Chapter 10
Thelma smoothed the front of her dress as she stepped into the nursery, the morning light already spilling across the floor in soft golden patches. Another day had begun, and with it came the familiar rhythm she had fallen into almost without noticing.
Mornings spent there with Liliana, afternoons in the garden when the weather allowed, evenings listening to Patricia’s quiet stories in the kitchen. Nine days had become fourteen, then twenty, and now she could scarcely believe how easily time had slipped through her fingers.
This was only meant to be temporary, she reminded herself, closing the door softly behind her. A few days to ensure Liliana was safe, and then north to Scotland. Yet here I am, still pretending.
Liliana sat in the center of a thick rug, pulling herself up along the low edge of a wooden chest with determined little grunts. The baby had grown so much bolder in these weeks. Her dark curls bounced as she wobbled on chubby legs, testing her balance with fierce concentration.
Thelma smiled despite the ache in her chest and knelt beside her. “Careful now, my love. You are getting entirely too good at this.”
As if to prove the point, Liliana lunged for the heavy curtain beside the window.
Her small fist closed around the fabric, and with one enthusiastic tug, half the curtain came cascading down in a waterfall of velvet.
Thelma caught the falling material just in time to keep it from smothering them both.
“Oh, you little mischief maker,” Thelma laughed softly, gathering the curtain back into place. “That is the third time this week.”
Liliana grinned up at her, utterly unrepentant, and immediately reached for the curtain again. Thelma gently redirected her hands, but the baby was quicker that time, yanking another section loose with a triumphant squeal.
Thelma sank onto the floor beside her, letting the curtain pool around them both. She gathered Liliana into her lap and pressed her face into the soft, dark curls, breathing in the clean, warm scent of her.
How can I take you away from all of this? The safety. The warmth. Him.
The thought brought a sharp twist of guilt. She had told herself every night that she would leave soon. Grab the packed bag still hidden beneath her bed. Slip out before anyone notices. Yet every morning she found herself again caught in the gentle current of the household.
She played with Liliana for nearly an hour, helping her practice standing and cheering each unsteady step. When the baby finally began to fuss from exertion, Thelma decided fresh air might serve them both well.
“Come along,” she murmured, lifting Liliana onto her hip. “Let us see if the gardens have dried out after last night’s rain.”
The path toward the stream at the edge of the grounds was one she had taken several times already. The air smelled of damp earth and late-blooming roses, and Liliana babbled happily, pointing at birds and leaves with sticky fingers.
Thelma’s steps felt lighter out there, away from the watchful eyes of the house, though the weight of her secrets never truly lifted.
The bank near the stream was still slick with mud from the morning rain. Thelma moved carefully, testing each step.
She had not noticed someone walking towards her, until she heard the crunch of boots on gravel some distance behind her, but she had no time to turn around because Liliana suddenly lunged toward a bright pebble at the water's edge. Thelma's foot hit a patch of wet grass and skidded.
For one terrifying heartbeat, the world tilted. She tightened her arms around Liliana, bracing for the fall.
Strong hands caught them both.
One arm wrapped firmly around her waist, steadying her, while the other reached smoothly to lift Liliana from her grasp. Thelma gasped, her free hand instinctively clutching at the solid forearm that held her upright.
The duke stood there, his broad frame close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him through his coat. His gray-green eyes locked onto hers, steady and intense.
For several long seconds, neither of them moved.
His hand remained at her waist, fingers splayed across the small of her back. Thelma was acutely aware of every point of contact, the firmness of his chest so near her shoulder, the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that clung to him, the way his breath brushed warm against her temple.
Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. Mud clung to the hem of her dress and spattered across her stockings, but she could not bring herself to step away.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, rougher than usual.
Thelma swallowed, trying to steady her breathing. “I am fine, Your Grace. Truly. Just startled.”
His grip did not loosen. “That was not what I asked, Miss Hartley.”
The quiet intensity in his words sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the damp air. She lifted her gaze to meet his again. Up close, she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his jaw tightened with concern.
Heat pooled low in her stomach, unexpected.
“I... my ankle twisted slightly, but it is nothing,” she managed, her voice softer than she intended. “Thank you. If you had not been here...”
“I was,” he said simply. His thumb moved in a small, unconscious circle against her back before he seemed to catch himself. He eased his hold, though his other arm still cradled Liliana securely against his chest.
The baby, completely unbothered by the near-disaster, babbled cheerfully and patted his cheek with a muddy hand, leaving a streak across his skin.
The duke’s mouth curved in that rare, faint smile Thelma had come to anticipate whenever Liliana claimed his attention. “It seems she considers the matter settled.”
Thelma let out a shaky laugh, trying to ignore how her hands still trembled as she brushed mud from her skirts. “She has been fearless lately. I should have been more careful near the bank.”
“You were protecting her,” he replied, his eyes tracing over her briefly as though checking for injury despite her words. “That is what matters.”
Thelma became painfully aware of the damp fabric clinging to her bodice and the way his gaze lingered for half a second longer than propriety allowed. She took a small step back, though every part of her protested the distance.
“I should go and change,” she said, smoothing her hands down her muddy dress in a futile attempt to compose herself.
The duke nodded, shifting Liliana higher on his hip with effortless strength. “Take your time. I will remain with her in the rear gardens until you return.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Thelma turned and walked back toward the house on unsteady legs, her pulse still racing. The warmth of his hand at her waist seemed branded into her skin.
This is madness, she thought as she hurried up the stairs to her room. He is a duke. I am a liar living under his roof. I cannot feel this way.
Once inside her chamber, she quickly changed into a fresh dress, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. When she moved to the open window to check on them, her breath caught.
The duke stood in the rear gardens with Liliana on his hip, pointing out something near the flowerbeds. Liliana reached up and patted his face again, leaving another smudge. He did not seem to mind.
Instead, she could faintly hear him speaking to her in that low, gentle register she had only heard him use with the baby; his head bent close as though whatever was said was of the utmost importance.
Tenderness bloomed in Thelma’s chest, warm and aching. She watched as the tall, imposing Duke of Langley converse seriously with an almost one-year-old as if she were the most fascinating person in England. The sight made something inside her shift dangerously.
He should not be this kind. This real.
She lingered at the window longer than she should have, the pull of the scene below rooting her in place even as her mind screamed that every additional day there made leaving harder.
And yet, as she watched Roman Berengar smile at her niece, Thelma wondered how much longer she could pretend her heart was not already entangled in such an impossible place.
***
Thelma lingered in the nursery long after Liliana had fallen asleep, watching the steady rise and fall of the baby’s chest in the soft glow of the night lamp.
The day’s near-miss at the stream still lingered in her body, a faint tremor in her hands and the ghost of the duke’s steadying touch at her waist. She finally forced herself to rise, smoothing her skirts and slipping quietly from the room.
The house had settled into its evening hush as she made her way downstairs. Most of the family and higher staff had retired, leaving only the faint clatter of the kitchen and the distant ticking of clocks.
Her stomach reminded her that she had eaten little since breakfast, so she turned toward the warm light spilling from the servants’ domain.
Patricia was alone at the large, cleanly scrubbed table when Thelma entered, kneading the last of the dough for tomorrow’s bread with strong, rhythmic motions. The cook looked up, her dark brown hair escaping its cap in familiar wisps, and offered a quick smile.
“Evening, Miss Hartley. You look like you could use something warm.”
Before Thelma could protest, Patricia wiped her hands on her apron, poured a second cup of tea from the pot on the hob, and set it across from her own without asking. The gesture was so matter-of-fact, so quietly kind, that Thelma felt her throat tighten.
“Thank you,” Thelma said, sinking into the chair. The tea smelled of chamomile and honey. She wrapped her fingers around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her still-cool hands.
Patricia sat down heavily across from her, stretching her legs under the table with a sigh. “Long day?”
“Somewhat,” Thelma replied, managing a small smile. “Liliana discovered the curtains again. And the stream bank after the rain.”
“Ah, the little explorer.” Patricia chuckled. “She keeps you on your toes, that one. Reminds me of my youngest brother when he was small. Always into everything.”
Thelma took a sip of tea, letting the silence stretch comfortably for a moment. The kitchen felt safe in a way few places had since Yvette’s death. “You have been at Langley a long time, haven’t you?”
“Five years now,” Patricia said, leaning back. “Came right after the old Duke’s health started failing. The house was different then. Fuller. More staff bustling about, more dinners, more everything. Then he passed, and things... quieted.”
Thelma watched the cook’s face. “I remember you said that a few left after that…”
“More than a few.” Patricia’s hazel eyes grew distant.
“Some because wages were cut. Others because the atmosphere changed. Her Grace runs a tight ship, as you’ve no doubt noticed.
But it wasn’t just that. The old duke kept to himself, but he had a certain steadiness about him.
When he went, it felt like the heart went out of the place for a while. ”
Thelma nodded slowly. “It must have been difficult.”
“It was.” Patricia shrugged one sturdy shoulder. “But the work is steady, and I like the quiet more than I thought I would. Though I do miss the old bustle sometimes. The laughter in the servants’ hall. The stories after supper.”
Thelma found herself leaning forward. “What kind of stories?”
“Oh, the usual nonsense,” Patricia said with a grin.
“Who was sweet on whom. Which footman got caught napping in the linen closet? Earnest pretending he doesn’t have opinions about everything.
” She paused, studying Thelma over the rim of her cup.
“And you? You don’t talk much about where you came from. Or who you left behind.”
Thelma’s fingers tightened around her cup. The question was gentle, but it pierced straight through the careful walls she had built. She stared into her tea for a long moment, the steam blurring her vision.
“I had a sister,” she said finally, her voice low. “She died three months ago. Along with her husband. It was... sudden.”
Patricia’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Thelma swallowed hard. “She was the bright one. The one who made everything feel possible. After she was gone, everything felt... colorless.”
Patricia was quiet for a long time; the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl outside. Then she spoke, her voice rough but kind.
“I lost my mother when I was fifteen. Fever took her in three days. My father tried, God bless him, but he was never the same. The kitchen was the only place that made any sense after that. Something about kneading dough, stirring pots. You can pour all that grief into the work, and it doesn’t fight back. ”
Thelma met her eyes across the table. Something passed between them, an understanding that needed no grand declarations. She felt the sting of tears and blinked them back.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For not pressing.”
Patricia reached over and gave her wrist a brief, firm squeeze, the same way she had before. “We all carry things, Miss Hartley. Some are heavier than others. The kitchen is good for that too.”
They sat together in the warm silence for a while longer, finishing their tea. She was grateful for exactly that; for the space Patricia gave her without demanding more.
***
When Thelma finally rose to return to her room, the house was even quieter. She moved softly through the corridors, her mind still turning over the conversation. The stairs creaked faintly under her feet as she climbed toward the family wing.
She had nearly reached the landing when voices drifted from the small sitting room near the dowager’s chambers. The door stood ajar. Thelma paused, intending only to pass by, but the words stopped her cold.
“...contact the orphanage near Bath,” she was saying, her voice low but clear. “Ask whether they can take in a child of approximately one year old. Discreetly, Earnest. No names. No connection to this household.”
Thelma’s blood turned to ice. She pressed herself against the wall, heart pounding so loudly she feared they might hear it.
Earnest’s reply was measured, as always. “As you wish, Your Grace. Shall I inquire about immediate placement?”
“Yes,” the dowager said. “The sooner the better. We cannot allow this situation to continue indefinitely.”
Thelma’s hands began to shake. She backed away slowly, careful not to make a sound, then hurried down the corridor toward her room. Her mind raced with panic.
She is still trying to send Liliana away. In secret.
She slipped inside her chamber and closed the door, leaning against it as her breathing came fast and shallow. The bag under her bed suddenly felt like both a threat and her only salvation. The warmth of the kitchen conversation with Patricia felt miles away now.
The walls of Langley Hall, once comforting, now pressed in around her with new urgency.