Chapter Twenty
Lydia awoke to a soft golden light pouring through the tall windows, the sheer curtains swaying slightly in the morning breeze.
The Hawthorne estate was rarely quiet; carriages rumbled, bells chimed, footmen whispered in hallways, but for once, it all felt distant.
Muted. As if the world had paused, just long enough to let her breathe.
For the first time in weeks, she felt… buoyant.
Not just hopeful, but powerful.
The night before lingered on her skin like heat beneath the surface, as though Nicholas’s hands still rested at her waist, his breath still tangled in her hair.
She smiled to herself, stretching lazily under the embroidered coverlet.
A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Alice entered, cheeks already flushed with morning activity, arms full of linens.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she chirped.
Lydia sat up straighter, composing her face. “Good morning, Alice.”
The maid moved through her morning routine with quiet efficiency, laying out Lydia’s walking gown, setting her slippers by the fire, and bringing a basin of water scented faintly with lavender. Lydia allowed herself to be dressed slowly, each button and ribbon a calming ritual.
“I had your pale green muslin aired,” Alice said, fastening the back with careful fingers. “It’s light, but the weather’s warming. And you look lovely in it.”
Lydia gave a small smile. “Thank you.”
She wasn’t used to compliments that weren’t double-edged. But Alice had grown gentler, more open these past weeks. The other maids had, too. Lydia had noticed it, the softening around the eyes, the polite greetings that now felt genuine. Nicholas’s public defence of her had changed things.
And last night… well, everything had changed again.
Tomorrow, I become something more than a duchess, Lydia thought as she slipped on her gloves. I become a woman of my own making.
***
Later that afternoon, the drawing room buzzed with quiet excitement.
The day’s light filtered through the long windows, setting the rose-coloured wallpaper aglow.
Charlotte sat curled in an armchair by the hearth, carefully folding a letter with a faintly dreamy expression.
Emma, perched on the settee, was already halfway through her second biscuit.
Lydia poured the tea, humming softly under her breath.
“Are those the dresses I saw arriving earlier?” Charlotte asked, nodding to the closed door where a flurry of deliveries had come and gone.
“They are,” Lydia said. “Three finished gowns, all perfect. The workroom in town outdid itself.”
Charlotte smiled. “I still think you should put your name on the label. Grantham & Co. has a ring to it.”
Emma reached for another biscuit. “Or House of Lydia. That sounds very dramatic.”
“I’m not starting a kingdom,” Lydia said, laughing softly. “And my name is Montclair now.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Emma muttered, “what with the palace, the staff, the smouldering husband—”
“Emma,” Lydia warned, flushing.
Emma arched a brow. “What? I was very tactful just now. I could’ve said something far more scandalous.”
Charlotte sipped her tea. “She’s right, though. Nicholas has been… different lately.”
“Has he?” Lydia asked too quickly.
Emma gave her a look that could peel paint. “Please. The rest of us might pretend not to notice, but I saw the two of you at the table the other night. The looks. The tension. You were one candle away from becoming a sensation in The Morning Chronicle.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“I don’t need to. You’re glowing. It’s either love or arsenic poisoning.”
Lydia took a long sip of tea to avoid answering.
Charlotte leaned in. “And speaking of glowing…”
Emma’s biscuit froze halfway to her mouth.
“No,” she said pre-emptively.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Wait. Are you going to tell me what I think you’re going to tell me?”
Emma looked at the ceiling like it might save her.
“You are!” Charlotte said as she sat forward. “You are. Tell her about you and Sebastian!”
“What?” Lydia gasped, her mouth popping open in surprise.
Emma groaned and flopped back against the cushions. “I wasn’t going to say anything. I just… It’s not serious. We’re just—”
“—obsessed with each other?” Charlotte offered.
“—terrible at pretending?” Lydia added.
Emma scowled. “Traitors. Both of you.”
Lydia grinned. “You do realize that even the servants know, don’t you?”
Emma covered her face with her hands. “I hate both of you.”
But she was laughing. And blushing. And glowing—just a little.
Lydia felt something warm curl in her chest. For all the chaos and uncertainty of her new life, this was a kind of peace. The three of them together. Tea, laughter, truth spoken aloud.
She hadn’t had this in so long. And now, in this house that once felt like a cage, she was building something again.
She set her teacup down, softer now.
“Is it serious?” she asked Emma gently.
Emma hesitated. “I don’t know. He’s infuriating and annoys me most of the time.”
Lydia nodded knowingly.
“But he also listens to me,” Emma added, more quietly. “And when he looks at me, I don’t feel like I have to try so hard. I just… exist. And it’s enough.”
