“It was one of the kitchen maids. She was serving in place of an ill footman, and she didn’t know… well, she arrived three minutes late with the fish course.” Sally lowered her voice toa whisper. “His Grace didn’t say a word. Not one. But the temperature in the room dropped so sharply that the wine actually chilled in the glasses. She gave notice the very next day.”
“Because she was three minutes late with fish?”
“Because she couldn’t bear the way he looked at her. As though she had disrupted the natural order of things.”
Celine glanced at the clock on the mantel.
Three minutes to eight.
If she left immediately and walked at a normal pace, she would arrive precisely at the hour. Perhaps a few breaths after.
She picked up her book again.
“My lady,” Sally pleaded, “please.”
“I’ll be along shortly.” She found her place on the page. “You’re dismissed for the evening.”
“But your hair—your dress—”
“Are perfectly adequate.” She did not look up. “Good evening, Sally.”
The maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried out—no doubt to inform the household that the new countess had taken leave of her senses on her third day of marriage.
Celine continued reading, though she absorbed nothing about ribbed vaults or Gothic arches. Her attention was fixed entirely on the clock’s ticking. Eight o’clock. One minute past. Two. Three.
At five minutes past, she rose, smoothed her afternoon dress—she had not changed for dinner, another deliberate choice—and made her way to the dining room at an unhurried pace.
At eight minutes past, she paused outside the door, inhaled, and entered.
The Duke sat at his end of the table, a glass of wine in his hand, studying it as though it were a particularly absorbing specimen. He did not look up. The footmen, arranged like statues along the walls, seemed to hold their breath.
“Good evening,” she said pleasantly, taking her seat.
He still did not look at her. “Morrison,” he said, voice perfectly calm, “pray pour Lady Rothwest some wine.”
Morrison moved with the measured tread of a man walking through a roomful of sleeping lions. He filled her glass with claret—the 1811, she noted, the exceptional vintage they had shared the previous night. Only when the task was complete did the Duke finally raise his eyes.
“How thoughtful,” she said, sipping. “This is excellent.”
“It should be.” He set down his glass with characteristic precision. “It has been breathing for precisely fifteen minutes—the optimal time for this vintage. It was meant to be enjoyed ateight o’clock, when its temperature would have been ideal. Now it is slightly too warm. The flavour has altered. What ought to have been sublime is now merely adequate.”
“How very disappointing for you.”
“Indeed.” He nodded, and Morrison signalled for the first course. “I trust your reading justified the sacrifice?”
“Medieval architecture is endlessly fascinating. Notre-Dame took nearly two centuries to complete, did you know?”
“I did.” He lifted another measured spoonful of soup. “I also know that centuries of labour can be endangered in an instant. Notre-Dame suffered a fire during its early construction—one careless ember on the scaffolding, and half the roof beams were lost.”
“One might argue it survived because it was built strong enough to withstand human fallibility.”
“One might,” he allowed. “One might also argue it is senseless to invite error merely to test one’s foundations.”
Silence fell as the soup was cleared and the fish set before them. The quiet felt charged, like the stillness after lightning.
“In my house,” he said at last, setting down his fork with geometric exactitude, “time obeys me.”
The words were quiet, conversational even, but Celine felt them slide down her spine like cold water. There was somethingin his tone that made her understand why that kitchen maid had given notice.
