Chapter Seventeen #3
She spent the morning dealing with household accounts, Mrs. Morrison having finally agreed to let her see them.
The numbers were staggering—the amount spent on candles alone could have supported a small family for a year.
But she made notes carefully, suggesting no changes, asking no uncomfortable questions about efficiency or waste.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said as they finished, "might I speak freely?"
"If you wish."
"The staff... they're concerned they've somehow offended you. Yesterday's change in... manner... has them worried."
"They haven't offended me at all. I've simply realised that I need to maintain more appropriate boundaries. His Grace was quite right that I was being too familiar."
Mrs. Morrison looked like she wanted to say something else but settled for, "As Your Grace thinks best."
Luncheon was again in her rooms, avoiding the awkwardness of the dining room. She was picking at a plate of cold meats and cheese when Mary announced, "His Grace would like a word, Your Grace."
Alexander entered, looking uncertain—an expression she'd never seen on him before.
"I wanted to discuss your brothers' visit," he said. "They arrive tomorrow?"
"Yes, in the afternoon, I believe."
"I thought perhaps we should... prepare."
"Prepare?"
"Present a united front. Whatever our private difficulties, it would be best if we appeared..."
"Happy? In love? Not barely speaking?"
"Cordial, at least. Comfortable with each other."
"And how do you propose we achieve that when we can barely manage a conversation?"
He moved to the window, a habit when he was thinking. "We could practise."
"Practise being married?"
"Practise being comfortable. We managed it at the inn, didn't we? After the disaster, we actually talked."
"That was different. We were both too exhausted and overwhelmed to maintain our guards."
"Then perhaps we need to lower them again. At least temporarily."
She looked at him skeptically. "You want to lower your guard?"
"I want your brothers' visit to go smoothly. If that requires some... adjustment in our interaction, then so be it."
"How romantic. Pretending to tolerate each other for the sake of appearances."
"Would you prefer I be openly hostile to them?"
"I'd prefer you didn't think of them as the enemy."
"They are Coleridges."
"So am I."
"Yes," he said quietly. "So are you."
They looked at each other across her sitting room, two people trapped in a marriage neither wanted, about to face a visit both dreaded.
"We could have tea," she suggested suddenly. "Together. Now. Practise having a normal conversation."
"About what?"
"I don't know. Books? The weather? Anything except my inappropriate friendliness with servants or your frozen demeanour?"
"My demeanour is not frozen."
"You're right. Frozen suggests the possibility of thawing. Yours is more... permanently refrigerated."
Despite himself, his mouth twitched. "Permanently refrigerated?"
"It's a scientific marvel, really. You should donate yourself to the Royal Society."
"For the advancement of knowledge?"
"For the preservation of foods. Think how much longer things would keep in your presence."
This time he actually smiled, just slightly. "You're speaking ironically at me."
"Only a little. You make it rather easy."
"Do I?"
"Alexander, you're standing in my sitting room like you're afraid the furniture might attack. You can sit down, you know. It's quite safe."
He looked at the delicate chair nearest him with deep suspicion. "It doesn't look like it would support weight."
"It's supported me perfectly well."
"You weigh approximately as much as a bird."
But he did sit down, carefully, in the chair that looked least likely to collapse under him. She rang for tea, and when James brought it, she was politely distant, exactly as Alexander had instructed. She saw James's confusion, the slight hurt in his eyes, but maintained her duchess facade.
When they were alone again, Alexander said, "This is what you wanted me to see, isn't it? How cold it feels."
"I wanted you to see that there's a moderate path between inappropriate familiarity and arctic distance."
"Where is this path?"
"I don't know. I'm still looking for it." She poured the tea, pleased that her hands were steady. "How do you take your tea?"
"You don't know?"
"We've been married two weeks and I have no idea how you take your tea. That seems... wrong."
"No milk, a little sugar."
"See? Progress. I now know one personal thing about you."
"You know more than that."
"Do I? Let's see. You're a duke. You value propriety above all else. You despise my family. You have excellent posture. That's about it."
"That's not..." He paused, seeming to realize she was right. "That was rather limited."
"What do you know about me?"
He considered. "You're a Coleridge. You arrange flowers. You're kind to servants, probably too kind, in my opinion. You snort when you laugh."
"I do not snort!"
"You absolutely do. Small, delicate snorts, but snorts nonetheless."
"That's mortifying."
"It's actually rather..." He stopped abruptly.
"Rather what?"
"Nothing."
They sat in almost companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping tea and not quite looking at each other.
"Your brothers," he said eventually. "What should I expect?"
