Chapter 21
Twenty-One
From her chamber, Christine could hear the faint echo of servants bustling two floors below, the clatter of dishes, and the murmur of preparation for the final dinner of the Duke Hunt.
The house seemed to hum with excitement, as though eager to see the conclusion of the Dowager Duchess’s latest romantic enterprise.
Christine, however, felt only a tightening unease.
He has not yet returned. I asked Constance to let me know if he did. Surely he would come to see me if so.
Tristan wished to remove an obstruction from their path. He had promised to return. Faced with one last night at Greystone, Christine found her stomach tying itself into knots.
One more night and then…and then what? If Tristan goes back on his word, I am lost. I have nowhere to go. I cannot go to Selina. I cannot.
Hours had passed since his departure, and with the toll of every hour her apprehension grew.
She had tried to reason with herself—he was a man of business, and there were matters of his estate that might need attention—but the argument rang hollow.
Her imagination, so often her friend, was now her worst tormentor.
She stood before the mirror, staring at the reflection of a woman who scarcely seemed herself.
Her gown, soft ivory silk trimmed with gold embroidery, caught the waning light and made her skin glow faintly.
Constance had insisted on arranging her hair into an elegant twist, leaving only a few curls to frame her face. She looked…composed. Almost regal.
The door opened quietly, and Constance entered carrying a pair of pearl-drop earrings on a velvet tray. “The Duchess said you should wear these, my lady. They belong to her, but she wishes the victor of the Duke Hunt to show them off. Those were her words.”
Christine turned, smiling faintly. “I fear I shall never be used to such finery. These pearls could pay a servant’s wages for a year.”
Constance dipped her head. “Then I am glad to see them on someone kind.”
There was something brittle in her voice, and Christine, who had learned to hear sorrow even when it whispered, looked more closely. The maid’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes swollen.
“You’ve been crying,” Christine said gently, “what troubles you?”
Constance hesitated, then set the tray down with trembling hands. “I should not burden you, my lady.”
“Nonsense. Sit a moment.” Christine drew her toward the small settee near the fire. “Whatever it is, I shall not repeat it. You have my word.”
The girl perched on the edge of the cushion, twisting the edge of her apron. “It’s James, my lady. The coachman.”
Christine smiled. “Your sweetheart. You told me of him.”
Constance nodded miserably. “He wishes us to marry. I…I wanted to wait. But now there isn’t time…”
Her voice broke. Christine took her hand, warm and shaking. “I think I understand why time is an issue,”
Tears spilled over the girl’s lashes, and she nodded, unable to summon words.
“It is nothing to be ashamed of. These things happen occasionally, even to the gentry.”
“But the gentry get to live it down, my lady, begging your pardon, we don’t.
Her Grace would sack us both, with no reference.
We’d be in the poor house. I swear we meant no wrong.
We thought to wed before anyone knew. James says we must run, but where could we go?
No one hires a girl in my condition, and we cannot live on coachman’s wages alone. ”
For a long moment, Christine said nothing. She felt the ache of recognition, this quiet desperation, this helpless dread of the world’s judgment. How many women had found themselves destroyed by nothing more than their own hearts?
I was naive to try to play it down. Of course, she is worried. It is regarded as the worst of sins.
“You love him,” she said softly.
“With all my soul.”
“Then you shall not run,” Christine squeezed her hand, “Tristan, His Grace, has need of good servants at Duskwood. And a coachman. You and James may come with me.”
Constance blinked in astonishment. “My lady, I could not…”
“You can, and you will. And you will be free to marry.”
“But, does His Grace know?”
Christine hesitated, then smiled. “Not yet. But he will. And I have reason to think he will approve. I am to be his Duchess after all. The running of the house will be my preserve. Do not worry.”
It was bold, even reckless, to speak on Tristan’s behalf.
Yet in that instant, Christine felt an unexpected certainty settle over her.
If she were to become his duchess, as he seemed determined she would, then compassion must be her dowry.
He might command the title, the estate, the power, but she could command grace.
And perhaps, in time, teach him to wield it gently.
Constance covered her face with her hands, sobbing with relief. “You are too good to me, my lady. Too good.”
Christine embraced her. “You owe me no thanks. Only promise me you will tell James tonight. There is no cause for shame in love freely given.”
The maid nodded, still weeping.
When at last she had gone, Christine stood by the fire, staring into the glow. A strange peace had replaced her earlier anxiety. She could almost hear Tristan’s voice teasing her for her impulsive mercy.
You would turn Duskwood into a sanctuary for strays, he would say. And she would answer that there were worse fates than kindness. The clock chimed six. Downstairs, the first carriages were arriving.
Christine fastened the pearls at her ears, took a steadying breath, and descended the great staircase.
The scent of roses drifted up from the hall, mingling with candle wax and the faint tang of rain on stone.
Everywhere she turned, there were smiles, chatter, the bright rustle of silk. But no sign of Tristan.
She told herself he would appear before the first course. Still, as she entered the dining hall, her heart sank a little. His seat at the Dowager Duchess’ right remained empty. The Dowager Duchess herself, resplendent in violet satin, waved her over with a conspiratorial wink.
“My dear Lady Christine. No, don’t protest, I shall call you that until the vows are spoken. Come, sit beside me. We shall be two hens amongst these peacocks.”
Christine smiled despite herself and took the offered seat. The long table glittered under the chandeliers, every surface alive with crystal and silver. Conversation flowed like wine.
