Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Welcome to Stagmore Manor, Your Grace.”
The words, spoken with warm deference by an elderly butler whose dignified bearing suggested decades of service, greeted Beatrice as she descended from the carriage. The grand entrance of the manor loomed before her, its imposing facade of pale limestone glowing amber in the final rays of sunset.
A small contingent of servants had assembled on the steps to welcome their new mistress, their expressions a careful blend of curiosity and respect.
Beatrice squared her shoulders, determined to present a composed exterior despite the emotions churning within her.
The Duke’s abrupt departure from the carriage had left her both bewildered and indignant, her thoughts oscillating between regret for her sharp words and maybe a slight resentment at his high-handed response.
“Thank you,” she replied, summoning the poise instilled through years of strict upbringing. “I hope I find you well, Mr…?”
“Edmonds, Your Grace. And indeed, I am quite well, thank you for inquiring.” The butler’s weathered face softened momentarily at her courtesy. “If you’d follow me, I shall show you to your chambers. The staff have prepared everything for your arrival.”
As Beatrice followed Edmonds through the grand entrance hall, she felt the weight of countless eyes upon her.
Not merely those of the assembled servants, but the penetrating gazes of ancestral portraits lining the walls, generations of Ashwells regarding the newest addition to the family with skepticism.
The impression was not entirely fanciful; the Duke’s ancestors observed her now through pigment and canvas, just as living eyes would scrutinize her in London drawing rooms once the Season resumed.
“His Grace has instructed that you are to have the Duchess’s suite in the east wing,” Edmonds informed her as they ascended a sweeping staircase of polished marble. “It has been freshly appointed for your arrival.”
“Most considerate,” Beatrice replied calmly. But inwardly, she snorted in derision. A considerate man did not abandon his bride in a carriage on their wedding day, regardless of provocation. “Might I inquire if you have any inkling as to the Duke’s whereabouts?”
She supposed his butler should be aware of where the Duke had gone, what with the way he had alighted from the carriage earlier.
How annoying, she thought to herself, even as she presented a pleasant expression to the elderly man before her.
Edmonds hesitated, his professional demeanor momentarily disrupted with apprehension. “I cannot say with certainty, Your Grace. His Grace often attends to various matters upon returning to the estate.”
The evasive response confirmed Beatrice’s suspicion that her husband’s behavior was not entirely characteristic. She wondered how often the Duke stormed away from carriages mid-journey, leaving bewildered passengers to finish their travels alone.
“I see,” she murmured, choosing not to press further. “Then perhaps you might introduce me to the housekeeper? I would like to familiarize myself with the staff as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Mrs. Fairchild is most eager to make your acquaintance. I’ll send for her once we’re in your chambers, Your Grace.”
The Duchess’s suite proved to be a series of interconnected chambers decorated in shades of pale blue and silver, the furnishings both elegant and surprisingly comfortable.
A sitting room led to a spacious bedchamber dominated by a magnificent four-poster bed, beyond which lay a dressing room where her belongings were already unpacked and meticulously organized by invisible hands during her journey.
Mrs. Fairchild, the housekeeper, appeared moments after Beatrice had completed her initial inspection of the chambers. She was a woman of middling years with keen eyes and a practical manner.
“I trust everything is to your satisfaction, Your Grace?” she inquired, her gaze sweeping the chambers.
“Everything appears most comfortable, thank you,” Beatrice replied. “Nevertheless, I am eager to become better acquainted with my new home. Might it be possible to tour the main rooms?”
“It would be my pleasure to show you the estate, Your Grace.”
The tour commenced immediately, with Mrs. Fairchild leading Beatrice through a dizzying progression of drawing rooms, galleries, and studies, each appointed with the elegant opulence befitting a ducal residence.
The housekeeper proved a knowledgeable guide, recounting snippets of history associated with various rooms and furnishings without lapsing into tedious detail.
“The library is particularly renowned,” Mrs. Fairchild remarked as they entered a magnificent chamber where the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes.
“The third Duke was an avid collector of rare manuscripts, and each successive generation has contributed to the collection.”
Beatrice moved toward the nearest shelf, unable to resist the allure of such literary wealth. Her fingers hovered over the spine of an elegantly bound volume of Shakespearean sonnets.
“You are welcome to borrow any volume that interests you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Fairchild added, noting her interest. “His Grace is rarely here during the day, and when he is, he tends to confine his reading to his study.”
The comment, delivered with no apparent motive beyond information, gave Beatrice her first insight into her husband’s habits. She filed the knowledge away carefully, building a mental portrait of the enigmatic man to whom she was now bound.
As the tour continued through the labyrinthine corridors of Stagmore Manor, Beatrice maintained a stream of questions about the household’s organization, the number of servants, and the estate’s operations—information she deemed essential to her new position.
The housekeeper answered each inquiry to the best of her ability, her initial reserve gradually thawing in the face of Beatrice’s evident interest and intelligence.
It was during their tour of the gardens, as the twilight deepened around them, that Beatrice spotted the structure partially obscured by a copse of yew trees.
