Chapter Nineteen #3
"Ophelia..."
"I need to say goodbye to my brothers."
"I've told them to leave."
"Yes, you've made your feelings quite clear. But they're still my brothers, and I will say goodbye to them properly."
She started to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"The vase can't be repaired. It's completely destroyed."
"I know. I'm sorry about that, truly. It was wrong of them to be so careless with your things."
"My things," he repeated. "You keep saying that. They're our things now. This is our house."
"No, Alexander. This is your house where I'm allowed to live as long as I follow your rules and don't embarrass you with my common relations. There's a significant difference."
She found Charles and Edward in their rooms, throwing belongings into their trunks with barely suppressed fury.
"You don't have to leave," she said from the doorway.
"Yes, we do," Charles said without looking at her. "His Lordship has spoken."
"His Grace," she corrected automatically, then winced. "Sorry, that's..."
"That's what you do now," Edward said, but not unkindly. "Correct people, maintain proper forms of address, be the perfect duchess."
"I'm not perfect at anything."
"No, but you're trying to be, for him. And it's painful to watch, Phee."
Charles finally turned to look at her, and she was startled to see tears in his eyes. "We just wanted to see you happy. Or at least not miserable. But you're disappearing, bit by bit, trying to fit into his world."
"I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
"Not in this. The marriage is legal and binding. This is my life now."
"Then Heaven help you," Edward said quietly. "Because living with that statue is going to freeze you solid eventually."
"He's not..." she started to defend Alexander, then stopped. Why was she defending him? He'd just banished her brothers and suggested cutting off contact with her family.
"He's not what?" Charles prompted. "Not cold? Not controlling? Not exactly what we expected when we heard you'd been forced to marry the Duke of Montclaire?"
"He's complicated."
"He's a beast," Edward said bluntly. "A well-dressed, well-mannered beast, but still a beast."
"Edward..."
"What? Should we pretend otherwise? Should we act like it's perfectly normal for a husband to ban his wife's family because they broke some dusty relics?"
"They weren't dusty relics to him. They were his heritage, his history."
"And you're defending him." Charles shook his head. "He's already got you trained, hasn’t he?"
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? Yesterday you would have been furious at anyone who tried to separate you from your family. Today you're making excuses for him."
"I'm trying to see both sides."
"While he only sees his," Edward pointed out. "When does he try to understand your perspective, Phee? When does he make allowances for your background or your family?"
She didn't have an answer for that because they were right. Alexander demanded all the understanding while offering none in return.
"Write to us," Charles said, closing his trunk with finality. "Whatever he says, write to us. We'll always be your brothers, even if he doesn't approve."
"He said correspondence should be limited."
"And you're going to obey that?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."
Edward pulled her into a hug, and Charles joined them, the three of them standing together like they had as children when the world felt too big and frightening.
"Be careful, Phee," Charles whispered. "Don't let him turn you into something you're not."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder. The sister we know wouldn't let anyone make her feel small or common or unworthy."
"The sister you knew wasn't a duchess with responsibilities and expectations and a husband who can barely stand to look at her."
"Then maybe," Edward said quietly, "you need to stop trying to be the duchess he wants and start being the woman you are."
They left shortly after, their departure marked by awkward formality and Alexander's conspicuous absence. He didn't even come down to see them off, a rudeness that Ophelia knew would fuel family resentment for years to come.
She stood at the window watching their carriage disappear, feeling more alone than she had since arriving at Montclaire House. Behind her, she heard footsteps and knew without turning that it was Alexander.
"They're gone," he said unnecessarily.
"Yes."
"The damage to the gallery will take weeks to repair."
"I'm sure it will."
"You're angry."
"I'm devastated," she corrected, turning to face him. "You just banished my brothers and suggested cutting me off from my family entirely. Angry doesn't begin to cover what I'm feeling."
"They were destructive and disrespectful."
"They were hurt and defensive because you've made it clear from the moment they arrived that you despise them and everything they represent."
"I was civil."
