Chapter Two
Josie sat at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.
She had not slept. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw Mr Carrick’s sharp face and heard his measured voice outlining a choice that was no choice at all: accept the Duke’s offer, or watch her family slide into ruin.
Across from her, Lily picked at a piece of toast, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Thomas had not yet emerged from his room. Josie suspected he was avoiding her—and she could not blame him.
“You are going to accept, are you not?” Lily’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.
Josie looked at her sister—sweet, trusting Lily, who had never done anything to deserve this upheaval. Who ought to have been thinking of new gowns and village dances, not debts and eviction.
“I do not see that I have a choice,” Josie said quietly.
“But to work for him—” Lily shuddered. “They say he is dreadful, Josie. That his face is so scarred no one can bear to look at him. That he has not left Greymont Hall in years.”
“Gossip.” Josie set down her cup with more force than she intended. “He is a man, Lily. A man who has suffered, perhaps, but still a man. And he is offering us a way out of this disaster.”
“At what cost?”
That was the question, was it not? What would it cost her to enter that cold, silent house? To work for a man who hid from the world and allowed his steward to deliver ultimatums on his behalf?
But what choice did she have?
“The cost of my pride, perhaps,” Josie said at last. “But that is a small price to pay for your safety. And for Thomas’s freedom.”
Lily’s eyes filled anew. “It is not fair.”
“No.” Josie reached across the table and took her sister’s hand. “It is not fair. But fairness is a luxury we can no longer afford.”
***
At precisely ten o’clock, Josie knocked on the door of Mr Carrick’s office at Greymont Hall.
She had walked this time. The morning was fine, and she could not bear the thought of sitting idle in a carriage while her thoughts churned. The exercise had steadied her somewhat, though her hands still trembled faintly as she smoothed her skirts.
“Come in,” came the steward’s voice.
Josie opened the door and stepped inside. Mr Carrick sat behind his desk, looking exactly as he had two days earlier—sharp-eyed and unmoved by sentiment.
“Miss Hartwell.” He indicated the chair opposite him. “I trust you have reached a decision.”
“I have.” Josie sat, keeping her spine straight. “I accept His Grace’s offer.”
Something flickered in Mr Carrick’s expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or merely the relief of a man who had concluded an unpleasant business. “Very good. You will begin tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. So soon.
“What will my duties entail, precisely?” Josie asked.
Mr Carrick opened a drawer and withdrew a stack of papers.
“Correspondence, primarily. Letters from tenants, requests for charitable assistance, invitations requiring polite refusal. Your father managed much of this informally through his position as vicar. With his passing, the work has accumulated.”
He slid the stack across the desk. Josie glanced at the top letter—a neatly penned request from a widow in the village seeking assistance with her rent. Beneath it lay another, and another. There were dozens.
“All of these require replies?” she asked.
“At a minimum. Some will require reference to the estate accounts or further inquiry. You will have access to the necessary records.” Mr Carrick rose and crossed to a second door Josie had not noticed before.
He opened it to reveal a modest adjoining room with a writing desk, shelves of ledgers, and a window overlooking the gardens. “This will be your office.”
Josie stepped forward. The room was plain but well-appointed—far finer than her father’s cluttered study had ever been. A silver inkwell stood upon the desk, with fresh paper neatly stacked beside it.
“You will attend each morning at nine and work until four,” Mr Carrick continued. “Tea will be brought at midday.”
“And my family?” Josie asked. “The debts—”
“Will be settled immediately. Instructions have already been dispatched to the village creditors, as well as to the moneylender in London.” His gaze was steady. “Your brother’s debt will be paid in full, with the understanding that any further imprudence will not be His Grace’s concern.”
Relief washed over her so swiftly that she had to steady herself against the doorframe. Thomas was safe. Lily was safe.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Do not thank me, Miss Hartwell. Thank His Grace—and repay him with diligent service.” Mr Carrick returned to his desk. “That will be all. I shall expect you tomorrow morning.”
Josie turned to go, but his voice stopped her.
“Miss Hartwell.”
She turned, facing him once more.
“His Grace values privacy above all else. You will confine yourself to the estate office and the principal corridors when coming and going. You are not to wander the house or grounds without express permission. Is that understood?”
A chill traced its way down her spine. “Perfectly, Mr Carrick.”
He nodded and returned his attention to the papers before him.
Josie made her way down the long corridor toward the entrance hall. The house lay silent about her—vast and chill. Servants passed like shadows, their movements soundless upon the thick carpets.
She thought of the vicarage, with its worn furnishings and cheerful disorder, the sound of Lily’s singing drifting from the parlour.
That life was gone now.
***
Josie arrived the following morning at half past eight, her stomach tight with nerves.
The same silver-haired butler admitted her—Mr Pembroke, she learned—and conducted her without comment to the estate office. The stack of correspondence awaited her upon the desk.
“Tea will be brought at noon, Miss Hartwell,” Mr Pembroke said. “If you require anything before then, you need only ring.” He indicated a small bell at the desk’s corner.
“Thank you, Mr Pembroke.”
He bowed and withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.
Josie removed her bonnet and gloves, set them aside, and seated herself. She selected the first letter and unfolded it.
To His Grace, the Duke of Greystone,
I write to you in humble supplication. My husband has been taken ill and cannot work. We have three children and no means to pay the rent on our cottage...
She read it twice, then reached for the ledger. Mrs Fletcher, a tenant’s wife from the village. Her father had spoken of her and her family often.
Josie dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write.
Dear Mrs Fletcher,
His Grace has received your letter and wishes you to know that the rent on your cottage will be deferred until such time as your circumstances improve...
