Chapter 8
“No, Mrs. Simms, I will not sit idly by while men hammer and saw as though Brightwater were some merchant’s warehouse,” Catherine declared, planting her hands firmly on her hips.
Mrs. Simms pursed her lips until they nearly vanished. “Your Grace, it is not proper. A duchess ought not soil her gown with plaster dust, nor risk splinters. The workmen can manage perfectly. Please, do not trouble yourself.”
“I haven’t always been a duchess,” Catherine lifted her chin.
“Let them grow accustomed to being managed by me. I will not stand by as though I am a mere visitor. These children are mine to protect, and this house—” She glanced around at the cracked plaster and half-finished beams “—is mine to see restored.”
The matron muttered something under her breath about headstrong young ladies, but Catherine ignored it.
For six days, she had risen earlier than the workers, rolled up her sleeves, and inserted herself into every corner of the renovations.
She fetched water for the men when the heat grew unbearable, helped the children sweep away sawdust, and even argued over which colors the walls should bear once painting began.
Her palms were no longer soft, her nails bore the faint crescents of labor, and more than once she had returned home with dust clinging stubbornly to her hair. She had endured the matron’s scandalized sighs and the workmen’s uneasy bows, but she would not relent.
It was not stubbornness alone that propelled her. Every strike of hammer against wood reminded her of her mother, of afternoons when she had run through these halls chasing the same children who now looked to her for guidance.
Her mother’s voice lingered in memory, warm and certain, “Always stand where you are needed most, Catherine.”
And so, she stood, even if her husband would likely scowl were he to hear of it.
That thought made her heart skip, though she forced herself not to dwell on the Duke.
For an instant, when she had brought him to Brightwater, she had dared to imagine that things would be different between them once they returned to the townhouse.
But—she’d been wrong. From that day forward, the Duke dressed and left their shared home before dawn.
He disappeared until late, when he would march through the doors and straight to his own bedchambers.
More than once, it occurred to her that her husband might spend some of his time visiting with a mistress, but she refused to allow such thoughts to occupy her headspace. Instead, she poured herself into her work.
She did not insert herself into the renovations at Brightwater because she wished to annoy Mrs. Simms or impede the improvements.
Rather, when she was here, she felt useful.
Her presence was not just logged; it was appreciated.
And that was more than she could claim for her situation once she returned home.
By the sixth day, Brightwater hummed with progress. The front hall rang with the clang of hammers, beams being measured and fitted into place overhead. Children pressed their noses to the edges of the work, wide-eyed, whispering and giggling in awe of the noise and bustle.
“Step back, darlings, else you’ll have dust in your curls,” Catherine told them, laughing as a little boy clutched her skirts.
She smoothed his hair, heart swelling. If her husband’s money had bought these beams, then she would repay it with her labor and sweat.
She noticed one of the carpenters struggling to hold a long beam steady while balancing his measure. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed thin, and the plank threatened to tip from the rafters at any moment.
Catherine’s mind raced. If the measure was misaligned, it could set the entire ceiling askew.
“Here, sir, let me assist you,” she called.
The carpenter startled, nearly dropping his chalk. “Your Grace—no, it is not fitting—”
“Nonsense.” Catherine had already gathered her skirts in one hand. She seized the ladder with the other.
Gasps rose behind her. Mrs. Simms cried, “Your Grace, no!”
Catherine placed her slipper on the first rung. “Do not fuss. I shall only hold the end steady whilst he marks it. Surely, the heavens will not collapse at the sight of a duchess upon a ladder.”
“You’ll tear your gown!” one of the little girls squealed, horrified.
Catherine laughed breathlessly as she climbed. “Then I shall have a new one. But we cannot have a crooked ceiling.”
She mounted higher, the hem of her gown catching on the ladder’s edges, until she stood level with the beam.
The carpenter gaped, “Oh, Your Grace, er…”
“It is all right, sir,” Catherine replied, “let me help. I wish to.”
The man hastily offered her the chalk line, and her fingers brushed his rough palm, and she steadied the wood with all her strength. Dust trickled into her hair, her lungs filled with the sharp scent of timber, and exhilaration coursed through her.
I am useful. I am not merely decoration. I am my mother’s daughter still.
“Hold fast, Your Grace,” the man muttered, marking the line.
The beam shifted beneath her hand.
“Careful!” the carpenter cried.
The ladder wobbled. A plank below slipped with a hollow clatter. Catherine felt her foot skid, then her weight tilted backward into empty air.
Screams pierced the hall.
