11. Chapter 11 #2
“My emotions are too raw and untethered to continue that conversation tonight. I think it’s best that I get some rest.”
Ames pulled back and nodded, his mask of indifference rising to cover his emotions.
“Good night, Lily.” He offered a slight bow and then left me in the dining room.
The wind had picked up on the moors, and it whistled its melancholy tune as it shook the windowpanes and blasted against the castle wall. Tonight, it seeped into the room, making me shiver as Molly readied me for bed.
She was quiet as she helped me into my nightgown and then took my ball gown to my dressing room. Traces of her tears were still in her eyes, and I suspected she wanted nothing more than to return to the privacy of her room on the third floor to have a good cry.
“Are you certain you were not hurt?” I asked Molly for the sixth or seventh time that evening as she reentered my room to braid my hair.
“Just my emotions.”
I knew Ames would want me to warn Molly to keep her distance from Brant again, but a part of me balked at the antiquated rules that governed whom one could love or not love.
If it wasn’t for my father’s money, I would probably have become a domestic servant myself.
There was no difference in my worth or Molly’s.
She was a woman, created in the image of God.
It didn’t matter where she was born, or how much money she had.
Her value should not be dependent on her clothes, her education, or her status.
Molly’s character and outlook on life made her wealthier than anyone I knew.
If she and Brant found desirable qualities in each other, and were drawn to each other, it should be celebrated, not tarnished.
Love—true love—was a miracle. To find someone that your heart desired, and to have their love in return, was a remarkable blessing.
Yet I couldn’t deny society’s rules or expectations, and it would only hurt Molly and Brant if I encouraged her.
“Ames spoke to Brant,” I said to Molly, not wanting to use their titles and further alienate her feelings.
Molly didn’t look surprised—and almost looked guilty.
I turned in my chair to face my lady’s maid. “Brant told you already, didn’t he?”
My hair was half braided as it lay over my shoulder. Molly clasped her hands and didn’t meet my gaze. “Aye.”
“How often do you speak to Brant?”
She was quiet for so long, I was afraid I would have to demand an answer, something I had never needed to do before.
Finally, she spoke, her voice just above a whisper. “Often, Your Grace.”
“Daily?”
She nodded.
I inhaled, worried that things had gone too far to reel back. “Molly.”
Her tears fell freely as she quickly tried to wipe them away. “I know—I know. We both understand our positions, but—” Her voice caught. “He is brave and kind and he makes me laugh. I—I love him.”
My mother had drilled proper etiquette into me for years. I knew that my relationship with Molly was not a friendship. I was her employer, nothing more, but I’d known her for a long time. I cared about her, and I hated to see her hurting.
I stood and wrapped my arms around her—surprising both of us.
She was stiff for a moment and then she leaned into me, letting her tears fall freely.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said when her tears started to subside. “For the social structures that forbid such a relationship from blossoming.”
Molly pulled back and used her apron to wipe the tears from her face.
I took a deep breath. “But as your mistress, and Ames’s wife, I am forced to uphold the rules of this society I’ve chosen to live in and ask that you stop seeing Brant.
” I hated witnessing the pain that passed over her face.
“If you cannot, then I will be forced to find a new lady’s maid, Molly.
But please believe me when I tell you it is the last thing I want to do. ”
She sniffed and then straightened her back with respect. “I understand, and I wouldn’t expect you to do anything less. I know me place and I will stay in it.”
I swallowed the injustice I felt. “I will finish braiding my hair. You may go to bed.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She gave me a quick curtsey and then left through the dressing room door, which led to a servants’ entrance.
The wind was my only companion as I sat at the vanity and stared at my reflection in the mirror, finishing my braid. My blond hair was wavy and went almost to my waist when it was unbound. The braid was thick and heavy, and I tied it off with a blue ribbon when I was done.
My thoughts were muddied by all the events that had transpired in the previous hours.
Memories of the moonlight kiss on the terrace with Ames filled me with hope but then it crashed like the waves against the cliffs when I thought of my brothers-in-law and their injuries, especially when I imagined what my guests would think when they arrived in a week.
And then there was Brant and Molly.
The sound of the piano drifted into my room and my thoughts paused. Frowning, I went to the door and opened it a crack. Ames hadn’t played since the last time the wind had howled like it did tonight. Was it a coincidence? Or intentional?
Could it be that Ames didn’t like the sound of the wind, and he used the piano to drown it out?
I listened to the haunting melody for several minutes, longing to return to the terrace with my husband, where everything had felt right for a moment. Where hope had collided with love, and anything seemed possible.
The strange whispering sound I’d heard once before met my ears again, tearing me out of my reverie and making me shiver. It sounded like people—yet, where was the sound coming from? And was it really people whispering?
Grabbing my shawl, I slipped out of my room and entered the hall. The whispering continued and sounded like it was coming from within the walls. I took ginger steps toward the sound and pressed my ear against the cold wall.
Was someone in a secret passage?
The voices were muted and I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they sounded hurried and anxious.
Another thought occurred to me, and my pulse started to escalate. Was this how Brant and Molly met in secret? Were they still meeting, despite my and Ames’s warnings not to?
