Page 24

CHAPTER 24

F iona folded the note in half with an almost clinical precision, then set it aside as if it might vanish on its own. The room was quiet, as always, the quiet of a house too large for its occupants.

She did not sit immediately. Instead, she wandered to the tall windows and glanced out at the gray morning light.

Mr. Everett entered not long after, his ever-composed demeanor unchanged, the silver tray in his hands supporting a fresh pot of tea.

“Mr. Everett,” she said, turning to him. “Do you know precisely when the Duke intends to return?”

The butler hesitated with practiced grace. “I’m afraid I do not, Your Grace. The note he left mentioned a fortnight, but no specific date.”

“I see.”

So even his staff had been left in the dark.

Her eyes swept the room then, taking in the high-backed chairs with their threadbare upholstery, the faded rug beneath the long table, and the dull curtains that seemed to sag beneath their own weight.

“I was just thinking,” she said slowly, “how dreadfully tired this room looks.”

Mr. Everett offered a small, kind smile. “It has been some years since it was last refreshed, ma’am.”

“I believe it’s due for more than a refresh,” she said, crossing to the table and letting her hand trail along the back of one chair. “I intend to rework the entire house.”

The butler nodded. “That would be most welcome, ma’am. Mrs. Burton will be pleased to assist you. And I shall make myself available in any way I can.”

“Thank you, Mr. Everett.”

She lowered herself into her seat and reached for her fork. Yet even as she tasted the eggs and drank the tea, the food sat heavy and tasteless on her tongue.

Her thoughts circled back to the night before. The way he had touched her face. The way she had leaned into it.

And then he had fled.

Not walked away. Fled.

Did I misstep? Did I misunderstand?

It was one thing to eat alone. She had become familiar with that quiet insult. But this—this vanishing act—left her raw and restless.

She tossed the note aside with more force than necessary and returned to her meal. If she could not find comfort in her husband’s presence, she would find it in buttered toast.

By the end of breakfast, indignation had taken root in her chest. She rose and headed into the drawing room to her writing desk, deciding at once that she would write to Anna.

Fiona stood in the center of the drawing room, arms crossed and eyes fixed upon the faded wallpaper.

“I shall not wait,” she murmured, the words spoken aloud simply to hear them. “It is my home now as well.”

And it was. She had signed the register, worn the dress, stood at his side before God and country. Whatever else Isaac thought, Craton Manor was as much hers as it was his.

If he wished to vanish to Scotland without so much as a proper farewell, then he shall return to a house that no longer obeys his rules.

He had drawn close—unbearably close—then turned away without a second glance. And for what? A business trip? During their supposed honeymoon?

It was petty, yes. She would not deny it.

But it was also satisfying.

The very next day, Anna arrived in a flurry of cloak and cheer, her eyes bright as she embraced Fiona.

“Let us wage war on this dreadful upholstery,” she declared with a flourish.

They set up camp in the morning room, bolts of fabric and paper samples sprawled between them, the tea untouched as they argued over color schemes and drapery lengths.

Anna, with her married wisdom and matter-of-fact opinions, proved to be a formidable ally.

“Lilac for the drawing room,” Anna said, holding the sample against the light. “Fresh. Elegant. Not too girlish.”

Fiona tapped her finger against her chin. “Or perhaps the pale blue. It would make the room feel brighter come spring.”

They went back and forth, and at last settled on the blue.

The conversation turned, as it always did, to their absent husbands.

“And the Duke?” Anna asked, brows lifting slightly.

“In Scotland,” Fiona replied, pouring fresh tea. “A business matter, he said. He’ll be away a fortnight.”

The edge in her tone wasn’t bitterness, precisely. But it was something sharp.

Anna’s mouth parted slightly. “On your honeymoon?”

Fiona shrugged, her gaze dropping to the rim of her teacup. “I suppose none of that truly matters. Ours is not the conventional sort of marriage.”

Anna said nothing for a moment. Her eyes softened, sympathy warring with restraint.