“Your Grace!” A workman lunged upward and caught her arm just as her balance failed.
Pain shot through her wrist as he gripped tight, jerking her back onto the rung. The ladder rattled, but steadied. Catherine’s side struck the wood hard, bruising, and her palm scraped viciously against the beam’s edge.
She hissed but forced a smile. “I am well! Only a scratch. Do not look so frightened, children.”
Below, the children clung to one another, eyes wide with terror. Mrs. Simms looked ready to faint.
Catherine drew a steadying breath and held up her bleeding hand. “See? Nothing a bit of soap cannot mend.”
She tried to laugh, though her heart hammered. A streak of blood traced down her wrist, and her ribs throbbed from the bruise blooming there. Still, she refused to descend like a vanquished fool.
She adjusted her grip, forcing her voice to be cheerful. “Now, where were we? Did the line mark true?”
The carpenter stammered his thanks, clearly horrified by what nearly occurred.
Catherine glanced down, about to reassure the children once more… And froze.
The great doors of the hall had swung wide. Light from the gray afternoon spilled across the threshold.
And there he stood: the Duke.
He filled the doorway, tall, broad-shouldered, golden-brown hair gleaming faintly even in the dimness.
His blue eyes burned like storm light as they took in her bleeding hand, her dust-streaked gown, and her precarious stance upon the ladder.
She had no trouble reading the gruffness in his expression.
Catherine’s stomach plunged.
Why could he not have seen me at my best? Why did he turn up during the most inopportune moment?
He took one step into the hall, his voice a whip crack across the air. “What in God’s name were you doing up there?”
The words rang through the hall like a thunderclap. Every hammer stilled, every child’s mouth fell open, even the matron’s wide eyes bugged.
Catherine gripped the ladder, forcing her breath to flow with ease. Her cheeks burned hotter than the scrape on her palm.
“I am helping,” she answered, voice pitched with defiance, though her heart battered her ribs. “As someone must.”
The Duke strode closer, his boots striking the wooden floor with terrifying precision. He stopped at the foot of the ladder, his blue eyes glacial as they swept over her.
“Yes,” he said, voice low and cutting. “Someone must. But not my wife.”
A chill rippled through the hall. The children, who had been clustered like sparrows at her skirts, shrank back. The workers glanced at one another, suddenly fascinated by their boots.
Catherine’s throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his icy gaze, even after facing such humiliation.
“Your Grace—” Mrs. Simms began, voice trembling.
“The Duchess is finished for the day,” the Duke said sharply, not looking at her. “See that work continues without interruption.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the woman murmured, bobbing an anxious curtsy.
Catherine bristled; the sting of indignation was hotter than the scrape on her hand.
“Finished for the day?” she snapped. “You cannot dismiss me as though I were a maid in your kitchen.”
“And you cannot endanger yourself as though you were a common laborer,” he shot back while guiding her toward the door. His hand was stone hard against the small of her back. She felt the way his fingers twitched, and she wished to jerk free from him. “Enough. You are coming with me.”
The children shrieked after her, voices piping with worry: “Your Grace! Will you be back?”
Her heart cracked at the sound, but her husband did not pause. He wrenched open the great door and all but pushed her into the waiting carriage.
“Do not make matters worse,” she hissed. “At the very least, allow me to say a proper goodbye to the children and Mrs. Simms.” The Duke paused for a moment and inclined his head marginally, indicating he was giving in to her demands.
“I will see you again soon,” she called to one and all before the Duke pressed his fingertips against her spine, urging her silently to enter the carriage.
The Duke slammed the door behind them, and then darkness wrapped around them as the carriage jolted forward.
Catherine cradled her wounded hand to her chest and glared across the expanse at him. “You humiliated me before everyone. The children—”
“The children,” Duncan interrupted, “nearly watched you break your neck. Do you imagine that would have comforted them?”
For a passing second, Catherine felt the world narrow to Duncan’s face and the small, bruised arc of her palm.
“I…I was not in danger,” she said, forcing the consonants out with a concentrated amount of effort. “A scrape, a bruise. Nothing more.”
He did not soften. He crossed his arms, the movement taut with anger and worry.
“It does not matter that it was only a scratch. You are reckless in a way that is not amusing, Duchess. You cannot understand what I thought when I walked into that room and saw you teetering precariously. I…” He turned away from her before muttering thickly, “You are coming home now, and we will not discuss this matter further.”
Catherine was astonished by the way his voice had gone hoarse. She was so astounded, in fact, that she granted his wishes and allowed the carriage to roll on in silence.