Chapter Twenty-One #2
"I don't know anymore."
They stood there, two people who had come so close to understanding each other but couldn't quite bridge the final gap.
Outside, night was falling properly now, and somewhere in the village, Lucy Wheeler was breathing easier thanks to medicine Ophelia had provided against Alexander's initial judgment.
"I should dress for dinner," Ophelia said finally.
"Yes."
She turned to go, then paused. "Alexander? Whatever you're planning with those solicitors, whatever options you're exploring—could you at least promise to discuss it with me before making any final decisions?"
"Why?"
"Because despite everything, we are married. For better or worse, as the vows said. And I think we owe each other at least the courtesy of honesty about our future."
"Honesty," he repeated, as if testing the word. "You want honesty?"
"Yes."
"Then honestly, Ophelia, I don't know if we have a future. Every day we seem to hurt each other more, push each other further away. Your brothers saw it, the servants see it, the whole world probably sees it. We're destroying each other by degrees."
"Maybe," she admitted. "Or maybe we're just changing each other, and change always hurts."
"How can you still have hope after everything?"
"Because the alternative is despair, and I refuse to live that way."
She left then, before the conversation could circle back to arguments and accusations. But she paused in the doorway, looking back at him standing alone in his study, surrounded by centuries of tradition and duty.
"The Wheelers aren't the only ones who need saving, Alexander. Sometimes I think you need it just as much."
His expression when she said that, surprise, vulnerability, maybe even recognition, stayed with her as she climbed the stairs to her chambers.
Whatever he was planning with those solicitors, whatever future he was orchestrating without her knowledge, she had a feeling it came from the same place as his cold pronouncements about the estate—a misguided attempt to protect through control.
The question was whether she could make him see that before he did something neither of them could take back.
As she prepared for dinner, she thought about the village, about the gathering at the Wheelers' cottage, about the people seeking her help.
She thought about Alexander, alone with his brandy and his burden of responsibility.
She thought about her brothers, probably raging about her situation at home.
Everyone seemed to have opinions about what was best for her. Everyone except her had a say in her future.
Well, perhaps it was time to change that.
She chose her gown carefully; not the most elaborate, which would seem like she was trying too hard, but not the simplest either.
A deep green silk that brought out what little color her pale complexion offered, elegant but not ostentatious.
She was the Duchess of Montclaire, whether that lasted another day or another decade, and she would conduct herself accordingly.
At dinner, they sat at their opposite ends of the ridiculous table, eating in silence that was somehow different from their usual awkward quiet.
This felt weighted with all the things they'd said and hadn't said, all the decisions being made in secret, all the futures being planned without consultation.
"The village is grateful," she said finally, the words echoing in the vast room.
"So I understand. James mentioned there was quite a response."
"People want to help. They're bringing food and medicine to the Wheelers."
"Community spirit. How touching."
She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or genuine. "Is it so hard to believe that people care about each other?"
"It's not hard to believe. It's just... unexpected."
"Why?"
"Because in my experience, people care about themselves first and others only when it's convenient or advantageous."
"That's a very lonely way to see the world."
"It's a realistic way."
"It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you expect the worst from people, they'll usually oblige."
"And if you expect the best?"
"Sometimes you're disappointed. But sometimes you're beautifully surprised."
"Like with the Wheelers?"
"Like with you," she said, surprising them both. "You forgave their debt. You didn't have to, but you did."
"You didn't give me much choice."
"You always have a choice. You could have dragged me out of that cottage and evicted them anyway. But you didn't."
"I was avoiding a scene."
"You were being kind, even if you won't admit it."
He set down his fork, studying her across the expanse of the table. "Why do you insist on seeing good in me when I've given you so little reason to?"
"Because I think it's there, buried under all that duty and tradition and fear.
I think the man who forgave the Wheelers' debt, who's spending his nights trying to find ways to protect me even if I don't want that protection, who stood at the altar covered in vomit and still finished the ceremony.
..I think that man has more good in him than he wants anyone to see. "
"And what if you're wrong? What if I'm exactly as cold and calculating as your brothers think?"
"Then at least I'll have tried to see the best rather than assumed the worst."
They finished dinner in thoughtful silence, and afterward, instead of immediately retreating to separate corners of the house, they found themselves in the library.
Not together exactly, he was at his desk working on correspondence, she was reading by the fire, but occupying the same space without conflict.
It was progress, she supposed, even if everything else was falling apart around them.
She was deep in her book when James appeared, looking apologetic. "Your Grace, there's a messenger from the village. He says it's urgent."
Ophelia's heart clenched. "Is it Lucy?"
"No, Your Grace. It's... perhaps His Grace should hear this as well."
Alexander looked up from his papers, frowning. "What is it, James?"
"There's been an incident in the village, Your Graces.
Some of the local landowners are upset about the forgiveness of the Wheelers' debt.
They're saying it sets a dangerous precedent, that tenants will expect similar treatment.
There's talk of a meeting, possibly action against families who can't pay. "
Alexander stood slowly, his expression darkening. "Action? What kind of action?"
"Evictions, Your Grace. Multiple families. Tonight, if the rumours are true."
Ophelia stood as well. "They can't do that!"
"They can on their own lands," Alexander said grimly. "And they will, to make a point about maintaining order." He looked at her, and she saw something shift in his expression—a decision being made. "James, have the carriage prepared. The large one."
"Alexander, what are you..."
"We're going to the village. Together."
"Together?"
"You started this with your compassion. Now we deal with the consequences. Together."