Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
“The shortbread is entirely ruined,” Euphemia muttered, her irritation flaring anew as she dusted a fresh tray with flour.
Flour was entirely the enemy of dignity.
She brushed a stray curl away from her forehead, leaving a stark white streak across her brow, while across the table of the pastry kitchen, Cordelia was currently treating a lump of shortbread dough like she was fighting it.
Beside her, Georgianna was meticulously stamping out perfect, uniform rounds, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth with intense focus.
The kitchen smelled of butter, sugar, and nutmeg, a chaotic haven Euphemia had carved out to keep her own racing mind from fracturing entirely.
“If we press the currants into the tops after they are baked, they will simply roll off,” Georgianna observed. “If we press them in before, they will scorch. It is a structural paradox.”
“They will not scorch if you push them deep enough, Georgie,” Cordelia countered, delivering another fierce blow to her dough. “See? Buried.”
Euphemia couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. “Let us aim for a slightly more merciful treatment of the biscuits, Cordelia. We want them to accompany tea, not serve as a warning to the rest of the household on the power in your fist.”
Cordelia giggled, wiping her hands on her apron, before her expression suddenly turned thoughtful.
She looked down at the row of neatly arranged trays.
“We have made quite a tremendous bounty. Do you suppose... well, we have not seen Father in a few days. Perhaps we ought to take a selection of these snacks to him?”
Georgianna paused. “He has been in his study for days now. Even Mr. Harris looked quite intimidated when he came out with the correspondence.”
“Exactly,” Cordelia pressed, looking up at Euphemia with wide, hopeful eyes. “He has been terribly brooding, even for him. I think a plate of shortbread might improve his disposition. Or at least distract him from whatever grand, boring matter of state he is currently working so hard on.”
Euphemia’s heart gave a sudden, uncomfortable thud against her ribs.
She forced her smile to remain firmly in place, though her fingers tightened around her wooden rolling pin.
“That is a lovely suggestion, dearest. Once this batch is pulled from the oven, you two may assemble a proper tray for him.”
Because the absolute, agonizing truth of the matter was that Euphemia would rather face a den of literal lions than walk into Nathaniel’s study herself.
For the last ten days, the Duke of Greymoor had vanished into a mist of impeccable neglect.
Following that luminous, confusing evening at Emily’s gathering, where he had practically bridged the gap between them, and claimed her as his wife, Nathaniel had abruptly reverted into a stranger. Nay, not a stranger. A ghost.
Euphemia spent her afternoons wandering the corridors of the estate, thoroughly restless, her frustration mounting with every passing day.
It was maddening. If she chanced to meet him in the hallway, he did not look at her, he looked through her, offering a bow so stiff it practically creaked with frost, before murmuring a clipped greeting and disappearing.
While she had grown beautifully, wonderfully close to the girls, her mind remained utterly fixated on the riddle of their father.
During an hour of profound irritation in the library that morning, she had actually slammed shut a volume of natural history after coming across a passage regarding the common chameleon of the Mediterranean.
‘A creature,’ the text had stated, ‘capable of altering its entire aspect from one minute to the next, confounding all who look upon it, shifting from brilliant color to a dull, defensive gray to blend seamlessly into the background.’
Nathaniel was precisely that. A great, hulking chameleon.
One evening he was a gentleman delivering her a glass of punch, standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest, treating her with a gentleness that made her foolish heart believe they were on the precipice of something real.
Then the very next morning? He was a stone monument.
He had crawled back into his dull, gray shell of distance, as though the entire ball had been a hallucination.
She didn’t know whether to weep from the sudden emptiness of it or throw a rolling pin directly at his handsome, stubborn head.
Was she truly supposed to believe that the man who had looked at her with such piercing intensity while she laughed with Thaddeus was the same man currently treating her like a slightly inconvenient piece of drawing room furniture?
It was a farce. It was an entirely unfair, tormenting piece of behavior, and she was thoroughly, utterly sick of it.
“Your Grace?” Cordelia’s voice broke through her frantic internal rant. “The dough. I believe you have flattened it into a wafer.”
