Chapter 8
“Iwould appreciate it if you did not clean as close to the nursery this early in the morning. I would prefer Rose not be awoken by noise.”
Penelope kept her voice gentle but firm as she addressed the upstairs maid, whose name she’d learned was Mary. The girl bobbed a curtsy, her cap slightly askew.
“Yes, Your Grace. Begging your pardon, but... that is, we usually begin in the family wing at dawn. His Grace never minded the noise.”
“I understand, but His Grace is not a mother and as such perhaps does not understand the delicate constitution of a child,” Penelope replied, softening the correction with a small smile. “Eight o’clock will suffice. You may begin in the east wing instead.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Mary hurried away, and Penelope released a slow breath.
Her first morning as Duchess of Blackmere, and already she was altering routines that had likely stood unchanged for decades.
The thought should have unsettled her. Instead, it felt oddly steadying—a small measure of control in circumstances that had spun entirely beyond her grasp.
She turned back to the nursery, where sunlight streamed through windows she’d ordered opened at first light. The room had been stuffy when she’d arrived last night, all heavy curtains and stale air. Now it smelled of fresh linen and the lavender sachets she’d requested from the stillroom.
Rose slept in her cradle, blissfully unaware of the chaos she’d created. Penelope moved closer, unable to resist checking once more that the baby was breathing, that her colour remained healthy, that nothing had gone wrong in the hour since she’d last looked.
All was well. Rose’s tiny chest rose and fell with perfect regularity.
“You’re going to spoil her terribly, you know.”
Penelope spun towards the door. Mrs. Keating stood there, her expression less severe than it had been last night. Not warm, precisely. But not hostile either.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The baby.” The housekeeper moved into the room with the confidence of someone who’d managed this household long before Penelope arrived. “If you check on her every hour, she’ll never learn to settle properly.”
The criticism stung, though it was delivered rather kindly. Penelope lifted her chin. “I am not spoiling her. I am ensuring she is cared for.”
“She has a wet nurse for that, Your Grace.”
“She has me as well.” The words came out sharper than intended.
Penelope moderated her tone with effort.
“Mrs. Keating, I understand you have managed this household with great competence for many years. I have no wish to undermine your authority. However, Rose is my responsibility. I will not delegate her care entirely to servants, no matter how capable.”
Mrs. Keating’s mouth pursed, but she inclined her head. “As you say, Your Grace.”
An uncomfortable silence now lay between them. Penelope smoothed her skirts, searching for words that might ease the tension without surrendering her position.
“I should like to make some changes to this room,” she said at length.
“Nothing drastic. But the curtains are rather heavy for a nursery, and I think lighter fabric would allow more natural light. Also, that corner there—” She gestured towards the far wall.
“It would be perfect for a comfortable chair. Somewhere I might sit when she wakes at night.”
Mrs. Keating followed her gaze, and her expression shifted . “That’s very... hands-on of you, Your Grace. Most ladies of quality prefer to maintain some distance from the nursery.”
“I am not most ladies.” Penelope met the housekeeper’s eyes squarely. “And Rose is not most babies.”
“No,” Mrs. Keating agreed quietly. “I don’t suppose she is.”
They stood together in the sun-warmed room, regarding the sleeping infant. After a moment, the housekeeper cleared her throat.
“I’ll have the maids bring fabric samples this afternoon. And I believe there’s a rocking chair in the attic that belonged to the late duchess. It could be brought down and re-upholstered, if you’d like.”
Relief loosened something in Penelope’s chest. “That would be perfect. Thank you, Mrs. Keating.”
The housekeeper nodded and turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “His Grace left for London early this morning, Your Grace. Before dawn. He asked me to inform you that he had urgent business matters to attend to and would return within a few days.”
Penelope’s hands went cold. “I see. How... thoughtful of him to send word.”
If Mrs. Keating noticed the brittleness in her tone, she gave no sign. “He instructed that you were to have anything you required. I’m to send for him immediately if there are any concerns.”
