Chapter Eighteen
But he was already gone, the door closing with soft finality behind him.
Ophelia sat alone in her sitting room, tea growing cold, and wondered how they would possibly convince anyone tomorrow that they were anything other than two strangers legally bound together.
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. She attempted to read but couldn't concentrate. She walked in the gardens but found their perfection oppressive. She returned to the music room and played scales until her fingers ached, finding comfort in the mindless repetition.
Dinner was even more stilted than usual. Alexander barely looked at her, addressing his few comments to the middle distance. She responded in kind, and they sat at their opposite ends of the table like bookends with nothing between them but space and silence.
After dinner, she retired early, claiming a headache that wasn't entirely fabricated. The stress of the past two weeks, the argument with Alexander, the impending visit—it all pressed against her skull like a vice.
Mary helped her prepare for bed in careful silence, the new formality between them a barrier neither knew how to cross.
"Your Grace," Mary said as she was leaving, "I hope tomorrow goes well. With your brothers' visit, I mean."
"Thank you, Mary."
"They must miss you terribly."
"I suppose they do, in their way."
"It will be good for you to see family."
Would it? Ophelia wasn't sure. Charles and Edward meant well, but they were forces of chaos in a house that valued order above all else. Their very presence would be like oil and water, impossible to mix without creating a mess.
She lay in her enormous bed, staring at the canopy above, and thought about the conversation with Alexander. She'd called him afraid, and perhaps that had been cruel. But it was also true. He was afraid...of change, of loss of control, of Coleridgees and their supposed corrupting influence.
And she was afraid too...of never belonging, of spending her life being tolerated rather than accepted, of becoming the cold duchess Alexander seemed to want her to be.
Through the connecting door, she could hear him moving about his room. The walls were thick, but at night, when everything was quiet, small sounds carried.
Did he ever stop working? Did he ever just exist without purpose or duty driving him?
A soft knock at the connecting door made her sit up.
"Yes?"
The door opened slightly, and Alexander stood there in his dressing gown, looking uncertain.
"I wanted to... that is, about tomorrow..."
"We shall be fine," she said. "We'll smile and be polite and no one will suspect we're barely speaking."
"That's not..." He paused, seemed to gather himself. "I don't want us to be barely speaking."
"Then what do you want?"
"I don't know. Something better than this."
"This being cold formality and mutual suspicion?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps you could start by trusting that I'm not plotting against you."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it? Either you trust me or you don't."
"I want to trust you."
"But?"
"But you're a Coleridge."
"And we're back to that." She lay back down, suddenly exhausted. "Goodnight, Alexander."
"Ophelia..."
"Goodnight."
He stood there for another moment, silhouetted in the doorway, then retreated, closing the door softly behind him.
The next morning dawned grey and drizzling, which seemed appropriate.
Ophelia dressed with special care, choosing a gown of soft rose that her mother had always said brought out her complexion.
Mary arranged her hair in a style that was elegant but not severe, and even managed to coax a few curls to frame her face softly.
"Your Grace looks lovely," Mary said, and there was warmth in it despite their new formality.
"Thank you. I need all the armor I can get today."
"Your brothers' visit?"
"Yes. They arrive this afternoon."
"I'm sure it will be wonderful to see them."
Ophelia wasn't sure 'wonderful' was the word she'd choose, but she smiled anyway.
Breakfast was marginally less awful than it had been.
Alexander made an effort to actually converse, asking about her plans for the day and listening to the answers.
She responded in kind, and they managed nearly fifteen minutes of something approaching normal conversation before lapsing back into silence.
"What time do you expect them?" he asked finally.
"Knowing Charles and Edward? They said afternoon, so probably either much earlier or much later than expected. Punctuality isn't their strong suit."
"What is their strong suit?"
"Enthusiasm. Loyalty. Making inappropriate jests at the worst possible moments."
"Charming."
"They're not mean-spirited. Just... unfiltered."
"And you think unfiltered Coleridges in this house will go well?"
"I think it will be interesting."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
The morning passed in tense preparation. Mrs. Morrison had the guest rooms prepared to perfection. Cook planned meals that were elegant but not ostentatious. Ophelia tried to think of topics of conversation that wouldn't lead to disaster and came up depressingly short.