"Chaos," she answered honestly. "Charles and Edward are... exuberant. They don't mean any harm, but they also don't think before they speak or act. They'll probably say inappropriate things, help themselves to your brandy without asking, and treat the house like they own it."
"Wonderful."
"They mean well. They're just..."
"Coleridges?"
"Young men who've never been taught proper behaviour because our parents were too busy trying to climb socially to notice their sons were growing up wild."
"And you?"
"I was the quiet one. Easy to overlook when there's so much noise around you."
"But you weren't overlooked. You're here."
"Because your grandfather's will named me specifically. If there had been any other option..."
"You wouldn't be here."
"Neither of us would be here. We'd be living our separate lives, probably much happier."
"Are you so unhappy?"
She looked at him and realised that he seemed genuinely curious rather than offended.
"I'm... adjusting. It's hard being somewhere you know you're not wanted."
"I never said..."
"You don't have to say it. It's in every look, every careful distance you maintain, every reminder that I'm a Coleridge and therefore suspect."
"You are a Coleridge."
"Yes, but I'm also a person. Ophelia. Just Ophelia. Not a representative of my family's sins or ambitions. Just a woman trying to make the best of an impossible situation."
He set down his teacup carefully. "I don't know how to see you as just Ophelia."
"Why not?"
"Because every time I try, something reminds me of who you are, where you come from. Finding you in the servants' hall, it was like seeing my worst suspicions confirmed."
"Your suspicion that I'm secretly kind?"
"My suspicion that you're winning them over. Making them yours."
"They're not possessions to be won. They're people."
"They're my people. My responsibility."
"Our people now."
"Are they?"
The question hung between them, loaded with implications neither wanted to examine too closely.
"This is exhausting," she said finally. "This constant circling, suspecting, analyzing every word and gesture for hidden meanings."
"Welcome to society."
"This isn't society. This is just us. Two people who have to live together for the rest of our lives. Couldn't we at least try to make it bearable?"
"I thought that's what we were doing."
"No, we're maintaining a cold war with occasional tea breaks."
"You want more?"
"I want not to feel like an enemy in my own home. Is that too much to ask?"
"This isn't..." He stopped, reconsidered. "This is your home. You're right about that."
"But?"
"But I don't know how to share it. I've been alone here for so long, had complete control for so long, that having someone else—especially a Coleridge—suddenly here, changing things..."
"I haven't changed anything significant."
"Haven't you? There are flowers everywhere now. The servants smile more. There's music in the evenings. The house feels... different."
"Warmer?"
"Different," he repeated, not willing to concede the point.
"Is different necessarily bad?"
"It's unsettling."
"Like my brothers' visit will be?"
He groaned. "Your brothers' visit will be a catastrophe."
"Probably. But we survived our wedding. We survived the inn. We can survive Charles and Edward."
"Can we?"
"If we work together. Present that united front you mentioned."
"How do we do that when we can barely have tea without arguing?"
"We're not arguing now."
He looked surprised. "We're not, are we?"
"No, we're actually talking. Like normal people."
They fell into silence again, but it was less strained. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting everything in golden light that made even their awkwardness seem softer.
"I should go," he said finally, not moving.
"More correspondence?"
"Always. The estate doesn't run itself."
"Could I... that is, would you mind if I learned about the estate management? Not to interfere," she added quickly, seeing his expression. "Just to understand. It is my home now, as you said."
He considered this. "I suppose that would be appropriate. A duchess should understand her holdings."
"Holdings. You make it sound so romantic."
"Romance isn't..."
"Part of this arrangement. Yes, I'm aware."
He stood to leave, then paused at the door. "Tomorrow, when your brothers arrive..."
"We'll manage."
"I mean it, Ophelia. Whatever our differences, tomorrow we present..."
"A united front. Yes, I understand. The Duke and Duchess of Montclaire, perfectly content in their arranged marriage."
"Not perfectly content. That would be unbelievable. Just... not actively hostile."
"I think we can manage that for a few hours."
"Can we?"
"Alexander, we've been managing it for two weeks. We're quite good at polite indifference."
"That's not what I want them to see."
"What do you want them to see?"
He considered this. "That you're... settled. Safe. Not miserable."
"Concerned for my welfare? How unexpected."
"I'm not a beast, no matter what your family thinks."
"I don't think you're a beast."
"No?"
"No. Beasts are interesting. You're just..."
"Cold? Formal? Permanently refrigerated?"
"I was going to say careful."
"Careful?"
"You're so careful about everything. Every word measured, every gesture calculated, every emotion locked away where no one can see it."
"That's called being a duke."
"That's called being afraid."
The words hung between them like an accusation. Alexander's face went very still.
"I should go," he said quietly.
"Alexander…"