“How remarkably generous.” Penelope turned back to the cradle, unable to meet the housekeeper’s eyes lest her composure shatter entirely. “That will be all, Mrs. Keating. Thank you.”
The door clicked shut.
Penelope stood frozen, her fingernails digging into her palms. He’d left. Not even a full day after bringing her here, after promising her a marriage, after naming the baby together in that rain-dark carriage—he’d fled back to London.
Back to his clubs. His women. His parties and scandal and everything he’d sworn meant nothing.
She’d been a fool to believe him. A fool to think he might actually honour the vows he’d spoken yesterday, even knowing they were empty. He’d made it abundantly clear this was a marriage of convenience, that he wanted nothing from her, that they would lead separate lives.
But she hadn’t expected him to abandon her quite so quickly.
The hurt burned beneath her ribs, sharp and humiliating. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing the sensation away. She would not cry. Would not waste tears on a man who’d made his priorities clear.
Rose stirred in her sleep, making a small sound of distress. Penelope moved instantly, lifting the baby with careful hands. The weight of her was grounding—warm and real and dependent.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, though she wasn’t certain which of them she was reassuring. “We’ll be perfectly fine without him.”
The baby settled against her shoulder, and Penelope breathed in the milk-sweet scent of her. This was why she was here. Not for Alastair. Not for a marriage that existed only on paper. For this child who had no one else.
By afternoon, Penelope had thrown herself into transforming the nursery with determined energy.
The heavy curtains had been taken down, replaced temporarily with lighter muslin until proper fabric could be selected.
The rocking chair had been retrieved from the attic—a beautiful piece of carved mahogany that only needed new upholstery and a thorough polish.
Penelope knelt on the floor beside one of the maids, helping to beat dust from the chair’s cushions. Her morning dress was already marked with grime, and she’d abandoned all pretence of maintaining ducal dignity in favour of actually getting things done.
“Your Grace, you needn’t—” the maid began, looking scandalised.
“I’m perfectly capable of beating dust from a cushion, Annie.” Penelope had learned the girl’s name within the first hour. “And I’d rather help than simply stand about issuing orders.”
Annie ducked her head, but Penelope caught the small smile. “Yes, Your Grace.”
They worked in companionable silence for several minutes.
The physical labour felt good—purposeful in a way that sitting decorously in the drawing room never had.
At home, her mother would have been horrified to see her daughter performing such tasks.
But this wasn’t home. This was Blackmere.
And if she was to be Duchess here, she would do it her own way.
“There.” Penelope sat back on her heels, examining their work. “Much better. Now it simply needs recovering. Do you sew, Annie?”
“A bit, Your Grace. Nothing fancy.”
“Neither do I, particularly. But between us, I’m certain we can manage new cushions.” Penelope stood, brushing dust from her skirts. “We’ll need to see what fabric Mrs. Keating mentioned. Something durable but soft. Perhaps a blue to match—”
A wail pierced the air.
Penelope was moving before she’d consciously decided to, crossing to the cradle where Rose had woken from her nap with obvious displeasure. She lifted the baby carefully, checking for any signs of distress beyond simple hunger or a soiled nappy.
“Hush, sweetheart. You’re all right.”
The wet nurse, whose name Penelope had learnt was Lottie, appeared in the doorway. “I’ll take her, Your Grace.”
“In a moment.” Penelope swayed gently, her hand supporting Rose’s head. The baby’s cries softened to whimpers. “There now. Not so terrible, is it?”
She felt Lottie watching her with poorly concealed surprise. Well. Let the servants think what they wished. She was not the sort of mother—guardian, she corrected herself—who would hand a distressed infant off to someone else without a second thought.
“She’ll be wanting to feed soon,” Lottie said. “If you’d like to give her over—”
“Of course.” Penelope transferred Rose with reluctance. The baby immediately began rooting for the wet nurse’s breast, her distress forgotten in favour of more pressing needs.
