26. Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
T he days following her midnight encounter with Victor passed in a fog. Alice walked through the gardens with her mother, barely registering the meticulously maintained flower beds and carefully pruned topiaries. Her mind kept drifting to Violet Cottage, where lights burned in the windows during the darkest hours—hours she spent staring out from her chamber rather than sleeping.
Victor’s presence at planned events had grown sparse. He appeared only at suppers, where he would fulfill his duty to the dowager before vanishing like smoke, always before Alice could catch his eye. The weight of their shared moment pressed against her chest whenever she glimpsed his retreating form.
“You are awfully quiet as of late,” Mrs. Montrose said, her grip tightening on Alice’s arm as they passed the entrance to the hedge maze.
Alice’s gaze lingered on the spot where she had fled that night, leaving Victor alone with his grief. The memory still felt raw, like pressing on a fresh bruise.
“I am fine, Mama.”
“Can you believe the celebrations are nearly over?” Mrs. Montrose’s voice held an edge of desperation. “You have precious little time remaining to secure what is rightfully yours.”
Alice turned to stare at her mother as though she had grown a second head. While she had maintained polite interactions with Elias over the past days, thoughts of securing his hand had been far from her mind. His gentle attention felt hollow now, tainted by Victor’s desperate plea for Alice to accept the duke’s healing presence.
She let out a soft scoff and looked away. Her mother’s face twisted at the dismissive sound, something vulnerable flickering across her features.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Montrose said carefully, “it is time I told you more about my experience with the Dowager’s Garden.”
Alice’s attention sharpened. Her mother rarely spoke of her past, keeping those memories locked away like family silver, too precious for daily use. They paused beside a stone bench, and Mrs. Montrose sank onto it, patting the space beside her.
“I was about your age when I first met Henrietta,” she began, her voice taking on a distant quality. “We were both in London for the Season. My parents ...” She paused, smoothing her skirts. “I’ve told you little of your grandparents. They were wealthy, and we moved in the same circles as the Dowager Countess. She saw something in me—potential, she called it.”
Mrs. Montrose’s fingers worried at her daylily pin as she continued.
“We attended parties together as friends, and she played matchmaker just as she does now. She helped me catch the attention of a duke. He was handsome, unmarried, and everything a young lady could want in a match. Much like your Duke of Gainsbury. We walked together in Mayfair, danced at least twice at every assembly.”
Her mother’s voice grew tight as she gripped Alice’s hand.
“Then I met your father. He was an older man, charming in his way, with a dangerous air about him. People warned me, but I was too na?ve to heed them. And then ...” She looked away, her gaze distant. “We were caught. The duke himself found us in a darkened hallway, sharing what I thought was an innocent kiss.”
Alice’s breath caught as her mother’s grip tightened painfully.
“Everything fell apart after that. They forced your father to marry me—thank the Lord, he agreed. My parents had to provide an enormous dowry to secure the match. The scandal destroyed my relationship with them completely.”
Mrs. Montrose’s voice had grown bitter, each word sharp with remembered pain.
“We were in all the papers. People jeered in the streets. Every invitation disappeared overnight. The Dowager Countess dropped me without a backward glance. We had to elope to Gretna Green, then retreat to the countryside. Even now, I cannot show my face in London without that cloud of scandal hanging over me.”
Alice’s gaze drifted toward Violet Cottage across the lake. The weight of her own recent indiscretion pressed against her chest. If word got out about her nighttime visit, would Victor feel obligated to marry her, as her father had done for her mother? The thought made her stomach clench.
She placed her hand over her mother’s, finally understanding the crushing pressure that had shaped their relationship. The specter of that old scandal had wrapped thorny vines around them both, taking root in every moment of Alice’s life.
“I tried to do for you what the dowager did for me,” Mrs. Montrose continued. “When we received this invitation, I thought it a blessing. But then she chose you for her Garden, and I found myself relegated to the shadows once again. The jealousy ... it consumed me.”
Her mother turned fully toward Alice, grasping both her hands.
“Everything I did, I did to help you shine.”
Alice couldn’t find words to respond. Despite all her mother’s efforts, she felt anything but radiant.
Movement caught their attention—the dowager and Elias walking arm-in-arm on a nearby path. The duke noticed them and flushed, tipping his hat in greeting.
“You see?” Mrs. Montrose’s voice brightened. “You are well on your way to righting my mistake.”
As they moved to join the dowager and Elias on their stroll, Alice felt disconnected, barely hearing her mother’s words. Her attention had drifted to the lakeside gazebo, where she remembered Victor’s silhouette against the moon.
And like a breath, the vision was gone, and Elias was taking her hand in his.
He pressed his lips against her knuckles, causing the older women to titter excitedly. And she smiled into those warm grey eyes, despite herself.
“Hold still, Miss,” Miss Eastridge murmured as she arranged Alice’s hair, incorporating all the new techniques she’d learned during their stay. Alice barely registered the gentle tugs, lost in her own thoughts.
“Only a few events remain,” the maid continued, filling the silence. “The lantern lighting tonight, Sunday services tomorrow, the grand birthday ball on Monday, then back home after a day’s rest.” Her fingers worked swiftly through Alice’s curls. “The staff says the birthday ball will be at least ten times as magnificent as the opening assembly.”
Alice stared at her reflection.
“Hopefully not as mortifying.”
“Hush now,” Miss Eastridge scolded, then lowered her voice. “I am sure you’ll be perfectly fine ... as long as you stay away from a certain captain.”
Alice’s breath caught, her eyes darting to meet her maid’s reflection in the mirror. But Miss Eastridge looked away quickly, focusing intently on her work.
“There have been ... whispers downstairs.” The maid’s hands slowed in their movements. “About late-night visits across the lake.”
Color drained from Alice’s face.
“Nothing untoward happened.”
“People still talk, Miss.” Miss Eastridge’s voice held a careful neutrality. “Though such rumors often circulate among servants without reaching the family’s ears. It will probably come to nothing, provided you maintain proper distance from here forward.”
Alice nodded mutely, her fingers twisting in her skirts. After a moment, Miss Eastridge spoke again, her tone unusually forthright.
“Is His Grace truly what you want?”
“He is the best option available to me.”
The maid gave her a pointed look in the mirror.
“You are not your mother, Miss.”
“That’s quite enough,” Alice said, but her words weren’t as harsh as they were exhausted. Her hands continued worrying at her dress.
“Of course, Miss.” Miss Eastridge worked in silence for several moments before humming thoughtfully. “A duchess. Well, if that’s what you desire, I can certainly make you look the part.”
Alice studied her reflection—the elaborate hairstyle, the perfectly arranged gown, the rose pin gleaming at her breast. Was this what a duchess looked like? The very idea felt impossible, like trying to force herself into stays that didn’t quite fit.
Still, she managed a smile, settling into the familiar mask of proper behavior.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please make me look as much as a duchess as possible.”
But as Miss Eastridge continued her work, Alice’s mind drifted. She stared unseeing into the mirror, wondering if she would ever feel worthy of the title everyone seemed so desperate for her to claim.
The woman who reflected back to her looked like a stranger—a duchess.
Perfectly arranged, perfectly beautiful …
Perfectly empty.