Chapter Fifteen #2
“Every blessed morning as she tended the household accounts. She had such a way of making even the most tedious tasks seem purposeful.” Mrs. Ellsworth’s expression grew tender.
“You’ve inherited her heart and courage.
She loved so deeply, especially you and Sebastian and Lord Ashford.
She delighted in your every moment. I like to think she’s somewhere, watching how you’ve grown into an honorable man, despite what happened to you.
I see your father in you, too. He was steady in a storm, as you are. ”
James studied his hands as if seeing them anew, but his usual ease seemed forced today. The weight of the morning’s encounter in the garden pressed heavily on his shoulders.
Mrs. Ellsworth set down her work, studying him with keen eyes. “What troubles you, my lord? You’ve the look of a man wrestling with his demons.”
He settled into the chair opposite her, suddenly feeling less like the master of the house than the boy who used to steal warm biscuits from this very room. For a long moment, he said nothing, then released a heavy sigh.
“I’ve made a fool of myself, I’m afraid.”
“How so?”
“With Mrs. Fairfax.” The name left his lips like a confession.
“I’ve developed feelings for her. Quite strong ones, actually.
” He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement.
“This morning I attempted to speak to her about what happened between us last evening, but before I could properly explain myself, she received some sort of urgent letter that clearly distressed her. She fled before I could clarify my intentions, and now I fear she still believes I was suggesting something improper.”
Mrs. Ellsworth resumed her work, fingers deft with long practice, but her expression remained thoughtful. “Did she, now?”
“I suspect she thinks my intentions are dishonorable. And perhaps she’s right to be wary. What right do I have to pursue her? She deserves a man unmarked by scandal, someone who can offer her a future unclouded by the past. A man who is whole, instead of broken into a thousand pieces.”
Mrs. Ellsworth’s hands stilled on the sachets, and she fixed him with a look that had seen through his excuses since boyhood. “Are you sure you’re interpreting her correctly?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that girl looks at you the way a drowning woman looks at a lifeline—with equal parts longing and terror.” Her voice carried the warmth of a lifetime spent dispensing both remedies and counsel. “Mrs. Fairfax isn’t indifferent to you, my lord. She’s frightened.”
“Frightened? Of what?”
“Of hoping for something she believes she cannot have. Of caring for someone who might disappear from her life as others have done.” Mrs. Ellsworth leaned forward slightly.
“That young woman has been hurt by everyone in her life except for sweet Cecily. She is protecting herself, perhaps believing what you seem to believe.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you’re incapable of loving anyone as she wants to be loved because of what you endured as a child.”
James traced a crack in the old oak table, considering her words. “Even if that were true, what am I to do? I can hardly pursue a woman who flees every time we attempt a serious conversation.”
“You tell her the truth. All of it.” Her eyes found his with pointed meaning.
“Not just that you desire her company or find her pleasing, but that you’ve fallen in love with her.
That your intentions are honorable and permanent.
You must let her know you’re not some passing fancy or temporary amusement. ”
His throat constricted. “And if she still rejects me?”
“Then at least you’ll know where you stand, and she’ll know exactly what she’s choosing to refuse.
” Mrs. Ellsworth reached across the table, her work-roughened hands covering his.
“But I’ve seen the way she watches you when she thinks no one is looking.
I’ve seen how she softens in your presence, how she fights her own inclinations.
That’s not indifference, my lord. That’s a woman at war with herself. ”
The stillroom grew quiet save for the soft rustle of dried herbs and the distant sound of voices from the kitchen yard. James watched dust motes dance in the slanted light, feeling something loosening in his chest.
“You truly believe she might… care for me?”
“I believe she already does. The question is whether she’ll allow herself to act on those feelings.” Her voice gentled. “Give her the choice, Lord Ashford. Tell her your heart completely, and then let her decide. But don’t make that decision for her by retreating before the battle is even fought.”
James nodded slowly, his spirits lifting incrementally. Rising from his chair, he moved toward the door, then paused on the threshold.
“Mrs. Ellsworth?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Thank you. For coming back to me.”
Her smile was radiant. “It’s been my greatest privilege, watching you become the man your parents raised you to be. Now go win that girl’s heart properly.”
He stepped into the corridor, the comforting scent of lavender clinging to his coat. Please, God, let Mrs. Ellsworth be right.
*
James was headed to the drawing room for a brandy when he spotted Mr. Isherwood hovering near the base of the stairs like a bird of prey, silver tray clutched against his chest and that hard expression he wore when the household accounts didn’t balance.
“My lord.” The butler’s voice could have cut glass. “A word, if you please.”
James wiped his palms on his already-stained waistcoat, noting how Isherwood’s gaze followed the movement with barely concealed horror. “What can I help you with, Isherwood?”
