Chapter Twenty-One
A knock at her door interrupted her brooding. "Come in."
It was Mary, carrying a tea tray and looking concerned. "Your Grace, I thought you might need some refreshment after this morning's... activities."
"Thank you, Mary." Ophelia accepted the tea gratefully, then noticed Mary hovering uncertainly. "What is it?"
"It's just... the village, Your Grace. My cousin lives there, and she says everyone's talking about what you did. How you saved little Lucy, stood up to His Grace, showed real charity."
"I didn't stand up to His Grace. He agreed to forgive the debt."
"But only after you forced his hand, Your Grace. That's what they're saying—that you made him see sense, made him remember his duty to his tenants."
"That's not what happened at all. His Grace was already planning to help; I just acted first."
Mary looked skeptical but didn't argue. "Either way, Your Grace, people are saying you're different. Not like the cold duchesses before. They're saying you care."
"Of course I care. How could anyone not care about a dying child?"
"You'd be surprised, Your Grace, how many can when the child isn't their own or of their class."
It was a more pointed observation than Mary usually made, and it reminded Ophelia that everyone in this house, from the duke to the scullery maid, was playing a role, maintaining appearances, hiding their true thoughts behind proper behavior.
After Mary left, Ophelia sat at her writing desk, staring at blank paper.
She'd started a dozen letters to her brothers since they'd left but finished none.
What could she say? That they were right about everything?
That Alexander was exactly the cold aristocrat they'd accused him of being?
Except he wasn't, not entirely. He was the man who'd forgiven the Wheelers' debt, who'd spent the night with solicitors trying to find her a way out of this marriage and that was more complex than what her brothers thought.
She dipped her pen in ink and began:
Dear Charles and Edward, I hope this letter finds you well and that you arrived home safely.
I want to apologise again for the incident in the gallery.
The destruction of those artifacts was inexcusable, regardless of the circumstances that led to it.
You were right about some things and wrong about others.
I am changing, but perhaps not disappearing as you feared.
I'm learning that there's more than one way to be a duchess, and I'm trying to find my way.
She paused, considering how much to tell them about the morning's events, about Alexander's late-night legal consultation, about the growing divide between her and her husband that seemed to widen with every attempt to bridge it.
Today I helped a family in need, and the village is responding with more kindness than I expected.
It seems that even in a duke's domain, compassion can flourish if given the chance.
Alexander is complicated; not the villain you think him, but not the husband I hoped for either.
We are finding our way slowly, difficultly, and often painfully.
Another pause. Should she tell them about the solicitors? About Alexander's search for "options"? No, that would only fuel their anger and might bring them charging back to "rescue" her.
Please don't worry about me. I'm stronger than I appear, and I'm learning to navigate this new world. Give my love to Mother and Father, and tell Henry that I appreciate the book he sent me as a gift. Your loving sister, Ophelia
She sealed the letter before she could second-guess herself, then wrote another to Mr. Granger, authorizing him to send any medical bills for Lucy directly to her personal accounts. Alexander might control the estate, but her pin money was hers to spend as she chose.
As she was finishing this second letter, she heard voices in the hall; Alexander's and another man's. The solicitors again? She moved closer to the door, listening.
"...documentation is all in order, Your Grace. The provisions are quite clear."
"And there's no way to challenge them?"
"Not without invalidating the entire will, which would mean..."
"Losing everything. Yes, I understand."
"The other matter we discussed, Your Grace. About the settlements and provisions for Her Grace..."
"Not now. We'll discuss that later."
Footsteps retreated, and Ophelia pressed her hand to her mouth. Settlements and provisions for her? Was he planning to set her aside with some sort of financial arrangement? Pay her to disappear?
She returned to her desk and pulled out fresh paper.
If Alexander was making plans for her future without her knowledge, she needed to make some of her own.
She began a list of the villagers' needs James had mentioned, things she could help with using her own resources.
