Chapter Nineteen #2
"That doesn't give you the right to..."
"To what? Touch the precious artifacts? Heaven forbid we common folk soil the aristocracy's treasures with our merchant hands." Edward's voice was bitter as he reached for the sphere.
What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. Charles tossed the sphere with a bit too much force, Edward reached for it but misjudged the distance, and the ornate orb sailed past his outstretched fingers and crashed into a display case containing what looked like an ancient Chinese vase.
The sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the gallery like a gunshot.
For a moment, nobody moved. They all stood frozen, staring at the destruction—the vase was in pieces, the sphere had cracked, and the display case glass was scattered across the floor like deadly stars.
"Oh Heavens," Charles whispered, the color draining from his face. "Oh no, Phee, I didn't mean..."
"What on earth—" Alexander's voice from the doorway was like thunder.
He stood there taking in the scene; the destroyed vase, the damaged sphere, his wife and her brothers standing amid the wreckage like children caught in the worst possible mischief.
"It was an accident," Ophelia said quickly, moving between Alexander and her brothers. "They didn't mean..."
"An accident?" Alexander's voice was deadly quiet as he walked into the room, glass crunching under his boots. "They were playing catch with a sixteenth-century celestial sphere that's been in my family for three hundred years, and you call it an accident?"
"We didn't know it was that old," Edward said, though his voice lacked its earlier bravado.
"You didn't know? Or you didn't care? Just like you don't care about anything in this house except how you can use it to make your point about the evils of aristocracy?"
"Alexander, please..." Ophelia started.
"That vase," he continued, his voice rising, "was brought back from China by the third duke in 1721.
It survived wars, floods, fires, and three centuries of careful preservation, only to be destroyed by your brothers' childish resentment and complete lack of respect for anything they don't understand. "
"Respect?" Charles found his voice again, though Ophelia wished he hadn't. "You want to talk about respect? You've shown our sister nothing but cold tolerance since she arrived, treating her like an unwanted obligation rather than your wife, and you expect us to respect your things?"
"My things? These aren't just things, they're history, they're heritage, they're..."
"They're objects," Edward interrupted. "Objects you value more than people, apparently. That vase mattered more to you than the family being evicted, doesn't it?"
"Get out." Alexander's voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, but it carried more force than a shout.
"Alexander..." Ophelia tried again.
"I want them out of my house. Now."
"You can't just..."
"I can and I will. They've disrespected my home, destroyed irreplaceable artifacts, and insulted me at every opportunity since they arrived. They will leave immediately."
"We're not going without Ophelia," Charles said, stepping forward with his fists clenched.
"Ophelia is my wife. She stays."
"She's our sister!"
"She's the Duchess of Montclaire, and she will conduct herself accordingly, which means not defending vandals and troublemakers who happen to share her blood."
Ophelia felt something snap inside her at those words. "Vandals and troublemakers? These are my brothers!"
"Yes, and they've just proven exactly why I was right to distrust your family from the beginning. No respect for tradition, no understanding of value beyond monetary worth, no ability to conduct themselves with even basic propriety..."
"Stop it," Ophelia said, but he was building to something, she could see it.
"This is what comes of allowing Coleridges into this house. Destruction, disrespect, and disorder. Your brothers are leaving, Ophelia, and they're not welcome to return."
"You can't ban my family from seeing me!"
"I can do whatever I deem necessary to protect this estate and its contents from further damage."
"Damage? You think a broken vase is damage? What about the damage you're doing to our marriage by treating my family like criminals?"
"They destroyed priceless artifacts!"
"By accident!"
"An accident that wouldn't have happened if they had even an ounce of proper behaviour or respect!"
Charles stepped forward, and for a moment Ophelia thought he might actually strike Alexander. "You want to talk about proper behaviour? How about marrying our sister and then treating her like a burden you have to bear? How about making her feel unwelcome in what's supposed to be her home?"
"Charles, don't..." Ophelia warned.
"No, Phee, he needs to hear this. We've watched you trying to make yourself smaller and quieter and more acceptable to him, and it's killing us. You're disappearing, turning into some ghost of yourself to try to fit into his perfect, cold world."
"That's not...”