“I’ve been made aware that you’ve taken your meals in the kitchen.” Each word dropped like a stone. “With the staff.”
“Indeed I have,” James said. “They are my favorite times of the day.”
Isherwood’s fingers tightened on the tray’s edge.
“My lord, in my previous positions, I observed that the most successful households maintain clear distinctions between master and servant. It is not merely tradition—it is necessity. Now that Mrs. Ellsworth and I have hired appropriate staff, you must transition to a more formal dining experience.”
“Because I’m too good to eat with people who actually work for a living?”
“Because respect flows downward from the master.” Isherwood stepped closer, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “The moment you blur those lines, my lord, the moment you become just another man sharing a pint and a laugh, you lose the authority to lead them. And they need leading.”
James felt his jaw clench. For weeks now, the kitchen had been his sanctuary—the only place in this echoing mausoleum where laughter came easily and no one expected him to have answers he didn’t possess.
“So I should what, exactly? Eat alone in that tomb of a dining room while perfectly good company sits twenty feet away?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Because that’s what lords do.”
“No. I won’t do it.”
“In every great house I’ve served, my lord, the master who maintained proper distance was the one whose staff remained loyal, whose household ran smoothly, whose reputation remained unblemished.
” The butler’s voice grew more insistent.
“Mrs. Fairfax and her sister are guests, my lord, however helpful they’ve been with the restoration.
But if you continue treating them as equals, the staff will begin to see them as such.
And when word spreads to the village? God help us then. ”
James went very still. “What about the village?”
“People talk, my lord. About the pretty young ladies living under your roof. About how familiar you’ve all become.”
The implication stung. James’s hands curled into fists. “You’re suggesting I’m somehow hurting their reputations? But I’m sponsoring Cecily for the Season.”
“I’m suggesting that propriety exists for a reason.” Isherwood met his eyes steadily. “One dinner, my lord. Tonight. In the dining room, as your position demands. Let me show you that being the master of this house doesn’t have to mean being alone in it.”
James stared at him for a long moment, hearing the desperation beneath the butler’s formal tone. Finally, he nodded once, sharp and bitter. “But I shall be alone.”
“My lord?”
“Fine. I will do as you ask. For one night. As a test.”
“Very good, my lord.” Isherwood’s shoulders sagged slightly with relief.
On the other hand, James died a little inside at the thought of being apart from the people who had become his family. Especially Georgie.
*
The dining room sprawled before him like a mausoleum dressed for company.
Every surface gleamed—silver so polished it threw back distorted reflections of his face, bone china that caught the candlelight like captured moonbeams, crystal that sang when the evening breeze stirred the curtains.
The mahogany table stretched endlessly in both directions, a dark sea with James marooned at its center.
Digby had trussed him up properly—forest green coat that fit like armor, linen so starched it could stand on its own, hair tamed with enough pomade to build a small sculpture. He looked like the oil paintings lining the corridor. Dead men in expensive clothes.
The first course arrived with ceremony that would have impressed visiting royalty. Footmen glided in and out like ghosts, their practiced silence more oppressive than shouting. James lifted his spoon, solid silver, heavy as a weapon, and tasted Mrs. Honeycutt’s bisque.
It was perfection. Creamy, herb-kissed, with that bright citrus note she’d been perfecting for weeks. In the kitchen, he would have praised it, watched her cheeks flush with pleasure, maybe stolen a second helping directly from the pot while she scolded him for poor manners.
Here, it tasted like ash.
The claret was probably worth more than most families saw in a year.
James drained half the glass in one swallow, hoping for warmth, for courage, for anything to fill the hollow ache spreading through his chest. Through the tall windows, he could see the east lawn and the blooming of the cherry trees.
A laugh echoed faintly from below where the rest of them were eating together. The sound felt like a knife between his ribs.
The lamb arrived, pink and perfect, accompanied by vegetables arranged like artwork. James cut into it with mechanical precision, each slice exactly as Digby had demonstrated. Chew. Swallow. Reach for his glass. Repeat. Like a clockwork gentleman, all moving parts and no soul.
His fork scraped against china, the sound sharp in the cavernous silence. Somewhere in this house, real people were sharing real conversation, their voices overlapping in the comfortable chaos of belonging. And here he sat, lord of nothing but empty space and echoing loneliness.
And he missed Georgiana’s company so much it took his breath away.
James pushed back from the table so abruptly his chair scraped against marble. The untouched lamb grew cold, the perfect vegetables congealed in their artful arrangement. He stared down at the waste of it all—the ceremony, the isolation, the suffocating weight of propriety.
He dropped his napkin over the ruins of his meal and walked out, leaving the ghosts of dead Ashfords to finish dinner alone.