Chapter Twenty #2
Lucy's eyes closed again, but something in her breathing seemed easier, as if the promise itself had healing properties.
Ophelia stayed there, kneeling on the rough floor in her duchess's dress, holding the hand of a tenant's child while the parents wept silently behind her, and felt more useful than she had in all her weeks at Montclaire House.
She wasn't sure how long she stayed as time seemed to move differently in crisis, but eventually, Mr. Granger arrived, bustling in with his medical bag and an expression of profound relief.
"Your Grace! When I received word you were here...I hardly dared believe—"
"The medicine, Mr. Granger. Everything she needs."
"Yes, of course." He was already examining Lucy with gentle efficiency, checking her fever, listening to her breathing. "The inflammation of the lungs, as I suspected. But we've caught it in time, I believe. With proper medicine and care..."
"She'll recover?"
"I believe so, Your Grace. Thanks to your intervention."
Ophelia stayed while he administered the first dose of medicine, watched as Lucy's breathing eased slightly, saw the desperate hope bloom in her parents' faces.
She was preparing to leave because she'd been gone too long already and Alexander would surely have noticed—when the cottage door opened without warning.
Alexander stood in the doorway, and the very air seemed to freeze.
He looked as she'd never seen him—exhausted, his usually perfect appearance disheveled, his cravat askew and his coat buttoned wrong as if he'd dressed in haste. But his eyes... his eyes were ice and fire simultaneously, a contradiction that made her stomach clench with dread.
"Your Grace," Mr. Granger said nervously. "We weren't expecting..."
"No," Alexander said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I don't imagine you were."
The Wheelers had shrunk back against the wall, Mr. Wheeler still clutching Lucy as if Alexander might snatch her away. The terror in their faces made Ophelia's anger rise like bile.
"These people are afraid of you," she said, standing to face him.
"These people are my tenants who are three months behind on rent."
"These people are parents with a dying child."
"A dying child whose medical care you've apparently taken upon yourself to finance without consultation or authority."
"I have the authority of human decency, which apparently is in short supply at Montclaire House."
His jaw tightened, and she could see him struggling to maintain control in front of witnesses. "We'll discuss this at home."
"Will we? Or will you simply issue another decree about what I can and cannot do, who I can and cannot help?"
"Ophelia." Her name came out as a warning.
"Your Grace," Mr. Wheeler interrupted bravely, though his voice shook. "Please don't blame Her Grace. She was only trying to help. We'll leave immediately if you want, we'll find somewhere—"
"You'll do no such thing," Alexander said, surprising everyone. He moved into the cottage, having to duck slightly under the low beam, and suddenly the small space felt even smaller. He looked at Lucy, still in her father's arms, and something flickered across his face too quickly to identify.
"Mr. Granger, what's your prognosis?"
"With proper medicine and care, Your Grace, I believe she'll make a full recovery."
"Then ensure she has both. Send all bills to the estate."
"But Your Grace," Mr. Wheeler stammered, "the rent..."
"Is forgiven, as my wife has apparently already informed you." His tone suggested this forgiveness came at a cost, though whether to the Wheelers or to Ophelia wasn't clear. "You have six months to recover before any payment is expected."
"Your Grace, we don't know how to thank..."
"Don't thank me. Thank the duchess. This was her doing."
The words should have been supportive, but they came out sharp, edged with something that made them feel more like accusation than acknowledgment. He turned back to Ophelia, and his expression was unreadable.
"The carriage is outside. We're leaving."
It wasn't a request. Ophelia bent to touch Lucy's forehead once more—cooler already, or perhaps that was wishful thinking—then followed Alexander out of the cottage. Behind them, she could hear the Wheelers' tearful relief, Mr. Granger's reassurances, the business of healing beginning.
The carriage ride back to Montclaire House was silent agony.
Alexander sat across from her, staring out the window, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
She wanted to speak, to defend herself, to demand he explained his anger, but something in his stillness warned her to wait.
It wasn't until they were back in his study, the door firmly closed, that the storm broke.
