Chapter Seventeen #2
"That was inappropriate," he said finally, turning to face her.
"Having tea?"
"Having tea with the servants. Sitting in their hall as if you were one of them."
"I was lost and they were kind enough to..."
"You weren't lost. I've watched you learn this house systematically over the past two weeks. You know exactly where everything is."
He was right, of course. She hadn't been lost. She'd been lonely and heard friendly voices and followed them like a moth to flame, but she could not admit it even to herself.
"You're right," she admitted. "I wasn't lost. I was just... they were having tea and laughing, and it sounded so warm and normal that I wanted to be part of it for a moment."
His expression softened marginally, then hardened again. "Ophelia, you need to understand something. You're the Duchess of Montclaire now. You cannot simply join the servants for tea because you're lonely or because it feels warm and normal. There are boundaries that must be maintained."
"Why? What horrible thing will happen if I drink tea with people who work in my house?"
"Your house?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Our house, then. Though it doesn't feel like either, does it? It feels like a beautiful prison where everyone knows their place and no one steps outside the lines drawn centuries ago."
"Those lines exist for a reason. The servants need to respect you, and they won't if you're sitting at their table gossiping like a... like a..."
"Like a commoner? Like what I am, you mean?"
"Like what you were," he corrected, though not harshly. "You're a duchess now. My duchess. And duchesses don't take tea in the servants' hall."
"Then where do duchesses take tea? Alone in vast drawing rooms? Because that's what I've been doing for two weeks, and it's miserable."
He moved to the window, looking out at the manicured gardens. "You're being too familiar with them. I've noticed it—the way you chat with James about his mother, how you know every housemaid's name and their personal situations. You helped Mary with her mending yesterday."
"How is being kind to people who work hard to make our lives comfortable a bad thing?"
"It's not about kindness. You can be kind without being familiar. You can be compassionate while maintaining appropriate distance." He turned back to her. "They need to see you as above them, as someone to respect and perhaps slightly fear. Not as a friend who happens to have a title."
"Fear? You want people to fear me?"
"I want them to respect your position. There's a difference between being a good mistress and being their friend. You can't be both."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not how it is supposed to be.
" He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its perfect arrangement, which was a sign of real agitation.
"Do you think I enjoy being distant from people who have served this family for generations?
Do you think I like eating silent meals and having conversations that never go deeper than the weather?
But that's what's required of our position. "
"Required by whom?"
"By society. By tradition. By the very nature of the system we're part of."
"A system that's making us both miserable?"
"A system that maintains order. That ensures everyone knows their role and plays it properly."
Ophelia sank into one of the leather chairs facing his desk, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour. "So I'm to be polite but distant. Kind but not friendly. Present but not really there."
"You're to be a duchess," he said more gently. "I know it's not what you're used to, but it's what you are now."
"And you think I'm being strategic, don't you? Making friends with the servants for some nefarious purpose?"
He was quiet for a moment too long.
"You do," she said, hurt creeping into her voice. "You think I'm plotting something. Building a power base or whatever military term you want to use."
"Aren't you?"
"No! I'm being friendly because I'm lonely and they're kind and I don't know how else to be. But you see Coleridge manipulation in everything I do, don't you?"
"I see patterns," he said carefully. "You arrive here with nothing, and within two weeks, every servant in this house would do anything for you. They already look to you before me for decisions about household matters."
"Because I asked their opinions! Because I treated them like human beings with valuable knowledge instead of furniture that occasionally speaks!"
"And in doing so, you've undermined my authority."
"Your authority?" She stood, anger finally overtaking hurt. "Your authority that keeps everyone at a distance? Your authority that has made this house feel like a beautiful tomb? That authority?"
"Yes, that authority. The authority that has maintained this estate for five hundred years."
"Well, perhaps after five hundred years, it's time for a change."
"Not this kind of change. Not Coleridge change."
The word hung between them like a slap. Always it came back to that; she was a Coleridge, therefore suspect, therefore calculating, therefore wrong.
"I see," she said quietly. "So I should be more like you. Cold and perfect and untouchable."
