Page 25

When she woke, for a blissful moment she forgot.

Forgot the wedding, the dinner, the door to her room closing…

Eyes still closed, she stretched and yawned, expecting to rise and break her fast with her family as she always had.

But when she rolled onto her back, the unfamiliar canopy overhead caught her eye — a heavy thing, grand and shadowed, shrouding the bed from the light. She had never had a canopy before.

This was her new room. Her new life.

And there would be no breakfast waiting for her downstairs. At least, not with her family.

Miserably, she sat up. The faint white light of dawn seeped through the gaps in the curtains, but the room still felt too dark.

Normally, her abigail would rouse her around ten, but she had given no instructions to her new maid, Mercy.

Mercy was likely waiting anxiously for the bell — but Helena could not summon the will to face the day just yet.

The unfamiliar room, for all its strangeness, offered more comfort than the rest of the house ever could. She lingered in bed a while longer, summoning the courage to tug the bell-pull and begin her first full day as the Duchess of Carrivick.

Eventually, she rang, and Mercy entered looking relieved to be of service.

The maid performed admirably, dressing her in a jonquil morning gown with a square neckline and a fine chemisette to modestly cover her cleavage.

The fitted sleeves, ending just above her elbows, felt slightly tight; Helena made a mental note to have them adjusted.

"I’ve always thought yellow a joyful color," Mercy said warmly. "It suits Your Grace perfectly.”

Helena offered a weak smile and a nod.

Afterward, she sat patiently while Mercy combed through her tangled honey-colored hair, slightly matted from a night spent without curling papers. Once the maid excused herself, Helena remained slumped in her chair, careful not to muss her chignon.

She had hoped her morning ablutions might take longer — if only to delay the prospect of breakfast with her new husband.

She sighed.

This was no way to start a marriage, and certainly no way for her to behave—especially after their cordial dinner. To her incredulity, Carrivick—or rather, Lowen—was actually trying. And so should she.

Feeling a little more resolved, Helena made her way downstairs to the breakfast room. It was empty, save for the footmen and the lonely plates of toast, butter, plum cakes, eggs, and pork.

She found it strange to be both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed because she had never been without company in her entire life. Relieved, perhaps, because even if Lowen had been here, what would they have said to each other?

“Is something amiss, Your Grace?”

The bushy-browed butler suddenly appeared behind her.

“Has His Grace already eaten?”

“No, madam. His Grace only took coffee before departing this morning.”

“Oh. He must have left quite early.”

Upworth nodded. “His Grace often has private meetings in the morning or works in his study before departing for Parliament at four in the afternoon.”

If Lowen had already gone, that meant she would rarely see him during the day — save for dinner or any social gatherings. Helena felt an unexpected relief. The house would be hers for most of the day. Well, except for Thomasin.

“What of Lady Thomasin?” she asked. “Will she join me?”

“Lady Thomasin requested a plate be brought up to her room, but if you’d like, I can inquire whether she would?—”

“No, no,” Helena interrupted. “I wouldn’t wish to impose on her.” Given Thomasin’s sullen countenance, Helena preferred to eat alone.

“Very well. Is there anything else I may assist you with, Your Grace?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you.”

Helena seated herself at the head of the table, usually the husband’s domain, and ate in quiet contemplation as she surveyed the room.

The breakfast room was as spectacular as the rest of the house.

The golden light of morning streamed through the arched windows, casting a halo around everything.

Even the chairs looked beautiful in this light.

The walls, a soft shade of blue-green, were bordered with white trim.

Gold-framed paintings adorned the walls, each depicting a peaceful pastoral scene, brushed with a gauzy touch that made them seem like distant memories.

Helena wished the room would be used more often. She thought of inviting her family for breakfast one day, perhaps before Felicity’s wedding. By then, she would be fully settled as mistress of the house and could properly host.

Once satiated from her meal, Helena lingered at the table, her hands resting on either side of her empty plate, more aware of the silence. Upworth moved quickly, the soft rustling of his footsteps as he cleared away the remnants of her meal.

