Chapter 11
The castle felt different.
Something had shifted in the castle. The rooms felt lighter. The air cleaner. And there was a spring in the steps of the servants that he had not noticed before.
Of course, he was still gone from the house often. That was his routine before the wedding, and he did not intend to change it drastically just because he was now married. But when he returned home at the end of a long day working with his tenants to install the new drainage systems, he noticed it.
Servants smiled at him as they passed him in the hallways. Some of the old suits of armor appeared to have been polished. The curtains were drawn back earlier to allow sunlight into the halls in the mornings when he was used to traversing them in the dark.
The greatest change, however, was his dinner. He now ate with his wife every night, rather than alone in his study, as was his custom.
These dinners were not particularly lively, but he did notice that the servants seemed pleased as they went about dishing out the meals and refilling wine glasses.
They also smiled at Cassandra every time they served something onto her plate, and when one of the footmen refilled her wine glass, she even murmured, “Thank you, Thomas.”
From the head of the table, Ewan could not help but frown. Not in displeasure, but in surprise.
He had not expected her to learn the name of one of the junior footmen in just a few days.
Fortunately, her mother and father were gone, so things were quieter, but the quiet did not seem oppressive or stifling the way it once had.
Three days after the wedding, he was in his study, where he had asked Alaric to join him for a drink. While his friend lounged in the armchair across from his desk, Ewan poured them both large glasses of scotch, which he handed to his friend with a raised eyebrow.
“What is going on at Calder Castle?” he asked, as Alaric took the glass from him.
“What do you mean?” Alaric said, leaning back in the chair and taking a long sniff of the scotch. “Ahh, this smells exceptionally agreeable. You always get the best scotch, do you not?”
“Of course I do.” Ewan settled himself down in his leather armchair across from his friend. “I am a Scottish duke. I only buy the best scotch.”
Alaric laughed, took a sip, and then set the glass on the desk and leaned forward. “You are asking why the house feels different, are you not?”
“So you have noticed.”
“Everyone has noticed. And you have your new wife to thank for it.”
Ewan’s stomach jolted slightly. “I had a feeling it was her,” he muttered.
“Of course it is. In just a few days she has completely transformed the house. Everyone is speaking of it.”
“Everyone?”
“Well, Miss Ashworth is,” Alaric said, grinning. “She has the ears of the servants because she is almost one herself.”
“A governess is not a servant.”
“You know what I mean. She exists in both worlds.”
Ewan inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“Anyway, she tells me that the new duchess has gone above and beyond in the first few days of her tenure. She is, apparently, learning all the names of the servants, having the house thoroughly cleaned and updated, making sure that it feels light and modern, and going over all of the accounts with the housekeeper. She is settling into her role as mistress of the castle with grace and efficiency, according to Miss Ashworth.”
Ewan nodded slowly. “That is what I suspected.”
Alaric raised an eyebrow. “But you do not know? Have you not been communicating with her?”
“Well…”
Ewan swallowed. In truth, he had not spoken much to his wife in the three days since they had been wed. The last few days had been… confusing. To say the least.
It had been a very long time since he had shared a bed with a woman, and sharing one with her had brought up feelings that he had never expected to feel again. Feelings that did not sit comfortably with him.
There had been longing in him when he had woken to find her sleeping so peacefully next to him—longing for closeness, and to know her, and to curl his body around her and feel her breathing gently.
But he could not allow himself to feel those things. Those things led only to heartbreak and misery, to years of guilt and punishment.
He could not let himself go there.
And so he had spent the next three days avoiding his wife. At least, avoiding her as much as he possibly could without giving offense. He did not want her to feel hurt or lonely. But he also could not allow himself to think about her in such tender ways.
Not if he was going to maintain the shred of happiness he had finally managed to find for himself after everything that had happened with Margaret.
“You have not been speaking with her much, have you?” Alaric shook his head. “Miss Ashworth did mention that, as well.”
“She did?” Ewan’s stomach gave another uncomfortable jolt. He did not like the idea of people whispering that he was ignoring his wife. “Did Cassandra say something to her?”
“I do not know,” Alaric said. “But she said that the duchess did seem rather lonely, and that she spends much of her time with Mistress Annabelle.”
Ewan considered this. His throat felt strangely dry, and he recognized all too well the feeling that was now coursing through him: It was guilt.
“Perhaps you should try spending more time with her,” Alaric said gently. “I know that things were not always easy with Margaret, but the duchess is not your late wife. She seems very different. Much more… cheerful. And ready to throw herself into any problem that arises.”
“She does seem resourceful,” Ewan said slowly. He took a deep, steadying breath. He knew that Alaric was right. Three days was too many to not spend any time alone with his wife.
“Very well,” he muttered. “I shall make sure to speak with her more today.”
Alaric shook his head. “Who knew it would be so hard to get you to spend time with your beautiful wife?”
Ewan’s eyes narrowed. “Tease me more, and I might ask you why you are spending so much time talking to Miss Ashworth.”
Much to Ewan’s satisfaction, that shut Alaric up.
Later that afternoon, Ewan went to seek Cassandra out. The housekeeper had told him that she was in the nursery with Annabelle, but as he approached, he heard a sound that had not filled these halls in a very long time: Annabelle laughing.
It wasn’t that his daughter never laughed.
Now and again she would giggle, or laugh politely at something, or begin to laugh and then quickly cover her mouth.
But what he heard now was nothing like how she usually laughed.
This laughter was raucous and without limit.
She was almost screeching with joy, in fact, and as he drew closer, he even heard the unmistakable sound of her snorting.
Snorting?
His first thought was that snorting was unladylike. Immediately, he heard Margaret’s voice filling his head: If it is a girl, she must be ladylike.
