Chapter 22
Ravensmere did not feel like Margaret's home.
Not yet.
She rose before the household stirred, as she had done since arriving. Dawn gave pale light, the estate quiet beneath it. For a few moments she remained seated on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, listening to the distant clatter from the kitchens below.
A title had been placed upon her, and she was still learning how to carry it. By the time she reached the breakfast room, Mrs. Hill was already there with a ledger and a pot of tea.
“You are early again,” the housekeeper observed.
“I prefer to see things before they begin,” Margaret replied.
Mrs. Hill regarded her carefully. Margaret took the seat opposite her.
“You mentioned yesterday that coal deliveries have been inconsistent.”
“They have,” Mrs. Hill said, sliding the ledger across. “The north road has been unreliable since the storms.”
Margaret leaned over the figures, forcing herself to focus. Numbers were steady. Numbers did not look back at her with expectation. Numbers were not the ton.
“How many cottages rely on our stores?” she asked.
“Eight directly,” Mrs. Hill answered. “Three more if the weather worsens.”
“Then we increase the order before winter deepens.”
Mrs. Hill’s brows lifted slightly.
“It will not be inexpensive.”
“Warmth rarely is, but I will not compromise on it.”
The housekeeper watched her for a moment longer than necessary, then made a neat notation in the margin.
“Very well. Your Grace, you do know that this is usually for His Grace to–”
“I know, but I wish to oversee it all too. I do not want to be unaware of what is happening in my town.”
It was mostly true. Of course, she also wanted something to do, and a purpose.
The rest of the morning unfolded in similar fashion.
Cook met her in the kitchens, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I did not expect to see you down here again so soon, Your Grace,” she said.
“I expect to be here often,” Margaret replied.
Cook studied her.
“We have managed well enough.”
“I know,” Margaret said gently. “I am not here to correct. I am here to understand.”
There was a small pause.
“Well,” Cook said at last, gesturing toward the hearth, “the ovens draw unevenly in damp weather.”
Margaret stepped closer, feeling the heat against her face.
“Can it be repaired?”
“It can,” Cook admitted. “If someone is willing to pay for it.”
“It will be repaired.”
Cook blinked once, then nodded slowly.
“Very well, Your Grace.”
By midday, she had spoken with the head gardener about the frost, with the laundress about mending supplies, with two maids who had not expected her to remember their names.
She remembered them anyway.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said to one of the maids, who had hesitated before mentioning a leak in the west corridor.
The girl flushed.
“I did not wish to trouble you.”
“You are not troubling me,” Margaret said. “You are helping me.”
By afternoon, the staff no longer regarded her with guarded curiosity. They watched her with something closer to relief. When she finally returned upstairs, her shoulders ached from holding herself upright.
Her chamber felt too quiet. The fire had been lit, as always, the curtains drawn. Everything was in order. She removed her gloves slowly, setting them on the dressing table with care. All of it felt tangible during the day.
At night, it dissolved into something softer and more uncertain.
A knock sounded at her door.
“Come in,” she called.
It was Mrs. Hill again.
“I wished to inform you,” the housekeeper said, “that the coal order has been placed.”
“Thank you.”
“And Cook has already begun making inquiries regarding the oven repairs.”
“Good.”
Mrs. Hill lingered near the doorway.
“You have done well today.”
Margaret gave a faint smile. She did not act in order to receive gratitude, and she hardly received praise from her mother, but it was nice to hear all the same.
“It is only the first week.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hill said. “And the household has already begun to look to you.”
Margaret lowered her gaze briefly.
“I hope I will not disappoint them.”
“You will,” Mrs. Hill said calmly.
Margaret looked up. She was startled to hear something like that, especially when she had done so well.
“At some point,” the housekeeper clarified. “Everyone does.”
“That is reassuring.”
“It should be,” Mrs. Hill replied, laughing gently. “They will forgive you. You listen to them, and that matters more than you think.”
“Listening is easier than speaking.”
Mrs. Hill’s eyes softened slightly.
“You will find your voice here. We rely on it, after all.”
The door closed gently behind her. Margaret crossed to the window. Ravensmere stretched into the dusk, the lawns fading into shadow. Lamps flickered along the drive. Somewhere beyond the trees, a carriage passed on the distant road. This was her home now. The word felt heavy.
She thought of Nathaniel.
