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The following day brought an unexpected visitor to Brooksdale Manor — none other than Blanche's mother, Lady Wicksford.

Blanche had not been expecting her, and the moment Mother stepped through the grand entrance, an uneasy weight settled in her chest. There was always a tension with her mother, a constant undercurrent of expectation that left Blanche feeling as if she were forever on display, forever falling short.

The drawing room, bathed in soft morning light, had been prepared for tea. Evelyn, ever the gracious hostess, welcomed the visit with effortless charm, though Blanche could not shake the suspicion that her mother had not come simply to exchange pleasantries.

Seated in one of the high-backed chairs, Mother barely took a sip of her tea before launching into an animated discourse on the Ipswich lineage. Her voice, laced with practiced pride, carried the same air of superiority that Blanche had endured since childhood.

"I have always said," Mother declared, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, "that our family is destined for greatness. And now, dear Blanche, you are proof of it. A duchess! It suits you splendidly, does it not, Lady Brooksdale?"

Blanche stiffened, recognising the self-congratulatory tone. Her mother was behaving as though this marriage had been her careful orchestration, as if it were the result of a well-placed scheme rather than a hasty arrangement born out of scandal.

Evelyn, poised as ever, offered a polite yet measured smile. "Indeed, Lady Wicksford. The Ipswich family undoubtedly has a proud history, and Blanche has been a delightful addition to Brooksdale. I have greatly enjoyed having her here."

Her mother smiled. "It is good to know that my daughter is doing me proud.

Both my children are, in fact. My younger son, and now Viscount Wicksford, Leopold, is presently enrolled at a most distinguished boarding school, receiving only the finest education.

I have no doubt he shall make me very proud indeed.

With diligence and ambition, he will one day establish a name for himself in London society. "

Blanche, seated beside Evelyn, felt a flush of embarrassment, her stomach tightening in discomfort. It was always the same. Every conversation with her mother was a performance, an opportunity to remind others of their standing, their connections, their supposed superiority.

"I am sure you must be very proud," Evelyn responded, her tone gracious but unreadable.

Blanche was grateful for her mother-in-law’s ability to navigate conversations with ease, but she still yearned for this visit to end. The unspoken expectations in the air were suffocating, and the weight of her mother’s carefully curated image felt more stifling than ever.

After what felt like an eternity of posturing and pleasantries, Evelyn and Philip eventually excused themselves, leaving mother and daughter alone in the drawing room.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Blanche felt the shift in the air.

Isabella set down her teacup and regarded her daughter with cool interest. "Now then, Blanche, tell me—what is it that has you looking so pale? Surely, you should be basking in the grandeur of your new position."

Blanche hesitated, fingers grazing the rim of her cup. This was her chance.

Despite the unease twisting in her stomach, she straightened her spine and drew a breath. "Mother, there is something I must ask you. It is… troubling me."

Isabella arched a brow, her expression unreadable. "Speak, my dear. What could possibly trouble you in the midst of such good fortune?"

Blanche’s grip tightened on the porcelain. "When my belongings arrived, I noticed that several items were missing. Antiquities belonging to Father."** She met her mother’s gaze, searching for a reaction. "I do not understand what has happened to them."

For the briefest moment, Isabella’s carefully composed mask wavered. A flicker of something—annoyance? Guilt? —crossed her features before she recovered, waving a dismissive hand.

"Oh, Blanche, must you trouble yourself with such trifles?" she said airily. "You are now the Duchess of Brooksdale. You have an entire estate at your disposal. What are a few musty old relics in the grand scheme of things?"

Blanche, feeling a rising sense of frustration, pressed further. "But Mother, these artefacts hold sentimental value. They are a connection to Father, to our family's history. How can I simply dismiss their disappearance? You know how much they mean to me."

A flicker of impatience darkened Isabella’s expression. "Blanche, do not be so dramatic. In all likelihood, a few boxes were misplaced in the chaos of your move. These things happen."

Blanche inhaled sharply, frustration curling in her stomach. "Mother, these artefacts mean something to me. They are irreplaceable."

Isabella, now visibly irritated, replied frostily, "Very well, if it means so very much to you, I shall inquire with the servants.

But I implore you, Blanche, to prioritise your responsibilities as the Duchess of Brooksdale.

These artefacts are but shadows of the past. Your future lies in securing your place in society and maintaining the dignity of our family. "

Blanche swallowed hard. "Yes, Mother, I understand my duties. But this is not easy for me. I would appreciate your asking the maids to look."

Isabella's lips twisted into a thin line before she regained herself once more.

"So, please, tell me, Blanche, how is it being a married woman? There is word that you were seen out in Town yesterday."

Blanche bit back a retort, knowing that arguing with Isabella was futile. Her mother would never understand.

