Chapter Sixteen
When the time had come, Mrs. Morrison arrived to escort her to dinner, and Ophelia tried not to feel like she was being led to her execution. The family dining room, when they reached it, was indeed smaller than the formal one she'd glimpsed earlier. It could only have hosted a small ball.
Alexander was already there, standing by the window with a glass of what looked like brandy. He turned when she entered, and something flickered across his face—perhaps embarrassment at the contrast between them.
"Would Your Grace care for brandy?" the butler asked.
"Yes, thank you." Though what she really wanted was something stronger. Perhaps the entire bottle.
They stood awkwardly, drinks in hand, like strangers at a gathering where they knew no one else.
"How is your correspondence?" she finally asked.
"Tedious. Everyone wants to know about the wedding."
"What are you telling them?"
"That we were married. The end."
"Concise."
"I see no point in elaborating."
"Even though everyone already knows what happened?"
"Especially because everyone already knows. Confirming or denying would just add fuel to the gossip."
"So we pretend nothing happened?"
"We maintain dignified silence."
"Is that what this is? Dignified silence?"
"As opposed to undignified chaos, yes."
The butler announced dinner, and they sat at opposite ends of a table that could have accommodated ten more people. The distance between them made normal conversation impossible, so they ate in silence.
The food was excellent—some sort of fish in cream sauce, vegetables that had been tortured into decorative shapes, a soup that probably had a French name Ophelia couldn't pronounce. It was also completely without character, as if flavor might be too exciting for ducal palates.
"Is the food to Your Grace's liking?" Alexander called from his distant shore.
"It's very... elegant," she called back.
"But?"
"Nothing. It's lovely."
"You're lying."
"I'm being polite."
"Same thing, often."
She set down her fork. "Do we have to sit so far apart? I feel like we need flags to communicate."
"It's traditional."
"It's ridiculous."
"Many traditions are."
"So why follow them?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Because that's what we do."
"What if we didn't?"
"Didn't what?"
"Didn't do what we're supposed to do. We've already broken most of the rules; catastrophic wedding, traveling without proper chaperones, sharing a bed at an inn. Why stop now?"
"Because we're home now. This is... this is where standards matter."
"To whom?"
"To everyone."
"But there's no one here but us."
He looked around the empty dining room as if seeing it for the first time. "Tomorrow you could sit closer. If you prefer."
"Could I sit next to you?"
"Next to me?" He sounded as shocked as if she'd suggested they dine naked.
"People do sit next to each other. I've seen it happen."
"Not at formal dinners."
"This isn't formal. You said so yourself earlier."
"That doesn't mean we abandon all protocol."
"Why not?"
"Because..." He paused, clearly searching for a reason that didn't sound ridiculous. "Because we just don't."
"Compelling argument."
They finished the meal in silence, the clink of silverware echoing in the vast room. Dessert was something sculptural involving sugar and fruit Ophelia couldn't identify. It was beautiful and tasted of nothing in particular.
"Would Your Graces care for anything else?" the butler inquired.
"No, thank you," Alexander said, and Ophelia shook her head.
They rose to leave, and Ophelia found herself walking beside Alexander toward the door.
"What do you usually do in the evenings?" she asked.
"Work. Read. Sometimes play billiards."
"Alone?"
"Generally."
"That sounds lonely."
"It's peaceful."
"Peaceful and lonely aren't mutually exclusive."
He looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "What did you do in the evenings at home?"
"Read, mostly. Or listened to my brothers argue about something. Occasionally played pianoforte if no one was around to complain."
"You don't like playing for others?"
"Others don't like me playing for them. I'm competent, not gifted."
"Competent is sufficient."
"For a merchant's daughter. For a duchess?"
"For anyone."
They'd reached the staircase, and both paused.
"I should work," he said.
"And I should... what should I do?"
"Whatever you wish."
"What if I wished to explore the house?"
"Then explore."
"Would you show me?"
He looked surprised. "You want me to show you around?"
"Unless you have urgent work?"
"It's not urgent. Just... expected."
"By whom?"
"By me, I suppose."
"Then disappoint yourself and show me the house."
For a moment she thought he'd refuse, retreat to his study and leave her to wander alone. But then he offered his arm...formally, properly, but still.
"Very well. We shall start with the portrait gallery. You should know your predecessors."
The portrait gallery was a long room lined with dead Montclaires, all looking remarkably similar in their noble bearing and complete lack of humor. Alexander provided commentary as they walked.
"That's the third duke. He built the east wing. That's the fifth duke. He lost the east wing gambling and had to marry an heiress to get it back."
"Family tradition of marrying for money, then?"
"Family tradition of pragmatism."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
"Survival."
They moved on to the library, which was magnificent—two stories of books reaching to a painted ceiling where cherubs cavorted with unlikely enthusiasm.
"Have you read all of these?" Ophelia asked, craning her neck to see the upper shelves.
"Hardly any. Most are for display."
"Books for display? That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Sadder than our wedding?"
"Our wedding was a disaster. These books being unread is a tragedy."
"You're welcome to read them."
"Really?"
"Why would I stop you?"
