“For writing?”
“Yes.”
“You are now a duchess.”
“I did not imagine the title came with nothing but a better carriage and more people curtsying.”
“Then you accept that your time will be altered.”
“I accept that my time will beshared, not surrendered.”
The words came firmly, but Frances felt the old fear beneath them. It rose from somewhere deep and familiar: from years of watching her mother’s voice grow quieter, her opinions gentler, her desires less visible beneath the weight of being wife, mother, viscountess. Frances had not married for love, but even a loveless marriage could consume a woman if she permitted it.
She would not be consumed.
“I will keep up appearances,” Frances said, grateful for the steadiness of her voice. “I agreed to that when I married you, but I will not be treated like a guest in my own home.”
Andrew said nothing.
“This is my home now,” she continued. “You said so yourself.”
“I did.”
“Then I shall act as its mistress. I will learn the household. I will work with Mrs. Carter. I will know the servants’ names, not because it is expected, but because they are people and I prefer not to command strangers.”
“That is reasonable.”
“And the child,” she continued, glancing once more toward the cradle. “I will not pretend she is a chair in a room I am forbidden to enter. If she is under this roof, and if I am to be part of the fiction that protects her, then I will not be asked to care for her reputation while denied any concern for her person.”
Andrew’s face closed again. “I told you–”
“Yes,” she interrupted. “You told me she is your responsibility. Very well. Keep your secrets for now, if you must. Carry yourburdens in that noble, insufferable way gentlemen seem to admire in themselves. But do not imagine I shall look at that child and see only an inconvenience to be managed.”
That silenced him. Her anger faltered.
“I am not asking to take her from you,” she said more gently. “I am not asking to replace anyone. I am not even asking for all your truths tonight. But if I am to live inside the consequences of your silence, then eventually I shall need some part of the truth.”
His eyes met hers, and for a moment the room seemed to hold its breath.
“There are things I cannot say,” he replied.
“I believe you.”
He looked surprised by that.
“But there are also things you choose not to say,” Frances continued. “I shall try to learn the difference.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Very well. You may involve yourself in the household. You may have time for your writing. You may…carefor the child.”
“How generous of you,” she offered.
“Well… you are relentless,” he said.
“And you are evasive. We shall both be exhausted by Michaelmas.”
“I intended for us to be separated by then.”
The words landed with such clean force that for a moment Frances did not understand them.
