
The housekeeper's composure cracked entirely. "You... on His Grace?"
"Comprehensively. He had to finish the ceremony covered in vomit. It was spectacular, in the worst possible way."
Mary made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Mrs. Morrison looked like she might need smelling salts.
"And he still... that is, the marriage was completed?"
"Oh yes. We're thoroughly married. For better or worse, though mostly worse so far."
"Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said faintly, "perhaps this information should remain... private?"
"Mrs. Morrison, I arrived at this estate wearing a borrowed maid's dress, with my husband in a laborer's shirt. I think we're rather past the point of maintaining pretenses."
The housekeeper rallied admirably. "Your Grace is right, of course. The seamstresses will remedy the clothing situation quickly. We've already sent to London for additional help. You'll have morning dresses by tomorrow, and the rest within the week."
"That's very efficient."
"His Grace was quite specific in his instructions. You're to have whatever you require."
Which was kind, Ophelia supposed, though it felt more like duty than consideration. Still, duty was better than neglect.
After her bath, Mary helped her back into the borrowed dress as it was the only clothing she possessed.
The seamstresses arrived in a flutter of fabric samples and measuring tapes. Three of them, all talking at once, scandalized by the situation but professional enough not to comment directly. They measured every conceivable dimension of her body while discussing her as if she weren't there.
"The coloring is good, so she can wear jewel tones."
"The figure needs help. Stays, definitely, and proper structure."
"The posture is acceptable, but the deportment needs work."
Ophelia stood still and let them discuss her inadequacies. It was rather like being a horse at auction, but less dignified.
"What does Your Grace prefer?" one finally asked, apparently remembering she was a person and not a mannequin.
"Simple things," Ophelia said. "Nothing too elaborate."
The seamstresses exchanged glances that suggested 'simple' was not in their vocabulary.
"Her Grace will need court dresses," Mrs. Morrison interjected. "And ball gowns. Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, riding habits..."
"I don't ride," Ophelia said.
Another exchange of glances. Duchesses who didn't ride were apparently like fish who didn't swim; theoretically possible but deeply wrong.
"Walking dresses, then," Mrs. Morrison adjusted smoothly. "And dinner gowns, naturally."
"How many dinners can one person attend?"
"As many as society requires, Your Grace."
Which sounded ominous.
The fitting took two hours. By the end, Ophelia had been pinned, prodded, and discussed into exhaustion. But they promised at least two morning dresses by the next day, which meant she wouldn't have to wear borrowed clothes much longer.
After the seamstresses left, Mary helped her arrange her hair into something more duchess-appropriate than the simple knot she'd managed at the inn. There wasn't much to work with because there were no ornaments, no jewellery, just pins and determination.
"Your Grace looks lovely," Mary said when she'd finished.
Ophelia looked in the mirror. She looked like a servant with pretensions, but she smiled at Mary anyway. "Thank you. You're very skilled."
Mary beamed. "My mum was a lady's maid before she married. She taught me."
"Well, she taught you well."
A knock at the connecting door made them both jump.
"Come in," Ophelia called, and Alexander entered.
He'd transformed back into himself—perfectly dressed, freshly shaved, every inch the duke. The contrast between them was almost painful. He looked like what he was, while she looked like what she'd been mistaken for.
"The seamstresses?" he asked.
"Came and conquered. I'm to have morning dresses tomorrow."
"Good." He paused, clearly having come for a purpose but uncertain how to proceed. "Dinner is at eight. We don't dress for dinner when it's just family."
"We don't have family here."
"No, I mean... never mind. What I'm trying to say is, you don't need to change for dinner."
"How fortunate, since I can't."
He winced slightly. "Right. I didn't think..."
"It's fine. I'm getting used to being under-dressed. It's becoming my signature style."
"Ophelia..."
"Really, it's fine. Where do we dine?"
"The family dining room. It's smaller than the formal one."
"How small?"
"It only seats twelve."
"Only twelve. How cozy."
"Mrs. Morrison will show you down."
"You're not escorting me?"
He looked uncomfortable. "I have correspondence to attend to. About the wedding. The announcements and... other things."
Other things meaning damage control, probably. She wondered what society was saying about their disaster of a wedding. Nothing good, certainly.
"Of course," she said.
He left through the connecting door, and Ophelia was alone again. Or not quite alone as Mary was still there, trying to be invisible in the corner.
"Is it always like this?" Ophelia asked her.
"Like what, Your Grace?"
"So formal. So careful."
Mary looked uncertain about answering. "His Grace is... particular about things."
"Particular."
"He likes order. Routine. Things being proper."
"And I'm decidedly improper."
"I didn't say that, Your Grace!"
"No, but it's true. I'm a Coleridge who was sick on him at our wedding and arrived at his estate dressed as a servant. I'm the definition of improper."
Mary bit her lip, clearly fighting not to smile. "It has been an unusual day, Your Grace."
"That's very diplomatic of you."