"I don't know. It just seems... intimate. Reading someone else's books."
"They're our books now," he said although ‘our’ sounded like a really strange word coming from him.
They wandered through music rooms and morning rooms and rooms whose purposes Ophelia couldn't fathom. Each was perfect, cold, and utterly impersonal.
"Does anyone actually live here?" she asked finally.
"I do."
"No, I mean really live. Not just exist in perfect rooms, but actually live?"
"What's the difference?"
"Living leaves marks. Existence doesn't."
He looked around the pristine drawing room they'd entered. "My mother tried to leave marks. Changed things, redecorated. My father had everything put back after she died."
"How long ago?"
"Fifteen years."
"And nothing's changed since?"
"Nothing significant."
"That's..."
"Pathetic?"
"I was going to say sad."
"It is the same thing, perhaps."
They ended up back at the staircase, the tour complete. The house was magnificent and cold as a tomb.
"Thank you for showing me," Ophelia said.
"It's your house now. You should know it."
"It's your house. I'm just visiting."
"For the rest of your life?"
"That remains to be seen."
He looked at her sharply. "The marriage is legal. You can't simply leave."
"I know. But that doesn't make it home."
"What would?"
She thought about it. "Time, perhaps. Or changes. Or just... living here instead of existing."
"I don't know how to do that."
The admission was so quiet she almost missed it.
"Neither do I," she said. "But perhaps we could learn."
"Together?"
"Well, separately seems inefficient."
He almost smiled. "Everything today has been inefficient."
"But not boring."
"No," he agreed. "Not boring."
They stood there, neither moving toward their rooms, neither quite willing to end this strange, almost comfortable moment.
"I should let you rest," he finally said.
"Thank you."
"Tomorrow will be better. You'll have proper clothes."
"And we can pretend everything is normal."
"Nothing about this is normal."
"No, but we can pretend."
"Is that what you want? To pretend?"
"I don't know what I want. This is all too strange to want anything specific."
"That's honest."
"Would you prefer dishonesty?"
"No. I've had enough of that."
"From whom?"
"Everyone. Society. Myself."
"You lie to yourself?"
"Constantly. Don't you?"
"Probably. Though I try not to."
"And do you succeed?"
"I married you, so not well."
He did smile then, just slightly. "Fair point."
"I should go to bed," she said.
"Of course," he replied.
Neither moved once again.
"This is ridiculous," she said.
"Which part?"
"Standing here like we're afraid of our own chambers."
"Aren't we?"
She laughed softly. "Goodnight, Alexander."
"Goodnight, Ophelia."
She climbed the stairs, aware of him watching. At the top, she turned back. He was still standing there, looking oddly lost in his own home.
"Alexander?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For today. For trying."
"I haven't tried very hard."
"You've tried enough."
She went to her rooms before the conversation could become any more confusing. Mary was waiting to help her prepare for bed.
"How was dinner, Your Grace?"
"Formal."
"His Grace prefers formality."
"Has he always?"
Mary looked uncertain about gossiping but clearly wanted to. "My aunt was a maid here when the late duchess was alive. She said it was different then. Warmer. The duchess laughed a lot, apparently."
"And after she died?"
"Everything went back to how it was before. Or worse. Quieter."
"How long have you worked here?"
"Three years, Your Grace."
"And in those three years, has anything ever changed?"
"Not until today, Your Grace."
"What changed today?"
Mary smiled slightly. "You arrived."
"In a maid's dress."
"But still. You're here. That's different."
She helped her into a borrowed nightgown—Mrs. Morrison had found something somewhere, probably from her own wardrobe. It was plain cotton, practical, nothing like what a duchess should wear. But it was clean and soft and reminded her of home.
"Will Your Grace need anything else?"
"No, thank you, Mary."
The maid curtsied and left, and Ophelia was alone in the duchess's bedroom. Her bedroom now, theoretically. Though it felt more like a museum she was guarding overnight.
She could hear movement through the connecting door; probably Alexander preparing for bed. It was oddly intimate, knowing he was just there, just through that door. Last night they'd shared a bed in the inn, but this felt different. More permanent. More real.
She climbed into the enormous bed and stared at the canopy above but a soft knock at the connecting door made her sit up.
"Yes?"
The door opened slightly, and Alexander peered in. "I forgot to mention that breakfast is served at nine in the morning room. Unless you'd prefer a tray in your room?"
"The morning room is fine."
"Good." He paused. "Are you... comfortable?"
"The bed's very large."
"Yes."
"Yours too?"
"Yes."
"Seems wasteful. All this space for two people."
"Would you prefer the inn?"
"The inn had character."
"The inn had insects, probably."
"But also warmth."
"There are fires in all the rooms."
"That's not the kind of warmth I meant."
"I know."
They looked at each other across the dim room, and Ophelia thought how strange this was. Yesterday they'd been strangers forced together. Today they were... what? Still strangers, but with a shared disaster behind them?
"Sleep well," he said finally.
"You too."
He closed the door, and she heard the soft click of his own door closing on the other side. Two doors between them now. It might as well have been an ocean.
But still, he'd checked on her. That was something.