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“That sounds perfect,” I tell her. “I’ll watch and you can teach me after so you remember it better.”
“Here’s me,” Joan says, and I turn. She’s on a huge grey gelding, dappling over his shoulders. Her legs are so long that she probably needs a horse that large just so she doesn’t look ridiculous.
I step back and wave them goodbye as they leave the yard, and head out toward the vineyards.
Only the duke remains. He watches as they go, waving to Madeline when she turns to wave goodbye.
As soon as they’re over the first hill and out of sight, he turns on me, determination on his face. My stomach cramps up, because the look on his face is not good.
“What did Dramelia say to my daughter,” are the first words out of his mouth, and I breathe a sigh of relief. So, nothing to do with my behavior, then.
“She implied she would make Lady Madeline’s rear fall off with a special key, your grace,” I say. It’s a childish, mean prank to play on a little girl who still believes in Santa and fairies. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud, but it terrified Maddie, and I want Dramelia to be held to account. He closes his eyes, jaw going tight and tense.
“Did she sleep alright? No nightmares?” He asks. I’m assuming he means Maddie and not Dramelia. What kind of name is Dramelia anyway? Her parents should be shot. That being said, it’s a horrible name for a horrible person, so maybe they did pick properly for her.
“Yes, just fine,” I reassure him. “We read a few books and sang some songs before she went to sleep, and she slept right through the night. And—”
I pause. Should I tell him?
He opens his eyes and stares at me.
“What?” He asks, clearly anticipating more bad news or bad behavior.
“I’m sorry if it wasn’t my place, but I told your brother to make his friends apologize and to get them to leave her alone,” I say it quickly, to rip the bandage off and not feel the sting as badly.
The duke stares at me, and I feel the tension creeping up my spine, rising in a slow spiral that sprawls across my ribs and threatens to choke off my oxygen.
“And how—” he pauses, clears his throat, “how did he respond? No, never-mind.” He shakes his head, and looks out across the hills of the estate. I hold my breath. Now would be a great time, a perfect moment, to tell him what I think of everything that’s going on in Madeline’s life. That I think his daughter is being heavily overworked and overscheduled for someone of her age, and that it’s going to hurt her more in the long term.
I wring my hands in front of me, and then when he glances at me, his brows pulling together as if he’s going to comment on it, I pounce.
“I’ve been wanting to speak to you about something, your grace, if I might be so impertinent to suggest, something I’ve noticed—“ I fumble for the right way to say it and then take a deep breath. “I think that Lady Madeline is being asked to do too much.”
“I bet your pardon?” His words are immediately frosty, and I know I’ve stepped in it. But it doesn’t matter if he’s angry at me for the truth, I need to tell him. Somebody needs to say something.
“I’m not sure who’s been the one who is guiding her schedule, but she barely has time to breathe, let alone rest and recover, to play, and be creative, like all children should have the opportunity to,” with each word I say his shoulders grow tenser and his frown deeper, his eyes narrowing.
“And this is your opinion, that she is being… overworked?” He growls out the last word, like it’s filthy, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so infuriated before without spoiling for a fight.I hold my ground.
Deep breaths, Eva. This is therightthing to do. Maddie needs someone to speak for her.
“I would stake my place on it, your grace,” I say softly, going quiet to bring down his energy, refusing to match him as he gets wound up.
“And what would you say if I told you that it is I who decides her schedule, that oversees her education and grooming to be a world-class leader and a balm to whatever future estate and the people she rules over?” He asks, and it all clicks into place.
Of course it’s him. The duke, who barely stirs outside of his office for anything other than work, frequently eats his meals at his desk, can’t be bothered to have a horse tacked up for him to ride up, instead he picks an ATV which is much lower class but it’s instant and fast.
I have to say it.
“You think that working her to death when she’s five years old is going to turn her into a good leader?” I ask, not able to help myself, crossing that line, not just crossing it, but bolting over it with no regrets.
He inhales.
Holy fuck.
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin, staring him down.
“I’ve taken care of a lot of children. It’s my duty to inform you, as her parent, that she is exhausted, and you are not helping her by piling work on her like she’s an able little pony. She’s a child, not a farm beast.” His expression is inscrutable, andemboldened, I ramble on. He hasn’t stopped me yet. “In fact, I think the children who are overworked become more resentful, more prone to depression, and more likely to take a dislike toanyresponsibility given to them in the future. If you want to ruin your daughter for her entire life, then, by all means,your grace,carry on.”
