Chapter 5
The carriage jolted as its wheels struck uneven cobbles. London’s lanterns outside flickered against the polished wood of the interior.
Catherine stared at the dark blur beyond the window, her gloved hands tight in her lap.
One week.
It had been one week since she had spoken her vows, since the vicar’s voice had pronounced her the Duke’s wife.
The days at Raynsford Hall had blurred into one another, a strange rhythm of command and isolation.
She had thrown herself into the duties of a duchess—organizing the staff, correcting ledgers, answering questions about menus and rents—because the work gave her purpose, even dignity.
It made her feel she could breathe again.
The nights had been harder. Each evening, she felt untethered.
She knew not which version of the Duke would sit across from her at the table—if he came to dinner at all.
In an instant, he could be cold and nearly silent.
Then, a split second later, he could transform into the charismatic Duke she’d heard about so often from more adventurous young ladies.
A week married, and she might as well still be a stranger.
Her eyes flicked sideways. The Duke sat opposite her in the carriage, broad shoulders squared, coat fitted sharply, his golden-brown hair catching stray fragments of lantern light.
He looked like stone, calm, immovable, and entirely self-possessed. He had not spoken since they got in the carriage and set forth for London. Neither had she.
It still irked her that he controlled the conversations. His wavering moods dictated what her own must be, but Catherine remained determined. She would not sway before him like some young coquettish girl, nor would she become a bothersome wife who chattered constantly.
The wheels slowed, the motion gentling as the horses drew to a halt. The Duke stirred, the first movement in what felt like hours.
“We have arrived,” he said at last, voice full of resignation.
Catherine’s pulse leapt. She despised that even his voice could do that to her. “Is this your townhouse, Your Grace?”
His mouth twitched faintly, though whether in amusement or disdain she could not tell. “Our townhouse, wife. And yes, this is where the driver was meant to stop.”
The door swung open, and the Duke stepped out first, tall and commanding beneath the gaslight.
Catherine gathered her skirts and placed her hand in his when he offered it, the heat of his palm searing through her glove.
He helped her down with effortless strength, then released her just as quickly, as though her touch scalded him.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” the butler intoned, bowing deeply from the threshold.
Behind him, servants lined the hall, their faces lowered.
Catherine inclined her head, her smile brittle. Another household, another performance.
The Duke gestured once toward her blithely, yet a solemn expression lingered on his face. “My duchess,” he said to one and all. “Her needs require your immediate attention.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Catherine was baffled. She had studiously sat next to him throughout the entirety of the ride and said not a peep.
She had not spoken of her discomfort, but she mentioned that her throat felt parched and that she ached for refreshment.
But somehow, the Duke had interpreted her silence to mean she needed something specific.
She turned to correct him, but before a single word fell from her lips, the Duke marched up the stairs, crossed the threshold, and vanished.
He left nothing except the faint clicking of his boots on marble floors in his haste to be rid of her.
Catherine stood in the entry, spine stiff, throat tight.
She drew a steadying breath.
Very well.
If he would disappear into a dark room, she would not. Brightwater called to her more loudly than these empty halls.
She spun quickly and beckoned to the carriage driver.
“I should like to go out now.” A footman helped her back into the coach, and, mustering the most carefree tone she possibly could before departing, Catherine called to the servants, “If my husband should bother looking for me, tell him I have gone to see to some important business of my own.”
The air in Brightwater was different. Alive.
The smell of bread drifted from the kitchens, children’s laughter carried through the narrow halls, and chalk dust clung to the sleeves of teachers who moved briskly between lessons.
Catherine inhaled deeply, relief loosening the tight coil in her chest. Here, she could move. Here, she could matter.
The matron, Mrs. Simms, met her at the door with warm surprise. “Miss Terrell—I mean, Your Grace! We had not expected you so soon.”
Catherine smiled, easing off her gloves. “I could not stay away. Tell me, have the children been well? No more fevers spreading, I hope?”
Mrs. Simms shook her head. “Only a few coughs, nothing serious.”