"Isn't it?" Edward joined in. "Your letters have been getting shorter and more formal. You barely smiled during dinner last night. You're becoming exactly what he wants; a proper, silent, invisible duchess who doesn't disturb his perfect order."
"If she's changing," Alexander said icily, "it's because she's learning to conduct herself appropriately for her position, something you two clearly never will."
"Her position?" Charles laughed bitterly. "You mean as your unwanted wife? The Coleridge contamination you were forced to accept?"
"I never said..."
"You don't have to say it, Your Grace. It's written in every cold look, every formal distance, every reminder that she's not good enough for your precious bloodline."
"Get out," Alexander repeated, his control visibly fraying. "Both of you. Pack your things and leave."
"Alexander, please," Ophelia tried once more, catching his arm. "They're my family. They made a mistake, but..."
"A mistake? They've been deliberately antagonistic since they arrived, and now they've destroyed irreplaceable pieces of history. If this is how your family behaves, then perhaps it's better if..."
"If what?" she challenged, something in his tone making her stomach clench with dread.
"If we maintain appropriate distance from them."
"Appropriate distance? You mean cutting me off from my family?"
"I mean protecting this house and marriage from their toxic influence."
"Toxic influence? They're my brothers!"
"And they're poisoning your mind against me, making you question everything about your new life and position."
"I don't need them to make me question it, Alexander. You do that perfectly well on your own with your coldness and suspicion and constant reminders that I'll never be good enough for you."
"I have never said you weren't good enough."
"You don't have to say it! It's in everything you do, every correction, every reminder about proper behaviour, every suspicious look when I show kindness to anyone!"
"I'm trying to help you adjust to your position..."
"You're trying to turn me into someone I'm not! Someone cold and distant and proper who never questions the great Duke of Montclaire or his precious traditions!"
"That's not..."
"We're leaving," Charles interrupted, his voice flat. "We'll pack our things and go. But Phee, if you need us, if he..." he shot Alexander a look of pure venom, "if he makes you miserable, you write to us immediately."
"She won't be writing to you," Alexander said, and everyone turned to stare at him.
"Excuse me?" Ophelia's voice was dangerously quiet.
"Until your brothers can learn to show proper respect for this house and our marriage, I think it's best if correspondence is limited."
"You're cutting me entirely off from my family?"
"I'm protecting our marriage from interference."
"Interference? They're my brothers, not some invading army!"
"Aren't they? They come here, insult me, destroy my property, and try to turn you against me."
"They don't need to turn me against you, Alexander. You're doing a magnificent job of that yourself."
The silence that followed was deafening. Charles and Edward looked between their sister and her husband with expressions of concern and anger. Alexander stood rigid, his face a mask of cold fury. And Ophelia felt something breaking inside her, something that might have been hope.
"We'll go," Edward said quietly, taking Charles's arm. "Phee, we'll be at the inn in the village tonight if you need us."
"She won't," Alexander said firmly.
"That's for her to decide, Your Grace," Charles shot back. "She's your wife, not your prisoner. Though looking at this place, it's hard to tell the difference."
They left, and Ophelia heard their footsteps retreating down the corridor, leaving her alone with Alexander in the gallery amid the broken glass and shattered porcelain.
"This is what I was afraid of," Alexander said after a long moment, his voice tired now rather than angry. "This is what happens when Coleridges and Montclaires try to mix. Destruction."
"The only thing being destroyed here is any chance we had of making this marriage work," Ophelia said quietly.
"We can make it work if..."
"If I cut off my family? If I become the silent, perfect duchess you want? If I stop being a Coleridge and somehow transform into an Montclaire?"
"If you try to understand the position you're in now and act accordingly."
"I understand my position perfectly, Alexander. I'm an unwanted wife from an unsuitable family, tolerated for the sake of an inheritance and expected to be grateful for the privilege of bearing your name while being constantly reminded of my inadequacy."
"That's not..."
"Isn't it? Then tell me, honestly, without deflection or careful words...do you see me as your equal? As your partner? Or am I just the Coleridge curse you have to endure?"
He was quiet for too long, and that was answer enough.
"I thought so," she said, and the defeat in her voice seemed to affect him more than her anger had.