"What were you thinking?" His voice was deadly quiet, which was somehow worse than shouting. "Sneaking out of the house like a thief, going to the village without escort or protection, entering a cottage where disease is present..."
"I was thinking about a dying child whose parents couldn't afford medicine because her father's duke cares more about rental income than human life."
"I care about the sustainability of this estate, which provides livelihoods for hundreds of families. If I forgive one debt out of sentiment..."
"Out of sentiment? A child was dying!"
"Children die every day, Ophelia. It's tragic, but it's not something that can be fixed by throwing money at it."
"But this child, this death, could be prevented. And I prevented it. How does that make me wrong?"
"Because you acted without authority, without consultation, without any understanding of the broader implications..."
"I acted with compassion, something you seem to have surgically removed along with your ability to see people as more than entries in your estate ledgers."
"And this compassion of yours—did it extend to thinking about your reputation? About how it looks for the Duchess of Montclaire to be visiting diseased cottages like some common..."
"Like some common what? Say it. Like some common merchant's daughter who doesn't understand that duchesses don't soil themselves with actual human suffering?"
"That's not what I...”
"It's exactly what you meant. I actually use my position to help people instead of just sitting in your museum of a house arranging flowers and pretending I belong here."
"You do belong here. You're my wife."
"I'm your burden. Your unfortunate necessity. The Coleridge contamination you have to endure for the sake of your inheritance."
"Stop saying things I have not said."
"Then tell me I'm wrong! Tell me you don't resent every moment of this marriage, every reminder that you're tied to someone so far beneath your precious standards!"
He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was different—tired, strained, older somehow.
"You want to know what I resent? I resent that you assume the worst of me at every turn.
I resent that you see calculation where there's caution, cruelty where there's responsibility.
I resent that you acted today not out of pure compassion but at least partly to spite me, to prove some point about your moral superiority. "
"That's not..."
"Isn't it? You could have spoken to me about the Wheelers.
You could have made your case, appealed to my better nature.
..assuming you believe I have one. Instead, you left like a criminal, made unilateral decisions about estate business, and put yourself at risk of disease and scandal because you wanted to prove that your way, the Coleridge way of emotion over logic, is superior to mine. "
The truth in his words stung because there was enough of it to wound. She had wanted to prove something, had taken satisfaction in defying his cold decree about the Wheelers.
"At least I did something," she said quietly. "While you were locked away with your solicitors all night, I actually helped someone."
Something flickered across his face at the mention of solicitors, a tightening around his eyes that suggested she'd said something that affected him.
"Oh yes," she continued, emboldened by his reaction. "I know all about your late-night legal consultation. Tell me, have you found it yet? The loophole you're looking for?"
"What loophole?"
"Don't play ignorant with me, Alexander. I heard enough last night—'inheritance,' 'legal challenge,' 'documentation required.' You're looking for a way out, aren't you? A way to dissolve this marriage without losing your precious estate."
His face had gone very still, that particular stillness that meant she'd either hit upon exactly the truth or missed it so completely that he didn't know how to respond.
"My legal affairs are not your concern," he said finally.
"Your legal affairs regarding our marriage are very much my concern! Or were you planning to have me served with annulment papers over breakfast one morning? 'Pass the marmalade, and by the way, our marriage is dissolved'?"
"That's not..." He stopped, ran his hand through his hair in that gesture of frustration she'd come to recognize. "You don't understand what you're talking about."
"Then explain it to me! Tell me why you had solicitors here until dawn discussing our marriage!"
"They weren't discussing our marriage."
"Don't lie to me, Alexander. I may be a common Coleridge, but I'm not a fool. What else would require such urgent legal consultation the day after you threw my brothers out and practically admitted this marriage is doomed?"
He moved to the window, his back to her, and she could see the tension in every line of his body. "You're right about one thing. I was discussing legal matters regarding our marriage."
Her heart sank even as she'd expected it. "So you are looking for an annulment."
"I'm looking for options."
"Options. How diplomatic. And what options have your solicitors found? Can you claim non-consummation? Fraud? My unfitness as a duchess? What grounds are you planning to use to rid yourself of your Coleridge burden?"