Chapter 30
“Mary, love, you’ve tied the ribbon too tightly. Look, poor Thomas’s neck is turning red.”
Catherine’s voice was gentle, though her smile didn’t quite reach her heart. She bent down to fix the knot herself, loosening the bow until the small girl could breathe again. The children giggled, relieved, and she forced a quiet laugh to join them. It sounded hollow in her ears.
The playroom at Belgrave House was filled with the warmth of a spring morning, sunlight spilling through the tall windows and pooling on the polished floorboards.
Crayons and bits of paper lay scattered across the tables, half-drawn pictures of cottages and gardens and skies too blue to be real.
The scent of soap and fresh bread lingered in the air. It should have felt like home.
But Catherine hadn’t felt at home anywhere in days.
“Mrs. Simms says we’ll go back to Brightwater soon,” Thomas said brightly, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “Will you come too, Your Grace?”
She looked up from the ribbon, her heart aching at the hope in his small voice. “Of course,” she said softly. “I’ll always come.”
He beamed, satisfied, and ran off toward the other children, his laughter echoing through the high-ceilinged room.
Catherine stood slowly, smoothing her skirts. She looked around at the children she loved, the staff who smiled at her with gratitude, the bright house that had been their refuge, and still, there was that quiet emptiness inside her.
It had been four days since Duncan’s silence had shattered her.
He hadn’t spoken more than a few polite sentences to her since.
Their breakfasts were silent, his eyes fixed on the morning paper.
At night, she heard the low murmur of his study door closing and the quiet tread of his boots long after midnight.
Once, she thought she heard him pause outside her room, but when she rose from bed to look, the corridor was empty.
She had thought heartbreak would come like thunder, loud and impossible to miss. But this was quieter, crueler. It was the sound of absence.
“Mrs. Simms,” she said softly. “Would you make sure they all have their lunch in the garden today? The weather’s fine, and I think they could use the air.”
The matron curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Behind her, the door creaked open. “You’re here early,” came a familiar voice.
She turned. Helen stood in the doorway, her expression a mix of affection and concern.
“You might have sent word,” Catherine said, trying to muster a smile. “I’d have had tea ready.”
“I thought if I warned you, you’d find a reason to be gone,” Helen replied softly. “So, I took my chances.”
Catherine looked away, a small, helpless laugh escaping her. “You know me too well.”
“I do.” Helen crossed the room and took in the sight of the children through the windows. “They’re mending well. Your presence and fortitude have done wonders for them.”
Catherine’s throat tightened. “I’m trying.”
Helen glanced at her. “And you?”
Catherine busied herself with stacking papers on the nearby desk—drawings the children had left behind. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The gentle insistence in her voice made something inside Catherine tremble. She set the papers down carefully, aligning the corners so they would not shake in her hands.
“Duncan and I…” She stopped, swallowing hard. “We’re fine.”
Helen arched a brow. “You’ve never been a good liar.”
Catherine laughed once, low and joyless. “No. I suppose I haven’t.”
Helen waited, giving Catherine the space to choose truth over pride.
Finally, Catherine exhaled. “He…he and I...”
Catherine could not bring herself to confess the truth to even her dearest friend, Helen.
It was shameful to think that, after all she and Duncan had been through together, he wished to revert to their old ways.
In one way, she admired that he was a man of his word.
But in the same breath, she cursed him for being so cruel as to shut her out completely.
The hush in the room stretched, filled only by the faint laughter of children drifting up from the garden below.
“The other night,” Catherine said softly as her fingers worried the edge of her sleeve, “Duncan showed me a letter.”
Helen’s brow furrowed. “What letter?”
Catherine hesitated. For a moment, she only stood there, her gaze flicking to the writing desk near the window. She crossed the room slowly, every step heavy with the effort of remembering what courage felt like.
She opened the drawer and took out a folded scrap she had kept—not the real threat, of course, but the copy she had made to remember.
The ink had smudged slightly from where her hands had lingered too long over it, the edges worn from being unfolded and refolded in quiet hours when she couldn’t stop herself from looking.
She handed it to Helen.
Her friend read in silence. The room seemed to shrink around them, the air tightening with every second that passed. When Helen finally lifted her gaze, her expression had changed—softer but lined with unease. “Felton?”
Catherine nodded. “He said as much.” Her voice faltered, low and flat with exhaustion.
“And is this why your husband has kept you from…”
“From everything,” Catherine interrupted.
She could hear the shift in her tone as she ventured to share her innermost feelings with her friend.
“He spends his days locked in the study, sending letters to solicitors, gathering evidence, and preparing statements. When I try to speak with him, he says it isn’t the time.
” She paused. “When I ask when it will be, he says nothing.”
Helen’s eyes softened. “And when you told him how that makes you feel?”
Catherine shook her head slowly. “My feelings do not matter.”
Helen gave an annoyed snort. “Of course, your feelings matter, Catherine. God granted you a kind, gentleness unlike no other. Naturally, you feel things acutely. And surely your husband must recognize these qualities in you.”