Unlike the classical follies that adorned many gardens of her peers, like temples of Apollo or Diana, miniature Greek ruins, or fanciful grottos, this building appeared almost austere, its stone walls unadorned by decorative elements.
“What is that building?” she inquired, gesturing toward the structure.
A momentary tension crossed Mrs. Fairchild’s features. “That is merely the garden folly, Your Grace. It dates from the late Duke’s time.”
“How unusual,” Beatrice observed, noting the housekeeper’s discomfort. “This one seems almost utilitarian in nature.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” The elderly housekeeper began walking at a brisker pace, steering them away from the mysterious building. “The rose garden is particularly lovely in the evening light. The Duchess… that is, the late Duchess, was most fond of the white varieties that bloom along this path.”
The deflection was so obvious that Beatrice nearly smiled, her curiosity thoroughly piqued by what was clearly a sensitive subject. She allowed the housekeeper to steer their conversation toward safer topics, resolving to investigate the folly at a more opportune moment.
By the time they returned to the manor, night had fallen, and the windows were glowing against the darkness. Mrs. Fairchild escorted Beatrice to the smaller of the dining rooms, where a solitary place had been set at one end of a table that could comfortably seat twelve people.
“Will His Grace be joining me for dinner?” Beatrice inquired, though she already suspected the answer.
Before Mrs. Fairchild could reply, a footman entered, bowing. “A message for Her Grace, Ma’am. From His Grace’s valet.”
Beatrice took the folded note and broke the seal. The writing was brisk, efficient.
Matters require my attention this evening. Do not wait up.
She read it twice before setting it aside.
“The Duke has sent word. He won’t be dining with me,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Fairchild inclined her head, her tone neutral as ever. “Very good, Your Grace. Shall I have dinner served?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Fairchild,” Beatrice murmured.
Being abandoned twice in one day by one’s husband seemed excessive, even in a marriage of convenience like theirs.
So she dined alone, attended by footmen whose silent efficiency bordered on uncanny, though she found herself oddly grateful for their presence.
The vast manor, for all its magnificence, was so quiet when she was alone that it felt… watchful. Every creak of ancient timberwork, every whisper of draft through corridors seemed laden with unspoken histories and secrets.
Would she ever call this place her home?
Had she been rash in accepting the Duke’s proposal?
Would she have been better off weathering the scandal of Philip’s abandonment rather than binding herself to his mercurial cousin?
Yet what choice had she truly possessed? A jilted bride faced limited prospects in the unforgiving arena of the ton. The Duke’s offer, however impulsive or duty-driven, provided an unexpected escape from social ruin.
By the time she reached her chambers, Beatrice was utterly exhausted. The day’s events weighed on her like a physical burden.
Her lady’s maid, a quiet girl named Emilia, helped her into a silk nightgown with polite efficiency. Once ready, Beatrice dismissed her, craving solitude.
She climbed into the four-poster bed, pulling back the covers and slipping between the cool, fine linen. Yet sleep evaded her. Her mind replayed the events of the day, especially her heated exchange with the Duke in the carriage.
Had she been too harsh, letting irritation cloud her judgment?
A sharp knock at the door jolted her out of her thoughts. She sat up, clutching the covers to her chest as if they could shield her from whatever awaited.
“Yes?” she called, expecting Emilia with some forgotten item or perhaps Mrs. Fairchild with a final inquiry about household matters.
The door opened to reveal not a maid or the housekeeper, but the Duke himself.
He was still dressed in the same attire he had worn for their wedding. His imposing figure filled the doorway, his expression inscrutable in the dim light provided by the single lamp that burned on her bedside table.
Beatrice stared at him in momentary shock, acutely aware of her unbound hair and the thin fabric of her nightgown. She pulled the covers higher—a futile attempt at modesty, as they were married. Still, she couldn’t help but feel shy before him.
“Your Grace,” she said finally, finding her voice. “I had not expected to see you this evening.”
“Evidently,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her with unnerving thoroughness.
Her initial surprise at his appearance rapidly gave way to indignation as she recalled his earlier desertion.
“You did not join me for dinner,” she noted, unable to keep a hint of accusation from her tone.
“I had matters requiring my attention,” he stated, stepping fully into the chamber and closing the door behind him with deliberate care. “I did send word.”
“Yes, most attentive of you,” Beatrice drawled, her earlier resolve to offer a conciliatory word evaporating in the face of his casual dismissal. “Almost as attentive as abandoning your bride in a carriage on her wedding day.”
The Duke moved further into the room, his movements slow, elegant, almost… lazy.
“I came to speak with you,” he said, ignoring her reproach. “To clarify certain matters between us.”
Beatrice arched an eyebrow, her pulse quickening despite her determination to maintain her composure. “At this hour? Could these clarifications not have been offered at dinner, had you chosen to attend?”
“Perhaps. But I find midnight conversations often yield a particular quality of honesty that daylight discussions lack,” he said, slowly shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the nearest chair.
Beatrice swallowed.