If she was going to be set aside, she'd at least make her time as duchess count for something.
The afternoon passed in strange stillness, the house feeling like it was holding its breath.
Alexander didn't appear for luncheon, and Ophelia ate alone in her rooms, the elaborate meal tasting like ash.
She could hear activity below; carriages coming and going, voices in Alexander's study, the business of whatever legal maneuvering he was orchestrating.
Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, she couldn't stand the uncertainty anymore. She made her way to Alexander's study, knocking firmly before entering without waiting for permission.
He was alone, standing by the window with a glass of brandy, looking older than his years in the dying light.
"We need to talk," she said.
"Yes," he agreed, not turning around. "We do."
"What are you planning, Alexander? What were those solicitors really here about?"
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, still facing the window, he said, "I was trying to find a way to protect you."
"Protect me? From what?"
"From me. From this life. From becoming something you're not."
"That's not your decision to make."
"Isn't it? I'm your husband. Your protection is my responsibility."
"My autonomy is my right. You can't make decisions about my life without consulting me."
He turned finally, and she was struck by how exhausted he looked. "Even if those decisions are for your own good?"
"Especially then. Alexander, what were you really discussing with those people?"
"Options," he said again, that careful word that could mean anything.
"Stop being evasive. Tell me the truth."
"The truth is complicated."
"I'm intelligent enough to understand complexity."
He studied her for a long moment, then said, "I was exploring what would happen if our marriage was dissolved. What provisions could be made for you, what settlement would be appropriate, how to ensure you were cared for regardless of the mechanism of separation."
Her heart sank even as she'd expected it. "So you are planning to set me aside."
"I'm planning for contingencies. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I stand, it looks like you're planning my future without me."
"I'm trying to ensure you have a future worth living."
"And you think that future is without you?"
"Don't you?" The question was quiet, almost vulnerable.
She wanted to say no, wanted to deny it, but the word stuck in her throat. Did she think her future would be better without him? This morning she would have said yes. Now, after seeing his exhaustion, his struggle, his attempt to protect her even if misguided, she wasn't sure.
"I think," she said carefully, "that we're both so busy protecting ourselves from each other that we've forgotten we're supposed to be on the same side."
"Are we? On the same side? Because it doesn't feel that way when you sneak behind my back to make decisions about estate matters."
"And it doesn't feel that way when you meet with solicitors in secret to plan my future without me."
"Then what do we do? How do we move forward when every step seems to take us further apart?"
"Maybe we stop trying to move forward and just... stop. Take a breath. Actually look at each other instead of looking at the problems between us."
"And what would we see?"
"I don't know. But it has to be better than this constant warfare."
He set down his brandy and moved closer, close enough that she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he held himself like he was afraid of breaking something.
"Your brothers were right about one thing," he said quietly. "I am afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of what you make me feel. Of how you're changing things I thought were immutable."
"Change isn't always bad."
"It is when you've spent your entire life maintaining stability.
My father died when I was seventeen, Ophelia.
Seventeen years old and suddenly I had to prepare being responsible for all of this—the estate, the tenants, the legacy, the name.
And all of this before my grandfather would die.
I learned very young that feeling too much, caring too much, trusting too much led to chaos. So I stopped."
"Stopped feeling?"
"Stopped allowing feelings to matter. And then you arrived, with your warmth and your kindness and your absolute refusal to follow the rules I'd built my life around, and suddenly everything I'd kept controlled started unraveling."
"Is that such a bad thing? The unraveling?"
"It's terrifying," he admitted, and the honesty of it made her chest tight.
"I'm scared too," she said. "Scared of disappearing, of becoming someone I don't recognise, of losing myself in trying to be what you need."
"What I need and what I want are different things."
"What do you want?"
He looked at her for a long moment, and she thought he might actually answer, might finally drop his guard enough to tell her something real. But then his expression shuttered, and he stepped back.
"What I want is irrelevant. What matters is what's best for everyone involved."
"And what's that?"