Euphemia blinked, looking down to find she had indeed rolled her section of shortbread into a sheet thin enough to read a newspaper through.
“Ah,” Euphemia said, quickly lifting the rolling pin and clearing her throat, her cheeks burning with a flush that had absolutely nothing to do with the heat of the ovens. “A new technique, my dear. For... exceptionally crisp biscuits.”
Georgianna giggled, a rare and delightful sound that instantly lightened the air of the kitchen.
“I do think exceptionally crisp biscuits are exactly what Father requires,” she said, her large eyes turning to Euphemia, her smile waning.
“If it will make him happy, then it might be worth the effort.”
The young girl set down her pastry stamp and rested her small hands on the edge of the flour-dusted table. “Your Grace... do you suppose there is something you might do to make Father come out and play with us? Or at least spend an afternoon out of that dreadful room?”
Euphemia paused, her rolling pin frozen in midair.
“You did not give up on me,” Georgianna continued softly, avoiding eye contact.
“I was terribly difficult when you first arrived. I will admit that. I was... awful. But you kept insisting. You did not let me drive you away, and now... now we have such nice days together. Perhaps Father simply needs you to insist upon him, too.”
Her innocent words sliced straight through Euphemia’s frustration, leaving a sobering ache in their wake.
“All right,” Euphemia choked out.
As the girls returned to their work, chatter resuming, Euphemia fell into a deep silence.
Georgianna’s observation forced her to look inward, and the realization made her feel entirely foolish.
Was she truly going to hide in the corners of the estate and nurse a bruised pride just because Nathaniel had grown distant again?
He did not love her. She forced herself to confront the cold truth, swallowing down the sharp prickle of sorrow that threatened to rise in her throat.
Nathaniel had made his intentions abundantly clear from the very beginning.
He desired a partnership built on mutual respect and a steady, uncomplicated friendship.
Perhaps she had been pushing too far. Perhaps her own restless, searching glances had made him uncomfortable, causing him to retreat into his shell.
If he only desired a normal, stable friendship, then it was up to her to put more effort into being precisely that, a good, dependable friend to the Duke of Greymoor.
She needed to swallow her resentment and do it for the sake of the family.
If she could bridge this frosty gap and establish a comfortable rapport with him, he would finally feel at ease enough to leave his desk and spend time with his daughters.
They could have picnics, take carriage rides, and live as a proper household.
She owed the girls that much. She owed him that much.
“Do not worry, Georgie,” Euphemia added, offering the girl a warm, reassuring smile. “I shall try my absolute best. In fact, I was just thinking that we are quite overdue for a proper family outing. Perhaps a promenade through the gardens, or a drive if the weather holds.”
“An outing!” Cordelia gasped, her eyes lighting up instantly. “Oh, do you mean it? I would like that!”
“We shall see what your father says,” Euphemia replied cheerfully, though her chest tightened at the thought of the upcoming confrontation.
Just then, Mrs. Higgins, the cook, joined them, wiping her hands on her apron. “Right then, Your Grace! If these young ladies are quite finished with the dough, we’ll get them straight into the ovens before the fire loses its temper.”
With a chorus of excited chatter, the girls helped the cook slide the heavy iron trays into the heat, the aroma of baking sugar immediately intensifying.
Euphemia spent the next twenty minutes deliberately focusing on the task of cleaning up. She washed the flour from her hands, untied her soiled apron, and smoothed down the skirts of her morning gown. With every rub of the damp cloth against the wooden table, she made a binding deal with herself.
She would be entirely polite. She would be friendly, perfectly pleasant.
She would completely banish the hurt, defensive tension from her shoulders.
When she walked into that study, she was going to speak to him solely about the family outing and spending time with the girls.
That was it. She would not ask him a single probing question, nor would she hint at his sudden change in demeanor.
She would say nothing that could possibly make him uncomfortable or cause him to retreat further.
Holding a small, neatly arranged silver plate of the freshly baked, warm shortbread, Euphemia took a deep, steadying breath. She walked out of the kitchen and began the long journey up the stairs toward the intimidating corridor that led to Nathaniel’s study.