The housekeeper gathered her dignity and her lists. “The poultry’s already terrified, miss. They’ve heard about the pie.”
They left in a rustle of skirts and a mutter about egg counts. The long gallery breathed again. Tristan remained where he was, one hand still upon the chair, the other braced against the table’s edge, as if the furniture were the only sensible thing left in the world. Christine stayed. She did not move closer, but she did not flee.
She looked out into the bright rectangle of afternoon and said, very quietly.
“Blanche is one of my only friends. I know you do not like her outspokenness. In your absence, I find her company soothing.”
“Do not flatter Lady Blanche. I think nothing of her,” Tristan said.
“You have buried yourself in work for three days, which is why I asked her to stay and help me with the ball.”
“Quite proper.”
“Then could you inform your face that you approve?” Christine said with an arched eyebrow, “I know you can smile. I saw plenty of them when Ernald, Elizabeth, and the girls were here.”
Tristan found her directness refreshing, even as he felt the wound her rapier made. He smiled, hoping it didn’t look forced.
“I know you think the village will only take from you. Let them show you, Tristan, that they are good people. That people can be good.”
“All people?” he found himself asking.
“I believe so,” Christine replied.
Including your brother?
It remained unspoken between them. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opened them, the portraits were watching with sanctimonious delight. He wanted to throw a sheet over the lot.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we go tomorrow. If Mr. Reeve attempts to secure for himself a second inn, I will move the one he has, three miles downriver, out of spite.”
Her mouth curved. “You will not need to. I have faith.”
He should have laughed. He did not. He took one step toward her; it was as far as he trusted himself. Her chest rose and fell in a way that only a saint or a blind man could resist. He anchored himself to the knowledge that his ancestors were calling on him to remain strong. To be steel until revenge had been secured.
“Do not mistake my company for agreement,” he said, softer than he meant, “I am doing this because you insist on walking into rooms with your heart uncovered. Someone must stand at the door.”
She met his gaze and held it. “Then stand there.”
For a moment, neither moved. Somewhere at the far end of the gallery, a floorboard remembered the weight of an old footstep and creaked. A cloud sailed across the sun and sent the light wobbling along the floor. Instead, he bowed as if to end a dance and said, with all the dryness he could muster
“One pie.”
“Two,” she said, and gathered her papers with a decisive sweep that somehow felt like victory. He let her have it.
He meant to return to the study. He even made it as far as the door before the old habit of watchfulness turned his feet toward the servants’ passage and down, past the green baize door, into the working belly of the house.
He told himself he wanted only to remind the kitchens that the pie count remained scandalously at one. In truth, he wished to feel the engine tick, to reassure himself that the engine cared nothing for hearts.
Mrs. Fogarty had already set the room to boiling. The smell of butter and pepper wafted through the warm air. Jane, the maid he had snatched from Gillray, had arrived that day. She darted between the table and the scullery like a cheerfully domestic sparrow. When she saw him, she fluttered into a curtsey so swift it nearly sent a basket of onions to the floor.
“Steady,” he said, catching the handle. “You are not a candle, Jane; no need to gutter.”
“Sorry, Your Grace,” she murmured, the stubborn line of fear around her mouth easing. “It’s only…well…no one told me dukes come into kitchens.”
“They do not, generally,” he said, “Mrs. Fogarty, tell Reeve we will meet him at ten. Reverend Potter as well. And tell the stable to put a second groom to the curricle. Miss Waldron’s bonnet demands additional horsepower.”
He found himself adding.
“And when we return, tell the laundry not to take the sheets from the east rooms until Lady Christine has looked them over. She has opinions.”
