Chapter Seven #2
The clock above the hearth read ten minutes to six.
“Oh no.”
She turned and hurried down the corridor, skirts rustling with each step. She took the stairs too fast, nearly missing a tread, and reached her chambers breathless.
Inside, a figure stood waiting.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Hartwell, in her perpetually stiff grey gown, her expression unreadable.
Beside her stood a young maid, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with nervous eyes and neat brown plaits pinned beneath her cap.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hartwell said, “this is Miss Alice Bennet. She’s to serve as your personal maid.”
Lydia nodded, still slightly breathless. “Thank you, Mrs. Hartwell.”
Hartwell dipped her head and exited, closing the door behind her.
The young maid curtsied quickly. “I—I’m honoured, Your Grace. I’ve only been in service a year, but I sew well, and I don’t gossip.”
Lydia arched a brow. “A rare combination.”
Alice flushed. “I—I meant… I know people are talking. About you. I thought maybe… maybe you’d rather have someone who doesn’t.”
Lydia looked at her closely. The girl was plain but kind-eyed. Earnest. And clearly terrified of making a misstep.
“I appreciate the honesty, Miss Bennet.”
“Just Alice, if that suits you, Your Grace.”
“It does.”
Alice looked uncertain. “Shall I help you dress for supper?”
Lydia gestured to the open wardrobe. “Yes, quickly. I’ve lost track of time.”
Alice got to work with nervous fingers but surprising efficiency. She helped Lydia out of her walking dress and into a rich blue silk gown with white ribbon detailing and delicate capped sleeves.
“You’ve a beautiful figure,” Alice murmured, buttoning the back. “You could wear anything.”
Lydia didn’t respond at first.
“We’ll see if they still think so after tonight.”
Alice’s eyes lifted. “You look like a duchess to me.”
That brought the faintest smile to Lydia’s lips. “Then let’s go prove it.”
The dining room at Hawthorne House was imposing even when empty. When she entered, it was not empty.
Nicholas was already seated at the head of the table.
He didn’t rise.
“Good evening,” she said.
His eyes flicked up from his glass. “Duchess.”
She sat across from him, not beside him, and unfolded her napkin with care.
There was silence.
Then the doors opened again.
“Baroness Shepley,” the butler intoned.
Lydia blinked. A guest?
A tall, spare woman in her sixties entered with a smile that was all teeth. She wore lavender taffeta and too many rings. Her hair was powdered. Her eyes were sharp.
Nicholas rose belatedly. “Baroness.”
“A pleasure, Your Grace,” the baroness said, nodding toward Nicholas before turning to Lydia. “And the new Duchess of Hawthorne. What a momentous occasion.”
Lydia rose, offering a hand. “Thank you. I wasn’t aware we were receiving guests.”
The baroness laughed lightly. “Oh, I simply couldn’t resist. Lady Beatrice spoke of you so glowingly, I had to see for myself.”
Lydia’s eyes flicked toward Nicholas. His expression was unreadable.
They returned to their seats, and the meal continued with a false warmth that prickled Lydia’s skin.
“So, Duchess,” the Baroness began as the pheasant was served. “You’re from London, I hear. The merchant quarter, was it?”
The words were delivered lightly. Carelessly. Like a pebble tossed into still water.
Lydia didn’t blink. “My family owned a home on West Cheapside, yes. My father was a textile merchant.”
“Ah,” said the Baroness. “Modern success. So refreshing.”
Another smile. Another veiled blow.
Lydia placed her knife down gently beside her plate. “I’m very proud of my father’s success. He provided high-quality fabrics to many noble households. Including, I believe, Lady Beatrice’s.”
Nicholas’s brow twitched as he met Lydia’s eye for a moment.
The Baroness lifted her wineglass with a smile that soured slightly. “How fortunate, then. To trade cloth for coronets.”
Lydia met her eyes with perfect serenity. “Indeed. Isn’t that the way of the world, Lady Shepley? Goods exchanged for titles. Gold for land…”
The silence that followed was almost musical.
The Baroness coughed delicately. “Yes, well. I suppose we’re all capitalists now.”
Nicholas stood abruptly. “I believe that’s enough for one evening.”
He did not excuse himself to Lydia. Nor did he offer a good night. He simply turned and left.
Lydia remained at the table for another minute, listening to the tick of the longcase clock in the corner.
The Baroness offered a parting smile. “Chin up, dear. If you can survive the gossip, the rest is just table settings.”
She swept out with the grace of a dying swan.
Lydia stood, hands shaking only slightly as she removed her napkin and placed it neatly beside her untouched plate.
That night, in her new chambers, Lydia lay awake beneath the weight of silence. The moon spilled across the floor in silver sheets. Somewhere beyond the window, a dog barked. The fire had long gone out. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and starch.
She turned once, then again.
And finally whispered aloud to the darkness:
“Where do you sleep, Nicholas Montclair?”
The silence didn’t answer, but she was certain it wasn’t in this wing. Not even close.