Had it not been for Mrs. Ricks, the housekeeper, Helena would not have known what to do with herself.

They chatted amicably for several minutes before it was time to continue the tour and discuss the domestic drudgery that Helena would oversee with her.

Chores, schedules, hiring of help, and procuring proper livery all fell under Mrs. Ricks’ duties.

It appeared all Helena would really concern herself over was deciding what she and her new family would eat for dinner each day.

The household accounts, which Lowen meticulously reviewed, were left to the secretary and therefore had nothing to do with Helena.

It must not be such a difficult task to be mistress of a household, she concluded, unless her husband and Thomasin proved to be critical of her menu decisions.

After her talk with the housekeeper, Helena wandered the halls, going from room to room, except Thomasin’s and Lowen’s.

She familiarized herself with the layout, though the library proved a distraction.

It was the largest room in the manor, the shelves lined with books on every wall.

Around the hearth, shelves had been cut out to fit a marble bust above the mantel.

Helena had never been one to devour novels like Felicity or Isaac. Her mind had always been too restless. But now that she was alone, perhaps reading would assuage the newfound silence surrounding her

As she was about to leave, Upworth appeared again, bowing his head as he handed her a small white card. "Your Grace, you have a visitor." Her first of the day.

Mrs. van Dorn.

“ Tart… spilling out of her gown …”

Those vile words, spoken by Mrs. van Dorn, rose in her memory like bile. Helena’s grip on the card tightened until she thought it might tear. She burned with a sudden, consuming hatred. "I’m not receiving guests today, Upworth," she said curtly, handing the card back to him.

She could already imagine the smile on Mrs. van Dorn’s face, the calculated sweetness that hid the barbs of judgement beneath. The thought of sitting through a polite, vapid conversation with a woman who thought her little more than a tart , set fire to her blood.

Before any more unwelcome faces could arrive, she raced upstairs to fetch a spencer and bonnet, then slipped out the servant’s entrance. Mercy, spotting her as she passed, quickly readied herself to accompany her.

Lacking the confidence to assert her authority as duchess, Helena chose a hackney over one of Lowen’s carriages. The ride to Hargreaves House was quick, and thankfully, no familiar faces passed her by.

When she arrived, Helena had expected to be comforted by the familiar sight of home, but instead, something inside her twisted with unease, much like it had when she was a child ignoring her parents’ warnings of mischief.

Her family’s butler, Owens, greeted her with a look of surprise. "Miss Hel—Your Grace—" he began.

"Please, spare me the formalities, Owens," she said wryly, brushing past him as she made her way to the dining room where her family usually took breakfast.

“Pardon me, madam, but your family stepped out momentarily to pay calls. I believe their first visit is to the Stockwells in Greenwich.”

Helena felt a sudden, sharp pang between her ribs. "Oh," she said, a little foolishly. The memory of Elias seeped uncomfortably in her chest. Of course, they would be out by now. "Even Isaac?"

"Young master Hargreaves hasn’t returned home since last evening."

Helena nearly rolled her eyes. Why had she even bothered asking? Isaac was one of the many skirt-chasers in London — drinking, gambling, and whoring away his responsibility. He was rarely home, even when she’d lived here.

“Very well. I shall wait for them. Please bring tea to the blue sitting room.”

The sterile silence of her former home brought Helena no comfort as she sipped her tea in solitude. The quiet was unfamiliar, uncanny. For years, she had followed the same routine each day. Now, sitting there, uncertain with herself, she felt completely adrift.

Two hours passed, and still, none of her family had returned home. The impetus that had driven her to flee back home had drastically quieted, and with it came the creeping realization of the error of her actions. She could only hope that Lowen wouldn’t be home to witness her insult.

She had a new life now. She could no longer hide behind her family when things troubled her.

They couldn’t make her new home feel like hers, nor could they politely escort Mrs. van Dorn—or any other disagreeable visitor—out.

Nor could they speak to Lowen on her behalf, nor find happiness in her marriage for her.

Helena was disappointed in herself. She felt like a coward, knowing that her husband had made at least some effort to comfort her the previous evening, and yet she had failed to even try.