The journey through the city was swift, almost too much so; she was unprepared for the abruptness with which the familiar portico appeared through the window, for the warmth that pulsed beneath her ribs as she saw the family crest above the lintel.
Inside, nothing had changed. Not the green marble of the foyer, nor the scatter of horsehair across the entry mat from her father’s boots, nor the faint and persistent aroma of strong black coffee that clung to the baseboards as if afraid to be banished.
She was greeted at the door by her father in the process of donning his hat and gloves with military efficiency.
“Nancy.” His voice, as ever, was a contradiction—gentle in substance, but with the cut of a whetted blade. “You’ve been hiding from us.”
“I have been running a household,” Nancy replied, matching his tone with her own brand of defiance. “And raising two small wild beasts. I thought you would prefer I let you read aboutmy success in the news sheets, rather than importune you in person.”
Edward Gallagher gave a rare smile. “You are your mother’s daughter. Always wanting to win before the game is over.” He offered his cheek, which she pecked, then appraised her with a critical eye. “You look thinner. Are they feeding you at Scarfield?”
“Scarfield is a marvel of efficiency,” Nancy said, “but even miracles cannot match the cook’s table here. If you hurry, you may make it to the House of Lords before they close for the night.”
“I am already late,” he said, tucking a parliamentary dispatch beneath his arm. “But your mother will want every detail.” He set his hat and turned at the last moment. “Do not let her browbeat you into staying the night, unless you mean to.”
“I will stay as long as I please, and not a minute more,” Nancy promised.
Her father’s laughter echoed through the foyer as he left, and for a moment, the house was its old self.
Nancy climbed the stairs, navigating the maze of polished banisters and too-bright hall sconces, and found her mother in the morning parlor, where the walls were lined with seascapes and the windows looked out onto the neighbor’s roof.
Moira Gallagher sat ensconced in a battered armchair, woolen shawl over her shoulders, a heavy volume propped open on her knees. She looked up as Nancy entered, and the lines at the corners of her eyes doubled with delight.
“There she is!” Moira beamed, her Scottish burr softened but unbowed by years among the English. “I was starting to think you’d been carried off by a Frenchman, or worse—a Whig.”
“Neither party could afford me,” Nancy replied, sinking into the adjacent chair.
Her mother patted her hand. “I’d have sent a search party, but I know how you hate to be fussed over. You are, I hope, not too grand now to drink tea with your own mother?”
“On the contrary. It is the only beverage I am truly suited for.”
Moira poured, eyes sharp over the rim of the teapot. “How are the children? Has Henry burned down Scarfield yet?”
“Not for lack of trying. But the new governess has tamed him, at least for the time being.”
“Ah, the famous Miss Mercer. I heard from Hester Green’s mother that she once drove a French tutor to take holy orders.” Moira grinned. “If she can manage the twins, you might send her here next.”
Nancy smiled, but her heart was not in it. The conversation felt like a play, one she could recite in her sleep.
Moira watched her over the edge of her cup. “Something is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong, Mother.” Nancy took a bite of biscuit and failed to chew it. “I am only tired.”
Moira made a face. “You have never been tired in your life. You were born awake and have kept the rest of us on our toes since. Tell me what it is.”
Nancy stared at the dark swirl of her tea. “The house is full of stories. The servants talk. Even my friends talk. They say the Duke and I are… that we… ” She trailed off, unwilling to repeat the words out loud.
Moira’s eyes narrowed, dangerous as any blade. “What do they say? That he’s a brute? Or that you’re unhappy?”
Nancy swallowed. “That I am… That our marriage is not what it ought to be.” She tried to keep her voice light. “That perhaps I regret it, or that Oscar does.”
Moira snorted. “Since when do you care what people say, Nancy?”
“I don’t,” Nancy lied, then sighed. “It’s just that sometimes I think they see something that I am missing.”
Moira leaned back, lacing her hands over her book. “You are not missing anything. You are simply living the life of a duchess, which is to say, you are being watched and gossiped over by people who would die of envy if they ever tried to live it themselves.”
Nancy let herself smile. “That is a distinctly Scottish perspective.”