Then, quietly, “Give it time, Fiona.”

She let her thoughts wander to the terrace. The way Isaac’s palm had cradled her cheek, gentle and sure, as if he’d meant to claim something. The breath she had held, waiting.

Why offer that closeness only to retreat like a criminal?

A sigh slipped through her lips before she could catch it. The ache had dulled, but it hadn’t vanished.

“Anna, I entered this marriage with no illusions,” she said, smoothing a corner of fabric that didn’t need smoothing. “I knew what it was. What it wasn’t. I made peace with that before the vows were spoken.”

Anna, kneeling beside an armchair and comparing shades of blue, glanced over. She set down the sample in her hand and regarded Fiona quietly.

“But it doesn’t make you any less disappointed or saddened.”

Fiona didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers stilled over a bolt of dusty rose silk.

She’s right. It shouldn’t hurt—but it does.

“No,” she admitted at last.

Anna shifted to sit beside her, skirts settling in a soft rustle. “He may not have promised affection, Fiona. But even the coldest of men are not beyond change. Time places everything where it ought to be.”

Fiona let her gaze drop to the folded fabrics, a patchwork of possibilities. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “What if time only proves that he has no place for me at all?”

“Oh, don’t be such a pessimist,” Anna chided, though gently.

She reached over and took Fiona’s hand, giving it a firm but comforting squeeze.

“No matter what happens, I’ll always be here for you, Fiona dear. That, at least, is something you can count on.”

Fiona felt a warmth stir in her chest, gratitude mingling with the ache. “Thank you,” she said softly.

A moment passed as they sat together amidst the chaos of fabric and scattered ideas.

“You know...” Fiona began, “I think it will be a marvelous thing to host you all after the renovations. When the Duke returns.”

Anna’s entire expression brightened. “Now that is an invitation I shall count the days for.”

Fiona allowed herself a smile. Small, but sincere.

Let him return to a house that looks nothing like the one he left. Let him return to find a wife not waiting, but living.

“A fine morning for it, Your Grace,” the Mr. Colton said as he approached, his boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. “The ground’s soft from the rain, and the lads are eager to get started.”

Fiona brushed a curl from her brow with the back of her gloved hand. “Then let’s not waste the day, Mr. Colton. I’d like to see the greenhouse cleared first.”

The scent of rain lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy promise of new growth. Her hem was already darkened by dew, her gloves smudged with soil, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

She gave the orders with confidence, directing the servants. The renovations would begin today—here, in the gardens and greenhouse. It was time.

She could already imagine the rows of mint and lemon balm, the neatly labeled jars that would one day sit in her cabinet, the rich fragrance of drying herbs steeping the air. Her tea collection, once hidden in a single chest, would soon have its own sanctuary.

“Oh, what a marvelous idea to take advantage of the weather’s bounty, Your Grace,” The groundskeeper offered a respectful bow of his head, his expression quietly pleased “After the rains last night, the soil’s just as we like it—wet and malleable. The boys are glad for it. Makes the work far easier.”

Fiona smiled, glancing over the rows of flowerbeds yet to be touched. “I’m glad to hear it. I daresay the garden has long deserved better than neglect.”

The groundskeeper led her through the greenhouse, gesturing now and then as he described his ideas for the layout—raised beds for herbs, climbing trellises for the vines, a small bench beneath the east window where the light was strongest.

“And I thought here, perhaps a row of lavender,” he said. “Draws the bees, and it’ll give you a steady harvest through the season.”

“Perfect,” Fiona murmured. “Absolutely perfect.”

It was all beginning to feel like hers.

A sudden cry broke the quiet.

She stopped, brow furrowed, and turned her ear toward the sound. A sharp, plaintive caw echoed above.

“There,” she said, pointing up.

Just above them, nestled awkwardly in the crook of a broken clay pot hanging from the ceiling frame, was a bird—vividly colored in green, yellow, and red. The poor creature was clearly trapped, its wing twisted oddly between shards of pottery and tangled vine.