Penelope moved to the window, giving them privacy. Outside, the estate stretched in all directions—manicured gardens giving way to parkland, then the darker shapes of forest beyond. Beautiful. Remote. Utterly unlike the London townhouse where she’d spent her life.
Alastair was in London now. Probably at his club, surrounded by friends who’d congratulate him on escaping his new wife so quickly. Or perhaps with one of his mistresses, proving that marriage had changed nothing about his habits.
The thought made her jaw clench.
She would not think about him. Would not wonder what he was doing or whether he regretted this marriage even more than she did. He’d made his choice. She would make hers.
“Annie.” She turned from the window with renewed determination.
“After we finish with the chair, I’d like to rearrange the furniture in here.
The cradle should be closer to where I’ll be sitting.
And that wardrobe is far too large for a nursery.
Perhaps we might move it to the dressing room and bring in something smaller? ”
“We could ask the footmen to help, Your Grace.”
“Excellent.” Penelope rolled up her sleeves—literally—and smiled. “Let’s make a list of everything that needs doing. If I’m to spend my nights in here, I want it properly organised.”
Annie’s eyes widened. “You’ll be sleeping in the nursery, Your Grace?”
“For the first few weeks, yes. Until Rose is settled into a routine.” She saw the maid’s shock and added gently, “I know it’s unconventional. But then, everything about this situation is unconventional, isn’t it?”
Annie ducked her head. “I suppose so, Your Grace.”
They set to work. And if Penelope threw herself into the tasks with perhaps more vigour than strictly necessary, if she redirected every thought of her absent husband into choosing fabric and rearranging furniture and learning the names of every servant who worked in the nursery wing—well. That was no one’s concern but her own.
By evening, the room had been transformed.
The heavy darkness had been replaced with light and air.
The rocking chair sat in pride of place, awaiting only its new cushions.
A smaller wardrobe had been procured from one of the guest chambers.
Fresh flowers from the hothouse brightened the windowsill.
Penelope stood in the centre of the room, her dress dusty and her hair escaping its pins, and felt something close to satisfaction.
This was hers. Not because Alastair had given it to her, but because she’d created it. She’d made decisions, moved furniture, worked alongside servants who were beginning to look at her with cautious respect rather than confusion.
She could do this. Build a life here. Raise Rose. Manage a household.
She didn’t need him.
The thought should have been empowering.
Instead, it left her hollow.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Keating appeared in the doorway, her lips slightly pursed. “A letter has arrived. From London.”
Penelope’s heart stuttered. “From His Grace?”
“No, Your Grace. From a Miss Hyacinth Fairleigh.”
Relief and disappointment warred within her. She took the letter with hands that trembled only slightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Keating.”
She waited until the housekeeper left before breaking the seal. Hyacinth’s familiar handwriting swam before her eyes.
My dearest Penelope,
I hope this letter finds you well settled at Blackmere. I confess I am desperately curious about everything—the house, the servants, the baby, and of course, your new husband...
Penelope stopped reading.
Your new husband.
Her new husband, who’d left her the morning after their wedding. Who’d promised her freedom and then demonstrated exactly how little she meant to him by fleeing back to London at the first opportunity.
She folded the letter carefully and moved to the window. Night was falling, turning the gardens to shadow. Somewhere in London, Alastair was doing whatever it was dissolute dukes did when freed from unwanted wives.
And here she was. Alone in a house that wasn’t home, caring for a child who wasn’t hers, married to a man who clearly had no intention of being a husband.
Rose began to cry again, her wails sharp with hunger or discomfort or simply the general injustice of being an infant.
Penelope crossed to the cradle and lifted her, swaying gently.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “We’ll be all right. You and I. We don’t need him.”
The baby quieted against her shoulder.
And Penelope stood in the gathering darkness, holding someone else’s child, and tried very hard to believe her own words.