Chapter 5 #2
At once, small bodies hurtled toward her, boys with scuffed boots and crooked grins, girls with ribbons half-tied and ink-stained fingers. Their laughter surrounded her, bright and effervescent, until she was engulfed in the whirl of them.
“Children,” came Mrs. Simms’s voice from behind, brisk but fond. “Mind your manners now. It’s Your Grace you must say.”
The children froze, eyes widening as they turned to Catherine with a mixture of awe and confusion.
Catherine’s heart pinched. The title, so newly hers, sounded foreign in their mouths. “It’s quite all right,” she said softly, smiling to ease their unease. “I’m still Miss Terrell.”
Mrs. Simms shook her head gently. “Perhaps so, but you now bear the title of Duchess as well.”
The words lingered as the children crowded closer again, more cautiously this time, their laughter subdued but still bright enough to warm her chest.
She laughed, startled, lifting her hands. “Careful, one at a time!”
It did not matter. They swarmed her anyway, tugging at her skirts, clutching her hands, clamoring for her attention.
“Look, look what I drew!” A boy with a shock of red hair thrust a crumpled paper toward her, lines of charcoal forming a decidedly lopsided horse.
“Oh, what a fine steed,” Catherine said, crouching down so their faces were level. “I daresay no stable in London could boast a creature so magnificent.”
The boy’s chest puffed proudly as the others giggled.
Another child, a girl with solemn eyes, pressed a tiny bundle of fabric into Catherine’s palm. “I made this. A doll’s blanket. For when the littlest ones cry.”
Her throat tightened. Catherine smoothed a hand over the careful stitching, uneven but earnest. “How thoughtful you are. I’m certain it will keep them warm.”
She drew the girl into a quick hug, earning a shy smile.
Around her, voices overlapped: questions about lessons, stories of scraped knees, eager boasts of who had run the fastest in the yard that morning.
A boy with a tear-streaked face clutched his elbow, his lower lip trembling. Catherine knelt beside him at once, her skirts pooling on the grass.
“Let me see,” she said softly, brushing back his hair. The scrape was no more than a shallow graze. “Ah, a soldier’s wound. It looks fiercer than it feels, doesn’t it?”
He sniffled and nodded.
Catherine smiled, cupping his cheek. “Do you know, the bravest knights are the ones who fall and rise again?”
The boy giggled despite himself, the wobble in his lip easing as the others laughed and clapped at the thought of their duchess stumbling in the yard.
Catherine’s laughter spilled easily, as though it had been locked away and finally freed.
For a little while, she forgot her corseted ribs, forgot the heavy silence of the Duke’s townhouse, forgot the way his mere presence twisted her into an anxious ball of wax that simply sat about waiting to be molded.
And yet, his shadow intruded even here.
Would the Duke ever set foot in this yard? Would he ever stoop to kneel among them, to praise their crooked horses and patchwork blankets?
The image was so absurd she nearly laughed aloud. He was too proud, too rigid, too cold.
But that was a disobliging thought. She had only allowed him to be one version of himself in her imagination.
A second idea flittered through her brain.
This one caused a flicker of heat to uncoil in her chest as she imagined him standing just beyond the children, tall and broad, the sun striking golden sparks in his hair.
In this fantasy, the Duke laughed broadly and bent so he could tweak the nose of a shy child.
She shook her head sharply, scolding herself.
He is only one sort of man. He cannot be equally moody and exceptional. From what he has shown me this past week, I’m inclined to think of him as more temperamental than anything else.
She sent a hasty glance around the yard.
And the children should not be subjected to his ever-changing demeanor.
A tug at her sleeve drew her back. A boy, no older than seven, peered up at her with wide eyes. “Is it true, then? Did you get married?”
Catherine blinked, caught off guard. “Why, yes,” she said carefully. “It is true.”
A chorus of gasps followed. “A duchess!” one girl squealed, clapping her hands. Another chimed in, “Married to a duke!”
Catherine pressed a hand to her cheek, trying to hide her blush. “Yes, to a duke.”
“What’s he like?” the red-haired boy demanded. “Is he fierce?”
“He must be fierce,” another added knowingly. “All dukes are.”
Catherine laughed, shaking her head. “He is… something like that,” she allowed.
They exchanged glances, not quite satisfied.
Then a little girl, bold and curious, tilted her head. “Did you fall in love with him?”
The question hung in the air. It was so innocently asked that Catherine knew she must reply. But she could not summon a proper response. Her body jolted, her lips parted, but no answer came.
Love?
Her face turned a brilliant shade of maroon. She forced composure into her voice. “I… respect the duke.”
The children groaned. “That isn’t the same!” one boy protested. “Respect is for teachers.”
“Or vicars,” another added with a giggle.
“Yes,” the bold little girl insisted, folding her arms. “But love is different.”
Catherine pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to steady. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “respect must come first.”
They frowned, clearly unconvinced. She laughed to cover her discomfort, drawing them back to safer topics like school lessons, favorite games, and plans for tomorrow. Yet the question echoed still, whispering beneath her ribs.
Did you fall in love with him?
No. Once she looked at all her true feelings and examined them carefully, the answer was not so very vexing.
I could never fall for a man like him.