Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Imust say, Your Grace, you have a talent for running a household.”
Ellen smiled proudly as she heard Mrs. Bradley’s praise.
The housekeeper at the estate had been kind but skeptical the first day Ellen called the staff to a meeting, but now, after a week of managing the house, she had been thrilled to see that her talents for such a thing had not gone unnoticed. At least not by the staff.
As for Laurence, though…her good mood dampened as she thought of him.
She had agreed that she needed time to adjust to her new life, but she had not imagined that he was going to disappear entirely.
It had been five days, and there were no shared meals, no conversations…
no passionate kisses by the fireplace. In fact, she had not seen him at all.
It was only through Mrs. Bradley’s reports that she even knew His Grace was still living in the house.
She could have sought him out, she supposed, but the thought died as quickly as it came.
He had already done so much by giving her his protection.
She felt it selfish to ask for anything more.
Even though their last kiss had her thinking there could be more.
“Your praise is most appreciated, Mrs. Bradley,” Ellen said, using the conversation to force her mind away from her estranged husband. “In truth, I find the work most satisfying.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Mrs. Bradley replied with a polite bow of her head. “So, shall we go through the afternoon report?”
“Please,” Ellen urged, gesturing toward the open seat across from her.
Mrs. Bradley, a dainty, modest woman with mousey brown hair swept up in a bun and warm brown eyes, took the seat and pulled out her notebook.
“The maids have changed the bedding and curtains in your quarters. As you requested, they switched the summer fabrics for something heavier in light of the strange weather we’ve been having,” Mrs. Bradley began.
“It has been strange, has it not?” Ellen said, glancing up at the large panes of glass in the room. The sun had been hidden by gray clouds for several days now, and the temperature had cooled substantially despite it still being late summer.
“Strange indeed,” Mrs. Bradley agreed, then went back to her list. “Oh, yes. More wood has been chopped, and every fireplace has been given an extra cache of logs. The chimney sweep finished his cleaning an hour ago, so there should be no unexpected issues as the house prepares to burn more fires.”
Ellen nodded absently as the housekeeper continued down her list of completed chores, trying desperately to keep her mind on the house and not the person who owned it.
“Oh, and there is one more thing, Your Grace,” Mrs. Bradley said after she reached the end of her list. “A package from the local modiste has arrived for you.”
Ellen’s gaze shot up as her brows furrowed in confusion.
“For me?” she asked. “Are you sure it is not for Miss Madalene?”
Mrs. Bradley checked her notes once more, then shook her head.
“No. It is for you, Your Grace,” she replied.
“How?” Ellen asked, sitting up. “I have not ordered anything. I have not even been measured.”
Mrs. Bradley gave her a small smile as she shrugged her shoulders.
“I genuinely do not know, Your Grace,” she answered. “Only that your handmaid, Lily, is in your quarters, waiting to help you try them on.”
“Strange,” Ellen muttered, glancing outside.
“Is there anything else, Mrs. Bradley?” she asked, staring at the garden beyond.
“Oh, um, yes, Your Grace, I almost forgot,” Mrs. Bradley answered.
“Because of this weather, as you can see, the garden blooms have begun to wither. I thought that, if you were still wanting fresh flowers in the house, we should place an order with the local florist. Miss Madalene has ordered from him in the past, and he is quite remarkable with his selection.”
Ellen contemplated the choice. Letting the last of the blooms in the garden wither on their stems, or giving them a last bit of life with the warmth of the fires and water in the vases.
“I shall go out into the garden and inspect the flowers myself shortly,” Ellen announced, rising from her chair.
Mrs. Bradley’s eyes widened as she shot up from her chair.
“Yourself?” she asked, her voice rising to a unique pitch of surprise.
Ellen could not help but laugh.
“Yes, by myself,” she answered. “It is no trouble. I have plenty of time between now and dinner.”
“But your dresses—”
“I will attend to the dresses later,” Ellen swiftly replied. She paused and thought for a moment. “Actually, do me a kindness and send Lily to me in the garden. I wish to speak with her and see if she knows about them.”
“And she will stay, of course, and help you,” Mrs. Bradley said, wringing her hands.
Ellen raised an amused brow.
“No,” she replied. “I will not need an attendant. A basket and shears will suffice.”
“But, Your Grace,” Mrs. Bradley insisted as she and Ellen moved to leave the women’s parlor. “It is cold. It may rain. There is no need to trouble yourself when we have so many gardeners willing to attend to your request.”
“My request,” Ellen clarified, stopping at the open doorway to face Mrs. Bradley one last time, “is that I have my solitude and comfort, Mrs. Bradley. Surely you will not deny me that request?”
Mrs. Bradley’s panic became clearer, but she shook her head as she wrung her hands.
“No, Your Grace,” she said defeatedly.
Ellen gave her a curt nod and turned to walk away again.
“Send Lily to me,” she called over her shoulder.
Ellen nibbled worriedly at her bottom lip.
She sat on the ground in the garden, watching as her new handmaid walked back to the house and cold rain began to descend in harsh droplets from the charcoal gray clouds above.
She missed Sarah and worried about her every day.
Laurence had promised her that he would rescue her and Jacob if he could, but as with everything else, he had been silent.
Lily had confessed that it was Laurence who commanded her to take Ellen’s measurements secretly as she helped her dress each morning.
The handmaid must have been skilled; being able to eye up the length of sleeves and widths of bodices without a measuring tape.
It would also explain how her older dresses had suddenly seemed to fit better.
The woman must hold great skill with fabric and needles.
Ellen shook her head, veering off the mental path that was taking her toward her handmaid’s secret skills and back toward the original thought: That it was Laurence.
Laurence who had commanded her to go to the Modiste with said measurements and colors and fabric recommendations so that the new wardrobe awaiting her upstairs could be made.
He’d gone to the care of clothing her. Yet, he had not spoken to her in five days.
Ellen scowled at the predicament, not at all sure of what to think of her new husband’s confounding behavior.
“Perhaps I was foolish to think the kiss was something more than a brief moment of passion,” she muttered to herself as she began to clip away the last, tired-looking sprigs of lavender around her. “Perhaps it was not passion at all, but instead comfort.”
They had been discussing loss, and she had heard of trysts starting between two people who suffered from such.
Her head began to ache with the swirling thoughts and confusion, and with the last bit of lavender cut, she tossed the shears into the half-filled basket and lay back.
Raindrops, cool and harsh against her heated cheeks, began to splatter against her face as she looked up into the swirling, darkening clouds.
The rain was going to come down heavier soon.
She was sure of it. Perhaps even a bit of lightning would fork the sky, and thunder would make the surrounding trees tremble.
It was time to go inside. To save herself from the worst of the storm.
Yet she did not move. Instead, she continued the study of the clouds, relished the harsh coolness of the wind and rain, and let herself relax into the earth beneath her, even as the wetness of it seeped into her gown.
She would have to get up at some point, hold her head high and resume her role as duchess and survivor—but not yet.
Not quite yet. She just wanted a few minutes more.