“I have done well, have I not?” the Dowager murmured, patting her hand, “three engagements in a week! Lord Fallsten, the Viscount of Norfolk and Lady Petra of Thanet; Lord Hannay, the Earl of Manchester and Lady Veronica of Bath. And your own. By far the most sensational, of course. Poor Lady Martha is livid, but that is to be expected. Jealousy makes even pretty women foolish.”
Christine’s fork paused above her plate. “Lady Martha has cause to dislike me?”
The Duchess sniffed. “Lady Martha dislikes every woman not named Lady Martha. You needn’t trouble yourself. Once she is married, she will turn her malice upon her husband instead.”
Christine laughed softly. “You speak as though from experience.”
“I speak as a woman who has outlived her husband, my dear. A feat that requires both endurance and strategy.”
The table erupted in laughter at some jest further down, and the Duchess leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“Do not look so worried, child. I can see the thoughts marching behind your eyes. Men like your Duke are slow to return, but they always do. Wolves stray for a purpose, never for pleasure.”
Christine looked down, cheeks warming. “You give him too much credit.”
“Nonsense. I have seen the way he looks at you. As if you were the first warmth he’s known in years. Enjoy that power, my dear. But do not flaunt it. Power untampered by kindness curdles into cruelty.”
Christine smiled faintly. “That sounds like something you might embroider on a cushion.”
The Dowager chuckled. “Indeed, I might. And I should send it to every married couple in London. Now, eat your soup before it congeals. We can’t have you swooning from nerves before the pudding.”
Her wit was relentless, and Christine found herself laughing more than she had expected. Yet beneath the laughter, a quiet ache persisted. Every time a door opened, her heart leapt, only to fall again when it was merely a servant.
By the third course, she had almost convinced herself that Tristan had simply been delayed, that he would sweep in with some plausible explanation, and she would forgive him for worrying her. But with each minute that passed, her confidence eroded.
When the meal ended and the company drifted toward the ballroom for cards and music, Christine excused herself under the pretext of seeking air.
She found a moment’s solitude near the library, where the scent of leather and candle smoke lingered from the previous day’s discovery. It was there that Lady Martha appeared.
“Enjoying your triumph, Lady Christine?” The words dripped with false sweetness.
Christine turned, startled. “Lady Martha. You mistake me. There is no triumph in affection freely given.”
“Affection?” Martha laughed sharply, “Is that what you call it? Do you imagine he loves you? That a man like the Duke of Duskwood marries for anything but convenience…or revenge?”
Those words struck a chord with Christine, so aligned with her own worries. It was as though Lady Martha had peered into her mind, discerning her innermost thoughts. Christine met her gaze steadily.
“I think, perhaps, that he is a man learning to forgive. And forgiveness requires love.”
For a heartbeat, something flickered behind Martha’s painted smile, an emotion raw enough to be real.
“You know nothing of men, nor of forgiveness,” she said softly, “if you did, you would not bear the name Davidson.”
Christine’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”
Martha’s expression hardened. “Ask your brother. If you can find him.”
Before Christine could reply, Martha swept away toward the ballroom, leaving only the faint scent of perfume and bitterness in her wake. Christine stood motionless, the echo of those words ringing in her ears.
You would not bear the name Davidson. So, her hatred is not due to my engagement to Bingley. Yet another victim of Charles?
It was not the first time she had been reminded of her family’s disgrace, but Martha’s tone had carried something more, something personal.
A secret grievance buried beneath propriety.
Did Martha’s family count themselves among her brother’s victims?
Or was her resentment rooted in something deeper?
Something relating to her specifically? A personal grudge?
The question gnawed at her as she returned to the drawing room, where the Dowager was holding court by the fire. The older woman beckoned her over.
“Ah, there you are, my radiant bride-to-be. Still no sign of your Duke?”
Christine shook her head, forcing a smile. “He is not a man to explain his absences.”
“Men rarely are. The trick, my dear, is not to chase after them. Wolves come home of their own accord, usually when they grow hungry.”
Christine blushed. “You are incorrigible.”
“I am experienced.” The Duchess’s eyes twinkled. “And I tell you this, when he does return, make him wait outside your chamber at least five minutes before you open the door. It keeps a man properly humble.”
Christine laughed, but her heart wasn’t in it.
She made her excuses soon after and climbed the stairs to her room, the laughter of the guests fading behind her.
Inside, the fire still burned low in the grate.
On the table lay the small velvet pouch from the library, Greystone’s final treasure.
She opened it, running her fingers over the delicate gold band within.
It caught the firelight and gleamed like a promise.
“Where are you, Tristan?” she whispered.
A knock came at the door. Her pulse quickened, but when she opened it, it was only Constance, cheeks flushed from excitement. “I told James, my lady. He says to thank you a hundred times. We’ll serve you faithfully, I swear it.”
Christine smiled. “Then we shall both have new beginnings.”
If I have the power after all to offer it. What if I do not? If Tristan does not come back, then it will be three people he has left. However, he did not promise Constance salvation.
She knew that she should not have offered until such a time as she was in control of her own destiny.
Now, James and Constance had been given hope which might be imminently dashed.
The maid curtsied and left. Christine closed the door and leaned against it, listening to the distant strains of music below.
Outside, the rain began again, soft and persistent, like a heartbeat against the glass.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing calm.
Tristan would return. He must. Whatever shadows he had gone to confront, he would find his way back to her.
And together they would wait for Charles to return.
For now, she crossed to the window and watched the night spread its dark wings over the gardens of Greystone, whispering to herself the only truth she knew:
Kindness is never folly, no matter how many wolves it awakens.