His late wife had been supremely concerned about their daughter turning into a proper young lady. When she had grown sick near the end of her pregnancy, this was her greatest fear: That without a mother to guide her, her child would grow up wild and uncouth in the Scottish Highlands.
Which was why Ewan had always tried to demonstrate to his daughter how best to be a lady. Even though she was only seven, he knew it was what her mother would have wanted.
But as he approached the nursery, he could not help but think how wonderful it sounded to hear the child laughing without restraint.
She sounds like an actual child, not a lady.
He reached the door of the nursery, which had been left ajar, and peered inside.
Annabelle was sitting on the floor of the nursery, cross-legged, her hands covered in paint. In front of her was a large white sheet that had been stretched out flat on the ground. Several large buckets of paint were set to Annabelle’s right, while on her left sat Cassandra.
Her hands were also covered in paint, and the two of them appeared to be painting on the sheet with their hands.
“You just put them flat on the cloth,” Cassandra was saying as he peered inside. “That creates the wings of the butterfly, and then we will use a brush to fill in the rest.”
“Like this?” Annabelle pressed her thumbs together, fanning out her fingers, and then set them down on the sheet. When she lifted them, he could see the body of the butterfly where the two thumbs were, the rest of the handprint made the wings.
“Exactly like that!” Cassandra said, grinning at her. “Do you see it? Does it not look beautiful!”
“So beautiful!” Annabelle cried, and she laughed again, the sound like music filling the room. “I love this! The paint feels so goopy and cold!”
“Just do not tell your father I am allowing this,” a voice said from behind them, and Ewan adjusted where he was standing so that he could see Miss Ashworth sitting in a chair behind them, watching with a reluctant smile on her face.
The governess looked as if she was not sure whether she entirely approved, but she seemed amused as well.
“I do not think he will approve of such messy behavior.”
“Oh, I am sure he will love it!” Cassandra said, shaking her head.
She was wearing a white apron over a lilac dress so as not to get it dirty, her brown, coppery hair pinned back out of her face in a simple coiffure.
She looked relaxed and happy as she dipped her hands back into the paint and held them toward Annabelle as if about to touch her.
“I am going to cover you in paint!” she said, making her eyes wide and sticking her tongue out, and Annabelle shrieked with laughter once more.
“Careful!” Miss Ashworth said, as several drops of paint fell onto the parquet floor. “How will I explain this to the duke?”
“Do not worry, I will clean it up,” Cassandra said.
“You?” Miss Ashworth sounded shocked. “You cannot clean it up, you are the duchess! I shall send for a servant.”
But Cassandra merely laughed. “Do not be absurd. If I make a mess, I will clean it up. There is no need to bother the servants, they are already so busy keeping this house spotless.” She smiled at Miss Ashworth, who smiled tentatively back at her.
“Cassandra,” Annabelle said, as she began to draw spirals on the sheet with her paint-covered fingers, “will you be coming with us to the Midsummer Festival in the village this weekend?”
Cassandra looked up at Miss Ashworth. “I am not sure… Is that something a duchess would usually do?”
“The late duchess always did,” Miss Ashworth said. “But His Grace has not gone ever since her passing. However, I think the village would benefit from getting to meet the new Duchess of Calder. I know that they are always disappointed when the duke does not make an appearance.”
Ewan had seen enough. He withdrew quietly, making sure that no one saw him, and then walked slowly along the corridor, thinking hard.
His wife was unlike any woman he had met before.
She was spending her days improving his home and playing with his daughter.
She was a little bit wild and playful, but not in ways that seemed dangerous to him.
And Miss Ashworth, he thought, was wrong: He was not angry to see his daughter behaving like a real child. He was actually relieved.
She was not wrong about his presence at the Midsummer Festival, however. He had not attended since Margaret’s death.
She had hated the festival, but he had always insisted she attend. After she died, the festival was a reminder of his inadequacies and mistakes as her husband, and he could not bear to go.
He was still thinking about it at dinner that evening with Cassandra, Miss Ashworth, Alaric, and Annabelle.
“I made the most marvelous butterflies today, Papa!” she was saying, as he stared moodily down into his soup. “I painted them myself!”
Ewan looked up at this, and he had to suppress a grin as he saw both Cassandra’s and Miss Ashworth’s eyes grow wide.
“Oh?” he said innocently, smiling at his daughter. “And did you paint those with a brush?”
“I…” His daughter gazed at him “Yes?”
Ewan tilted his head to one side. “Because I see paint on your hands, little one.”
Annabelle quickly hid her hands in her lap. “No you do not,” she said quickly.
“Surely it is just sauce from the meal,” Miss Ashworth said quickly, and Ewan raised his eyebrows at her, making her blush. When he looked at his wife, however, her eyes were twinkling, and she did not look at all apologetic.
“The butterflies were excellent,” she said. “Annabelle has a talent for painting. I would like to get her lessons, if you would be amenable to that.”
Ewan inclined his head. “I think painting lessons would be perfectly… appropriate.”
“Speaking of appropriate,” Cassandra said, a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth, “I was hoping that you might accompany me to the Midsummer Festival this weekend. I think it is important for the new Duchess of Calder to make an appearance and show the community that she is involved in its upkeep and continuation.”
Silence had filled the hall, and Ewan could feel his face growing warm as all eyes stared at him. He knew what they were all thinking. He knew that his absence at the festival had been noteworthy, gossiped about even, among the locals.
Cassandra held his gaze, her own steady and unflinching.
“Will you accompany me?” she asked.
And before Ewan could stop himself, before he could even think, he found himself nodding.
“Yes,” he said, “I will accompany you.”
Was it just his imagination, or did a small smile of triumph flicker across her lips at his words?