Mr. Colton fetched a ladder without delay. With quiet concentration, he ascended and carefully worked the bird free from its snare, his movements practiced and deferential.

It fluttered weakly in his hands, damp feathers clinging to its body.

“My, I wonder how it got in there,” Mrs. Burton arrived with a basket of cuttings cradled in one arm, her eyes narrowing as she studied the trapped creature

“Mayhap the storm swept it in,” The groundskeeper furrowed his brow, adjusting his hold with deliberate gentleness as he turned toward her

“I think I may be able to help him,” Fiona stepped forward with her arms outstretched, her posture unwavering

Mr. Colton shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking to her gloved hands before returning with a look of uncertain deference, glancing at her gloved hands. “I wouldn’t want Your Grace soiling your hands.”

But Fiona only lifted her chin, the set of her shoulders firm. “I believe I shall survive it.”

She reached forward, undeterred, and the groundskeeper lowered his head slightly in acknowledgment before extending the bird toward her with great care.

It trembled in her palms, and she cradled it close, careful and calm.

You’re not the only one feeling a little battered, she thought, stroking its feathers softly.

“I wouldn’t want the poor creature dead,” Fiona said, clutching the injured parrot gently against her chest as she turned from the greenhouse.

The bird trembled in her hands, feathers damp and ruffled, eyes wide with alarm. She murmured soft, soothing nonsense to it, her breath low and steady as she moved through the garden path, Mrs. Burton following closely behind.

Inside the conservatory, the air warm with lingering sunlight, Fiona laid the parrot on the small table beside the potted orchids. She brushed back the cloth covering him and winced.

“His right wing is broken,” she murmured after a closer look.

With a briskness that surprised even herself, she turned to Mrs. Burton. “Send to the kitchens for warm water, a clean cloth, and a few strips of linen. And have someone fetch me two slender twigs, dry and unblemished.”

Mrs. Burton offered a small nod and departed at once.

I’ve no idea what I’m doing, Fiona thought, looking down at the helpless bird. But surely instinct counts for something.

She rolled up her sleeves and waited. When the supplies arrived, she set to work with the sort of quiet determination that had come to define her of late. The cloth was warm in her hands as she dabbed carefully at his feathers, removing bits of mud and curled leaves.

The parrot flinched at first, but soon stilled beneath her touch.

“Brave thing,” she whispered.

Once clean, she arranged the twigs beside him and used the strips of linen to fashion a rough brace, binding the wing gently but firmly.

“I shall keep him,” she declared as she pressed a few crushed peanuts into her palm. The bird pecked at them eagerly.

A smile touched her lips. “You see? We’ve an understanding already.”

He nudged her fingertip with his beak, light as a whisper.

Is that gratitude? she wondered. Or simply hunger?

“We’ll move him to one of the unused game rooms,” she said aloud, “just until he’s strong again. After that, he may do as he pleases. Roam the manor. Rule it, if he likes.”

Mrs. Burton chuckled from where she stood by the door. “I daresay Your Grace has a second calling—as a bird physician.”

Fiona glanced up, lips quirking. “Not quite. I’ve always had an affection for plants and creatures. I suppose I’ve picked up enough from my readings to make myself useful.”

She arranged a small basket with bits of cloth and seed, placing it at the edge of the table as a makeshift nest.

The parrot settled into it, eyes half-closed now, the tremble in his body nearly gone.

Satisfied, Fiona straightened.

Later, after dinner, she made her way toward her chambers. The hallways were dim, lit only by the soft flicker of sconces. As she turned the corner, her steps slowed.

There it was again—the door they had passed during her first tour. The one Mrs. Burton had dismissed with a vague excuse.

Unable to help her curiosity, she paused before the door, hand resting on the cool brass handle.

You could walk away, she told herself. Pretend you never noticed the lie in Mrs. Burton’s voice.

But she didn’t.