Chapter 10 #2
She did not know if her fondness for the duke was because she cared for him or because she loved that he seemed so doting to Cecily, who was her entire world. She only knew the feeling in her chest was almost too much. When she finally looked away, she was breathing more carefully than before.
***
That evening, after Cecily was put to bed, Honora went downstairs to the kitchen.
Martha was there already, sleeves rolled up, a cloth over one shoulder and a pot on the stove.
She looked up as Honora entered, rubbed her hands together, and said nothing at first. Then, she poured a second cup of tea without asking and set it down across from the chair nearest the table.
Honora sat. The kitchen felt warmer than the rest of the house, the fire lower, the work for the evening mostly done, and the light was soft enough to make the room feel private.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Martha took a seat with her own cup and stared into it for a moment before speaking.
“You look as though you were nearly drowned,” she said at last, having no doubt heard about the unfortunate near-accident from a gossiping servant.
“I was not,” Honora said defensively, despite the cook’s light tone.
Martha raised one brow. “That is clear, since you sit before me. I said nearly.”
Honora laughed softly. “The bank was wetter than it looked.”
“Hmm.”
Honora wrapped both hands around her cup. “His Grace caught me.”
Martha’s mouth twitched. “He was walking with you?”
Honora shook her head firmly.
“Nothing so improper. He was apparently walking nearby and saw Cecily and me slip in the mud by the bank.”
Martha studied her with a half-unconvinced gaze.
“What luck.”
Honora ignored the doubt as she stared at her own teacup.
“He took Cecily first.”
“That sounds like him.”
Honora looked up. “How do you mean?”
Martha shrugged one shoulder. “He is protective of those who cannot protect themselves.”
Honora nodded. The duke had surprised her many times since she arrived, disproving every assumption she had of higher nobility. She was not stunned to learn that he could be protective.
“He seems like he can be very kind,” she said cautiously.
Martha sipped her tea. “The staff thinned out considerably after the old duke died. Used to be fourteen of us. Now there are seven.”
Honora glanced at her. “I recall hearing something about that. Why did they go?”
“Different reasons for different people. Some found other places, others simply did not wish to stay.”
Honora nodded again.
“Did those who did not wish to stay fear Lord Belgrave for some reason?”
Martha nodded her head.
“I believe so. Though no one talks about the real reasons.”
Honora turned her cup slowly in her hands, watching the last of the steam curl upward.
“I have found the duke to be unexpectedly hospitable and kind,” she said, despite having spoken carefully before.
Martha looked at her as though she had been expecting Honora to say something like that.
“What of you?” she asked. “I know that you are still fairly new to your tenure here, but no one seems to know much about you, apart from your station as nursemaid.”
Honora raised an eyebrow, tempering her alarm.
“People have been gathering information about me?”
Martha chuckled.
“Nothing so sinister. Merely gossiping about the mysterious nursemaid who rarely speaks to anyone apart from the duke, Mrs. Pritchard, and me.”
Honora breathed a sigh of relief that she hoped was not visible.
“There is not much to tell,” she said, suddenly aware of how her evasion would surely fuel any speculations.
Martha nodded, watching Honora with a curious expression. The kitchen was warm, and Martha had a way of sitting quietly that made silence feel like an invitation rather than a gap to fill.
“I had a sister,” Honora said at last, deciding that if she spoke carefully, she could answer some of the questions her fellow servants might have about her.
Martha gave her a slow nod, instantly becoming more attentive.
“She died,” Honora went on. Her voice stayed even, though it took great effort. “Not long ago. I miss her more than I know how to say.”
Martha nodded but said nothing. Again, Honora noted how silence with Martha felt like comfort rather than awkward strain.
“Caring for a baby is the only thing that has made sense to me since.” She did not say which baby. Martha did not ask. Honora was aware that Martha assumed something different from what Honora had meant, and that was all right.
It was enough of the truth to keep from sounding like she was hiding everything about her past, which would have drawn far more speculation and attention.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled once in the grate. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Then Martha set down her cup. “I suppose I understand, at least a little. I lost my mother when I was fifteen.”
Honora looked up.
“I am truly sorry for your loss.”
Martha nodded, blinking.
“The kitchen was the only place that made any sense to me after that,” Martha said. “Everything else felt like it belonged to somebody else’s life. The kitchen felt like a place where I could feel reassured and at home.”
Honora’s throat tightened. She did not trust herself to give an answer. Martha did not seem to expect one. She only sat, her hands wrapped around her cup, and let the silence linger between them.
Martha did not ask any more questions, and Honora was grateful for exactly that. It felt as though she had finally been able to talk about something that hurt her without fear of being discovered as a fraud. She did not realize how much she had needed that until right then.
Martha gave Honora a long enough pause to let the words settle, then rose and crossed to the stove. “You should eat more than that.”
Honora looked down at the cup. “I am not finished.”
Martha snorted once. “And I know that you will not eat anything unless practically forced.”
Honora smiled despite herself.
Then Mrs. Pritchard appeared in the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame. “Martha.”
She turned. “Yes?”
“His Grace wishes for me to discuss the menu for the next week with you.”
Martha groaned faintly as if this were an expected burden and not an interruption. She set her cup down, then looked at Honora. “You may stay if you like.”
Honora shook her head. “I should return to Cecily.”
Martha scowled at Honora’s teacup and lack of food, but she merely nodded, following Mrs. Pritchard toward the back of the kitchen.
Honora went back upstairs. She was sure Cecily would be asleep, but she wanted to ensure that she was not too hot or too cold before she retired. The brief conversation with Martha was still fresh in her mind.
It surprised her how much lighter she felt just after the little bit she had confessed to the cook. She was still thinking about that when she heard voices in the corridor just around the corner from the nursery.
Honora paused. One of the voices was male and muffled, though it sounded like Wilfred. The other one, she recognized at once: the dowager. Her voice carried clearly through the corridor.
“Tell the orphanage I am asking on behalf of the household,” she said. “Ask whether they can take in a baby of one year old. Discreetly.”
Honora went cold.
There was a small pause before Wilfred’s quiet reply, though she could not hear the words distinctly.
The dowager spoke again, sharp and controlled. “Secrecy matters, inside this household and in public. Make certain they understand that.”
Honora closed the door at once.
She stood in the dark with one hand on the wall, her heart beating too quickly.
The orphanage. A baby of one year old. Secrecy.
For a moment she could not move. Then she stepped back, looked toward the nursery, and realized with a strange, sinking clarity that her plan was no longer the only thing in the house trying to move Cecily out of it.
And that if she did not leave with Cecily, she might be taken to some place where Honora might never see her again.