Chapter Seventeen
Two weeks had passed since Ophelia arrived at Montclaire House in a borrowed maid's dress, and the transformation was remarkable, at least on the surface.
She now possessed a wardrobe that would make any duchess proud; morning gowns in soft muslins, afternoon dresses in rich silks, evening gowns that caught the light like captured stars.
The seamstresses had worked miracles, and when Ophelia looked in her mirror each morning, she saw someone who might actually belong in this house.
Except she didn't feel like she belonged. She felt like an actress in an elaborate play, wearing costumes and speaking lines while the real her watched from somewhere far away.
The morning routine had become predictable.
Mary would arrive at precisely seven to help her dress, selecting from the array of gowns with careful consideration of the day's requirements.
This morning, it was a pale blue muslin with delicate embroidery at the hem—suitable for a day with no callers expected, though one must always be prepared for the unexpected, as Mrs. Morrison frequently reminded her.
"Your Grace looks particularly lovely today," Mary said, putting the finishing touches on Ophelia's hair, which had been tamed into an elegant chignon that bore no resemblance to the simple styles she'd worn at home.
"Thank you, Mary. Though I rather feel like I'm wearing armor instead of a dress sometimes. Beautiful armor, but armor nonetheless."
Mary smiled in the mirror. "It does take some getting used to, I imagine. All the layers and pins and such."
"At home, I could dress myself in ten minutes.
Now it takes an hour to achieve the proper duchess appearance.
" Ophelia touched the strand of pearls at her throat, not the family jewels yet, Alexander hadn't arranged that, but a simple set he'd had sent from London.
A gesture that was both generous and impersonal, like everything else about their arrangement.
"But Your Grace looks suitable now," Mary assured her.
Looking suitable and being suitable were two vastly different things, Ophelia thought but didn't say. Instead, she rose from the dressing table and made her way down to breakfast, her silk slippers silent on the staircase.
The morning room was bright with early sunlight, and Alexander was already there, hidden behind The Times as was his custom.
She could see only his hands holding the paper and the top of his perfectly styled dark hair.
He didn't lower the paper when she entered, though she knew he was aware of her presence.
He was always aware, watching even when seeming not to.
"Good morning," she said, taking her seat at the opposite end of the table.
"Good morning," he replied from behind his newsprint fortress. "I trust you slept well?"
"Quite well, thank you." The same exchange every morning, like actors who'd been performing the same play for years rather than weeks.
The footman, James, poured her tea and she smiled at him. "Thank you, James. How is your mother feeling? I heard she'd been unwell."
James looked pleased that she had remembered. "Much better, Your Grace, thank you for asking. The tonic from the village seems to have helped her cough considerably."
"I'm so glad to hear it. There's nothing worse than a lingering cough, especially at her age. My grandmother swore by honey and lemon in hot water, taken three times daily. Perhaps that might help as well?"
"I'll suggest it to her, Your Grace. Very kind of you to remember."
The newspaper lowered slightly, and Alexander's grey eyes appeared over the top, watching the exchange with an expression Ophelia couldn't quite read. She met his gaze briefly, then turned her attention to the breakfast that had been set before her.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the clink of china and the rustle of Alexander's paper.
Ophelia had letters from home and as she was denying to follow rules she opened them at the breakfast table—one from her mother, one from Henry that would undoubtedly be full of dry observations about something, and one in the twins' shared handwriting that she was almost afraid to open.
She started with her mother's letter, full of local gossip and careful inquiries about her wellbeing that didn't quite ask if she was miserable. Henry's was, as expected, a satirical commentary on the latest Parliamentary debate that actually made her smile despite herself.
"Something amusing?" Alexander asked, his paper now folded beside his plate.
"My brother Henry is describing Lord Carrington's speech in the House as 'an assault upon both logic and the English language, a feat previously thought impossible to achieve simultaneously.'"
Alexander's mouth twitched slightly. "That's actually rather accurate. I was there for that particular disaster. The man managed to mix his metaphors so thoroughly that by the end, no one was quite sure what he was talking about."
