They followed the estate’s old bridle path, a narrow cut between hornbeams whose bare, latticework branches seemed to press closer with every yard. Here the snow lay undisturbed, the wind stilled by centuries of unbroken undergrowth. The sleigh’s passage sent soft flurries into the air, each disturbance catching the rising sun in shards of sudden, transient fire.
Alice, never content with simple observation, had set her sights on the icicles dangling along a low-hanging limb. She leaned forward, nearly spilling out of the seat in her enthusiasm. “Can we stop, Your Grace? Please? I want one for a sword!”
Pearl opened her mouth to object—the idea of pausing in a predawn freeze, for the sake of a child’s whim, was contrary to every instinct she possessed—but Victor had already slackened the reins and guided the sleigh to a gentle halt opposite the offending branch.
He hopped down, boots crunching on the crusted snow, and looked back at Alice, whose cheeks glowed with anticipation. “Will you be needing a climbing ladder, Miss Alice? Or shall I lift you myself?”
Alice’s answer was to hurl herself bodily at the duke. He caught her, not so much with grace as with the resigned competence of a man who has long since surrendered his dignity to the predations of children. He balanced her on his forearm, supporting her with a hand to the waist, and together they surveyed the array of icicles.
“Which one?” he asked. “Mind, some are sharper than your sister’s wit.”
Alice pointed to the largest, a monstrous fang of glass dangling just above arm’s reach. Victor tilted her upward and, with a low jump, let her snap the icicle free. It gleamed in her glove, a trophy worthy of display.
“Thank you, Your Grace!” she crowed, then wriggled until he set her down. She waved the icicle at Susie, who rolled her eyes but accepted her sister’s victory with a smile.
Pearl watched the scene with a mix of exasperation and, if she was honest, something like relief. Percy, rest his soul, would have ignored such a request entirely, or worse, chided Alice for her lack of composure. The thought brought a twinge of guilt, but also gratitude. In this moment, the duke—Victor—seemed less a specter of her youth and more the man he might have always been, had fate arranged itself differently.
Victor climbed back into the driver’s seat, dusting snow from his coat. Alice, icicle in hand, clambered after him, but Pearl caught her by the collar. “You’ll sit beside Susie, young lady, lest you turn the horses to ice with your shrieking.”
Alice grinned, unrepentant, and climbed behind her sister. Victor waited until they were settled before he took up the reins, but as he did so, Pearl reached out, just a moment too soon, to help Alice arrange her new treasure. Her gloved fingers brushed Victor’s as they both adjusted the blanket over the child’s knees.
The contact startled her, even with her gloves on. Her hand snapped back. She stared straight ahead, keeping her face carefully neutral, but the blush that had been winter’s gift now deepened by degrees.
Victor, for his part, said nothing. They continued along the path, the girls at the center of a swirl of talk—Alice brandishing her icicle and proposing duels, Susie commenting on things she noticed in the snowy fields. Pearl’s attention was divided. Every so often, she would steal a glance at Victor, then quickly look away.
Victor responded to the children’s questions with steady patience.
As they approached the Abbey, the sun climbing higher, Pearl realized she would remember this morning for the rest ofher life, not for its joy, but for the exquisite torment of what might have been.
Chapter Four
Later that afternoon, Pearl had expected to find her daughters in the nursery, but what she found surprised her. A sound came down the hallway, a muffled laugh, then the cadence of low voices. Pearl followed it, her pace quickening, and at the door she paused, the scene inside completely unexpected.
The nursery was bright, the light doubled by a drift of fresh snow clinging to the sash. Every surface was littered with the clutter of childhood—wooden animals, a battered checkerboard, the scattered bricks of an unfinished tower. In the corner stood the Abbey’s infamous dollhouse. Alice was nowhere to be seen.
But at the low chess table, Susie sat in perfect profile, her chin resting on her fist. Across from her, far too large for the spindle-legged chair, his knees bracketing the table’s edge, sat the duke himself. He had dragged his hand through his hair at least once, leaving it in disarray as if the game required all his concentration.
Pearl hovered, invisible, at the door. Victor spoke softly, the words too low for her to make out, but the intent unmistakable. He moved a rook, then leaned back, waiting. Susie studied the board with the concentration of a field marshal and, after a moment’s hesitation, advanced her pawn.
“Bold,” Victor said, approving. “But not reckless.” His mouth twisted into what, on another man, would have been a smile. “Your father never sacrificed a pawn if he could help it.”
Susie looked up, startled. “Did you play with him?”
“Many times. Before you were born, and after at the club in London. He was—” The duke paused, as if weighing the worth of old griefs. “He played to win, but never to humiliate. That is rare in a man.”
Susie’s attention flicked between the board and Victor’s face. “Is that why you let me win last time?”
The duke snorted. “If I had, you would not be asking.” His hand moved, deft and spare, and in two turns he had the advantage. “You have your mother’s cleverness, I see.”
Susie considered this, then said, “Mama hates chess.”
“She hates to lose,” Victor corrected, and Pearl, stung by the accuracy, nearly betrayed her presence with a laugh.
The game continued, a dance of pieces and silences. Victor’s gentleness with her daughter was almost shocking. He touched each chessman with a precision that was, somehow, never delicate, but always exact. Susie matched him, move for move, her confidence growing with every exchange. The child she had been, the anxious, eager-to-please girl, was replaced here by something altogether more formidable.
Pearl watched, unable to move, as if by stepping into the room she might shatter the fragile truce that existed between her past and this improbable present.
She remembered Percy in fragments, the way he used to lift Alice and spin her in the old nursery at Graveley, the way his voice, warm and diffident, never seemed to belong entirely to the room he was in. He had loved his daughters, no one could dispute it. But he had never played with them this way. Not for lack of affection, but for lack of something else—an ease, perhaps, or the conviction that children could be worthy adversaries.