She paused over the signature, then settled on:
On behalf of His Grace, the Duke of Greystone.
She folded the letter, sealed it, and reached for the next.
The work consumed her. Each letter offered a glimpse into lives of people who depended precariously upon the Duke’s goodwill—tenant farmers, widows, tradesmen. All of them had waited far too long for a reply.
Her father would have been heartsick to see such neglect.
By noon, she had addressed nearly a quarter of the pile. A soft knock sounded.
“Come in,” she called.
A young maid entered, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. She was perhaps sixteen, with a round face and anxious eyes.
“Your tea, miss.”
“Thank you.” Josie smiled. “What is your name?”
“Mary, miss.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
Mary curtsied but lingered, twisting her apron.
“Is something amiss?” Josie asked gently.
“Begging your pardon, miss, but—” Mary glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “Is it true you are the vicar’s daughter? From Halford?”
“I am.”
“My mother spoke well of your father. Said he was a good man.” Mary blinked back tears. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. That is very kind.”
Mary hesitated. “If you will forgive my saying so, miss, it is good to have someone here who cares. The house has been very quiet for a long while.”
Before Josie could respond, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Mary startled and fled.
Josie remained still, her gaze fixed on the closed door.
The house has been very quiet for a long while.
She poured herself tea and drank it slowly. Around her, the silence pressed close—no laughter, no raised voices, only the distant movements of servants at their duties.
What manner of man chose to live this way?
She set aside her cup and reached for the next letter.
***
At four o’clock, Josie gathered her bonnet and gloves and prepared to leave.
She had answered more than thirty letters—a respectable beginning, though the stack appeared scarcely diminished. Leaving the estate office, she made her way along the corridor toward the entrance hall. The portraits lining the walls seemed to observe her progress with solemn attention.
She was nearly at the main staircase when she heard it.
A voice. Low, harsh, unmistakably angry.
“I said no, Carrick. The matter is closed.”
Josie stopped short. The sound came from a door to her left, standing slightly ajar, a sliver of firelight spilling across the carpet.
“Your Grace, the tenants are growing restless—” That was Mr Carrick’s voice, calm but persistent.
“Then let them be restless. I will not parade myself before them like some curiosity at a fair.”
Josie’s breath caught. That voice—deeper than she had expected, roughened by something she could not name—could belong to only one man.
She should leave. She should turn away at once.
But her feet would not obey her.
“The harvest festival has been a tradition for generations,” Mr Carrick pressed. “Your absence will be remarked upon. It may be taken as disrespect.”
“Let them think as they please.” The Duke’s voice hardened. “I have given them their livelihoods and their homes. That is sufficient.”
“Your father—”
“My father is dead.” The words cut sharply through the air. “And I am not him.”
Silence followed—long and weighted. Josie pressed herself back against the wall, her pulse beating painfully fast.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mr Carrick said at last. “I shall make the necessary excuses.”
Footsteps approached the door.
Josie turned and hastened away, her skirts whispering against the carpet. She reached the staircase and descended quickly, not daring to glance behind her.
Mr Pembroke stood waiting in the entrance hall. If he noticed the colour in her cheeks or the tension in her bearing, he gave no sign.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hartwell,” he said, opening the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr Pembroke.”
She stepped out into the cool air and walked briskly down the drive, not slowing until Greymont Hall was well behind her.
Only then did she stop, pressing a hand to her chest.
She had heard the Duke’s voice. Had heard the anger, the bitterness, the refusal to meet the world beyond his walls.
I will not parade myself before them like some curiosity at a fair.
The words followed her all the way home.
***
That evening, Josie sat in the vicarage parlour beside Lily, mending a tear in one of her sister’s gowns.
“How was it?” Lily asked softly. “Greymont Hall?”
“Cold. Quiet. But the work is manageable.”
“Did you see him? The Duke?”
“No.” Josie bent her head over her stitching. “He keeps to himself.”
“Mary Simmons says her cousin works there as a scullery maid,” Lily went on. “She says the Duke never leaves his rooms—and that even the servants are forbidden to look at him.” Lily shuddered. “It sounds dreadful.”
“It sounds lonely,” Josie said quietly.
Lily looked at her in surprise. “You pity him.”
“I think he must be very unhappy.”
“He is a Duke, Josie. He has wealth, power—everything.”
“Except peace.” Josie set aside the gown and met her sister’s eyes. “Except companionship. Except a reason to step beyond his doors.”
Lily frowned. “He is compelling you to work for him. That is not the action of a good man.”
“Perhaps it is the action of a man who no longer knows how to be good.”
She thought of the voice she had heard—rough, edged with anger, and beneath it something else.
Fear.
“Promise me you will be careful,” Lily said. “In that house.”
Josie managed a small smile. “I promise, dearest.”
Yet even as she spoke, she wondered whether it was a promise she could truly keep.
***
The next morning, Josie returned to Greymont Hall with an unfamiliar sense of anticipation.
She told herself it was merely the satisfaction of useful labour—of answering letters, of easing burdens where she could.
Yet as she walked along the corridor toward the estate office, her gaze strayed to the door from which she had heard the Duke’s voice.
It was closed now. Silent.
Mr Pembroke admitted her to the office without remark. The stack of correspondence awaited her, undiminished—if anything, larger than before.
Josie removed her bonnet and seated herself at the desk.
Before she could reach for the first letter, the door to Mr Carrick’s office opened.
The steward stood upon the threshold, his expression unreadable.
“Miss Hartwell,” he said. “His Grace wishes to see you.”