It was the closest they came to actual conversation most days—brief moments of shared observation before retreating back into their separate silences. Ophelia had learned not to push these moments, to let them exist and end naturally rather than trying to build upon them.
She opened the twins' letter and immediately regretted it.
Dearest Phee, it began in Charles's enthusiastic scrawl, We're coming to visit!
Can't leave our favourite sister languishing in that museum without checking that you're still alive.
Edward says to tell you we promise to behave (we absolutely don't promise that).
Arriving Thursday if the weather holds. Don't let your duke frighten us away—we've been practicing our elegant accents and everything else.
The letter continued in Edward's slightly neater hand: Also, Robert wants a full report on your circumstances, Henry sends his regards and a book he thinks you'll find amusing, and Father says something incomprehensible about duty and honour that we've chosen to interpret as approval.
Mother sends her love and several jars of that preserve you like, though how she expects us to transport them without eating them ourselves is a mystery.
"Bad news?" Alexander asked, and she realized her expression must have given something away.
"My brothers are planning to visit," she said carefully, watching his reaction.
His face went very still, the way it did when he was controlling his immediate response. "I see. When?"
"Thursday, apparently. The day after tomorrow."
"Rather short notice."
"That's Charles and Edward for you. They don't really understand the concept of proper planning." She tried to keep her tone light, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw had tightened.
"I suppose it was inevitable," he said after a moment, his tone suggesting he was discussing an upcoming execution.
"I could write and tell them to postpone," she offered, though she knew it was probably too late.
"No, that would only delay the inevitable. Besides, they're your family. You have a right to see them."
The words were correct, proper, but delivered with all the warmth of a legal contract. He rose from the table, his breakfast largely untouched. "If you'll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to."
He left, and Ophelia sat alone in the morning room, staring at the letter and wondering how two days could feel simultaneously too soon and too far away.
After breakfast, she wandered the house as had become her custom.
It was too large to know completely even after two weeks, and she kept discovering new rooms, new corridors, new portraits of disapproving ancestors.
Today she found herself in the servants' hall during their morning tea break, having taken a wrong turn while looking for the hothouse.
The conversation stopped when she appeared in the doorway, everyone beginning to rise, but she waved them back down. "Please, don't let me interrupt. I was just exploring and got rather turned around. This house is like a maze."
Mrs. Morrison looked uncertain, caught between protocol and the duchess's apparent wishes. "Your Grace, perhaps I should escort you back to the main house?"
"In a moment, perhaps. But first, might I ask—who arranges the flowers in the front hall? They're absolutely beautiful."
A young housemaid, barely out of her teens, blushed and raised her hand slightly. "That would be me, Your Grace. I hope they're satisfactory?"
"More than satisfactory, they're artistic. Where did you learn to arrange flowers so beautifully?"
The girl, whose name Ophelia learned was Susan, lit up at the praise. "My mum was in service at Chatsworth House, Your Grace. She learned from their head gardener and taught me."
"Chatsworth! No wonder they're so lovely. I've heard their gardens are spectacular."
Soon she was seated at their table, much to Mrs. Morrison's barely concealed horror, discussing flowers and gardens and household management with the staff. Cook, a formidable woman named Mrs. Bradley, was explaining the challenges of the kitchen gardens when Alexander appeared in the doorway.
The atmosphere changed instantly. Everyone scrambled to their feet, tea cups clattering, the easy conversation dying as surely as if someone had snuffed out a candle.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said, curtsying deeply. "We weren't expecting..."
"Evidently," Alexander said, his tone arctic. His gaze found Ophelia, still seated at the servants' table with a cup of tea halfway to her lips. "Duchess, a word, if you please."
She set down the cup carefully and rose, aware of every eye in the room following her movement. "Of course. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Bradley. Your recipes are delightful."
She followed Alexander out of the servants' hall, through the green door that separated their world from his, and into his study. He closed the door with deliberate control, then stood with his back to her for a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts.