Chapter 16 #2
Thelma braced herself. She expected the usual questions, the sharp, interrogative probes about her previous situations, her references, her family, or her qualifications. She had her lies prepared, her defenses raised.
But the questions never came.
Lady Daphne simply looked through her. Her eyes passed over Thelma’s plain dark dress, her neat white apron, and her pale, strained face with the total, unbothered indifference one might show to a footstool or a fire screen. There was no suspicion in her gaze, no jealousy, and no curiosity.
Why should there be? To Lady Daphne Vane, the nursemaid was not a woman; she was staff. She was an item on the estate ledger, an anonymous fixture hired to perform a service and destined to be dismissed when that service was no longer required.
Lady Daphne was about to become the Duchess of Langley; she occupied a plane of existence so thoroughly elevated that the help could never pose a threat.
"You seem to keep the room quite tidy, nurse," Lady Daphne said, her tone carrying the polite, distant warmth of a mistress who had already decided where everyone belonged and was entirely comfortable with the arrangement. "Her Grace mentions you are very attentive."
"I do my best for the child, my lady," Thelma said, her voice dropping into the quiet, deferential rhythm expected of her.
Before Lady Daphne could reply, the nursery door opened further, and Earnest appeared in the opening, his face a mask of professional apology.
"Your Grace? The bailiff from the northern farm is below.
He says the drainage dispute requires your immediate signature if the laborers are to begin in the morning. "
The duke frowned, clearly annoyed by the interruption. He glanced at Lady Daphne, then at Thelma, his eyes lingering on the cradle for a fraction of a second. "Forgive me, Lady Daphne. This should only take a moment."
"Do not concern yourself, Roman," Lady Daphne said sweetly, her voice dripping with supportive understanding. "The estate must come first. I shall join you in the drawing room shortly."
The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut behind the duke and the butler, the temperature in the room plummeted.
Thelma watched as the pleasant, dimpled smile on Lady Daphne’s face vanished instantly, like a mask dropped onto the floorboard. The softness in her eyes hardened into a cold, flat calculation.
Without a single word, she walked back to the cradle and placed Liliana down.
She pulled out a small lace handkerchief from her sleeve and thoroughly wiped her palms; her gaze fixed on the child.
"A shame," Lady Daphne murmured, her voice no longer sweet.
It was low, sharp, and entirely devoid of inflection.
"A child like this... she represents a significant amount of administrative trouble for the estate.
Roman is sentimental; his father was the same, but sentimentality does not govern a house like Langley, Miss Hartley. "
Thelma felt a cold dread prickle along the back of her neck. "The duke is very dedicated to her safety, my lady."
Lady Daphne let out a short, dry sound that might have been a laugh in another room. She turned her back on the cradle, her sharp gaze pinning Thelma to the spot.
"Safety is a relative term. A child of unknown origin is a permanent blot on a family's reputation.
Roman may amuse himself with this charity for now, but when there are legitimate heirs to consider, heirs who will inherit the title and the land, such distractions must be dealt with quietly and permanently. "
She didn't wait for Thelma to answer. She swept past her, the pale rose silk of her skirts brushing against Thelma’s apron with a sharp, dry hiss.
Thelma stood frozen by the fire long after the door had closed. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She understood completely now. Lady Daphne Vane was dangerous, deeply, terribly dangerous.
She was not a threat to Thelma’s position or her foolish, unearned feelings for the duke. She was a threat to Liliana.
Lady Daphne looked at the baby and saw nothing but an administrative error, a piece of unwanted debris that needed to be swept away to clear the path for her own future.
If that woman became the Duchess of Langley, Liliana would not survive a month in this house before being sent away to some nameless, unfeeling asylum.
***
That night, the sky turned a bruised, heavy black, the wind rattling the iron latches of the nursery windows with a persistent, mourning sound.
Thelma tossed and turned on her small cot, her mind refusing to settle. When sleep finally claimed her, it brought no relief, only a dream that felt far too bright, far too sharp to be a mere trick of the brain.
In the dream, she was back at the cottage in Sussex. The air was warm, smelling of wild chamomile and the sweet, heavy scent of blooming clover. The light was blindingly bright, the kind of perfect, golden summer sun that hadn't touched her life since the winter had set in.