I took a deep breath and then paused when I heard the strange, moaning noise that often accompanied the wind. It seemed to echo through the passageway on the other side of the wall. It wasn’t human-like, but was eerie nonetheless.
The whispering stopped. Suddenly.
Had the people whispering in the passageway been frightened by the noise?
I needed to ask Ames about the strange sounds, but I didn’t want to tell him about the people whispering. If it was Brant and Molly, perhaps they’d simply met to say their goodbyes.
Ames continued to play the piano as the moaning noise died down.
I hesitated for a moment, wanting to go to him, to continue the conversation we’d started—yet I also wanted to return to the safety of my bed.
If I opened my heart to Ames, there was no telling how much he could hurt me.
But if I didn’t make myself vulnerable, he might never be vulnerable in return.
I’d been a coward to walk away from him earlier tonight.
My pulse thrummed as I walked down the narrow stairwell and across the hallway to the music room.
The door was cracked open, and as before, I had a good view of Ames at the grand piano, his eyes closed, playing a complicated piece by Beethoven from memory.
He was so engrossed in the song, it seemed to transport him somewhere far away.
I watched him for several seconds and then quietly pushed the door open a little farther and stepped into the room.
He must have sensed me there, because he opened his dark brown eyes, not missing a single note, and watched me while he continued to play.
The tension and awareness that had pulled us together before was so intense, I had to take a deep breath. I longed to be closer to him, to hear him tell me he loved me, but would he?
Did he?
I walked across the room where we’d danced together several times.
His gaze followed me, taking me in from my bare feet up to my braided hair, the music intensifying with each note.
When I reached the piano, I set my hand on it for stability and felt the strings vibrating beneath the wood.
The song was coming to an end, and I almost feared the silence, but I also longed for it. For the opportunity to talk to Ames.
Without looking away from me, Ames finished the song, allowing his hands to sit on the keys for a moment, and then he lifted them and set them in his lap.
The wind continued to push against the castle, demanding an entrance, but Ames didn’t seem to notice or mind. His entire focus was on me.
“I’m sorry—” I began, uncertain what to say. “For leaving you this evening.” I took a deep breath. “We should talk about our earlier conversation.”
He finally looked away from me, placing his attention back on the piano. “I’ve had time to think—about that—about our conversation.”
I moved closer to him, my hand running along the piano.
“My mother and father had a turbulent relationship.”
I paused, not expecting him to talk about his parents.
“They fought all the time. Their angry words would keep me up late into the night. When I was older”—he ran his fingers across the keyboard—“I would come in here and play the piano to drown out the sound of their anger.”
I waited, unsure what to say.
“I don’t know why,” he continued, quieting his hands again, “but they often fought on the nights that the wind howled the loudest. It was raging the night—” He paused and took a deep breath.
“The night my mother killed my father.” He lifted his troubled eyes to me.
“Everyone thinks it was my mother who pulled the gun on my father—but it wasn’t. ”
I frowned and moved a little closer to him, wanting to comfort him but not knowing if he’d let me.
“Their fighting that night was harder to drown out. They were in the library. I tried to play loud enough not to hear them, but their anger intensified and I worried something would happen, so I left the music room and went to them.” He rose from the piano bench and stood before me.
“My mother complained about everything, from the desolation of the moors to the dustiness of the castle, to the wind. She was never happy with my father, or her children, or any aspect of her life.” He put his hand on the piano, not far from mine.
“The night it all happened, they were fighting about something different. My father was accusing her of dallying with a guest who had just left. He’d been staying with us for almost a month.
A man Mother had met during the London season—an artist. Father’s voice was shaking with fury and when I opened the library door, I saw that he had a gun—the gun he kept in his desk.
“Mother should have been worried, but she was defiant. Almost antagonizing him. She said that it was his fault she was unhappy. Her life at Pickering Castle had driven her into the arms of another man, and she claimed she wasn’t to blame. It was the duchess’s curse.”
I watched him, seeing a side of him that I’d never seen before. It was intense and achingly vulnerable. There was a rawness to his emotions that he rarely revealed.
“I entered the room, demanding that they stop fighting—and in that moment, Mother lunged for the gun and took it from Father. I stepped between them, begging her to give it to me. She was crying as she cocked the gun. When I reached for it, I think it startled her and she pulled the trigger—the bullet grazed my cheek”—he put his hand on his scar—“and hit my father, who was standing behind me.”
I set my hand over his. “I’m so sorry, Ames.”
“Mother was horrified at what had happened. She went to my father to try to help him. We both did. But it was too late. The authorities arrived and she didn’t even try to put up a fight.”
I wrapped my hand around Ames’s.
He studied me, his attention returning to the present.
“You see, Lily, it’s not just what my father asked of me in his final moments, it’s the fact that the duchesses who live in Pickering Castle see their lives here as a curse.
” He stepped closer to me and put his hands on either side of my waist. “The more I care for you, the more I want to protect you.” He drew me closer, until our bodies were pressed against each other.
“I don’t want your life to turn out like the others who came before you. ”
I frowned. “Is that why you’re keeping me at a distance?”
“One of the reasons.”
I laid my hand on his cheek, over his scar. “But I’m already your duchess. Staying distant will not keep me safe—being close to me will.”
It was all the convincing Ames needed to pull me into his arms and not let me go.