He had been absent most of the day, occupied with estate matters beyond her reach. Their paths crossed briefly before they went to bed, and she could not help but stop him. Before she could, however, he stopped her himself.
“You have been busy,” he said.
“So have you,” she replied.
“Mrs. Hill tells me you have memorized over half the household.”
“I have only asked questions.”
“That is often more effective,” he said.
The staff looked to her with hope. Nathaniel looked at her with something more careful. Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her. This time it was one of the younger maids, hovering nervously.
“Yes?” Margaret asked.
“Ma’am,” the girl said, wringing her hands, “I only wished to say… we are grateful.”
“For what?”
“For today. For listening.”
Margaret swallowed lightly.
“You are welcome.”
The maid left quickly, and Nathaniel chuckled. Margaret, meanwhile, watched after her. If she could give them the knowledge that they were listened to, perhaps she was not entirely unfit for her role.
Still, when night fully settled and the house quieted, the space beside her remained empty.
She lay awake longer than she intended, staring at the canopy above her.
During the day, Ravensmere accepted her.
At night, it tested her, and she resolved, as she had each night, that she would rise again and meet it properly.
Nathaniel began leaving before dawn.
At first Margaret assumed it was temporary– estate repairs, tenant disputes, lingering matters that required his direct oversight. Ravensmere was large. Responsibility did not rest lightly.
But the pattern held.
She would wake to the faint sound of boots in the corridor, the quiet murmur of a servant receiving instructions, then the front door closing with careful restraint.
By the time she came downstairs, his place at the breakfast table was already empty.
“His Grace left early,” Mrs. Hill would say, as though it had to be said.
“Of course,” Margaret would reply.
“He may not return until late.”
“Very well.”
The first week, she waited up. The second, she did not.
On evenings when he did return before midnight, their meetings were brief and impeccably civil.
One such evening, she found him in the library, coat still on, papers spread before him.
“You are still awake,” he said, looking up as she entered.
“So are you.”
He set down his pen.
“Mrs. Hill tells me the west corridor has been repaired.”
“Yes. The leak was worse than we thought.”
“You handled it efficiently.”
“I had assistance.”
“You seem to have gained the staff’s confidence.”
“I should hope so.”
He nodded once.
“You have done well.”
There it was again. Praise delivered like a report. There was a lack of warmth in his voice, and she swore that it had been there prior to their wedding day.
“And you?” she asked. “Was the northern boundary settled?”
“For now.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is only tedious.”
She smiled faintly.
“You have a talent for making disputes sound dull.”
“They often are. They are not half as interesting as you might be led to believe.”
A quiet stretch of silence followed.
“I will not keep you,” he said after a moment.
“I was not kept.”
Another small pause.
“Thank you,” he added. “For everything you have taken on.”
“You need not thank me.”
“I would like to.”
She inclined her head. He did not rise. He did not ask her to stay. She left the library with the echo of paper shifting behind her.
On other nights, he did not return at all.
“His Grace sent word,” Mrs. Hill informed her one evening. “He will remain at the eastern property until morning.”
“I see.”
“He asked that you not wait up.”
“I had not planned to.”
That was not entirely true. Sometimes, though she told herself not to, she did wait to hear the door.
Margaret adjusted the accounts by lamplight long after the household had quieted. The numbers blurred. The ink smudged faintly beneath her hand.
She had asked for stability. She had asked for respect. She had never asked for affection, and she told herself that that meant it was her own fault.
The arrangement had been clear from the beginning. She reminded herself of that often. Still, something tightened each time she passed the unused chair beside hers at dinner.
One afternoon, she encountered him in the entry hall as he prepared to leave again.
“You are riding out?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“For long?”
“I cannot say.”
She nodded.
“The tenants at Millbrook sent their thanks for the grain.”
“I am glad.”
“They seemed surprised.”
“They should not have been.”
“No,” she agreed.
He adjusted his gloves.
“You have handled matters here admirably.”
“You have said so.”
“It bears repeating.”
“Does it?”
He paused at that, studying her more closely. She wondered if he could tell that she wanted more from him. She partly hoped that he could.
“If you require anything,” he said, “you need only ask.”
“I have everything I require.”
Her voice was steady. He searched her expression, perhaps for reproach, perhaps for something else. Whatever he sought, he did not name it.
“Very well,” he said.