She was sitting on the wooden bench beneath the old apple tree, and side by side with her sat Yvette.
Her sister looked exactly as she had before the shadow had taken her… her hair loose and catching the gold of the light, her cheeks flushed with health. Yvette was leaning forward, her lips moving rapidly as she spoke, her small hands gesturing with that familiar, eager intensity.
She was telling Thelma something of immense importance.
Thelma could feel the weight of the words, the absolute necessity of hearing them.
“Listen to me, Thel,” Yvette seemed to be saying, her eyes wide and bright. “You must look at the…”
But the wind in the dream grew too loud, rustling the apple leaves into a deafening roar. Thelma strained forward, her ears ringing, but before she could catch the crucial sentence, Yvette stopped speaking.
Instead, she threw her head back and laughed. It was a clear, ringing, joyful sound—the light, unburdened laughter of a girl who had never known a day of fear or betrayal.
Thelma woke up with a violent start, her breath catching in her throat.
“Yvette!’
The room was pitch black, the fire in the grate reduced to a dying, gray heap of ash. The absolute silence of Langley Hall pressed down on her like lead.
She sat up, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized she was shedding. Her chest felt hollow, ached with a physical, tearing grief. She had not heard her sister’s laughter in months.
In the waking world, Yvette’s voice had been reduced to a fragile, raspy whisper, then to a terrible, choked silence, and finally to the absence that now defined Thelma’s entire existence. To hear it so clearly in the dark felt like a haunting.
Unable to lie still, Thelma pulled a heavy wool shawl around her shoulders and slipped across the cold floorboards to her small writing desk.
Her hands were trembling so violently she could barely strike the flint to light a single, stubby candle.
The small flame flickered wildly, casting long, distorted shadows across the whitewashed walls.
She pulled out a scrap of coarse paper and a dipped pen. She began to write in the dark, the scratch of the nib against the paper sounding impossibly loud in the stillness.
Yvette,
I saw you just now. You were sitting by the gate where the honeysuckle grows, and the sun was so bright it made my eyes water.
You were speaking to me… you were trying to tell me something about this place, I know it, but I could not hear the words over the wind. I tried so hard to listen, Yvette. I leaned in until my heart ached, but I only caught the sound of your laughter.
I had forgotten how light you sounded when you were happy. In this house, everything is so heavy. A lady arrived today, a woman named Daphne, who looks at our little girl as if she were a weed in a formal garden. I am afraid, Yvette.
I am living a monstrous lie, and every day the ground feels less steady beneath my feet. I want to tell him. I want to tell the duke everything, but the fear closes my throat like ice...
Thelma stopped, the ink pooling into a dark, heavy blot at the bottom of the page. She stared at the words, her breath rattling in her chest.
Slowly, she folded the paper, her movements methodical and numb.
She pulled the loose floorboard away from the corner of the wall, revealing the small, dark hollow beneath.
She placed the letter with the others, the small, unread pile of confessions she could never send, the paper trail of her own guilt.
She blew out the candle and returned to her bed, lying entirely still for what felt like hours, her eyes staring up at the invisible ceiling. The house seemed to hold its breath around her.
Then, from far down the dark corridor, a sound broke the silence.
It wasn't a cry, and it wasn't the usual soft, snuffling noise Liliana made when she was transitioning between dreams. It was a thin, high-pitched, wet whimper—a sound of pure, physical distress.
Thelma was out of her bed before her conscious mind could even process the noise. She crossed the floor in her bare feet, throwing the nursery door open and rushing to the side of the wooden cradle.
"Liliana?" she whispered, reaching down into the darkness.
The moment her fingers brushed the baby’s skin, a jolt of pure terror went through her. The small linen smock was damp with sweat, and the skin beneath it felt like an open oven.
Liliana’s tiny chest was heaving with rapid, shallow breaths, her face flushed a dark, angry crimson even in the dim light of the dying embers. As Thelma lifted her, the child let out another sharp, reedy cry, her small body trembling violently against Thelma’s breast.
The baby was burning. Liliana was running a fierce, terrifying fever, and the storm outside was just beginning to howl.