Page 29 of Duke of Moonstone
“It is beautifully done,” Frances said. “She is fortunate to have you.”
Madame Beaumont pressed a hand to her chest and said something in rapid French that Frances did not catch but understood by feeling.
“The Dowager Duchess generally wakes between ten and eleven,” Mrs. Wells offered, stepping forward. “Her health does not permit an earlier hour. She takes breakfast in her sitting room in her quarters, and on better days, she may come down to the drawing room in the afternoon.”
“I see,” Frances said. She looked at the tray again—the careful portions, the fine china, the small jar of preserves. A great deal of attention for a woman she had not yet met.
When will he introduce me to her?
Alexander had informed her the day before that he would introduce her to his mother in a few days. Frances had agreed because pushing seemed unwise, but standing here, looking at the Dowager Duchess’s breakfast tray, she found herself increasingly curious about the woman behind it.
What sort of mother produced a man so entirely governed by duty that he could propose marriage as though negotiating a lease? What sort of woman lived quietly in the upper rooms of this enormous house while her son ran the whole of it with the efficiency of a military campaign?
What does she think of me if she thinks of me at all?
Frances pushed the thought aside and turned back to Mrs. Wells. “Shall we continue?”
They continued.
The household accounts took the better part of an hour. Mrs. Wells produced the ledgers with the pride of someone whose columns were always in order, and Frances sat across from her at the housekeeper’s desk and reviewed them with what she hoped was the appearance of competence.
The numbers were clear enough—Lavinia had taught her how to read a household book years ago when their own household had required rather more creative arithmetic than any young woman should have been expected to manage.
“These are very thorough, Mrs. Wells,” she said.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I do try.”
They moved on to the linen cupboards which were immaculate and organized with a precision that bordered on the devotional.Every shelf was labeled. Every stack was uniform. Frances ran her hand along a row of folded sheets, counted silently, and thought,Lavinia would approve.
“Is there anything Your Grace would like altered?” Mrs. Wells asked.
“Not at all. You have managed everything admirably.”
The afternoon revealed the gardens. The head gardener was an aging man of uncertain age who talked about his roses the way some men talk about their children—with pride, worry, and occasional gentle frustration. Frances strolled along the gravel paths with him, asking questions about the planting schedule and the condition of the herbaceous border, and to her surprise, she realized she was truly interested.
But throughout the day—as she attended to the ledgers, linens, lavender beds, and the kitchen garden—she remained conscious of being watched.
Eyes that were not unkind or hostile; they were simply watchful. The maids who paused in their work as she passed. The footman who held a door and then glanced at his colleague with a look that said something Frances could not quite read. The gardener’s boy, who stopped weeding entirely and stared until the head gardener cuffed him gently on the shoulder.
They were assessing her. All of them. Measuring the new duchess against whatever they had expected or hoped for orfeared, and Frances felt the weight of it settle across her shoulders like a garment she had not asked to wear.
She kept her back straight. She smiled when it was appropriate, asked questions, remembered names, and said please and thank you, because those were the things she could control, and controlling them was the only strategy available to her.
I am not out of my depth. I am simply in a new depth. There is a difference.
She repeated this to herself as she climbed the stairs at the end of the afternoon, and by the time she reached her chambers, she had almost convinced herself it was true.
Miss Ripley fastened the final button on the back of Frances’s dinner dress then stepped back. Frances looked at herself in the mirror with the sharp eye of a woman unsure whom she was dressing for.
The dress was one of deep green silk that Lavinia had insisted upon before the wedding, on the grounds that a duchess ought to have dresses that spoke for themselves. Frances smoothed the front of it, tucked a strand of hair that had escaped its pin, and went downstairs.
The drawing room was empty.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the arrangement of chairs and the fire that had been built up and thedecanters set out on the side table, and she waited. She was not sure exactly what she was waiting for. A footstep in the hallway, perhaps. The particular sound of a door opening at the far end of the hall.
Nothing came.
Graves appeared instead, materializing in the doorway.