Catherine’s gaze drifted back to the window. Outside, the children had gathered in the garden, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Thomas had tripped in the grass, and Mary helped him up, their small hands clasping tightly.
She felt the sting of tears again, but this time she didn’t hide them. “I told them they were safe,” she murmured. “And they are. He’s kept his promise to them. But…with me…I only wish he had been so infallible.”
Helen didn’t reply. The silence between them was full of comfort, of grief, of love that still lived even when it shouldn’t. Catherine closed her eyes, letting the sound of the children’s laughter drift over her like balm and salt all at once.
“Have you even slept?”
The question came from out of the blue, dragging Duncan’s attention from the mountain of papers strewn across his desk.
He hadn’t heard the door open. Stephen stood there, one hand braced against the frame, studying him with that infuriating mix of concern and disapproval that only a good friend could manage.
Duncan leaned back in his chair, blinking against the candlelight that had burned too low. “Sleep is a waste of time,” he said flatly.
Stephen crossed the room without waiting for an invitation, his boots heavy against the carpet. “Is it?”
Duncan didn’t look up. His pen scraped once more across the ledger, steady, mechanical. The ink had begun to fade into uneven strokes, his handwriting a shadow of its usual precision.
“I’ve no time for circular conversations,” he muttered.
Stephen stopped at the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “I’ve been patient, Duncan. But this—” He gestured to the mess before him. “This isn’t work. This is penance.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened. “If that’s what it takes to keep this house safe, then so be it.”
“Safe from what?” Stephen demanded. “Felton’s threats? He’s a coward with a pen and too much brandy. You’ll have him tried and dealt with soon enough.”
Duncan rose so fast the chair scraped back against the floor. “Mind yourself.”
“I am,” Stephen said, unmoved. “It’s you I’m worried about. You look like hell, Duncan.”
“Thank you for your observation,” he said coldly.
Stephen took a step closer, his voice softening. “When was the last time you left this room? Or spoke to your wife? You’ve turned this house into a tomb.”
Duncan’s hand closed into a fist against the edge of the desk. The wood bit into his palm. “I told you—”
“You’ve told me nothing,” Stephen cut in. “You scamper about the streets of London, making deals in secret, and whispering behind closed doors. But to what end? You have just as much leverage to take Lord Felton down as you did months ago, and yet you persist in this worthless endeavor.”
Duncan ground out, “This endeavor is not worthless.”
Stephen sighed, stepping closer. “You’re right, of course. I should not have said so much. I know what she means to you.”
Duncan’s head turned sharply. “You know nothing.”
“I know you haven’t been the same since you married your Duchess. I know that you wished to throttle Lord Felton for years, to make him pay for all the crimes he committed against your father, but you held back until Catherine and Lord Portsbury entered your sphere of influence.”
“She deserves peace,” he said finally, his voice low. “I must give her that much.”
Stephen frowned. “She doesn’t want peace. She wants you.”
Duncan’s jaw flexed. “You think love fixes men like me? That it mends what’s broken?”
“I think it reminds us that we’re still human.”
Duncan’s hands clenched behind his back. He said nothing.
Because Stephen was right, he wanted her more than his name, more than his reputation, more than the safety he clung to like salvation.
He wanted the sound of her laughter at breakfast, the light in her eyes when she talked about the children, the way her hand had felt against his chest that night after the fire.
He wanted the compassion she shared openly and the warmth he’d never known until she gave it freely.
Stephen sighed. “I’ve never met a man more determined to be miserable.”
“Better miserable than reckless.”
Stephen stared at him as though he was afraid Duncan had lost his marbles.
“I won’t put her in danger again,” he said quietly.
Stephen shook his head. “You think she isn’t already suffering? You think this distance doesn’t wound her more than any threat from Felton ever could?”
Duncan’s throat tightened. “Better she hates me and lives.”
Stephen’s voice softened. “And what of you? Are you living?”
He looked down at the papers scattered across his desk, letters to solicitors, drafts of statements, reports on Felton’s men. The evidence of his life: order, reason, control. But in the space between the ink and parchment, he saw her face, the memory of her laughter, the warmth of her.
Their eyes locked, two stubborn men staring down the same truth. Then Stephen shook his head, defeated. “If you push her away long enough, she’ll believe you don’t care. And when that happens, it won’t matter what Felton does because you’ll have destroyed yourself.”
He turned and walked toward the door. Duncan didn’t stop him.
When the door closed, the silence rushed back, heavy and suffocating.
He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, before crossing to the desk.
The brandy decanter sat half-empty beside the pile of letters.
He poured a measure into his glass, staring at the amber liquid before setting it down untouched.
The fire crackled softly. He stared into it until his vision blurred, until he could almost see her there, her eyes fierce and bright as the flames that had nearly taken her.
He pressed a hand to his chest, the ache so deep it felt physical. He missed her. He missed her so much that it made breathing a conscious effort.
But he couldn’t let that weakness destroy what control he had left.