Charlotte, satisfied, closedThe Examinerand set down her teacup. “Well, I am spared from further corruption today. Mrs. Hughes insists I attend her luncheon. Her daughters will assaultus with a duet, and we are bound to applaud until our hands ache. You may have the library to yourself, Miss Ansley. But do try not to devour everything at once. Even a governess must sleep.”
She rose, smoothing the folds of her pale green muslin gown, the hem edged with delicate embroidery, and with the quiet authority of one who commanded a castle, left Jane standing flushed and silent in the morning light.
Chapter 6
Westford Castle had not known such a stir in months. The household was alive with bustle—maids polishing the great brass candlesticks until they blazed with reflected firelight, footmen hurrying with evergreen boughs to hang in the hall, Cook shouting herself hoarse as she marshaled geese and puddings for the feast to come. Even the air seemed sharper, as though the house itself were bracing for the Duke and Duchess’s return before Christmas Eve.
Jane stood in the great hall with her charge, Charlotte poised at the girl’s side. The butler had arranged the household in proper order: servants lined along the walls, heads bowed, the family waiting foremost. Jane—neither servant nor family, visible yet unseen—stood half a pace behind Lady Margaret, her hand resting on the child’s shoulder, smoothing her hair when the ribbon threatened to tumble free.
At last, the sound of wheels on gravel, the stamp of horses, and the doors were thrown open to December’s chill.
The Duke entered first. Jane’s eyes, curious, swept over him. He was taller than she had expected, his shoulders broad despite his age, just over sixty, his bearing commanding. The silver in his hair caught the pale light, but she could tell he had been fair once—blond, like both his daughters. His face was handsome still, lined but strong, with an expression of restrained authority.
Behind him swept the Duchess—young, radiant, her silks trimmed with fur, her beauty only sharpened by the cold air. Shemoved like a woman accustomed to admiration, but her eyes slid past Margaret as if the child did not exist.
The Duke looked first to his daughters. He inclined his head and offered a few words of greeting, touched with a trace of warmth.
“Charlotte,” he said, his voice even. “You are well, I trust?”
“I am, Father,” Charlotte replied with composure, dipping her head.
His gaze shifted to Margaret, who glanced back and caught Jane’s hand in a fierce little grip. He reached into his greatcoat and drew out a parcel. “For you, Margaret.”
The girl’s eyes lit as she unwrapped the delicate porcelain doll—golden curls, silk gown, painted cheeks. “Thank you, Papa!” she exclaimed, clutching it to her chest.
But the Duke had already turned away, his duty done. His attention rested on his wife—admiring, intent, as though she alone commanded his full regard. He offered his arm, and together they passed down the hall, the Duchess giving only a faint nod to Charlotte and Margaret.
The servants bowed low. Jane curtsied, her face carefully composed, though she felt Margaret’s small hand trembling in her own.
* * *
The next morning Jane resolved to try to speak with Her Grace. She hovered outside the morning room, where the scent of chocolate and perfume drifted faintly through the half-open door, and the rustle of papers and clink of porcelain broke the silence. She meant only to speak of Margaret’s progress, of the strides she had made with her reading. But before she could enter, the butler intercepted her gently.
“If you have any questions for Her Grace, Miss Ansley,” he said with a bow, “you may convey them through me. Her Grace does not need to be disturbed.”
Jane inclined her head, cheeks warm, and withdrew in silence. So much for a mother’s care.
* * *
Dinner that evening was held in the small parlor, bright with holly and candlelight, the table laid with silver and hothouse fruit, the goose carved with ceremony.
At the second course, Margaret drew herself up, cheeks glowing with eagerness. “Papa, Mama,” she announced, “I have prepared something. May I tell it?”
The Duke lifted his eyes briefly from his plate. “Very well. Go on.”
Her little voice rang high and clear as she recited one of Aesop’s fables, word-perfect, her face bright with pride. For a fleeting moment her parents looked at her—the Duke with a curt nod, the Duchess with a faint smile.
But scarcely had she reached the middle when the Duchess, adjusting the fall of lace at her wrist, spoke over her in a tone of languid inquiry.
“I was wondering, darling,” she said to her husband, “whether I might visit the Fitzalans at Bath in February. Lady Fitzalan presses me to join her, and she vows the waters will be quite reviving.”
The Duke’s reply was measured, his eyes still on his plate. “Until Parliament opens in March, you may amuse yourself as you wish. But once the Session begins, I will have you in London. I will not have whispers that you neglect your duty.”
The Duchess’s painted lips curved in a sulky pout. Margaret faltered, the last words of her fable dying unheard. Her proud flush drained away, shoulders collapsing in defeat. Then—suddenly—she snatched a potato from her plate and flung it, a small, desperate missile, before bursting into tears and rushing from the table.
The room froze. The Duke’s brows drew together in cold disapproval. The Duchess sighed, dabbing delicately at her mouth with a napkin as if nothing untoward had happened. “I see our governess has accomplished nothing, save to make Margaret more unruly,” she said with cold disdain.
* * *