The tenseness in Catherine’s shoulders eased so gradually that it was almost as if she had never been uncomfortable throughout the entirety of her existence. “I am glad to hear it. And their lessons, are they keeping pace?”
“As best they can,” the matron said with a fond sigh.
“Good.” Catherine’s smile softened further. “I should like to see the children immediately, but my sense of prudence requires that I peek at the registers, if I may. It will help me understand where the most attention is needed.”
Now that she knew her husband had extinguished all her family’s debts, she could not resist checking the ledgers and seeing the influx of cash.
Catherine could not recall a time when she, or those at the orphanage, had done anything other than economize, and it felt deliciously freeing to know that now they could splurge a little.
“Of course, Your Grace. Come.”
They walked together through the halls. Catherine’s eyes drank in every detail: the rows of benches where little bodies perched, the faded but clean curtains framing the windows, the crack in the plaster above the staircase she had always meant to see repaired. So much to be done.
And now, thanks to the Duke, we have the means to do it all.
The matron spread the registers across a desk in the office, neat columns of names and ages inked across the pages. Catherine bent over them eagerly.
“All is well,” Mrs. Simms said, “though a few children have been kept abed with coughs.”
Catherine traced the names with her fingertip.
“Then we must see that they have broth and extra blankets in their dormitories. No child should linger ill for want of care. And here, look: several boys are nearing the age for apprenticeships. We must write to the guilds at once, before they are swept into idleness.”
The matron nodded approvingly. “You have a keen eye, Your Grace.”
Catherine’s chest warmed at the words. She was doing something —preserving her mother’s legacy and protecting the children who would otherwise be forgotten.
“And now for the ledgers.” Mrs. Simms produced a heavily marked book. She laid it wide on the desktop, covering the class registers, so that Catherine could peruse it.
She skimmed the first column and tapped her finger atop the sum at the bottom of the page.
“That looks fine…Normal,” she murmured.
“You should know, Your Grace,” Mrs. Simms began, “the Duke has been generous. Not only has he purchased the building, but he has also sent funds for every repair we might need. New windows, new roof, even proper beds for the older boys. His instructions were clear.”
Catherine froze, breath hitching. “He—he did this?”
“Yes. It is more than I had dared to hope for.” Mrs. Simms’s eyes softened. “We owe him much.”
Catherine turned away quickly, pressing her palm to the edge of the desk. Her throat ached. The man who sat across from her at dinner, cold as marble, had thought of every window, every bed, every draft that might chill these children.
If he can do this for Brightwater, why can’t he spare a single kindness for me?
How could he be both? Thoughtful and ruthless. Generous and merciless. He preserved her mother’s legacy while making her feel like a stranger in her own marriage.
“Your Grace?” the matron asked gently.
Catherine swallowed hard, forcing her voice to show a sense of calm she certainly did not feel. “It is well. We shall see that his gifts are not wasted.”
For hours, she worked alongside Mrs. Simms, inspecting lessons, peering into classrooms where rows of wide-eyed children recited their letters, and helping the gardener mark repairs for the sagging fence around the yard.
By the time the afternoon shadows lengthened, Catherine’s cheeks were flushed, her skirts dusted with chalk and ash, and her hands were raw from turning pages and pointing out flaws.
And still, she wanted more.
She turned to Mrs. Simms at last, her eyes alight. “Now, I wish to see them. The children themselves.”
The matron smiled knowingly. “They are in the yard, Your Grace. At play.”
Catherine’s heart leapt. She gathered her skirts and strode toward the door.
The sound of laughter grew louder, sweeter, pulling her like a tether.
She wanted to see their faces, wanted to kneel among them, wanted to remind herself that this was why she had agreed to bind herself to the Duke of Raynsford.
As she pushed open the door to the yard and the sunlight spilled over her face, she spared a thought for her husband.
What would he say if he could see all this? How would he feel knowing that his wealth and generosity had preserved the happiness of so many?
A remembrance of the way he’d stomped up the steps and disappeared into his townhouse darted through her mind.
She shoved the thought away.
This is not about him.
This place belongs to the children.
“Miss Terrell!” The cry rang out the moment she stepped into the sunlit yard.