"You should be appropriate to your station."
"My station," she repeated. "Yes, I shall try to remember my station."
She left his study, closing the door with excessive care when what she wanted was to slam it. In the hall, she encountered James, who looked uncertain whether to acknowledge her after the scene in the servants' hall.
"Your Grace," he said formally, beginning to bow.
"James," she replied with equal formality, the warmth she'd shown at breakfast now frozen over. "Please inform Mrs. Morrison that I'll take luncheon in my chambers."
"Of course, Your Grace."
She swept past him, her new gown rustling with expensive authority, and climbed the stairs to her rooms. Mary was there, organizing the wardrobe, and looked up with a smile that faded when she saw Ophelia's expression.
"Your Grace? Is everything alright?"
"Perfectly fine, Mary. I've just been reminded of my position, that's all."
"Your position?"
"Yes. I'm to be a proper duchess. Distant, formal, appropriate." She moved to the window, looking out at gardens that were beautiful and controlled and nothing like the chaotic gardens at home. "The duke feels I've been too familiar with the staff."
Mary was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, "You've been very kind to all of us, Your Grace."
"Apparently, kindness and familiarity are too easily confused. I'm to maintain proper boundaries from now on."
"I see." Mary's voice was small, hurt.
Ophelia turned to her. "It's not my choice, Mary. But His Grace is right. I need to learn to be what I am now, not what I was."
"If Your Grace says so."
"I do. So from now on, we'll maintain proper protocol. No more friendly chats while you're doing my hair. No more sharing stories about our families. Just... proper duchess and lady's maid relations."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The rest of the day passed in careful formality. Luncheon alone in her rooms, an afternoon spent reading in the library—alone, of course—and preparations for dinner that involved Mary silently arranging her hair and helping her into an evening gown of deep green silk.
Dinner was the usual elaborate affair, she and Alexander at opposite ends of the table that could have seated twenty.
The footmen served in perfect silence, and she acknowledged them with only the barest nod.
No inquiries about their families, no warm smiles, just the distant politeness of a proper duchess.
"The fish is excellent," she said to the middle distance between them.
"Cook will be pleased to hear it," Alexander replied.
And that was the extent of their dinner conversation. The courses came and went, soup, fish, meat, vegetables tortured into decorative shapes, desserts that were architectural marvels, all consumed in an atmosphere that could have frozen fire.
After dinner, she retired to the music room to practice pianoforte. She was working through a Bach piece, technically proficient but without much feeling, when she sensed rather than heard Alexander in the doorway.
"You play well," he said.
"Adequately," she corrected, continuing to play.
"You've been very formal today. With the servants, I mean."
"Isn't that what you wanted?"
"Yes."
"Then why do you sound disappointed?"
"I don't sound disappointed."
She stopped playing and turned to face him. "You do, actually. Did you expect me to argue more? To refuse to change?"
"I expected... I don't know what I expected."
"You expected me to be a Coleridge. Stubborn, argumentative, scheming. Instead, I'm doing exactly what you asked...being a proper duchess, maintaining appropriate boundaries, knowing my place."
"You make it sound like a punishment."
"Isn't it? You've made it clear that being myself is inappropriate, so I'm being what you want instead. Cold, formal, distant. Just like you."
"I'm not..." He stopped, seemingly unable to complete the denial.
"You are, though. You're exactly what you've asked me to become. And if that's what it takes to be a proper duchess, then that's what I'll be."
He stood there for a long moment, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Finally, he said, "Your brothers' visit. Do you need anything arranged?"
"I'm sure Mrs. Morrison can handle the guest rooms."
"Of course."
Another silence stretched between them, filled with all the things they couldn't or wouldn't say.
"I'll leave you to your practice," he said finally.
"Good evening, Your Grace."
"Good evening, Your Grace."
He left, and she returned to Bach, playing with technical perfection and no soul whatsoever.
The next morning brought the same routine—Mary silently helping her dress, breakfast in careful formality, Alexander hidden behind his newspaper. But there was a tension now, an awareness that something had shifted between them, though neither could say exactly what.