"You were coldly polite, which is almost worse than open hostility. At least hostility is honest."
"You want me to be honest? Fine. Your brothers are exactly what I expected—crude, resentful social climbers who mask their envy of their betters with false moral superiority."
"Their betters?" Ophelia's voice rose. "You think you're better than them because of an accident of birth?"
"I think I understand responsibility and tradition and the importance of preserving history, which they clearly don't."
"You understand privilege and position. That's not the same as understanding worth."
"And they understand worth? By destroying priceless artifacts?"
"They understand that people matter more than things. That family matters more than propriety. That kindness matters more than tradition."
"Kindness? They've shown me nothing but disrespect since they arrived."
"And you've shown them nothing but disdain. Why should they respect someone who clearly sees them as beneath notice?"
"I see them as what they are; threats to the order and dignity of this house."
"This house," Ophelia said bitterly. "Always this house. Never our home, never our life together, just this house and its blessed dignity."
"This house is our life. It's our responsibility, our heritage..."
"Your heritage. I'm just the unwanted addition forced on you by circumstance."
"You're my wife."
"In name only. In every other way, I'm an inconvenience you're trying to manage, a Coleridge infection you're trying to contain."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? Then why are you so quick to cut me off from my family? Why are you so suspicious of every kindness I show? Why do you watch me like you're waiting for me to reveal some terrible Coleridge plot?"
"Because I..." He stopped, running his hand through his hair in a gesture she'd come to recognize as his tell for genuine distress.
"Because you what?"
"Because I don't know how to trust you," he admitted, the words seeming pulled from him against his will. "Every time I start to think maybe we can make this work, something happens that reminds me you're one of them."
"One of them," she repeated. "The enemy. The invaders. The common Coleridge merchants who dare to contaminate your perfect bloodline."
"I didn't mean..."
"You did, though. You meant exactly that. I will always be 'one of them' to you, won't I? Never just Ophelia, never just your wife, always a Coleridge first and a person second."
"You don't understand..."
"Then explain it to me! Help me understand why you're so determined to see the worst in me and my family. Help me understand why a broken vase matters more than my relationship with my brothers."
"It's not about the vase!"
"Then what is it about?"
"It's about respect! It's about understanding that some things matter beyond their monetary value. It's about preserving something bigger than individual wants or feelings."
"It's about control," Ophelia countered. "It's about maintaining your perfect world where everyone knows their place and no one disturbs the sacred order of things."
"And what's wrong with order? What's wrong with expecting people to behave with basic courtesy and respect in my home?"
"Our home!" she shouted, finally losing her carefully maintained composure entirely.
"It's supposed to be our home, but you've made it clear it will never feel like that.
It's your domain where I'm permitted to exist as long as I don't disturb anything or bring my common family around to contaminate it with their merchant ways. "
"I never said..."
"You say it every day! Every look, every correction, every reminder that I'm not conducting myself like a proper duchess—it all says the same thing: I'm not good enough for you or this house or the respectable Montclaire name."
"I'm trying to help you!"
"You're trying to change me into someone who doesn't exist!
This perfect, silent, dignified duchess who has no past, no family, no opinions that might conflict with yours.
Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Alexander, but that woman doesn't exist. There's only me; common, flawed, Coleridge me.
And if that's not enough for you, then this marriage is doomed. "
The silence that followed seemed to echo through the entire house. They stood facing each other, both breathing hard as if they'd been in physical combat rather than verbal warfare.
"Perhaps it is," Alexander said quietly, and something in Ophelia's chest cracked at the defeat in his voice.
"You believe that?"
"I believe that we're too different. Our worlds, our values, our understanding of what matters...none of it aligns."
"Because you won't let it. You won't even try to see things from my perspective."
"And you won't try to understand mine."
"I've done nothing but try to understand you since I arrived here! I've changed how I dress, how I speak, how I interact with everyone around me, all to try to be the duchess you need me to be. What have you changed, Alexander? What accommodation have you made for me?"
He was quiet, and again, his silence was answer enough.