Charlotte smiled. “Then it sounds serious.”
“I suppose it might be,” Emma whispered.
Lydia reached across the tea tray and took her hand.
“Well then,” she said, “I’m happy for you. Truly.”
“Even if he’s a rake and a scoundrel?” Emma asked, eyes glinting.
“Especially if he is,” Lydia teased, grinning. “At least he’ll keep up with you.”
They all laughed again, and as the clock chimed in the corridor, Lydia leaned back, her heart full and her mind clear.
Tomorrow, she would stand beside Nicholas and open the doors to a business that bore her name and her father’s legacy.
But today?
Today was hers. Quiet. Bright. Full of mischief and meaning. And she would carry it with her, wherever she went next.
Just then, the door slammed open with such force that the windowpanes rattled in their frames.
Lydia turned to find Sebastian standing in the threshold, chest heaving, face ashen.
Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight of him.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked.
“There’s been a fire,” he gasped. “The warehouse—it’s gone.”
The room froze.
For a moment, the words hung suspended in the air like dust. Emma blinked. Charlotte stood slowly, tea forgotten.
Lydia didn’t move. She couldn’t move.
Gone?
“What do you mean, gone?” Her voice sounded far away to her own ears.
“I—I saw it with my own eyes. Smoke. Flames. It started in the back, spread fast. The neighbours raised the alarm, but by the time the watch got there—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”
Lydia was already on her feet. The tea tray crashed to the floor behind her as her skirt caught the edge of the table. She didn’t stop.
“Fetch Nicholas,” she heard Charlotte say.
***
The streets blurred past the carriage window. Horse hooves pounded, people shouted, carts moved aside as the Montclair crest tore through London’s narrow arteries.
Nicholas sat across from her, legs wide, hands on his knees. His face was pale, set in stone. Every muscle in his jaw was clenched, and he didn’t speak.
Neither did she.
What was there to say?
The textile shop. Her father’s dream. Her future, their future, reduced to ashes.
It was the smell that hit her first. Charred timber and wet soot. The sour tang of smoke that lingered in one’s hair, in one’s lungs, long after the flames had died.
The warehouse stood, or what remained of it.
What had once been tall brick walls with freshly scrubbed windows and mirrored panels was now a blackened husk.
The roof had collapsed inward like a cracked egg.
Shards of timber jutted out like bones. The front windows, where her mannequins had once stood dressed in brocade and lace, were shattered, gaping. Smoke still curled from within.
“Oh,” Lydia whispered. “Oh God.”
She stumbled forward before Nicholas could stop her. Her skirts dragged through ash. People lined the street: tradesmen, onlookers, former workers. The foreman, Mr. Brooks, stood nearby with his cap in his hands, covered in grime.
Nicholas stepped quickly after her.
“Lydia—wait—”
She stopped near the rubble, hands shaking.
“The looms?” she asked Brooks. “The fabrics?”
He only shook his head.
“Gone, Your Grace. All of it.”
Nicholas came up beside her, reaching for her hand, but she pulled it back sharply.
“Don’t,” she whispered, turning away.
She wasn’t sure if she meant don’t touch me, or don’t see me like this.
It didn’t matter. The words burned anyway.
Some of the staff had tears in their eyes. Others simply looked hollow. They had believed in her. In the vision she painted. They’d worked weeks on this, some longer. And now all of it was smoke and ruin.
Lydia turned back to the blackened skeleton of the building. The sun was beginning to sink low over the rooftops of Southwark, casting long amber streaks across the sky.
Just then, the night watchman approached.
He was older, with a crooked cap and a face lined by London winters. His hands trembled as he held them in front of him like a penitent.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace,” he said to Nicholas, “but there’s something I think you ought to know.”
Nicholas turned slowly. “Speak.”
The man looked around, eyes darting like a cornered fox.
“Don’t want to cause alarm, sir. But just before it all… before the smoke, there was a carriage. Fine one. Black. No crest.”
Lydia looked up. “No crest?”
“Parked just off the alley behind the shop. Odd hour for it. Didn’t see the passengers, but I noticed the driver.” The man’s voice dropped. “He wore white gloves. Pale as bone.”
Nicholas stiffened beside her. “White gloves?”
The watchman nodded solemnly.
“Only folk I’ve ever seen insist on that at night are Langford’s men.”
Silence fell.
Somewhere nearby, a beam shifted and collapsed with a dull groan, sending up a puff of grey smoke.
Nicholas muttered something low and furious under his breath, then thanked the man and sent him off for a hot drink.
Lydia didn’t move.
Langford.