She was in the library, attempting to distract herself with a book, when Alexander found her.
"They're here," he said.
"Already? It's barely noon."
"Apparently punctuality isn't their strong suit in either direction."
She set down her book, smoothed her skirts, and tried to calm her racing heart. "How do they look?"
"Loud," he said dryly. "Even from a distance, they look loud."
Despite her nerves, she laughed—that little snorting laugh he'd mentioned. "That's Charles and Edward."
"The snort," he observed.
"Stop mentioning it or I'll become self-conscious."
"Too late for that, I think."
They walked together toward the entrance hall, and Alexander did something unexpected; he offered her his arm. Not formally, not stiffly, but almost naturally.
"United front?" she asked.
"United front," he confirmed.
The entrance hall was chaos. Charles and Edward had apparently brought half of the Coleridge house with them; trunks, packages, and what looked suspiciously like a crate of something that was making concerning noises.
"Phee!" Charles spotted her first and bounded over like an enthusiastic retriever, catching her in a hug that lifted her off her feet before anyone could protest about propriety.
"Can't breathe," she gasped.
"Sorry, sorry." He set her down, grinning. "You look magnificent! Like a proper duchess! Edward, look at our Phee!"
Edward was more restrained, kissing her cheek rather than crushing her ribs. "You do look well. Being a duchess suits you."
"Despite the circumstances," Charles added with spectacular tactlessness, then seemed to notice Alexander for the first time. "Your Grace! Thank you for having us. Beautiful place you've got here. Very... large."
Alexander's expression could have frozen fire. "Mr. Coleridge. Mr. Edward Coleridge. Welcome to Montclaire House."
"Oh, none of that Mr. Coleridge business," Edward said cheerfully. "We're family now! Brothers, really, when you think about it."
Ophelia saw Alexander's jaw clench and intervened quickly. "You must be tired from your journey. Mrs. Morrison will show you to your rooms."
"Rooms? Plural?" Charles looked delighted. "We each get our own? Brilliant! At home we still share, you know.
Charles had already noticed the library through an open door. "Is that the library? Oh, Heavens, look at all those books! Have you read them all, Your Grace?"
"Not all," Alexander said through what appeared to be gritted teeth.
"I wouldn't read them either. Lots of dust, I expect. Makes me sneeze." Charles was already wandering off, Edward trailing behind, both of them touching things and exclaiming over paintings and generally treating the house like a museum they'd paid admission to enter.
"United front," Ophelia murmured to Alexander, who looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had brought him to this moment.
"They're touching everything," he said faintly.
"They're excited."
"They're Coleridges."
"So am I, remember?"
He looked at her, and something in his expression softened marginally. "You're different."
"Am I? Or am I just quieter about my chaos?"
Before he could answer, Edward's voice rang out: "I say, is this your mother? Beautiful woman. Phee, come see! She looks a bit like you around the eyes."
They found the twins in the portrait gallery, studying the painting of the late Duchess of Montclaire with inappropriate intensity.
"That's not really appropriate..." Alexander began.
"She was lovely," Charles said, ignoring the interruption. "Died young, didn't she? Terrible shame. House must have been gloomy after that."
The casual mention of his mother's death made Alexander go very still. Ophelia touched his arm lightly, a warning or perhaps comfort, she wasn't sure which.
"Yes," Alexander said quietly. "It was."
Even the twins seemed to sense they'd stumbled into difficult territory. They moved away from the portrait, Charles for once not filling the silence with chatter.
"Perhaps we should have tea," Ophelia suggested. "You can tell me all the news from home."
"Oh, the news!" Edward perked up. "Henry sends his regards and a book he said you'd find amusing. Something about the history of terrible marriages, which seems pointed."
"And Robert's furious about something, but when isn't he?" Charles added. "Oh, and Mother sent preserves. Three jars. We only ate one on the journey."
"You ate Mother's preserves?"
"We were hungry! And it's not like you can't get preserves here. You probably have fancy preserves. Duke preserves. Preserved by royal warrant or something."
Alexander made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Tea was served in the blue drawing room, and the twins immediately made themselves at home. Charles sprawling in a chair while Edward helped himself to enough sandwiches to feed a small army.