Shadows of grief and resentment pressed at her, but she forced herself to breathe, to remain composed. "Thank you, Mother," she said at last, though the words felt hollow.

Isabella smiled, pleased to move on. "Now then, tell me—how is married life? I hear you were seen out in London yesterday."

Blanche stifled a sigh. "Yes, Philip and I attended an exhibition at the Egyptian Hall. A display on Greek artefacts."

To her surprise, Isabella brightened. "Ah, because you both share an interest in history. That must make it easier to be married."

Blanche’s lips parted, then pressed together again. "It would be easier if we had chosen one another." Blanche reminded her. "At present, we are simply endeavoring to rise above the scandal, which has made it rather difficult for us to truly converse. I do not know him as well as I should like."

She watched as her mother laughed her concerns off.

"Oh, well you have done the right thing, my dear.

Being married is the perfect way for you to overcome all of that.

Thank goodness the man you were caught with alone was a duke with all this finery.

You will certainly live the good life. Just remember, this could all be a whole lot worse.

You could have found yourself in a terrible situation.

Married to a worthless man, or not married at all!

You would have been in ruin had it not been for the Duke's good heart. "

Blanche gritted her teeth together angrily. It seemed like her mother was purposefully not hearing what she had to say. Isabella did not want to hear it because she was so wrapped up in excitement. Her daughter was now a duchess, which of course was going to work out well for her.

As she continued to prattle on about fortunes and opportunities, Blanche felt a sharp pang of longing for her father.

He would have understood the heartache that she was now suffering.

He would have had some good advice for her, to help her get through this challenging time.

But he was not here, and nothing was going to bring him back. The only way Blanche could keep that man close to her was to locate his artefacts.

Much as her mother did not want to think much about it, Blanche was not going to allow it to be forgotten. Although Mother cared only for the family name and their social standing, Blanche could not simply move on. She would not let the matter rest—no matter what.

***

The imposing silence of the portrait gallery surrounded Blanche, the watchful gaze of generations past seeming to weigh upon her shoulders. The figures in their gilded frames, their expressions regal and unmoving, only deepened the unease coiling in her chest.

The reality of her new position—Duchess of Brooksdale—pressed upon her with a weight she had not yet learned to carry.

Evelyn, ever perceptive, did not miss the tension in her daughter-in-law’s expression. With a gentle touch to her arm and a warm, knowing smile, she murmured, "Blanche, my dear, may I steal a moment of your time?"

Blanche turned, grateful for the interruption. "Of course, Evelyn. What is it?"

Evelyn led her to a quieter corner, away from the solemn stares of painted ancestors, where they could speak freely. Her gaze, steady and kind, held none of the scrutiny that Blanche had become so accustomed to since her marriage.

"My dear," Evelyn began, her tone soft yet assured, "I have observed how difficult this transition has been for you. The expectations placed upon you, the weight of this house, this title—it is no small thing. I hoped we might discuss a way to make it easier."

Blanche exhaled, some of the tension slipping from her shoulders at the older woman’s understanding. "I do feel a little out of place at times," she admitted. "It is all… rather daunting."

Evelyn nodded. "Which is precisely why I believe we must host a ball in your honour. A grand affair to properly introduce you to society as the Duchess of Brooksdale."

Blanche hesitated. A ball. A spectacle where she would be displayed before London’s elite, subjected to their judgment. The thought alone made her stomach twist.

"I am not certain, Lady Brooksdale," she said carefully. "It seems such an undertaking. And I would hardly know where to begin."

Evelyn’s smile did not waver. "Blanche, my dear, you possess far more grace than you realise.

This ball is not merely for the sake of appearances—it is an opportunity.

A way for you to step into your role on your own terms, to be seen as more than a name in the scandal sheets.

And, of course, I would be with you every step of the way. "

Blanche glanced toward the portraits, as if seeking reassurance from the generations of women who had stood in this very place before her.

Could she do this?

"You will not be left to manage it alone," Evelyn added with a playful wink. "I have organised many a ball in my time. I daresay my guidance may be of some use."

A small, hesitant smile pulled at Blanche’s lips. There was something comforting in Evelyn’s quiet confidence, in her unwavering support. Perhaps this did not have to be a trial to endure, but rather a chance to reclaim some semblance of control over her new life.

"Perhaps you are right, Evelyn," she admitted at last. "A ball may be precisely what I need."

Evelyn squeezed her hand fondly, her expression warm with approval. "It shall be a magnificent affair, my dear. One that will not only mark your place in society but celebrate the woman you are becoming."

For the first time since stepping into Brooksdale Manor, Blanche felt a spark of anticipation rather than apprehension. The idea was still daunting, yes—but perhaps, just perhaps, it could also be something more.

Something hers.